Theology and Society in the Second and Third Centuries of the Hijra. Volume 4: A History of Religious Thought in Early Islam 9789004381599, 9004381597

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Theology and Society in the Second and Third Centuries of the Hijra Volume 4

Handbook of Oriental Studies Handbuch der Orientalistik section one

The Near and Middle East Edited by Maribel Fierro (Madrid) M. Şükrü Hanioğlu (Princeton) Renata Holod (University of Pennsylvania) Florian Schwarz (Vienna)

VOLUME 116/4

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ho1

Theology and Society in the Second and Third Centuries of the Hijra A History of Religious Thought in Early Islam VOLUME 4

By

Josef van Ess Translated from German by

Gwendolin Goldbloom

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Translated from Josef van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert Hidschra. Eine Geschichte des religiösen Denkens im frühen Islam. © Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin, Boston. All rights reserved. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016047963

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 0169-9423 isbn 978-90-04-34400-6 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-38159-9 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

To my wife

⸪

Contents Preface ..................................................................................................................... xiii

part c The Unification of Islamic Thought and the Flowering of Theology (continued) 4 Muʿtazilites during and after the miḥna ...................................................... 3 4.1 Basra until the Middle of the Third Century ..................................... 3 4.1.1 Hishām al-Fuwaṭī ............................................................................ 4 4.1.1.1 His Teachings ................................................................... 6 4.1.2 Fuwaṭī’s Pupils .................................................................................. 20 4.1.2.1 ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān ........................................................ 20 4.1.2.1.1 His Teachings .................................................. 21 4.1.2.1.1.1 Introductory Remarks on His System. The Sources ................. 21 4.1.2.1.1.2 His Theory of the Attributes .................................... 24 4.1.2.1.1.3 Ontological Questions ............. 33 4.1.2.1.1.4 Divine Omnipotence and the World as the Best of All Worlds .......................................... 37 4.1.2.1.1.5 Anthropology ............................. 39 4.1.2.1.1.6 Faith and Sin .............................. 45 4.1.2.1.1.7 Questions of Epistemology .... 47 4.1.2.1.1.8 Political Theory ......................... 51 4.1.3 Shaḥḥām ............................................................................................ 52 4.1.4 The Wider Effect of the Muʿtazila. Aḥmad b. al-Muʿadhdhal ................................................................................. 59 4.2 Baghdad Muʿtazilites ............................................................................... 63 4.2.1 Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir ........................................................................ 64 4.2.1.1 Political Theory ................................................................ 67 4.2.1.2 Theological Questions ................................................... 69 4.2.1.3 Issues on the Field of Law ............................................. 74

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4.2.2 Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb ..................................................................................... 78 4.2.2.1 His Teachings. His Relationship with Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir ....................................................................... 82 4.2.2.2 His Pupil al-Iskāfī. Life and Works .............................. 88 4.2.2.2.1 Iskāfī’s Theological Views ............................. 92 4.2.3 Later Representatives of the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila .................. 101 4.2.4 Civilian Muʿtazilites: Abū Mujālid ............................................... 109 4.2.4.1 Jāḥiẓ .................................................................................... 110 4.2.4.1.1 Jāḥiẓ’ Epistemology ........................................ 112 4.2.4.1.2 Overview of Jāḥiẓ’ Doctrine .......................... 125 4.2.4.1.3 His Legacy ........................................................ 132 4.2.4.2 Abū ʿAffān al-Raqqī ......................................................... 135 4.2.4.3 Zurqān ................................................................................ 136 5 Theologians on the Periphery of the Muʿtazila ......................................... 139 5.1 ‘Murjiʾites’ .................................................................................................... 140 5.1.1 Muḥammad b. Shabīb .................................................................... 141 5.1.2 Other ‘Murjiʾite’ Theologians of the Same Generation ............ 149 5.1.3 The Next Generation. Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī and Nāshiʾ ...... 152 5.2 Najjār and His Circle ................................................................................ 167 5.2.1 Najjār’s Teachings ........................................................................... 170 5.2.2 The School of Najjār ........................................................................ 183 5.2.2.1 Burghūth ............................................................................ 184 5.2.2.2 Further Theologians of this Circle .............................. 188 5.3 Ibāḍite Theologians .................................................................................. 195 6 The Argument over the Quran ........................................................................ 203 6.1 Ibn Kullāb ................................................................................................... 204 6.2 Muḥāsibī ..................................................................................................... 221 6.3 Karābīsī and the Problem of the lafẓ al-Qurʾān ................................ 238 6.3.1 The Reaction of the Ḥanbalites and the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth ....... 243 6.3.2 The ‘Undecided Ones’ (wāqifa) .................................................... 248 7 The Expansion of the Muʿtazila during the Third Century ................... 258 7.1 Iraq and the Jazira ..................................................................................... 259 7.2 The Arabian Peninsula ............................................................................ 261 7.3 Syria .............................................................................................................. 264 7.4 Armenia ....................................................................................................... 268

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7.5 Iran ................................................................................................................ 271 7.6 India .............................................................................................................. 290 7.7 The Maghrib ................................................................................................. 291 7.7.1 The Interior and the Far Maghrib ................................................ 291 7.7.2 Tripolitania and Tunisia ................................................................ 298 7.7.2.1 Qayrawān ........................................................................... 299 7.7.3 Excursus. The Muʿtazila in Spain ................................................. 306 7.8 Summary ..................................................................................................... 311 8 The Crisis ............................................................................................................... 312 8.1 Baghdad Mysticism Goes its Own Way: Junayd and His Contemporaries ......................................................................................... 313 8.2 The Self-Destruction of the Dialectical Method .............................. 325 8.2.1 Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq .......................................................................... 326 8.2.2 Ibn al-Rēwandī ................................................................................. 333 8.2.2.1 The Conflict with the Baghdad Muʿtazila ................ 337 8.2.2.2 Ibn al-Rēwandī as a Theologian .................................. 343 8.2.2.3 The ‘Execrable Books’ .................................................... 354 8.2.2.3.1 The K. al-zumurrud ....................................... 359 8.2.2.3.1.1 A: The Compatibility of the Revelation with Reason ........... 360 8.2.2.3.1.2 B: The Necessity of Prophecy. The Prophet as a ‘Culture Hero’ .............................................. 362 8.2.2.3.1.3 C: How to Prove Prophecy. The Credibility of the Prophets ..... 367 8.2.2.3.2 The K. al-tāj ..................................................... 377 8.2.2.3.3 The K. al-dāmigh ............................................ 378 8.2.2.3.4 The K. ʿabath al-ḥikma ................................. 382 8.2.2.3.5 The K. qaḍīb al-dhahab ................................ 382 8.2.2.3.6 The K. al-farīd ................................................. 383 8.2.2.3.7 The Intention of these Works ....................... 384 8.2.2.4 Summary. Ibn al-Rēwandī’s Chronological Position .............................................................................. 387 8.2.2.5 The Origin of the ‘Heretic’ Tradition ......................... 388

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Part D Summary of the History of the Subject Matter Introduction. The Topics of Theology ......................................................... 395 1 The Image of God ............................................................................................... 403 1.1 God as the One .......................................................................................... 407 1.2 Anthropomorphism ................................................................................. 416 1.2.1 Topics and Motifs ............................................................................ 421 1.2.1.1 Humans as the Image of God ...................................... 421 1.2.1.1.1 God as a Being of Light ................................. 428 1.2.1.2 Muḥammad’s Experience of God during his Journey to Heaven ........................................................... 432 1.2.1.2.1 Divine Touch .................................................... 437 1.2.1.3 God’s Footprint in Jerusalem ....................................... 441 1.2.1.4 God’s Limbs ...................................................................... 442 1.2.1.5 God’s Activities ................................................................ 448 1.2.2 ‘Sitting on the Throne’ and the Omnipresence of God ............. 455 1.2.3 The Vision of God in the Otherworld ........................................... 460 1.2.4 Summary and Outlook ................................................................... 466 1.3 Names and Attributes .............................................................................. 476 1.3.1 The Beginnings of the Doctrine of the Attributes ..................... 492 1.3.2 The Development of the Classic Doctrine of the Attributes .... 495 1.3.2.1 Divine Will and the Creation ....................................... 499 1.3.2.1.1 Excursus. The Early Islamic Theory of the Atoms ................................................................ 514 2 The Image of the Human ................................................................................. 535 2.1 Acting ........................................................................................................... 538 2.1.1 Aspects of the Problem of Free Will ............................................. 546 2.1.1.1 The Predestination of the Date of Death ................. 552 2.1.1.2 The Availability of Sustenance .................................... 555 2.1.1.3 The Structure of Free Will ............................................ 558 2.1.1.4 God’s Contribution ......................................................... 561 2.1.1.5 Theodicy ............................................................................ 564 2.2 Body and Spirit .......................................................................................... 572 2.2.1 ‘Life after Death’ ............................................................................... 582 2.2.1.1 The Punishment of the Grave ...................................... 589 2.2.2 The ‘Spirits’. Angels, Jinn, Devils ................................................... 597

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3 Eschatology .......................................................................................................... 605 3.1 The Earthly and the Heavenly Paradise .............................................. 613 3.2 The Extent of the Reality of the Otherworld ..................................... 619 4 Faith ........................................................................................................................ 627 4.1 Sin and Penitence ..................................................................................... 645 4.2 The Prophet ................................................................................................ 658 4.2.1 The Quran ......................................................................................... 673 4.2.1.1 Verbal Inspiration? ......................................................... 681 4.2.1.2 The Quran: Created or Uncreated? ............................ 695 4.2.2 Miracles and Affirmation .............................................................. 701 4.3 Epistemology .............................................................................................. 716 4.3.1 The Quran and the Way in Which it was Interpreted .............. 718 4.3.2 The Trustworthiness of the sunna ................................................ 721 4.3.3 Consensus and Controversy .......................................................... 727 4.3.4 The Ways of Reason ........................................................................ 734 4.3.5 Knowledge and Responsibility ...................................................... 740 5 Theology and Society ........................................................................................ 747 5.0.1 Marginalisation ............................................................................... 748 5.0.2 Common Ground ............................................................................. 755 5.0.3 The Dialectic of Orthodoxy ............................................................ 759 5.0.4 The Relevance of Heresy ................................................................. 765 5.1 Political Theory .......................................................................................... 771 5.1.1 Searching for the Unity of the Early Community ...................... 773 5.1.2 The Justification of Power .............................................................. 777 5.1.3 Challenging the Power .................................................................... 781 5.1.4 Conferring and Holding Rulership .............................................. 785 5.1.5 Withdrawal of Rulership and Limitation of Rulership ............ 792 5.2 The Organisation of Teaching and Studying ..................................... 798 5.2.1 Disputations and The Appearance of Theology ........................ 807 5.3 Environment and Intellectual Structure ............................................. 814

Preface Anyone who decides to write six volumes is taking his life in his hands. Not so much because he must fear to excite concern in his fellow human beings; after all, the preoccupation with Islamic theology is one that happily ensures one is left alone and thus in peace. However, one’s own well-being cannot remain untouched by the worry of whether it will be possible to use the time available appropriately until the very end. Hence I am hoping for forbearance if I go briefly into matters of biography now that the work has been completed. Rudi Paret gave the first impulse when I arrived in Tübingen in 1968; he encouraged me to take the long view, warning me against the swift word and the fleeting idea. The decision was taken during a celebration in honour of H. A. Wolfson and in anticipation of his Philosophy of the Kalam. Muhsin Mahdi asked me if I would be interested in joining or leading a team, yet to be established, to collect the fragments of the Muʿtazila. I was wary of the looming difficulties of coordination, and when the plan vanished immediately from our conversation it seemed to me that the time was right for me to undertake the project on my own. This was how volumes V and VI came into being. They do not, however, contain the fragments – firstly, because there are barely any genuine fragments but only doxographical accounts; secondly, because it is impossible to achieve (and was thus not attempted) any degree of completeness in the case of the latter in the current situation; and finally, because I do not present the original texts, but rather a German translation. Some people may find this a mixed blessing; all those Islamic and Arabic scholars of recent generations who have grown up without learning a single word of German will probably regard it as an explicatio ignoti per ignotius. To me, on the other hand, it meant placing those fragmented texts that required interpretation on many levels into a context from my own point of view; this was the starting point for volumes I–IV. Towards the end of 1978 I presented the concept for the first time, in five lectures at the Collège de France. These appeared in print in 1984 (Une lecture à rebours de l’histoire du mutazilisme, Paris). However, when I began to write in earnest in 1979, the scope soon expanded. I realised that the Muʿtazila could not be discussed as an isolated phenomenon; it cannot be understood without its environment, without the ‘sects’ preceding or impeding it. It had long been known that these ‘sects’ were not actually sects but rather facets of a not yet firmly fixed consensus of faith; now the question was added of how Islam became that which we understand it to be today. We are still a long way from an answer; I have merely provided

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some material. I have tried to do this from a historical as well as a systematic point of view, the former applying to parts B–C and the latter to part D. The overview of the history of the subject in part D is not meant to repeat everything that has been said before. Much has only been hinted at; consequently I would urge the reader to make use of internal references and also to consult the index. The final chapters may seem compressed in places, but as it has become customary in any case to rely on summaries and encyclopaedia entries, this should not pose any problems. However, I must emphasise that it was not my objective to point out fundamentals only; the reader in a hurry had better look elsewhere. Rather, I intended to introduce material that had not been included in the preceding prosopographically arranged historical exploration. In some cases I have gone into greater detail, for instance emphasising the connection with the Quran, but also looking ahead to later developments, and the comparison with neighbouring religions and antiquity have played a more significant part than in the earlier sections. I would ask the reader to take into account when using and evaluating this work that it developed over a long period. Some chapters were written many years ago. My work on the Qadariyya dates back to the early days of my time in Tübingen. The chapter on Ibn al-Rēwandī, too, remained basically unchanged in its overall outlook for over a decade. While I have attempted to update the text in accordance with the latest research in preparation for printing, it did not seem to me to be necessary to bring every quotation into line with the latest editions published in the meantime, or to comment in detail on every new secondary source. Progress in Oriental Studies is, as everywhere, not necessarily linear. Still, the fact that a number of new sources, too, came to light in quick succession caused me more than a few headaches, not least because of questions of historical influences that arose in ever different ways; I am certain that I have not been able to cover them all in any case. Thanks to a kindly star, the production of secondary sources, on the other hand, was limited at least where Islamic theology was concerned; ‘hard core theology’, to use a reviewer’s felicitous expression, appeals to only few Islamic scholars. The number of those able to offer competent judgment in this field has never gone beyond half a dozen in international circles, and interest appears to wane among the younger generation. This means that new insights need time to develop, but it also means that they do in fact have enough time to develop. This is not the place to explore the internal structure of this work. All the same, until the very end it, in particular, appeared to me the single most original feature; after all, it was not self-explanatory. The geographical arrangement of part B led to theological groups taking shape in my imagination (such as the

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Basran Ghaylāniyya or Murjiʾa) that had not existed in the eyes of earlier scholarship focussed on heresiography; I shall leave the critics to tell me what they think of it. Of course the main reason for the arrangement was to establish order and keep the reader engaged. In view of the dimensions of the work I do not nurture any illusions with regard to the last point, but I have attempted to avoid repetitions and inconsistencies. This intention, too, has it limits when we are dealing with six volumes: one must not expect too much of one’s memory – and the indices, which will presumably be the well-disposed reader’s gateway to the text, were not, after all, available when I was composing it. Part D, which had to wait longest to be printed, was consequently rewritten the most frequently, and the rather rough division into chapters as laid out in the table of contents in Vol. 1 turned out not to be sufficient. In order to facilitate reading I have had to sub-divide further in some instances. This was unfortunate as the accompanying numbering had the main objective of allowing cross-references in advance; consequently I have not changed the sequence of chapters anywhere, but only added a few sub-chapters. As far as I can see this has not affected references in the earlier volumes, but in one place (from 5 to 5.0.1) the numbering turned out not quite as planned. The bibliography and the indices (to be published in a separate volume) are voluminous indeed and took a long time to compile. In the case of the bibliography, the lengthy time period was once again a troublesome factor, as in some instances I could not remember where I had consulted which edition of a text. As for the indices, I have tried to proceed in the reader’s interest rather than mechanically. They thus refer to places where something may be found, and consequently not every mention of frequent place – or persons’ names is listed, while on the other hand some references to subjects (such as ‘epistemology’ or ‘image of God’) include pages which may not actually name the term itself but merely imply the concept. People, places, and topics were deliberately not separated, to save the reader consulting too many separate indices. The list of instances is intended to show the degree of detail with which the most relevant sources have been evaluated. The index of Arabic terms does not usually include the English meanings; they are overall clear from the context, and in some cases have not been defined unambiguously. Occasionally I delegated simpler tasks to assistants, but it must be said frankly that this institution of modern academic life has limited use in a complex subject such as Islamic Studies, that furthermore requires much previous knowledge. The greatest benefit was when it came to proofreading. Assistance in other areas frequently did not stand up to scrutiny and led to considerable loss of time. I have made use of a first draft of the bibliography, an index of place

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names in Vols. 1–3 (which was ultimately conflated with the index of names and terms), and preliminary work on the index of instances; at an earlier stage, some of the sources were checked, too. Contributing their skills and knowledge were: M. Gauß-Rabah, S. Henke, F. Hoffmann, S. Kuske, A. Oevermann, M. Riexinger, P. Sindlinger and I. Toral; during the early years also M. Ripke, R. as-Saiyid and I. Schneider. I owe thanks to them all. Any mistakes still found escaped my notice and are, as is the custom according to the rhetoric of prefaces, entirely my own responsibility – in the sections mentioned as well as in all the others in which I relied on myself anyway. Considering presentday work practice it should be said that the indices were not compiled with computerised help; parts of the manuscript were composed at a time when there were no computers and could consequently not be retrieved electronically. Consequently the result is ‘handmade’ in the best and truest sense of the word. I would ask that it should be judged with the kindly spirit that is usually brought to well-meant but not necessarily professional handicrafts these days. As everywhere, only performance can tell whether a machine would have worked more efficiently. Some of the mistakes still remaining in the text only came to my notice during the last phase described, especially when compiling the indices. Reviews did their bit, and as a consequence I have added a list of supplementary remarks at the end of this, the final, volume. This list is also due to the long time the work was in preparation.1 The DFG (Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft) insisted on looking over each individual volume, in which way I gained around a year each time, not only to go over the manuscript but also to explore new sources and consider the secondary texts flowing by me. Particular thanks are due to the Tübinger Universitätsbibliothek. Not only is it, being a specialist faculty of both Oriental Studies and Theology, particularly well stocked, but it also allowed me to access its materials freely and at all times. I was permitted to consult the books in the stacks, a courtesy which grew to be a rare privilege over the years. It is impossible to gauge how much time I gained in this way, and the financial saving is also likely to have been considerable, as otherwise I would have had to ask an assistant every time to find books that might have turned out to be superfluous after all in the end. As is so frequently the case, the greatest share in the completion of the work was borne by the person least likely to wear an aura of scholarship: Ms Maria Sironi, secretary to the Orientalisches Seminar. Even during the years when the entire department shared a part-time secretary she accompanied the manuscript in every detail; during the final phase she also contributed to the ordering 1 These supplementary remarks have been incorporated into the translation.

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of the index of instances. Her dedication and considerateness were such as I have rarely seen in a student. I must also mention the ladies at de Gruyter (Ms Rade, Ms Spitzer, Ms Neumann, Ms Schmidt), who guided the volumes through printing with experience and aesthetic understanding. My final thanks go to my wife who has borne twenty years of tension with patience, and has proofread everything with me. This concluding volume is dedicated to her. Josef van Ess

Tübingen, January 1997

part c The Unification of Islamic Thought and the Flowering of Theology (continued)

∵

chapter 4

Muʿtazilites during and after the miḥna 4.1

Basra until the Middle of the Third Century

The Basran Muʿtazila had suffered a great loss when Abū l-Hudhayl and Naẓẓām left; presumably their pupils, too, followed them to Baghdad. It is possible that the effects were not felt as strongly in the case of Abū l-Hudhayl, as he only left the city at a very advanced age. Naẓẓām, on the other hand, was in the prime of life at the time that his presence in Baghdad is first documented;1 the later Baghdad school owes much to him as a consequence.2 Even so, the Basran branch was not in danger of disappearing; it was not until the raids of the Zanj that scholarship suffered a heavy and temporarily annihilating blow there.3 The port continued to play an important part, and as far as the Muʿtazila was concerned, even after the bloodletting it could always find new recruits in its branches in nearby Iran, e.g. in ʿAskar Mukram.4

1  See vol. III 324f. above. 2  See p. 63, 69, 526, and 538 below. 3  See p. 54 below; also my Traditionistische Polemik gegen ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd 52. 4  See p. 274ff. below.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004381599_002

4 4.1.1

chapter 4

Hishām al-Fuwaṭī Hishām al-Fuwaṭī

was one of those who illustrate the degree to which the merchants and longdistance trade still dominated the character of the school. He may have been the man who preserved Muʿtazilite lectures in Basra and represented the school after Thumāma had persuaded Abū l-Hudhayl to move to Baghdad. He had studied under Abū l-Hudhayl1 and apparently also under Muʾammar,2 and does not seem to have felt the attraction of the capital. We do hear of him being in contact with Ma‌ʾmūn,3 and as the account is by Yaḥyā b. Aktham we may assume that Hishām was among those who, like Ibn Abī Duwād, were recommended to the caliph.4 However, he was not to be captivated by the court as he travelled widely, even across the sea, possibly from Basra to Sīrāf and further.5 He travelled as a missionary for the Muʿtazila – besides his business as a merchant, like Wāṣil’s pupils had done: the nisba al-Fuwaṭī would, after all, seem to indicate that he dealt in fūṭa cloths, i.e. fabrics that had been imported from India for a long time, but that were probably manufactured in Basra as well by that time. The word fūṭa is of Indian origin.6 Ibn al-Nadīm disapproved of the plural nisba and prescribed the reading al-Fūṭī ‘as that is how it should be in proper Arabic’,7 betraying at the same time that others did not share his scruples;8 Samʿānī did not have any problems with the form.9 Fuwaṭī was an Arab and a member of the Shaybān, some of whom still lived in Oman and consequently possessed many years of experience in the Indian trade.10 1   Thus according to Ibn al-Ikhshīdh (Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 214, –10f.); also Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 395, ult. 2   Thus according to IM 54, 14f., whose source cannot, however, be determined (see vol. III 99 above). 3    Faḍl 271, ult. f. > IM 61, 2f. 4   See vol. III 214f. above; regarding the part played by Yaḥyā b. Aktham see ibid. 484. 5    Fihrist 214, –9ff. 6   Dozy, Dictionnaire des vêtements 339ff.; Fück in: ZDMG 90/1936/318, n. 1; Serjeant, Islamic Textiles 37 and 130, n. 63. These fabrics were often used as loincloths. The Indian product was probably made from cotton, which was quite expensive at the time; later, however, the material did not make a difference. 7    Fihrist 214, –10. 8   Cf. forms such as Qalānisī, Ṭayālisī etc. 9    Ansāb X 261 no. 3107. This purism of course also finds followers in modern secondary sources; thus Aʿsam quotes Samʿānī’s explanation, but then uses the reading Fūṭī (Faḍiḥat al-Muʿtazila 257, n. 79). 10   I M 61 1f., after Kaʿbī; cf. Ibn Durayd, Ishtiqāq 351, –4. Dhahabī, Siyar X 547, 2, calls him a mawlā of the Shaybān.

Mu ʿ tazilites during and after the miḥna

5

Through them he probably had ties with the powerful Basran family of the Mismaʿī, who were in turn close to the Muʿtazila in the person of the heresiographer Zurqān;11 they were members of the same tribal federation.12 When he died he was apparently visiting Baghdad once again, as Ibn Abī Duwād said the prayer of the dead over him. This was probably around the end of the 220s; Abū l-Hudhayl was already dead. Faḍl 263, apu. f., after Ibn Yazdādh, K. al-maṣābīḥ (cf. vol. I 62 above); according to him Abū l-Hudhayl died during Wāthiq’s caliphate. The chief qāḍī’s honouring him shows how greatly esteemed Fuwaṭī was. Ibn Abī l-Dunyā records someone dreaming of the funeral, seeing an endless throng of mourners many of whom were Christians singing litanies (K. al-manāmāt, ed. Marḍī al-Sayyid Ibrāhīm, Cairo 1409/1988, p. 103 no. 156). The latter was not necessarily a compliment, or entirely in accordance with reality, but we can assume that many people attended, or were expected to. Ibn Yazdād hints – once again presumably not without ulterior motive – that Ibn Abī Duwād performed the prayer according to Sunni custom with four takbīr. Ibn Baṭṭa, on the other hand, has Fuwaṭī as a Shīʿite (Ibāna 92, 8f.), but this does not agree with his teachings (see below). The date of death presumed is usually too early, and was not even revised after the abovementioned passage by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār became known. Cf. Nader, Système philosophique 36: ‘m. vers 218 H’; Pellat in EI2 III 496b: ‘probably before 218/833’; Watt, Formative Period 220: ‘before 833’; Daiber, Muʿammar 52: ‘lebte zur Zeit des Ma‌ʾmūn’. The passage in Sakūnī, ʿUyūn al-munāẓarāt 234f. no. 326 is of no help when trying to determine his dates (see p. 153f. below). – Four lines of a poem praising him are extant (Faḍl 272, 2ff. > IM 61, 5ff.), but they do not furnish any new information. The list of books Ibn al-Nadīm provides under his name is not long but characteristic. He wrote a K. khalq al-Qurʾān, a K. al-tawḥīd, and a K. al-makhlūq; focussing on the three subjects concerning which the Muʿtazila attacked the Nābiṭa during the miḥna.13 He sent a letter to the ‘people of Basra’, and answered

11  See p. 137f. below. 12  Caskel, Jamhara II 524 a; Crone in EI2 VI 640 s. v. Masāmiʿa. 13  Catalogue of Works XXIV, no. 2–4; makhlūq, as elsewhere, refers to the createdness of human actions (see vol. III 52 above).

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questions from the Khorasanians14 – proof of his travels and his far-flung connections; maybe he had a community of followers in Khorasan. Above all he composed a K. al-uṣūl al-khams (sic), the first one of this title recorded by Ibn al-Nadīm;15 its objective may have been missionary. Three polemical texts fitted within the Basran context: against Aṣamm, against the Bakriyya, and against Abū l-Hudhayl.16 Aṣamm had really gone out of fashion some time earlier; his ontology had already incited Abū l-Hudhayl to criticism; Hishām al-Fuwaṭī probably adopted the latter’s arguments and refined them.17 We do not know what it was he disliked about the Bakriyya; the title only tells us that it was still alive in Basra at the time.18 His attack on Abū l-Hudhayl was mainly concerning the permanent rest of paradise, but he was said to have disagreed with him in a total of 120 questions.19 It is worth noting that the adab literature took hardly any notice of him; not even the Muʿtazilite Ṭabaqāt works knew much about him. The media had, it seems, moved to the capital. Even Jāḥiẓ, an attentive observer of the Basran scene, did not mention him. One single anecdote was repeated more frequently. It testifies to his wit and the delight he took in playing with language: he deliberately misunderstands the question of how old he is. It was recorded by Mubarrad, from whom Ibn al-Jawzī (Akhbār al-ẓirāf wal-mutamājinnīn, ed. Muḥammad Baḥr al-ʿUlūm, 2Najaf 1967, p. 54, 7ff.; Akhbār al-adhkiyāʾ 133, 11ff.). Cf. also Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Al-ajwiba al-muskita 148 no. 891 (with further instances), Dhahabī, Siyar X 547, 9ff., and also Harder-Schimmel, Arab. Sprachlehre 172, no. 24 A. It has, however, also been transferred onto Abū l-Hudhayl (Al-kālim al-fiṣāḥ min tarwīḥ al-arwāḥ, fol. 85b, ult. ff.; regarding his oeuvre cf. Sellheim, Materialien zur arabischen Literaturgeschichte I 355f. no. 92). – The saying attributed to ‘Hishām al-mutakallim’ preserved in Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir 2VII 75 no. 225 may also be by him. 4.1.1.1 His Teachings The doxographical tradition contains mostly incoherent rubble. Of course this is not true in his case only, but it does apply in particular to those who, 14  Catalogue of Works no. 8–9. 15  Ibid., no. 1; regarding Abū l-Hudhayl see vol. III 240 above. 16  Ibid., no. 5–7. 17  The controversial subject, the ‘points of movement’ or ‘acts of movement’ are named explicitly in the relevant title (no. 5); cf. the deliberations in vol. II 456 above. It must, however, be pointed out that Abū l-Hudhayl did not write directly against Aṣamm. 18  See also vol. II 126 above. 19  See vol. III 280 and 283 above.

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like him, came after Abū l-Hudhayl and Naẓẓām. It had grown more difficult to found schools and attract wider attention; much of what was taught now smacked of déjà entendu and was not noted specifically. Consequently there is a great number of collective accounts which state common ground between several scholars because of some similarity. If read on their own they convey the impression as though school traditions were being reported; if, however, they are compared with others of the same kind, the lines criss-cross in such a way that nothing tangible remains besides the individual perspective of the author – usually anonymous – reporting. All that becomes clear is that Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s focus was on Basran theology and did not have much of a connection with developments in Baghdad, but considering what we know about his biography that is only to be expected. He was an atomist, but not unimpressed by Naẓẓām’s criticism. If it had not been for the theory of the ‘leap’, people said, he might have become a follower of Naẓẓām’s ideas.1 This tells us that he remained conservative as far as the theory of motion was concerned, while he accepted Naẓẓām’s criticism in other areas. Abū l-Hudhayl’s system was his starting point, which is why he counted in units of six rather than of eight, but he did not believe any more that an atom had six sides that appear in the form of accidents when touching others.2 Individual atoms cannot touch others or separate from them; consequently they are not, as Abū l-Hudhayl had had to presume, either in motion or at rest. If they are next to one another, to begin with they only mark the relative directions; after all, Abū l-Hudhayl’s model had not included a coherent structure at first.3 Only once these markers have been set, i.e. when the atoms have found their place, does something emerge that has six sides and can consequently touch other things. In Abū l-Hudhayl’s view this would have been a body, but in Hishām’s concept, not yet. It possessed all the qualities Abū l-Hudhayl ascribed to a single atom, and like such an atom, it did not yet have physicality. It is a fundamental component of the body, an ‘element’ (rukn) or, as we might say, a molecule. Presumably it is only now, in contact with other ‘molecules’ of the same kind, that the ‘cohesion’ (ta‌ʾlīf ) constituting a body emerges. However, this accident is only one among many; in fact, the word is not even used in the two doxographical accounts on which the present deliberations are based. Abū l-Hudhayl’s distinction between accidents that only manifest themselves on a body, and others that can manifest themselves on an atom, had become obsolete.

1  See vol. III 336 above. 2  Ibid. 243f. 3  Ibid. 244f.

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Text XXIV 1–2. Abū l-Hudhayl may have precipitated the development by imagining a ‘complex body’ to be composed of 36 atoms (see vol. III 244, n. 18 above). The sources remain exceedingly limited. We know one single sentence about Fuwaṭī’s theory of motion (Text 3), according to which he, unlike Abū l-Hudhayl, assumed that an ‘atom’ – he probably means: an ‘element’ – can adopt several units of motion as its accidents. This allowed him a different solution to the example usually cited in this context: when two persons together move a rock, they now impart a unit of motion to each of its atoms or elements. – Text XVII 13 makes clear that Hishām’s concept of accident had nothing in common with Naẓẓām’s. Muʿammar’s influence is visible in the way in which Hishām transferred atomism onto anthropology. Like Muʿammar, he defined the person, the ‘human’ in the usage of the time, i.e. the principium individuationis, as a separate atom partially responsible for constituting the body. Unlike Muʿammar, he assigned a particular place to this atom, in the heart,4 taking the same step that his contemporary Uswārī had taken in the context of Naẓẓām’s system.5 Whether he, too, included the idea of a breath of life, is not clear.6 He did not, however, regard it as a body in the sense of pneuma, and did not identify it with the ‘human’ or the life force itself. Life, the capacity to act, etc., were accidents in his view, as they had been to Abū l-Hudhayl; they may have duration, but they ‘join’ the ‘human’.7 He did not, apparently, consider it necessary that they should all attach themselves to the ‘human atom’; they are able to subsist in the body.8 The human atom, like the spirit, is invisible.9 Consequently that which we see, even a human’s individual facial features, is not his individuality. Here, Hishām agrees with Naẓẓām as well as with Muʿammar.10 Like Naẓẓām and his predecessor Hishām b. al-Ḥakam he also arrived at the conclusion that Satan could never approach the human himself (cf. Text XVI 62 and commentary on IV 50, d; cf. also vol. I 431f. and III 412 above). Mystics such as Ibn Khafīf would later believe the same 4   Text 7; cf. Text XVI 47, a and d. Also Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Dhakhīra 114, 11f., where insān has been replaced with mukallaf, showing that in the case of his concept of the person, responsibility before the law was the determining factor. 5   See vol. III 455 above. 6   Cf. Text 8, and 6, a, where he is aligned with Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir. 7   Text XVI 54, and XXI 127; cf. also XVI 58. 8   Text 6, b. 9   Text 8, and commentary on Text 1. 10  See vol. III 89ff. and 406 above.

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(cf. his ʿaqīda in Sīrat-i Ibn Khafīf 306, apu. ff.). However, the consequences people drew may have varied. Fuwaṭī appears to have believed that it was God who brought the whisperings of Satan to the human’s heart, in order to test him; Ibn al-Nadīm, despite being a Muʿtazilite himself, found this impossible to stomach (Fihrist 214, –8f.). Kinship and distance to Abū l-Hudhayl are also discernible in the analysis of the process of creation. It seems as though Hishām, in the way that would become the custom in his generation, set aside the Quranic idea of the fiat, creation being simply God’s act of volition.11 As a result the ‘repetition’ of a thing, such as the second creation of humans during the resurrection, was a problem. To Abū l-Hudhayl, the difference between the first and the second creation had been the word with which God effects it.12 Now, however, it was noticeable that the object in both cases was the same. How, then, should one distinguish the two creations ontologically, and not simply by means of the point in time at which they were effected? God, after all, was beyond time. Precisely because the fiat was part of creating in his view, Abū l-Hudhayl had insisted that creating and created beings, creation in the dual sense of the word, had to be distinguished just as the second creation and that which was created in it had to be distinguished.13 This had now changed. That which is created a second time is not created in a creation distinct from the first one, as the result is exactly the same.14 It must be said that the second creation was retroactive in that the first creation could not be identical with its object, as in that case it would be implemented once and for all and could not be ‘repeated’. If, on the other hand, something is not created a second time, its first creation does not need to be distinct from the object: in that case God’s act of volition and the coming into existence of that which he willed will coincide at a point in time. Text 4. We still have to ask which are the things that, as the text tells us, ‘cannot be created a second time’. It does not, in fact, say ‘things’ but ‘something’, but we can safely assume that it does not refer to accidents such as human actions. It is true that Abū l-Hudhayl had stated that these would 11  Text 4, b. 12  See vol. III 248 and 275 above. 13  Text XXI 100. a; cf. vol. III 303 above. 14  Text 5, a. It remains doubtful whether the second creation, while not a separate accident might be a separate factor (maʿnā). Ibn Mattōya affirms this with regard to Hishām in his Muḥīṭ (II 308, pu. f.); in Text 5, c, on the other hand, he makes a distinction in such a way that this was embraced by Abū Bakr al-Zubayrī (regarding him see p. 280 below).

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not be ‘repeated’, but this was due to the fact that they were not created by God the first time, either, being generated by humans. However, the text refers to everything that is not a necessity in the resurrection of the human and his fortunes in the otherworld; maybe to everything in nature except humans and animals. Paradise and hell, too, are not ‘repeated’ in Hishām’s view, but rather created after the Judgment (see p. 16 below). Abū l-Hudhayl tied his proof of the existence of God to his ontology, especially his theory of the accidents.15 Hishām al-Fuwaṭī did so, too; but he felt the need to add a distinction. In Abū l-Hudhayl’s system, knowledge of God was a necessary corollary of the ‘necessary’, i.e. innate understanding of creaturehood, which in turn emerged from the consciousness of change, the sensual perception of the variation of accidents. Hishām found that we do not recognise accidents ‘of necessity’; what we perceive are bodies with accidents. In reality we are thus constructing a proof of the existence of God based on the bodies we see; the accidents attached to them are only inferred through abstraction. He does not say whether knowledge of God can still be a priori under these circumstances, but it seems doubtful. In any case an accident alone cannot be used as proof (dalīl) of the existence of God, as it would first have to be proved itself.16 The train of thought was triggered by the fact that the language of the time did not distinguish between sign/σημει̃ον and evidence. This resulted in a further consequence. Like Abū l-Hudhayl, Hishām regarded the Quran in its various manifestations as an accident.17 In that case, however, the Quran as such cannot be proof of anything, such as the truth of Muḥammad’s claim to prophethood.18 The iʿjāz, wtoo, had lost its foundation; it could not rest in the linguistic perfection of the Quran. Bāqillānī, who recorded this of Hishām and his pupil ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān,19 compares them with Naẓẓām; but if influence must be considered, Aṣamm would be a more likely candidate.20 On the other hand the doctrine of iʿjāz had not yet taken hold by that time. Another consequence was that the Quran was not the universal standard; it must be ‘scrutinised’. This certainly applies to its language, as it is no proof of 15  See vol. III 249f. above. 16  Text 9–10; 11, a. Cf. Text IV 24. 17  Text 11, d, which has the plural aʿrāḍ, presumably deliberately. 18  Ibid., b–c. 19   Iʿjāz al-Qurʾān 65, 6ff.; also Nukat al-intiṣār li-naql al-Qurʾān 240, 10ff. Juwaynī says something similar in Shāmil; Ibn Kammūna refers to him (Tanqīḥ al-abḥāth 78, 8f.). Cf. also Text XXV 20, a. 20  See vol. II 454 and III 444ff. above.

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anything. While we can assume that within the context of the Quran itself any statement is correct, this does not mean that it must be correct and appropriate beyond this context. Some expressions acquire an entirely different overtone and become, as we might say today, ideologised. This applies e.g. to images such as the ‘sealing of hearts’ exploited by the predestinarians,21 or to statements in which God is described as the agent even though humans are performing the action.22 Some passages are clearly hyperbole, such as 41:44, which says that the Quran was invisible to the eyes of humans. Of course they can, in fact, see it, but they do not understand it.23 Other passages must be expressed more precisely. If sura 30:24 tells us that God revived the earth by means of the rain, we must bear in mind that the rain is not a causa secunda; God revives the earth during the rainfall. In the same way he does not punish by means of the fires of hell but in the fires of hell: ‘he does not need assistance’.24 The second example is not found in the Quran in this form, but is based on religious everyday usage, which shows what Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s main concern was: one must express oneself in such a way that misunderstanding is prevented.25 Popular piety, on the other hand, was not always so precise. In the litanies of the 99 ‘most beautiful names’ God was frequently praised as the one who gives ‘benefit and harm’, which was blasphemous from Hishām’s point of view.26 In ʿAbbādān people recited the formula ḥasbī Allāh ‘God is sufficient to me’ during the dhikr, which was inspired by ḥasbunā llāh wa-niʿma l-wakīl in sura 3:173.27 The word wakīl, however, should not be used to denote God, as according to common usage a ‘guardian’ is someone appointed by someone else. Consequently the word should be replaced with al-mutawakkal ʿalayh, 21  Text 26, c. 22  Ibid., a–b; 25, a–b. 23  Text 25, c. 24  Text 24. 25  Text 27, d. 26  Text 28. Regarding al-ḍārr al-nāfiʿ, which is not a phrase from the Quran, cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 331ff. Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir had not yet regarded it as a problem (cf. Text XVII 1, v. 4); the formula was also accepted without question in an early Khārijite text (Text VIII 7, a). Those who rejected it were later found among the aṣḥāb al-ṭabāʾiʿ, the natural philosophers, because they believed that remedies were beneficial of themselves, while poisons were harmful of themselves (Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla II 739, 6ff.). It was unacceptable to address God as yā ḍārr only (Pseudo-Māturīdī, Tawḥīd [in: Yörükan, Islam akaidine eski metinler], p. 4, 13f.). Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī was reported to have said ‘There is nothing more harmful to creatures than the creator’ in a sermon; his audience threw him out of the mosque (TB III 89, 15f.). 27  Ibn al-Jawzī, Ḥamqā 132, ult. ff. The Quranic formula, a hadith demanded (TB III 363, 6ff.), should be spoken when the trumpet of judgment sounds; this was probably the basis of the ascetic practice.

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‘the one to whom one entrusts one’s cause’.28 The original phrase should be retained only when one recites the Quran, as the Quranic text is hallowed and free from mistakes, it had been agreed.29 All the same, God’s word is not God’s word any more once it has been taken out of the context of the scripture, unless – and this is most important – God makes statements concerning himself in the Quran. No theologian may find fault with these. This did not apply to sura 3:173, as the linguistic form of the sentence mentioned made it clear that it was spoken by humans, namely Muslims during the course of a battle (regarding the context cf. Paret, Kommentar 86 concerning this passage). Hishām thus did not regard it as ‘God’s word’ in a higher sense. This makes us wonder how it affected his concept of the revelation; it seems as though he did not presume strict verbal inspiration for all parts of the Quran. As his remark on God’s statements concerning himself is contained in a subordinate clause at the end of Text 23, d, we do not learn which verses in particular he had in mind. We do not know how Hishām incorporated God’s statements about himself into a theory of the attributes. He may not have developed one at all, because if he left the statements as they were in the Quran, he did not need to take the further step to the properties, i.e. the nouns.30 The Quran furnished mainly the ‘names’ of God, i.e. adjectives. There is no reason to believe that he took Abū l-Hudhayl’s theory as his starting point. They differed in the question of God’s location; Hishām believed God was nowhere, rather than everywhere, or, more precisely: not in a particular place, ‘as he has been for all eternity’.31 God remains entirely invisible, and people will not see him in the otherworld even with their hearts.32 He is not ‘something’ or a thing, either; he is merely the generator of things.33 Things, however, are peculiar. Before they exist, they are not ‘something’, as only created entities are ‘something’.34 Devoid of being, they are nothing; like Abū l-Hudhayl, Hishām was not familiar with 28  Text 23. 29  Text 27, b–c. 30  This may have been what Ashʿarī meant with his remark in Text 18, d. 31  Text 12. 32  Text XXII 67, b. 33  Text 13, based on a not entirely reliable source (Malaṭī). Hishām’s pupil ʿAbbād did not express himself in quite such radical terms (see p. 22f. below). On the other hand Abū l-Hudhayl clearly did not regard God as shayʾ (cf. Frank in: Le Muséon 82/1969/471f.). In more detail p. 485 below. 34  Text 14, e; cf. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal V 42, 10f., and IV 202, 3.

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the concept of potentiality. Furthermore it is impossible to have knowledge of something that is not; consequently God has no knowledge of things qua things before they exist.35 This was easily misunderstood in the sense of early Kufan theology, such as the ideas published by Hishām b. al-Ḥakam; Ibn alRēwandī made full use of this possibility.36 However, Hishām al-Fuwaṭī does not seem to have had much in common with Hishām b. al-Ḥakam besides the name. Iran would be a more likely possibility: we are very close to the teachings of Jahm b. Ṣafwān.37 Ashʿarī claimed that Hishām was influenced by some ‘eternalists’ (Azaliyya);38 their ideas may be found with Abū l-Ṣabbāḥ alSamarqandī, among others.39 He took pains to distance himself from them, not wishing to expose them to the consequence of having to presume the eternal duration of the world just because he believed in divine foreknowledge. Maybe he also had to give support to the community in Khorasan in this way. There is no evidence that he denied God’s eternal knowledge altogether as a consequence. He merely modified its scope. By focussing on God’s knowledge of himself he tried to move away from the objects:40 God thinks himself by having known for all eternity that he is only one and that there is no second God.41 He recognises not only his existence but also his essence in accordance with tawḥīd. A ‘second’ one by his side is negated and thus does not enter into the knowledge as a ‘thing’. His knowledge of his own essence ultimately results in knowledge of the world: God has known from the very beginning that he would create and then let decay, and that he would resurrect humans at the end of time just as they were before.42 These are actions he will perform himself, not things. One has to be careful not to include things in statements with which one describes circumstances from a theological point of view. The doxographical tradition does not make quite clear where the dividing line was. Ashʿarī thought that Hishām did not want to call things by their names as long as they did not yet exist, not even in the sense that God knows that they will

35  Text 15, 16, d; XIII 8. Concerning the context cf. my Erkenntnislehre 192 and 194, and Gimaret, Livre des Religions 254, n. 26; more detail p. 33 and 52ff. below. 36  Text 14, a–c. 37  As we are in the idea that God is not shayʾ (see vol. II 561f.; also Text XIV 7). 38  Text 18. 39  See vol. II 629f. above. 40  Text 14, d. 41  Text 16, b–c. 42  Text 14, f.

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come to be;43 according to Ibn Ḥazm, on the other hand, he allowed the phrase that God had known for all eternity that things will be, once they are.44 Ibn Ḥazm may be going too far in his interpretation, but he saw quite clearly that limiting the scope of God’s knowledge was not Hishām’s primary aim. He did not say, as Ibn Sīnā would say later,45 that God had no knowledge of particularia; and although one might prima vista think of the νόησις νοήσεως, he was not an Aristotelian, either. God recognises the particularia once they exist. Once created, things are things, and they continue to be things even once they have passed away again.46 The point at issue is the foreknowledge which, in Hishām’s view, is unalterable;47 nothing is added to it even when things come into being. Consequently it must not be made dependent on conditions that are not inherent in God himself:48 one cannot ascribe to God the knowledge that he will punish an unbeliever if the latter should not repent.49 Rather, God comprehends a human’s destiny as a whole, knowing who will ultimately be a believer and who an unbeliever. This may not always agree with our verdict; sometimes someone converts in the last hour of his life, but everything he has done until then is simply an expression of his freedom to act. It does not touch on God’s foreknowledge.50 This, like some others of the preceding thoughts, sounds rather like a more detailed rephrasing of one of Abū l-Ṣabbāḥ al-Samarqandī’s ideas.51 Being a Muʿtazilite Hishām certainly did not believe that foreknowledge possessed a predetermining force. Human actions are, after all, not ‘things’; God’s recognising a human upon creation as a believer or unbeliever does not predetermine them. This must be borne in mind when a heresiographer such as Ibn Ḥazm links him with the Ashʿarites in the context of the theory that humans will reach the end of their lives and the Judgment (muwāfāt) with their belief or their unbelief.52 The issue is not predestination, but the fact that 43  Text 16, e–g. 44  Text 17. Regarding the issue in general cf. also Daiber, Muʿammar 193ff.; Jolivet, L’intellect selon Kindī 118f. 45  Gardet, La pensée religieuse d’Avicenne 71ff. 46  Text 16, g. 47  Text 32, b. 48   Maq. 495, 7f. 49  Text 19; briefly also Abrahamov in: Der Islam 71/1994/112. 50  Text 32 and 33. 51  See vol. II 631 above; cf. also the doctrine of Khārijite groups in Sīstān (ibid. 651f.) or that of Sulaymān al-Raqqī (ibid. 543). 52  Text 32; cf. Fiṣal IV 58, 3ff. The difference is not presented entirely clearly in E. Kohlberg’s otherwise commendable study in SI 57/1983/47ff.; the statement in brackets on p. 62f. is incorrect. Regarding the derivation of the term muwāfāt ibid. p. 47f., and Gimaret, Livre

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God cannot be influenced. In fact, Hishām demonstrated this using another example as well, which became known as al-qawl bil-maqṭūʿ wal-mawṣūl. Once again he refers to human actions of the kind relevant for salvation: fulfilling commandments that, such as faith, take time and can thus be interrupted. Abū Rashīd refers to the thought process leading to knowledge of God, which it would be sinful to interrupt;53 Ibn al-Rēwandī chooses the more immediately comprehensible example of an unfinished prayer.54 Here, too, God knows in advance that a commandment will not be fulfilled; and it cannot be said with regard to the section completed that it fulfilled the commandment, if only incompletely. The crucial question was how this section should be judged. The sources do not provide a clear answer. Hishām probably emphasised that the fulfilled section was invalid, while Ibn al-Rēwandī, exaggerating as so often, even uses the word ‘sin’ (Text 31, a). Khayyāṭ does not give an opinion, merely reporting the argument with which Hishām buttressed his theory: as the general consensus was that an unfinished prayer had to be performed again in its entirety, the rakʿas already performed could not have been fulfilment of a commandment, otherwise they would have to be added to the newly performed prayer. This does probably not hit the central issue. Hishām’s pupil ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān emphasised instead that the rakʿas already performed were a ‘work of obedience’ in spite of everything, but that they must not be added to obligatory prayer (see p. 22 below); of course we do not know whether his teacher would have said the same. Baghdādī, who adhered to Ibn al-Rēwandī’s interpretation, stated that Hishām diverged from the communis opinio (Farq 149, 10ff./163, 10f.); Ashʿarī delimited ʿAbbād in a similar fashion against the majority of theologians (Maq. 450, 4ff.). The texts consulted (31 and 33) do not state explicitly that this legal issue was closely linked to the more theologically weighted problem of muwāfāt, but this was probably clearly perceived. Abū Rashīd uses the term muwāfāt in this new context: that one brings one’s prayer ‘to the right conclusion’ (Masāʾil fī l-khilāf 348, 9ff.). Shaykh al-Mufīd in particular made the connection, but then he had good reason to do so: the Imāmite founding fathers Zurāra b. Aʿyān and Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Ṭayyār des religions 252, n. 18; regarding its usage cf. e.g. Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 191, 4ff. (different, however, Shahrastānī 51, 11/110, 9). 53   Masāʾil fī l-khilāf 345, 3f. and earlier. 54  Text 31.

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had already stated that an interrupted ritual action was invalid (see vol. I 383 and 390 above; also Awāʾil al-maqālāt 69, 5ff., transl. McDermott, Theology of al-Mufīd 161, and Sourdel in: REI 40/1972/295f. where, however, the connection has been obscured by the incorrect rendition of the term muwāfāt; for more detail see Kohlberg in: SI 57/1983/62ff.). Regarding Hishām see also Kaʿbī, Maq. 71, apu., where once again both are named together. By focussing on the status of things before their real existence in his deliberation on the essence of God, Hishām al-Fuwaṭī triggered a discussion we shall follow among his younger contemporaries for some time, which is why we have sufficient information to throw light on this area. Other areas are elucidated in rather less detail. Hishām emphasised not just the unchanging nature of God’s knowledge but also that of God’s omnipotence: God has been omnipotent for all eternity,55 and will remain so; Hishām, as we have seen, disagreed with Abū l-Hudhayl’s belief that his maqdūrāt would come to an end. There is no mention of limitations to God’s omnipotence of the kind that were discussed in Naẓẓām’s school. The only thing God cannot do is to create two identical things one after the other. However, this was mainly a terminological matter to Hishām. Everything created is unique, and what comes after it is not the same but something else. Arabic does not have a clear distinction between ‘identical’ and ‘similar’, which might have been helpful here.56 On the other hand God is able to do wrong, but it would be absurd (muḥal) to assume this even theoretically. This was Abū l-Hudhayl’s opinion,57 but Hishām pursued it with a linguistic proof: the irrealis used to express this theoretical assumption implies either doubt, in which case it is inadmissible – or negation, in which case it is superfluous.58 Hishām firmly maintained that God treats all humans equally. Not even fallen warriors for the faith will enter heaven before others. After all, paradise, as we have seen, has not yet been created; it would have no purpose as it would be empty.59 With this idea Hishām went back to Ḍirār; he seems to have main55  Text 16, a. 56  This is how I interpret Text 20. In this way, Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s idea that each of God’s acts of creations includes an infinite number of identical possibilities (see vol. III 135 above), has also been rejected. Regarding the linguistic vagueness cf., in the context of Hebrew, E. Jenni, Pleonastische Ausdrücke für Vergleichbarkeit, in: K. Seybold/E. Zenger, Neue Wege der Psalmenforschung (Freiburg 1993), p. 204; see also p. 424 below. 57  See vol. III 299 above. 58  Text 21. 59  Text 36; cf. p. 7 above.

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tained it passionately60 and passed it on to later theologians such as Kaʿbī. He did not doubt that Muslims, too, if they died in a state of grave sin, would stay in hell for eternity, but the Murjiʾites’ barrage of criticism led him to admit that it was not written in the Quran in these terms but that the relevant passages had to undergo exegetic scrutiny.61 Just how difficult solving questions of the theodicy became thanks to this principle of equal treatment is shown by an argument he appears to have directed against Abū l-Hudhayl: children who suffer despite being innocent cannot be compensated in later life, as Abū l-Hudhayl had believed; this would mean that their undeserved enjoyment as children, too, might not be freely given but would have to be included in a ‘reckoning’ in later life and God might punish them for it.62 Hishām’s contemporary Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm was of a similar opinion (cf. Madelung in: Festschrift Löfgren 40f.). – It is impossible to say whether Hishām’s belief, documented elsewhere, that no virgins will be deflowered in paradise (Text 37) belongs in the same context. We do not know where the emphasis was here, but it would be putting too much strain on the text if we read it to mean that Hishām spiritualised the delights of paradise in general. He agreed with Abū l-Hudhayl in taking the actions pleasing to God, regarding the supererogatory ones as being essential as well, as his starting point when defining faith.63 However, he realised, probably once again as a result of Murjiʾite polemic, that this ran the risk of neglecting the act of faith itself. Consequently he made a distinction, apparently employing new technology, between the faith in God (īmān billāh), i.e. the actual act of faith, and the faith for God’s sake (īmān lillāh), the actions with which one fulfils God’s commandments. One must never neglect the faith in God; that would be unbelief. Faith for God’s sake opens up the spectrum of grave and venial sins that Abū l-Hudhayl – and others – had already analysed. This only leads to unbelief if one believes that disobeying the commandments is permitted, which, in turn, is a transgression against the faith in God.64 Hishām’s correspondence with a Muʿtazilite community in Khorasan, presumably together with his travels in general, seem to have confronted him 60  Cf. Text 35. 61  Text 34. 62  Text 22; regarding Abū l-Hudhayl see vol. III 300 above. 63  Cf. Text 29, a, and Text XXI 155, a; also vol. III 310 above. 64  Text 29, b–f.

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with practical questions to a greater degree than many of his contemporaries. He had to give an opinion on how to judge someone who does not pay zakāt; unfortunately we are not told whether the tax was meant to be paid to the authorities or to his own community. However, the way in which the report is classified – and the fact that it was transmitted at all – seems to suggest that it was the former. The forbearance of the response serves as further confirmation: someone who is not determined from the very first that he will never pay zakāt is not holding it back in the strict sense, and is consequently not doing wrong.65 The state does not seem to have occupied a high position in Hishām’s concept. A second expert opinion confirms this: if there is proof that someone has apostatised, every Muslim may mete out capital punishment to him if the authorities do not do it; but he should not put himself in danger. Hishām’s pupil ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān adopted this maxim; Ibn al-Rēwandī considered it to be an invitation to assassination,66 but in the first instance it was probably merely a rigorous implementation of amr bil-maʿrūf wal-nahy ʿan al-munkar. In the Islamic heartlands this attitude was outdated by that time – although we do not know whether the authorities punished apostasy everywhere. Things were different in the Muʿtazilite communities in India, and possibly in some places in Iran, too; self-administered justice was necessary to uphold law and order.67 By proposing an ‘ecumenical’ interpretation of the past, Hishām tried to improve relations with the Shīʿa, which were always characterised by tensions in Basra. In the battle of the camel, he said, the leaders on both sides had only wanted the best; they met in Basra for negotiations, and the stupid mob began to fight. This could be inferred from a remark by ʿAlī, but mainly from the fact that his two opponents were not killed in open battle at all.68 ʿUthmān, too, was not really besieged in his palace, and certainly not at ʿAlī’s instigation; some irresponsible elements broke in and assassinated him without ‘the Muslims’ having the slightest idea.69 In disposing of the past in this way Hishām followed a trend that found expression elsewhere, too. The Muʿtazila seemed to have grown weary of partisanship; the authorities had changed their tune far too often. Uswārī was said to have come to the same conclusion as Hishām.70 Outside of the school, Walīd b. Abān al-Karābīsī had thought along the same 65  Text 30. Did he have non-Muʿtazilite or unjust authorities in mind, who would use the money wrongly? 66  Text 38 and XXV 108. 67  Communities do not seem to have had their own judiciary. 68  Text 41–43. 69  Text 40. 70  Text 41, 3; cf. vol. III 456f. above.

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lines, although his main objective had been to save the honour of the ṣaḥāba. He did not regard events in Ṣiffīn as a mere political accident, but as the result of responsible ijtihād;71 his pupil Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī al-Karābīsī72 and later nearly the entire Sunni theology adopted this view from him.73 Hishām al-Fuwaṭī, on the other hand, seems to have been most offended by the Muʿtazila in Muʿtaṣim’s time directing all its energy against the ‘anthropomorphists’, the latter having shown quite clearly that they regarded Muʿtazilites as well as Shīʿites their enemies.74 He also adhered to the image he had of society, believing that a community at war with itself was not able to agree on a ruler. Only a united community could be led, but then it required a leader that gave it objectives. Text 39. We do not know whether he found this unity realised only among the khulafāʾ al-rāshidūn, as ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān did (see p. 51 below). He was not criticising ʿAlī’s caliphate, as Baghdādī believed (Madelung, Qāsim 42). There is probably no connection with Aṣamm, either; remarks to this effect by Shahrastānī and Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī (Text 39, commentary) are retrospective systematising attempts at levelling (cf. vol. II 463 above). If we look at the attitude to the amr bil-maʿrūf, Fuwaṭī was certainly more radical than Aṣamm (cf. vol. II 463f. above). – Regarding further theories cf. Text XVII 23 (tawallud) and 49 (on the efficiency of acts of will), as well as XXI 173 (agreement with Abū l-Hudhayl in the demand of twenty-fold authentication of akhbār; see vol. III 288 above).

71  See vol. II 497 above. 72  See p. 239 below. He was around 20 years younger than Fuwaṭī. 73  See p. 776 below. Baghdādī probably thought mainly of the Ashʿarites (Uṣūl al-dīn 289, 8ff.), but sketches the train of thought entirely in the style of Fuwaṭī. 74  See vol. III 488 above.

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4.1.2 Fuwaṭī’s Pupils 4.1.2.1 ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān Hishām found followers in Damascus and apparently also in Nishapur.1 In Basra his ideas were preserved in an original fashion by Abū Sahl ʿAbbād b. Salmān/Sulaymān2 b. ʿAlī al-Ṣaymarī. His nisba suggests that he was not a native Basran either; he certainly had contacts with Ṣaymara in the Jibāl province where the Muʿtazila – thanks to his influence? – spread significantly,3 and where a pupil of his became well-known.4 His ideas could not prevail in Basra in the long run: Jubbāʾī thought him intelligent but a little bit mad.5 On the other hand, even Abū Hāshim would write against him as did Ashʿarī at the same time.6 In Maqdisī’s K. al-badʿ wal-ta‌ʾrīkh, composed around 355/966, his school is the only group within the Muʿtazila that bears the name of its founder.7 Malaṭī pointed out at the time that there were no theologians worth the name in either Basra or Baghdad during the years between ʿAbbād and Jubbāʾī.8 However, while he, in Malaṭī’s words, ‘filled the earth with books and absurdities’,9 the Muʿtazilites themselves did not find him so very eccentric at that time. He competed against Ibn Kullāb in debates, presumably in his function as the head of the Basran Muʿtazila.10 These should probably be dated to the thirties, when theologians such as Ibn Kullāb, who had expressed themselves so clearly against the dogmas of the miḥna, were

1   See p. 265 and 282 below. 2    Salmān is the lectio difficilior found in Fihrist (215, –11, and 230, 7) and in Muḥammad alṬūsī, Tamhīd al-uṣūl 102, apu. Sulaymān is the form used throughout in Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Faḍl 285, 5 > IM 77, 17), by Subkī (Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya II 299) etc. 3   See p. 271f. below. 4   Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ṣaymarī (cf. Faḍl 308, ult.). ʿAbbād’s nisba is often written incorrectly: ʿUmarī (Baghdādī, Farq 147, 2 Badr), Ḍamrī (Farq 161, 1 ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd; Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān III 229 no. 1027), Ḍamīrī (Nāṭiq bil-ḥaqq, Ziyādāt 159b, 8), Ṣamīrī (Juwaynī, Shāmil 337, ult.; with the variant Ṣamrī), Ḍaymarī (Ījī, Mawāqif VIII 301, 8; thus also Horten in his works); Shīghawī (Juwaynī, Irshād 159, –4). The correct form is found Mānkdīm, ShUKh 547, pu., and 625, 1; Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 395, 16; Ibn Kammūna, Tanqīḥ 78, 8 (after Juwaynī’s Shāmil); Suyūṭī, Muzhir I 47, 2. The Ṣaymarī in Kaʿbī’s list of names probably also refers to him (Fihrist 220, n., l. 8). Regarding this and the following cf. Madelung in: EIran I 70f. 5    Fihrist 215, –10f. 6   Cf. Catalogue of Works, Refutations c–d. 7    Badʾ V 142, 1. 8    Tanbīh 32, 4f./39, apu. f. 9   Ibid. 32, 4f./39, apu. f. 10   Fihrist 230, 7; Subkī, Ṭab. II 299, 10ff. Cf. p. 213 below.

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able to make public appearances without fear of punishment.11 It seems that ʿAbbād himself was still living around 260/874, as Ibn al-Rēwandī names him as a contemporary, albeit certainly a much older one,12 and his pupil Abū l’Ḥasan al-Bardhaʿī13 seems to have visited him in Basra just before the middle of the fifties.14 The Shīʿite ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Aḥmad b. Jabrōya, of whom Najāshī said that he conducted debates with him ‘and his contemporaries’ (man kāna fī ṭabaqatihī),15 probably also lived around this time, if not later.16 4.1.2.1.1

4.1.2.1.1.1

His Teachings

Introductory Remarks on His System. The Sources

The sources devote attention to him in a variety of ways. Going by the edited fragment, Kaʿbī does not seem to have accorded him a biography at all.1 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār speaks of ‘well-known books’ he wrote, but otherwise names him only as the pupil of Hishām al-Fuwaṭī.2 Baghdādī and Shahrastānī count him as one of the Hishāmiyya, pointing to isolated individual teachings only. This was probably partly due to the fact that ʿAbbād was too young to have been singled out particularly in the K. al-intiṣār; Baghdādī thus lost an important informant. The picture painted by Ashʿarī is quite different. He is particularly interested in ʿAbbād’s theory of the attributes; in one instance he discusses it over five consecutive pages – i.e. in an uninterrupted sequence of individual reports,3 which he rarely does elsewhere. ʿAbbād thus occupies nearly as much space as Jubbāʾī. Ashʿarī appears to have regarded him as the antithesis of the latter,4 Shaḥḥām, who transmitted the pure doctrine of Abū l-Hudhayl to Jubbāʾī, staying in the background. Other sources tell us nothing 11  Ibn Kullāb probably died in 241/855 (see p. 204 below). The debate is most likely to have taken place after Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s death. 12   Intiʾār 69, 10 = Text XXV 70, a. 13   Faḍl 300, 13 > IM 90, 13; regarding him see p. 268 below. 14  Not long before Jāḥiẓ’ death. 15  Najāshī 164, 13ff. 16  He converted Ibn Mumlak to the Shīʿa; the latter was a member of Jubbāʾī’s generation (see p. 275f. below). – It consequently becomes even less probable that ʿAbbād could have been identical with the Shīʿite traditionist of the same name; however, presumably they were contemporaries (cf. Najāshī 208, 5ff. > Ardabīlī, Jāmiʿ I 430 a). 1   Cf., however, the remark on Text 98. 2    Faḍl 285, 6 (only one line altogether) > IM 77, pu. f. Regarding the relationship between teacher and pupil cf. also Fihrist 215, –11; Malaṭī, Tanbīḥ 32, 2f./39, –5; Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 121, pu. 3    Maq. 495–500. 4   Antithesis within the Basran school only. Seen in the context of Baghdad theology the two had much in common (see below).

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about ʿAbbād’s theory of the attributes. This does certainly not mean that it was evolved by Hishām al-Fuwaṭī. While there are considerable similarities,5 this does not change the evaluation that ʿAbbād was the most significant theologian in the Muʿtazila around the middle of the third century. Even where he adopted, he was often original. He found a new, rational proof of the theory that paradise and hell did not yet exist.6 While he did not accept accidents as evidence, he believed in miracles, choosing a different criterion as evidence.7 He distinguished between īmān billāh and īmān lillāh,8 but his theory of sin displayed new accents. He only allowed the formula ḥasbunā llāh wa-niʿma l-wakīl when reciting the Quran,9 but he may have given a different explanation of his objection.10 He looked at the problem of the interrupted act of worship independently of divine foreknowledge and the muwāfāt – in which he did not believe any more.11 The result was that he emphasised more strongly than his teacher, and possibly in opposition to him, that the section performed had some merit. While it cannot be counted as part of the obligatory service of God, and while the act of worship must be repeated in its entirety, it should count as a supererogatory ‘act of obedience’. ʿAbbād was able to demonstrate this by choosing some different examples. In the context of prayer he asked the question in such a way that the interruption could not be regarded as reprehensible: someone praying sees a child drowning and hurries to save it.12 At times he appears to refer directly to Abū l-Hudhayl without his teacher as an intermediary. Like him he declared the expression that God was different from his creation to be inadmissible.13 While Abū l-Hudhayl, however, described God as the ‘opposite’ of his creation,14 ʿAbbād says that God was ‘another’.15 He adopted this from his teacher: individuality consists in being another.16 God’s being another means that he is ‘something’, he exists, as 5   Cf. Text XXI 67 and XXIV 2, 5, 12, and 42. It is noticeable that, like Hishām, he justified selfadministered justice in the case of apostates – and opponents? – (Text 108). 6   Text 100; cf. Text XXIV 39. 7   See p. 48f. below. 8   Text 91; cf. p. 17f. above. 9   Text 42, a; cf. p. 11 above. 10  See p. 27 below. 11  Text 97. 12  Text 99, c–e; different in f–i concerning fasting and pilgrimage. Regarding the details cf. the commentary; also Text XXIV 31 above. Neither Hishām nor ʿAbbād appear to have distinguished between foreseeable or intentional and unforeseeable interruptions; Mufīd, on the other hand, presents the distinction clearly (Awāʾil al-maqālāt 69, 7ff./transl. Sourdel in: REI 40/1972/295f. § 78). 13  Text 39, a; cf. Text XXI 40. 14  See vol. III 263 above. 15  Text 36, a. 16  See p. 13 above; also Text XXIV 20, b.

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‘something’ and ‘another’ are interchangeable.17 God, however, is the absolute other, he is ‘not like any of the remaining other things’,18 and neither is he another because otherness is inherent in him.19 The idea behind these deliberations is thus still the same as it was for Abū l-Hudhayl: difference, or ‘otherness’ is based on accidents, but God has no accidents. ʿAbbād’s explanation is new: if God were ‘different’, he would have to be described in this way, but that is clearly not the case.20 The argument seems circular, but looks more convincing in the light of his theory of the attributes, more on which below. First we must look at ʿAbbād’s books. There are not many; only seven titles have been transmitted. He does not appear to have composed a comprehensive overview of his theology, and there is no longer text on his theory of the attributes. The most detailed text was probably the K. al-abwāb refuted by Abū Hāshim; it is likely to have had separate chapters dealing with current issues that had not yet been decided by school consensus.21 The titles mentioned in Fihrist22 explore individual topics that have become characteristic of his theology. We can only speculate regarding the contents of a K. al-ʿaks of which we only know through al-Khayyāṭ’s refutation.23 ʿAbbād appears to have given some thought to logic or, more precisely, to the stringency of assertions. To him, they seemed to be most reliably secured on the formal level if the subject and the predicate implied each other – as in the above example: ‘something’ is ‘another one’ and ‘another one’ is ‘something’, or insān = bashar as bashar = insān.24 This was what he called ʿaks ‘interchangeability’, and the step taken by means of it, i.e. the reciprocal or intensive implication, was in his view the conclusion in its actual and strictest sense (ḥaqīqat al-qiyās).25

17  Text 37. Regarding the definition of shayʾ ‘something’ in ʿAbbād’s works cf. also Jolivet in: Etudes sur Avicenne 22. 18  Text 38, a; Jolivet 21. 19  Text 36. b–c. 20  Text 39, b. 21  Catalogue of Works no. 4. We could try to use the quotations in Abū Hāshim’s refutation, which are found in later Muʿtazilite literature, especially Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, to conclude back to the contents of the original text. This would, however, be burdened with many hypotheses; as far as I can see none of the quotations are in the voice of ʿAbbād himself. Furthermore at the moment it is not possible to determine to what degree Abū Hāshim’s K. naqḍ al-abwāb is identical with the K. al-abwāb al-kabīr or K. al-abwāb al-ṣaghīr also attributed to him (cf. Gimaret in: JA 264/1976/198ff. and 331). The only conclusion possible based on the confirmed quotations is that the refutation, and thus presumably the original text as well, was laid out on a wide-ranging framework. 22  Catalogue of Works no. 1–3. 23  Ibid. no. 5. 24  Text 75, a. Cf. p. 38f. below. 25  Cf. the commentary on Text 34 in detail.

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If we were to trust Ibn al-Murtaḍā – who, however, lived rather later and is isolated in this context – ʿAbbād was also the one who triggered reflection on a sentence that would be discussed with great zeal a generation later: ‘Muḥammad and Musaylima speak the truth’. In his eyes this statement was neither true nor false as it comprised two claims one of which was true and the other false. Abū Hāshim would later express the same opinion, while his father Jubbāʾī and after him the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār looked at the sentence as a whole and consequently considered it to be false altogether (Qalāʾid 117, –7ff.). The Stoics had used the term συμπεπληγμένα, ‘conjunctions’, in which two equivalent clauses were joined by ‘and’ (cf. my deliberations in: Logic in Classical Islamic Culture 31; also Erkenntnislehre 98f.). ʿAbbād’s standpoint might have led to a three-valued logic of the kind that Jāḥiẓ embraced at the time – or possibly slightly earlier (see p. 113 below). 4.1.2.1.1.2

His Theory of the Attributes

He also structured his theory of the attributes based on propositions. He focussed on the ‘names’ of God, i.e. the adjectives. He did not take the step further to the noun; he probably thought that Abū l-Hudhayl, who had done so, had ultimately not been able to avoid recognising independent attributes.1 While he used the term ṣifa, in constructions he combined it with a finite verb, i.e. ‘God knows’ rather than ‘God is knowing’.2 This was not relevant within his system as his analysis was directed at nominal sentences. They had the advantage that God (or ‘the creator’, al-bāriʾ, as he often says3) was the subject and at the beginning of the sentence; saying al-bāriʾ yaʿlamu was, after all, not possible. In addition they could be used as test cases to discover the degree to which they might be inverted in the sense mentioned above. This was, as was easily comprehensible, possible only in the case of ‘names’ referring to God only, such as ‘God is eternal’ or, better (as the word Allāh posed problems with regard to its meaning):4 ‘the eternal one has existed since the very beginning (lam yazal)’.5 It does not, on the other hand, apply to statements such as ‘God

1  Text 27, a–b and d; 28, a. 2  Text 25, a–b. Regarding the shifting usage cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 236f. and 345f. 3  See p. 26, n. 26 below. 4  Regarding the issue cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 121ff. ʿAbbād did not define the word anywhere, but he did not regard it as a proper name (see p. 26 below). 5  Lam yazal is considered a full verb here.

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is knowing’; the inversion ‘knowing’ = ‘God’ would mean that there is no-one besides God who knows anything.6 The criterion according to which ʿAbbād selected and approved these names is significant. He did not limit himself to the words ascribing qualities to God in the Quran – he would not have found qadīm ‘eternal’ there – but consulted the consensus of all Muslims instead. He gave a negative definition: only a name – but also every name – that one cannot deny God without the community unanimously declaring it an error, had theological relevance.7 Names, after all, are types of speaking of God, ways of expressing something about him (aqwāl);8 by using them, one places them (athbata)9 and uses a language that must be accepted by all. Jubbāʾī agreed with this, but in Baghdad it was rejected.10 ʿAbbād was following a path that Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had trodden before him: theological assertions are subject to linguistic review. Like his teacher he emphasised that this would not affect the Quran,11 but as he did not base his deliberations on the Quran, he did not have to concern himself with this aspect in any case. Where Hishām had tautened individual expressions, he engaged in linguistic analysis on a large scale, setting theology on a foundation of general linguistic theory. This does not mean that he invented it independently; the philologists had at the very least prepared it. When he spoke of aqwāl, he was clearly referring to Sībawayh who had distinguished qawl from kalām, the independent and complete assertion.12 ʿAbbād used it to mean words, or in the above instance ‘descriptions’ of God such as yaʿlamu, ʿālim etc.13 However, he went far beyond theology in his deliberations, imagining that a natural relation existed between 6   Text 33–34; also 32, b. Regarding the questions discussed here cf. also Abrahamov in: Der Islam 71/1994/109ff., who emphasises differently in places, and tries to state neo-Platonic influence. 7   Text 25, c–d. 8   Ibid., a–b. 9   Text 27, e–g; 29, a; 30, a, etc. 10  The emphasis, however, was not on the consensus, but on reason which determines – or not – what can be a name of God or not (Maq. 525, 4ff.). According to Maq. 172, 14f., the idea that names and attributes were mere aqwāl was the view of the Muʿtazilites and Khārijites in general, but this is put in far too general terms, probably from the Kullābite – Ashʿarite point of view. Regarding the Muʿtazila cf. also Maqdisī, Badʿ I 96, 6f., and, discussing it but once again very general, Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 256, 3ff. 11  Text 42, a. 12  Cf. Guillaume in: BEO 35/1983/28ff.; also Lisān al-ʿArab XII 523, 6ff. 13  Text 25, a (where the translations ‘Wörter’ (words) has been used, for want of a better term). Aqwāl are not, we must emphasise, ‘speech acts’, or certainly only on a secondary level; Maqdisī (Badʿ I 96, 6f.) has them next to metonymies or indirect forms of expression (kināyāt).

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words and things: words suit things because the latter are what they are.14 This applies primarily, of course, to nouns; but verbs, in the Basran view, were secondary in any case.15 Onomatopoeic derivations carried particular conviction; it was believed that Khalīl b. Aḥmad had already arrived at a similar conclusion based on them.16 The question was to what degree the result could be generalised beyond the onomatopoeias; one of ʿAbbād’s followers was apparently tested by his listeners who asked whether he was able to tell the meaning from the phonetic form of the Persian word for rock – with which he was apparently not familiar.17 The theory did not gain ground; Jubbāʾī attacked it, and his son Abū Hāshim finally replaced ʿAbbād’s ‘naturalistic’ approach with the explanation of language as a social convention.18 Maybe the two descendants disliked that in ʿAbbād’s view even God was subject to the law of language: not even he can name things differently.19 By creating them, he endowed them with their ‘nature’. He could not even ‘describe’20 himself differently, as his names denote him as he is. If they were changed, that which they denote would also be transformed.21 It is unlikely that the philologists on whom ʿAbbād based his thoughts would have followed him all the way along this path, as in terms of grammar, ism was the noun and God would have had only one ‘name’ (ism), namely Allāh. ʿAbbād, on the other hand, had in mind the nouns which correspond to entities as their names when it came to things within the world; but with regard to God the asmāʾ to him were adjectives, a great number of which described one aspect of God each.22 There is no denotation of the essential, or the essence, of God; nafs ‘self’ or ʿayn ‘the same’ are not among his names. God does not exist of himself (qāʾim bi-nafsihī). It is not possible to speak of his dhāt, either, and 14  Text 21, a–b. 15  They are derived from the infinitives, i.e. nouns (see vol. III 263 above; also p. 478 below). 16  Cf. B. Weiss in: ZDMG 124/1974/37 with further instances; also Versteegh, Greek Elements in Arabic Linguistic Thinking 27ff., who points out parallels from Antiquity and also finds that their influence could be felt in Sībawayh’s time already. 17  Text 21, c–d. The pupil is an Arab and may have been visiting an Iranian community. Of course it might simply be a made-up anecdote. 18  Documented by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī V 160ff. Regarding the development cf. Weiss, loc. cit. 33ff.; also Frank, Beings and Their Attributes 29, n. 10. 19  Text 23 and 24, a. 20  Text 24, b. 21  Text 22. 22  It must be taken into consideration that the majority of the names of God occur in the form of participles, as ism fāʿil or ism mafʿūl; ʿAbbād says ʿālim rather than ʿalīm, qādir rather than qadīr. Concerning the less frequent faʿīl forms see p. 27 and 31 below. Strictly speaking ṣifa, too, denotes the agent noun (Fleisch, Traité I 265).

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he cannot be said to be knowing because of his essence (li-dhātihī) or because of himself (li-nafsihī).23 Allāh is simply a name among others.24 There was thus no room for ṣifāt al-dhāt in ʿAbbād’s system, although he did distinguish between different kinds of ‘names’. The category on which he based his distinction was action,25 but he did not use the term ṣifāt al-fiʿl, referring to names that denote God ‘because of his own actions’ instead. He devoted much attention to these; there is one among them which applied exclusively to God: al-bāriʾ, the ‘creator’.26 There are others besides which denote God with regard to ‘the actions of someone else’, i.e. human action: passive participles such as maʿlūm ‘that which is recognised’ or madʿūw ‘the objective of human prayer’. They are entirely non-Quranic, but also entirely incontrovertible; Ashʿarī and Baghdādī would later list them among the asmāʾ as well.27 And finally there is the group of those that are neither in one nor in the other category such as ‘Allāh’ or ‘eternal’ or ‘living’, but also ‘knowing’ and ‘powerful’, and even ‘hearing’ and ‘seeing’.28 They describe God’s individual essence most closely, but as a group they are the most heterogeneous. 4.1.2.1.1.2.1

Names ‘because of God’s Own Actions’

We hear nothing more of the middle group. Names such as maʿlūm or maʿbūd were artificial theological constructs. In the case of those belonging to the first group, however, ʿAbbād appears to have made a point of ‘God’s own action’ being expressed unmistakeably in the grammatical form, and accepted only agent nouns: muḥsin, murīd, ʿādil etc.1 He rejected forms such as laṭīf ‘kind’, kafīl ‘surety’, wakīl ‘guardian’; they were suitable only when the action expressed in them was defined in relation to an object, such as e.g. laṭīf bil-ʿibād ‘kind to humans’.2 Instead of mutakallim ‘talking’ he said mukallim ‘addressing’; 23  Text 27, c; 29, b; 49, b. Nafs is purely a reflexive pronoun (cf. the exegesis in 29, d). Regarding dhāt cf. vol. V 398; with reference to ʿAbbād also Abrahamov in: Der Islam 71/1994/111. 24  Text 26, b. 25  Thus also Gimaret, Noms divins 107. 26  Text 88; cf. Gimaret, ibid. 284ff. It is certainly no coincidence that the doxographical accounts compiled by Ashʿarī often replace Allāh with al-bāriʾ. The Rabbinic sages also used bōrē as a name of God (Marmorstein, Rabbinic Doctrine of God 74ff.). 27  Gimaret 44 and 108. If Maq. 509, 6f. says that the ‘Muʿtazilites’ in general had already done this, it is probably referring to the time from ʿAbbād onwards. The Ashʿariyya would use the term wasf rather than ism in the long run, such as e.g. Ghazzālī (cf. Gimaret 48). 28  Text 26. 1   Cf. the comprehensive list in Text 40, c–d. 2   Text 42–43. NB that the rejection of wakil, if our interpretation is correct, has a different explanation than that given by Hishām al-Fuwaṭī.

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mutakallim, being the participle of form V, expressed a degree of reflexivity and thus gave rise to the impression, in his view, that there was after all speech that had subsisted in God for all eternity.3 This was the decisive factor in the denotations of divine action; they do not make assertions regarding God’s existence before the world existed. God becomes the creator (khāliq) only with the creation. Consequently one must not say that he had been the creator, just, speaking, etc. since eternity, and of course it is not permissible to say that he was not just or not speaking from the very beginning.4 It must be expressed differently: ‘he is the creator, and from the very beginning’. The play on words cannot really be recreated in English as Arabic uses an asyndetic sequence of participles, with everything depending on the word order. Instead of lam yazal (Allāhu) khāliqan or al-khāliqa5 we read Allāhu khāliqun lam yazal or Allāhu l-khāliqu lam yazal.6 One can speak of eternity even if al-khāliq is the subject of a nominal sentence: ‘The creator was knowing from the very beginning’;7 in this case al-khāliq simply replaces Allāh.8 With this subject ʿAbbād once again referred to Hishām al-Fuwaṭī and at the same time left his influence behind, emphasising not only that God had had knowledge of things since all eternity, but also that they have forever, ‘since before their existence’, been things.9 They are just not created things (makhlūqāt), and thus not objects of divine knowledge.10 We must beware of interpreting the assertions, rejected above, regarding God’s being the creator to the effect that he preceded things. Of course creation takes place within time, but the things brought into existence (muḥdathāt) affirm their subordination to God not by being subsequent to him but by being effected (mafʿūl), 3   Text 44–45; cf. Abrahamov 112. Besides mukallim he accepted qāʾil, again, of course, as an attribute of act (Text 40, commentary). 4  Text 40, c–g. The last sentence is a reaction to the usual criticism of the Jahmiyya (cf. e.g. Ibn Ḥanbal, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 68, 8ff.; Ibn Ḥanbal was one generation older than ʿAbbād). 5   ʿAbbād does not see a difference between the two phrases – in contrast to his older contemporary Muḥammad b. Shabīb, who accepted the second version (Text XXXI 18, d). 6  Text 41, b–c; cf. also Text 31, d, and the commentary. 7   Text 41, a. 8   As all this also applies to murīd ‘willing’, the rather general Text XVII 27 should be modified accordingly. With regard to this and the following cf. in detail Frank in: MIDEO 22/1995/253ff.; brief and not always quite correct: Abrahamov, loc. cit. 113f. 9   This was clear, as would often be emphasised later, from sura 16:40: ‘The only words We say to a thing, when We desire it, is that We say to it “Be,” and it is’ (regarding e.g. Mufīd cf. the text, ed. McDermott in: MUSJ 51/1990/106, 6ff.). 10  Text 52, a–b and d–e; 53, b–d.

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i.e. by their contingency.11 This was a new perspective, which in turn had to be accommodated into language. Statements such as ‘God precedes things (or muḥdathāt), he is earlier’, ‘God came before things’ or ‘he is the beginning of things’ must be avoided, as must, conversely, the inversion that things were or came into existence after him (kānat). Even the sentence Allāhu kāʾin is not permissible, as ʿAbbād once again perceived a temporal reference: ‘God is (now)’, kāna denoting being that is coming into existence. Interestingly he did not have a problem with Allāh mawjūd ‘God is being/existing’, and Allāh qadīm ‘God is eternal’ was not suspect to him, either.12 If one was determined to express a temporal dimension, one ought to say ‘God is previously’, without reference to things. Cf. Text 50 and 51, a–b, and 29, a; different – and incorrect, in my view: Abrahamov 117. ʿAbbād would probably have agreed with sentences such as Allāh qabla l-makhlūqāt ‘God is before the created things’. Allāh kāʾin appears in one instance only (Maq. 521, 3); in the parallel passage Maq. 180, 7f. (= Text 50) it is expanded to read Allāh kāʾin mutaqaddim lil-muḥdathāt. The context shows that this phrase is not an indissoluble unit (cf. the commentary on Text 50); Allāh kāʾin could be taken out of it, as witness Maq. 521, 3, because Ashʿarī needed material about God being in the chapter Maq. 520, 12ff. – Regarding the assertion ‘God will be after the things’, cf. the commentary on Text 51. The fact that Ashʿarī did not discuss it shows that his primary concern was not the timeless nature of God but the correct understanding of the attribute ‘creator’. 4.1.2.1.1.2.2

Names ‘neither because of his Own Actions nor of Those of Another’

If things are things even before being created, and God has knowledge of them, they obviously are within God’s knowledge as things. In this way knowledge becomes a kind of super-attribute or, to adhere to ʿAbbād’s classification: among the names of the third group ‘knowing’ has particular significance. This is still demonstrated by the way Ashʿarī puts it in Maqālāt: ‘If we say ‘God is hearing’, we propose a name for God with regard to his incorporating knowledge about something heard’1 or even: ‘If I say powerful, I propose a name for God with

11  Text 53, d. This must also be taken into account with regard to Text 17. 12  Text 31, c. 1   Text 31, c.

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regard to his incorporating knowledge about a (specific) object of his power’.2 Knowledge is thus omniscience in a much more comprehensive sense than power is omnipotence. ʿAbbād, like Abū l-Hudhayl, understands knowledge as always referring to individual objects of knowledge, and the objects of divine omnipotence are certainly coextensive with it, but they are certainly subsumed under divine knowledge. ‘Knowledge’ is, interestingly, the only noun used by ʿAbbād that is derived from a name of God. While one must not say that God has knowledge (lahū ʿilm) or possesses knowledge (Allāh dhū ʿilm), it is ‘with him’ (maʿahū) and combines with him with regard to a certain object.3 This imbalance among the names of the last group denoting God ‘neither because of his own actions nor of those of another’ becomes significant when we ask in this context to what degree they are inherent in God ‘from the very beginning’. ‘Attributes of essence’ as named by other theologians, would have been eternal per se; ʿAbbād, on the other hand, made a distinction. Of course God has been knowing from the very beginning, and he has been one – which, we recollect, was the true substance of divine knowledge according to Hishām al-Fuwaṭī – and he has been living and powerful.4 However, when it comes to his power, we must add some restriction. While it is permissible to say that God has known of creation since eternity in that he has foreknowledge of the act of creation,5 it is not possible to say that he has had the power to create from the very beginning.6 And when it comes to God’s seeing and hearing, we come to a complete halt; it is impossible to prefix lam yazal, as hearing and seeing cannot even be imagined without a (created) object.7 ʿAbbād regarded hearing and seeing like those names denoting God ‘because of his own actions’;8 his subsuming them under the third group9 was probably due to a

2  Text 27, f. 3  Cf. also Text 27, e, as well as 28, a. It is wrong to say God has no knowledge, but this has no direct connection with this issue, as it also applies to all the other names (Text 28, b–c). 4  Text 41, a, and 53, a–b. 5  Text 52, a. Not, of course, if one interprets ‘creation’ as ‘that which is created’, but ʿAbbād always used the term al-makhlūqāt for the latter (see p. 29 above). 6  Text 40, a. It is even less permissible to say that God had the power to create created things from the very beginning (lam yazal qādiran ʿalā l-makhlūqāt; Text 40, b); but then it was not possible regarding divine knowledge either. 7  Different yet again if one post-poses lam yazal in an asyndetic construction (Text 31; cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 264). 8  Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī expresses this polemically in such a way that God sees something only once it exists (Qūt al-qulūb II 89, 10f./transl. Gramlich III 23). 9  Thus in Text 26, b.

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convention that had already caused some difficulties for Abū l-Hudhayl (or those interpreting his works).10 Of course samīʿ and baṣīr are faʿīl forms as well, and have consequently less of an active connotation than a participle; ʿAbbād also excluded other names of this type from the second group, the names ‘because of God’s own actions’.11 In this case, however, this cannot have played a significant part for him, as the names were not selected from the Quran but ‘placed’ by language usage, and the intention linked with the latter is the determining factor. We must expect further faʿīl forms in the third group: qadīm, of course, and ʿazīz as well as ʿaẓīm, and finally, in the customary derivation, sayyid; but we also find an active participle such as mālik ‘ruler’ (surely based on the māliku yawmi l-dīn in sura 1:4); even here, in spite of the unambiguous morpheme, ʿAbbād saw no reason to conclude divine action.12 It is furthermore remarkable that he also counts raḥmān among the third group; in his view, God was raḥmān from the very beginning.13 He sensed that Raḥmān, like Allāh, had originally been a name of God. The active aspect of being merciful was secondary; it was expressed by raḥīm.14 He finally commented on the denotation of God’s oneness, and once again – understandably – with no reference to the morpheme: one ought to say wāḥid, not fard; fard probably sounded to him as though God was ‘by himself’, without the things.15 His explanation, if we can believe Baghdādī, was a different one: fard is unthinkable without zawj, i.e. it denotes the odd number and thus what is numerically single rather than the essential one.16 Text 35; cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 196. ʿAbbād may have been the first Muʿtazilite who deliberated in this way on the assertion that ‘God is one’. Regarding later reflection on the subject see p. 413f. below. Earlier this lesson had occupied a place in the exploration of dualism. Of course ʿAbbād saw this aspect as well; he apparently employed the dalīl al-tamānuʿ, the argument that two Gods would interfere with one another (cf. the quotation from Abū Hāshim’s refutation of his K. al-abwāb in Qāḍī ʿAbd 10  See vol. III 295f. above. Ashʿarī pointed out that this was inconsistent of ʿAbbād. 11  See p. 27f. above. 12  Regarding the last-named names cf. Text 30. While their category is not specified there, it seems beyond doubt that they all belong to the same – namely the third. 13  Text 40, h. 14  We are not told anything about this name. ʿAbbād probably treated it like laṭīf (see p. 27 above). In general cf. also Gimaret, Noms divins 375ff. 15  This appears to be suggested by the context of Text 51, c. Furthermore the word fard is not used in the Quran. 16  Cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 199, after Baghdādī’s Tafsīr asmāʾ Allāh al-ḥusnā.

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al-Jabbār, Mughnī IV 301, 5ff., where the correct reading is naqḍ instead of baʿḍ). This turn towards the systematic initiated by him meant simply that the Muslims were latecomers. Plotinus had long since emphasised that the One must not be confused with the number one; the distinction was discussed in the Aristotle’s Theology and in the Doxography of Pseudo-Ammonius (ed. Rudolph, cap. XI 6 and commentary 157). In Pseudo-Ammonius’ view, dualism was a simple misunderstanding (ibid. 170ff.). There is an insightful section concerning Judaism in Dāwūd alMuqammiṣ’ ʿIshrūn maqāla (VIII 34ff. = p. 164ff. Stroumsa; cf. also Vajda in: Jewish Medieval and Renaissance Studies, ed. Altmann 49ff.). Qirqisānī has detailed doxographical information (cf. Ben Shammai in: JQR 73/ 1982/107ff.); regarding Yūsuf al-Baṣīr cf. Muḥtawī 120ff. (cf. Vajda in: Festschrift Scholem 285ff.). And of course the definition of the One was of importance to Christian Arab theologians when defending the trinity (cf. e.g. the Risāla by ʿAbd al-Masīḥ al-Kindī, transl. Tartar, Dialogue 121ff., or the discussion between Israel of Kaskar and the philosopher al-Sarakhsī in: JAOS 92/1972/21 and 23). Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī (d. 974) wrote on the various categories of the one, cf. his Maqāla fī l-tawḥīd, ed. Samir (Le traité de l’unité; Jounieh 1980), § 149ff. ʿAbbād’s argument has been discovered in Christian writings, too (Cf. Haddad, La trinité divine 201). Dependencies and priorities are yet to be explored in more detail. In the case of ʿAbbād the age-old question of the degree to which the attributes or names are identical or synonymous among themselves can be answered only for this group based on the sources: the names that are not predicated to God ‘because of his deeds’ all differ in meaning.17 This was not surprising considering ʿAbbād’s nominalist approach; if the names are placed, it is because of their meaning. Consequently we can assume that this was also true of the other two groups. The reason why it was stated explicitly for the first group only may well be that the problem arose in this particular context; actions are naturally different, and so are their denotations. The parallel account diverges in one point only: ‘live’ is seen as having the same meaning as ‘powerful’.18 We have no means of resolving the discrepancy between the two sources, but we can explain it: in the context of earthly things ʿAbbād was unable to imagine that something live should not also be ‘powerful’, i.e. capable of acting.19

17  Text 46, and 47, b–c. 18  Text 47, a, as opposed to 46, a. 19  Text 78, a.

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ʿAbbād did not interpret the Quranic anthropomorphisms as attributes. They did not fit into his system; while ‘face’, ‘hand’, ‘eye’ were nouns, they were not names in the true sense. He denied them intransigently, ruling out even a metaphorical interpretation. The face was no exception; based on his axioms he could not maintain Abū l-Hudhayl’s theory that God has a face that is identical with him.20 4.1.2.1.1.3

Ontological Questions

ʿAbbād’s admission that things were things even before existing was no coincidence. It corresponded to a trend: people had learnt to understand that some problems with which Abū l-Hudhayl and Hishām al-Fuwaṭī struggled had been due to their uncompromising denial of potentiality. As we shall see, ʿAbbād was not alone; in Baghdad, too, the idea would be adopted in due course.1 The step was revolutionary in that it was taken by atomists who did not contrast reality with a world of ideas; ʿAbbād devoted one of his texts to an attempt at proving the existence of atoms.2 However, the atom of the Muslim atomists possessed no true reality itself: it was not a body. This was the place where the systematic about-turn could begin. ʿAbbād did in fact distinguish between things and bodies. Bodies are generated by creation; they are makhlūqāt.3 However, they are also combined, of substances and accidents. The components, themselves non-corporeal, exist before being combined, within God’s knowledge: he knows of them as components.4 While God does not know the bodies in advance,5 he knows individual accidents, such as the colours, each by itself.6 A human would not be capable of this as humans perceive accidents only in combination with bodies; they are invisible otherwise.7 Human actions (afʿāl), too, are accidents; they are also known to God in detail, although he does not know them as completed actions (mafʿūlāt),8 and this is the human’s freedom of choice. This distinction must also still be applied to the old puzzle of whether creating is identical, i.e. contemporaneous, with that which is created: it is, but it is not identical 20  Text 29, c, and 48–49; cf. also Abrahamov in: Der Islam 71/1994/110f. 1 2 3 4 5 6

  According to Khayyāṭ. For further details see p. 52 and 54ff. below.   Catalogue of Works no. 1.   Text 52, e.   Text 52, a and d; 53, b–d.   Text 52, b, and 53, c.   Text 52, c. This is as far as Abrahamov’s deliberations in: Der Islam 71/1994/115 seem to me to carry conviction. 7   Text 6. 8   Cf. Text 52, a, and 53, b with 52, b.

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and contemporaneous with the thing. Even so, ‘that which is created’ always implies the thing, logically as well as ontologically.9 Consequently one has to say that the thing that existed before the creation is neither identical with that which afterwards exists as that which is created, nor not identical; there is partial identity.10 It is certain that every thing that exists before the creation will be created in due course; there is no potentiality that is not translated into actuality.11 It is not easy to say where the place of the atoms is within this model. If we interpret ʿAbbād based on Abū l-Hudhayl, we should equate them with the substances mentioned above, but this meets with difficulties. After all, Ashʿarī described ʿAbbād’s position as though the body contained one single substance only.12 On the other hand it is just as certainly composed out of several atoms, as God cannot create one atom isolated from another.13 We must bear in mind that ʿAbbād did not study under Abū l-Hudhayl but under Hishām al-Fuwaṭī, and that like the latter he believed the atom per se to be entirely without form; devoid of all qualities including rest and motion, which Abū l-Hudhayl had still assumed. It does not touch others and consequently has no sides.14 This clear dependence encourages us to make a similar assumption regarding the concept of substance. Fuwaṭī, it will be recalled, had assumed a kind of molecules, so-called arkān.15 This term is not found in ʿAbbād’s theories, but it is possible that he simply replaced it with ‘substance’. In that case he would have moved closer to philosophical language usage once again.16 If we are not entirely mistaken, ʿAbbād assumed atoms to be infinitely divisible.17 This is unusual,17a but not impossible considering his approach. Precisely because he understood the atom as pure abstraction he was able to avoid the aporiai with which Naẓẓām had unsettled the atomists. Of course 9   Text 52, f; 15; 16, a–b. 10  Text 52, g; in accordance with which text 14, c and 17 must be emended. Partial identity is also present when the body is created a second time on the occasion of the resurrection (Text 14, a). 11  Cf. also Text 59, a. 12  Text 5, a. 13  Text 3; also 1, b. Cf. also 4, c. Consequently it cannot be spherical, as Text 100, b, indirectly shows. 14  Text 1, b, and 2; cf. Text XXIV 2, b. The correspondence between the two is explicit in 2, c. Ṣāliḥ Qubba could also be compared in several points (see vol. III 461f. above). 15  See p. 7f. above. 16  Deviations in terminology are to be expected; after all, we are not looking at original texts. Jawhar meaning ‘atom’ may perhaps be found in Text 75, b. Cf. also the usage in Text 4, e. 17  Text 1, c. 17a Cf. Aristotle, De gen. et corr. I 2. 316a 26ff.

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he, like Naẓẓām, was thinking of virtual divisibility. The body, too, is divisible,18 but in more actual terms. Everything that did not yet apply to the atom did, furthermore, apply to the body: it can touch others and combine with them;19 consequently it has sides.20 It ‘is the place (makān)’ – which probably means: a place is determined by the body.21 An atom, on the other hand, does not occupy any space.22 Only the body is visible,23 and only the body possesses accidents; after all, the body is that which is created, in which a substance is combined with accidents. There are accidents who inhere in the ‘substance’ inseparably: the body cannot exist without them, either. Others attach themselves to the ‘substance’ at will; they differ from the body, too.24 Unfortunately the text refrains from providing any examples, but it seems that weight was part of the first group – ‘it goes back to the substance as such’. One reason ʿAbbād gave was that weight depended on the number of atoms;25 however, at the same time he is likely to have regarded a single atom as being neither heavy nor light.26 The accident ‘combination, cohesion’ (taʿlīf), as well as ‘existence’ and ‘duration’,27 may well be part of this group as well. ʿAbbād is not, of course, concerned with the combination of atoms, but with the combination of bodies. As a body can be combined with several others at the same time, it can also contain the accident ‘combination’ more than once; ʿAbbād proved this by explaining that through our bodies we are also able to experience several painful or lustful sensations at the same time.28 One of the separable accidents, on the other hand, was movement, for when a body is created, i.e. combined out of substances and accidents, it is originally at rest.29 Movement is always distancing oneself (zawāl) from a certain point.30 As the body touches the surface on which it is situated, the movement consists of contact as well – contact with the points 18  Text 5, d. 19  Text 7, b. ‘Substances’ can also combine with others of their kind (Text 4, e). 20  Text 6, a–b. 21  Text 5, b. It does not mean: it is the place in which the accidents inhere, as that would be maḥall rather than makān. 22  Text 1, b. 23  Text 6. 24  Text 5, a. 25  Thus according to the view of Muʿtazilites in general (Maq. 421, 1). 26  Text 4; cf. Frank, Beings 115, n. 17. Regarding the problem see vol. III 256 and 374 above, as well as Ashʿarī’s remark in K. al-nawādir, transl. Gimaret in: JA 173/1985/253. 27  Cf. Text 3 A. 28  Text 7. 29  Text 11, b. 30  Text 12.

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along which it progresses.31 It moves as a whole, not with merely a few atoms within it, as Abū l-Hudhayl had imagined.32 Movement is thus distinct from the body. However, one must take care when choosing one’s words as it is not also distinct from that which moves. For while that which moves is still the body mentioned previously, movement is already inherent in it, too. ‘That which moves’ is body + movement; there is thus partial identity with movement.33 As in the case of the above analysis of that which is created, ʿAbbād seems to have drawn ontological conclusions from a logical diaeresis in this case, too. For his analogous assertion that there is partial identity between that which moves and that which is at rest can only be understood from an ontological perspective, as long as it refers to one and the same body.34 He probably proposed evidence along the same lines, that ‘that which moves’ as well as ‘that which is at rest’ incorporates ‘body’. The process of conclusion he applies is complementary to that which we identified as ʿaks above. He is a conceptualist. The preceding is no more than an attempt at introducing a connection between some few scattered and by no means always coherent remarks. The relation between the ‘substance’ and the atoms in particular remains hypothetical. We cannot rule out that Text 5, on which we have based our deliberations, was composed without care; it furthermore contains a philological problem which is pointed out in the commentary. The development away from geometrical models and towards an abstract concept of atoms had already begun to emerge in Ṣāliḥ Qubba’s works and was embraced by Iskāfī in Baghdad during ʿAbbād’s time (see vol. III 461f. above and p. 99 below). The context of Text 1 shows that ʿAbbād was not entirely original in his description of the atom: Ashʿarī identifies it with another, anonymous one that had already been noted by Naẓẓām (cf. the commentary on the passage and vol. III 334f. above). We do not know at whom Naẓẓām was hinting; he spoke of a group (zāʿimūn). ʿAbbād’s interest in logic is also evident in Text 9, a definition of ḍidd ‘opposite’. Text 8 must be compared with Abū l-Hudhayl, as it probably agrees with him that bodies are distinguished by their accidents, but accidents per se do not differ (see vol. III 263 above). We do not know whether 31  Text 11, a. 32  This is how I would like to classify Text 13. This step was probably first suggested by Hishām al-Fuwaṭī (see p. 8 above). 33  Text 10, b; cf. 15, b, and 70, c. 34  Text 14, b.

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 ʿAbbād found a verbal solution to the problem, like Abū l-Hudhayl did, but we can assume it, as he tackled the prohibited expression that God ‘was different from’ the world in a similar fashion (see p. 22 above). 4.1.2.1.1.4

Divine Omnipotence and the World as the Best of All Worlds

Potentiality, we have seen, is always translated into reality. This also means: God cannot create anything except that which he actually creates.1 This is due to the fact that his knowledge predetermines what he is capable of: He is capable of that of which he knows that it will be;2 that of which he knows that it will not be, cannot be,3 and he cannot put it into existence.4 However, ʿAbbād was still too firmly rooted in the tradition of Abū l-Hudhayl to have moved to Naẓẓām’s side altogether. Consequently he brought out one of his customary linguistic distinctions: God does not have the power for it to be, but he has power over it.5 He declared the question of what would be if God did it after all to be absurd and impossible to ask;6 Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had done so, too.7 Things became interesting when he applied the model to the aṣlaḥ theory, as the result was that God realises everything beneficial there is;8 there is nothing better even in the state of potentiality. This is the starting point for Ghazzālī’s well-known dictum laysa fī l-imkān abdaʿ mimmā kān, about which generations of scholastics would meditate.9 This is why God does not create the world for one particular reason;10 he simply does what is beneficial to humans. And of course he does no wrong; he does not have the power to do wrong at all. Once again, however, he has power over it: he knows how it would

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

  Text 64, a.   Text 56, a. The same applies to his willing (cf. Text XVII 27).   Text 54.   Text 56, b.   Text 55, a–c, and 56, b–c.   Text 55, e; cf. Text 56, b–c.   See p. 16f. above. All this is a fortiori also true of that of which God has announced that it will not be (Text 55, d). This connection was not new (see vol. III 439 and 455f. above). 8   Text 59, b, and 60, b. The explanation following the latter passage (60, c–f) is rather conventional, using ideas familiar from Abū l-Hudhayl’s theories as well (regarding e.g. God’s being miserly see vol. III 302 above), and adding only a pedantic example. 9   ‘(Not even) in potentiality is there anything more wonderful than that which has become’; cf. E. Ormsby’s previously cited, meticulous study Theodicy in Islamic Thought (Princeton 1984). Massignon already regarded ʿAbbād as Ghazzālī’s predecessor (Passion 2III 83, n. 5/ Eng. transl. III 73, n. 137). 10  Text 58.

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be done.11 Nothing of what happens in this world due to God is bad, neither the punishment of hell nor suffering or misfortune of any kind.12 With this last assertion ʿAbbād took the Muʿtazilites’ optimism to the extreme: not only does God not do anything harmful, he does not even cause anything bad. Pain is, if not deserved anyway, certainly useful as it helps humans to find themselves and exercise reflection.13 This is also true of the suffering of innocent children; their parents – or they themselves once they have grown up – will recognise that they are different from animals. For humans will gain eternal bliss in paradise; animals, on the other hand, will perish once they have been compensated for the suffering inflicted on them on earth. No amends will be made in this world for undeserved pains; after all, we humans cannot torment someone with the excuse that we will make up for it later.14 In this point ʿAbbād only supplemented his teacher’s evidence. What is new is the idea that the purpose of suffering is to demonstrate a difference (lil-tafriqa); we will come across this term again. He is referring to the distance between humans and animals we have mentioned, for the best the latter can expect is that they will not be reduced to dust in the end, but transformed ‘into a beautiful, inorganic shape, in which the inhabitants of paradise can then delight’15 – they become the plaster fawn and rabbit ornaments dotted around the heavenly gardens, as it were. Cf. Text 65–68; also the refutation of Text 67 by the Jewish theologian Yūsuf al-Baṣīr (REJ, loc. cit.). It probably made no difference to the ‘distance’ that humans, unlike animals, consciously feel pain; underage children did not have consciousness in the understanding of the time. The idea that animals assume a new form in paradise was hinted at by Naẓẓām (Text XXII 200, f). That this will be a ‘beautiful’ form is a corollary of everything entering into the ideal state in paradise. It was for the same reason that mutilated humans would be endowed with all those body parts they might have lost during life on earth (Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 261, 11ff.). Regarding the issue see vol. III 403f. above, and also Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 193f.; we can also compare Maʿarrī’s later idea of the solu11  Text 61–62 (cf. vol. V 280f. of the German edition). Ashʿarī emphasised that Abū l-Hudhayl was not yet familiar with this distinction (Text XXI 80). 12  Text 63 and 64, b; but cf. 65, a. 13  Text 65, a and c; cf. also 69, b. 14  Text 66, b. 15  Text 68, b.

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tion (cf. Smoor in EI2 V 934a, with regard to the Risālat al-Ghufrān). – We must point out minor inconsistencies in the reporting. According to Text 65, a, pain is bad after all; this contradicts Text 63, a, and is probably incorrect. According to the same text pain may be deserved; 67, b, rejects this. They were probably referring to different concepts: children’s pain is undeserved, while the pain an adult feels may well be punishment for previously committed transgression – or for simple misdemeanours such as gluttony. The source of evil in the world is the human. God has so little part in human unbelief that one cannot even say that he creates the unbelievers; he only creates humans.16 ʿAbbād differed from the other Muʿtazilites in his choice of words only; they, too, believed that God did not create the unbeliever qua unbeliever.17 All the same, he once again employed his conceptual proof: ‘unbeliever’ is ‘human’ + ‘unbelief’, and God can enter into a relation to either of these components separately.18 God has nothing to do with unbelief; he does not even name it.19 He gives humans the capacity to act; this enables them to be unbelievers: the capacity to act is there for that reason.20 The fault is their own; if they are cursed in the Quran it serves them right. The curse is not meant to recall the human to himself in the way that pain does; the curse is a punishment.21 God does not grant the unbelievers respite, notwithstanding sura 3:178;22 they are unbelievers and they will remain so even when transformed into monkeys or pigs in punishment.23 4.1.2.1.1.5 Anthropology

The image of humans at the back of these deliberations is clear overall, but some queries remain as regards the details, first of all the definition: what does it mean when ʿAbbād equates ‘human’ (insān) and bashar? Dictionaries 16  Text 70; cf. Gimaret, Livre des Religions 252, n. 20. 17   Maq. 228, 1f. 18  Cf. also Gimaret, Théories 7. 19   Maq. 227, 13ff.; against Naẓẓām’s followers, especially Ṣāliḥ Qubba (see vol. III 458 and 463 above). 20  Text 72. The other Muʿtazilites limited themselves to saying that it was there for actions in general (Maq. 239, 10f.). 21  Text 69. 22  Text 71. 23  Text 73.

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emphasise that bashar is meant quite generally;1 and insān, too, does not denote an individual but the human as a species-being. ʿAbbād’s main concern, however, is that there is a reciprocal implication between the two words, that they are synonymous,2 which does not help us with the denotation of the term. And what does it mean that, as the same text tells us, a human is composed of substances and accidents?3 Furthermore: the factor (maʿnā) due to which he became a human lives on beyond his death;4 does this mean he has an immortal soul within him? And finally: does he have six senses or seven? According to one account, ʿAbbād assumed a sexual sense in addition to the usual five, according to another, an additional sense of pain.5 The latter is probably true, as we learn in yet another source that he regarded the heart as a sensory organ.6 This was presumably where pain sensations came together in his view. In addition it is possible that Naẓẓām had already discussed a separate sexual sense.7 Regarding five as the number of the senses see vol. III 383 above. Abū Hāshim, Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār and Abū Rashīd later recognised four senses only, touch not being one of them (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 147, apu.). Muḥāsibī – or rather his contemporary Aḥmad b. ʿĀṣim alAnṭākī (see vol. I 167 above) – left it at only three senses (K. al-Khalwa in: Mashriq 48/1954/189, 4f.). We have more information on ʿAbbād’s theory of action. Fundamentally he, like Abū l-Hudhayl, was of the opinion that the human capacity to act had duration.8 His explanation, however, was different, and he drew different conclusions as well. Every living thing is endowed with the capacity to act.9 It would be misleading to say that one employs the capacity to act;10 one has always had it. Consequently it cannot be paralysed by incapacity in the very

1  Cf. e.g. Lisān al-ʿArab s. v.; thus also in the Quran (cf. sura 11:27 and the parallels listed in Paret, Kommentar 234). 2   Text 75, a. 3   Text 75, b. I have attempted to explain this on p. 34, n. 16 above, to the effect that jawāhir referred to atoms in the older sense here. 4   Text 74. 5   Text 76–77. 6   Frank, Beings 168, n. 36, after the inedited part of Ibn Mattōya, Tadhkira; also Ibn alMurtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 147, ult. 7   See vol. III 391 above. 8   Text XXI 127. 9   Text 78, a. 10  Text 81.

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moment of action in the way Abū l-Hudhayl had imagined.11 Still, however much the capacity to act is innate in the human and inherent to him, he cannot be called capable of action hic et nunc. This would require a concrete referent; there has to be an object and, what is more: there must be a reason to engage with this object. In the case of rational beings the reason consists in a stimulus because of which one prefers one thing to another; in the case of religious decisions it would be a commandment or a prohibition. Living beings who do not, or not yet, possess reason, such as animals, mentally ill persons or children, acquire the capacity to act when their desires are liberated and they approach an object at random.12 The capacity to act, we have to conclude, is not the cause of an action,13 but it is not the ability to perform an action as such, either.14 The act of will is, of course, also a part of the process of an action. While the former is the cause of the action, this is not of necessity (Text XVII 49). Like most other Muʿtazilites, ʿAbbād did not regard this as a central issue (see p. 538 and 541 below). If someone does not act we have to distinguish whether he omits an action deliberately or whether he is incapable of it. He cannot be incapacitated (ʿājiz) in the actual sense of the word; this would only be possible if he were dead.15 He may, however, be lacking the connection with the object, or it may be impossible at that moment; then he still possesses the capacity to act but is incapacitated at this moment.16 Or differently, and once again with the proof typical of ʿAbbād: the incapacity to act is not connected with a living human, but it is partially identical with the person incapable of acting.17 Once incapacity is established, after death, it is not, of course, incapacity to do something:18 a dead person is not capable of anything. This can be transferred, mutatis mutandis, onto the deliberate omission of an action. In this case, too, we are looking at partial identity;19 after all, one might just as well perform the action. It may 11  Cf. Text 78, c, and XXI 128; also vol. III 267f. 12  Text 79–80. 13  Text 87, b. 14  Text 82, b. 15  Text 83. 16  In this way I should like to complement the systematic context, going beyond the sources. Or is one incapable of action only if one is unable to establish a connection with the object? 17  Text 84. Cf. Text 10, b, regarding motion. 18  Text 82, a. 19  Text 85.

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be, even, that God knows that one will perform it, but that one does not do it at first, as one would not be free otherwise. In that case one would have to draw a very clear distinction in the explanation between the moment in which one exercises one’s freedom of action and the subsequent one in which God is right after all.20 The tawallud process shows clearly that acting and omitting (or refraining) are not on the same level. Someone who is capable of performing the triggering action is consequently capable of the triggered event, but someone who omits the triggering action omits only it and nothing more (Text 86). This probably means to say that something that was not done cannot have an effect – at least within scientific causation; things would look different from the legal point of view (see p. 541 below). ʿAbbād and Iskāfī21 contend for the honour of having been the first Muʿtazilite to explore the issue of whether one might describe a human as the ‘creator’ (khāliq) of his actions. ʿAbbād answered in the negative, even writing a separate treatise justifying his point of view.22 His decision is surprising; after all, he was a believer in human free will. However, this was not primarily about anthropology but about the terminology that would be suitable from a theological point of view. Among the Qadarites it had become the custom to equate khalaqa and ṣanaʿa ‘to make’23 for the sake of principle, or to have humans ‘create’ their own unbelief.24 There was also speculation, maybe spurred by alchemical ideas and probably during ʿAbbād’s lifetime, about the degree to which someone who made things could be similar to God as a creator.25 While it could not be denied that in the language of the Quran ‘creating’ was first and foremost linked with God, it was not regarded in very strict terms at first. Even opponents of the Qadariyya might find themselves speaking of khalq al-insān during dialectical interplay of arguments, referring to that ‘which a human effects’.26 Furthermore there were a few – strictly speaking only two – passages in the Quran where khalaqa was used with reference to humans, once 20  Text 57, f–g, with commentary. 21  Regarding him see p. 94 below. 22  Catalogue of Works no. 3. 23  Thus the philologist al-Akhfash (see vol. II 209 above). 24  The Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd polemicised against this in his pamphlet against the Qadarites (see vol. I 480 above). 25  See vol. II 5166f. above; also Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān III 383, 6f. 26  Thus in the Quaestiones that were circulated under the name of Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya (cf. the text in Anfänge 15, 4; also Intro. 47).

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in sura 29:17 in the phrase khalaqa ifkan ‘to spread a lie’, and the other in the well-known legend of Jesus as a child who ‘created something that looked like a bird’ from clay (in two variants, sura 3:49 and 5:110, in the latter instance expressed by God in direct speech).27 This evidence was adduced frequently.28 It did not, however, contribute much. The phrase in sura 29:17 displays figurative usage,29 while Jesus worked a miracle and was thus an exception. Ḍirār b. ʿAmr was probably the first to clarify the issue when he assigned creating to God only, using the term kasb or iktisāb with regard to a human.30 He was not, however, suited to be a model; his theology soon discomfited the Muʿtazilites. The inverse proof, that khalaqa could not, and truly never, be said of humans, was also not a simple matter. Sura 22:73 was adduced in support; it says that idols cannot create even a fly, but the emphasis was, of course, a different one.31 Jāḥiẓ’ comment was that the word was used equivocally, to mean ‘create out of nothing’ (ikhtirāʿ) when said of God, and ‘being capable (of a particular action)’ when said of humans.32 We must not forget that the discussion never left the field of exegesis – language beyond the confines of theology would never have dared use khalaqa of humans. Only poets occasionally – albeit later and in Iran – were presumptuous enough to claim ‘creativity’ and ‘creating’ for themselves.33 ʿAbbād referred to this exegetic stretto in his attempt at slighting the last bastion: sura 23:14, which names God as aḥsanu l-khāliqīn ‘the best of (all) creators’. ʿAbbād insisted that khāliqīna did not imply a true plural (which would have included humans as well): as the word was the rhyme the suffix could be disregarded (zāʾida).34 While he agreed 27  Cf. O’Shaughnessy in: ZDMG 120/1970/275f., and Creation and the Teaching of the Qurʾān 2f.; on the exegesis of sura 3:49 see Robinson in: MW 79/1989/7ff. 28  Nāshiʿ, Awsaṭ 94, 5f., which does not, however, precisely name the spokesmen. 29  Cf. T. Sabbagh, La métaphore dans le Coran 188. 30  See vol. III 49f. above. 31  Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān III 383, 2ff. 32   Ḥayawān III 383, ult.; in more detail Risāla fī l-Nābita in: Rasāʾil II 18, ult. ff. 33  Cf. Reinert in: HB der Lit. Wiss. V 390; Kamāl al-Dīn Ismāʿīl-i Iṣfahānī, poet of the early Mongol period, was called khallāq al-maʿānī (M. Glünz, Die panegyrische Qaṣīda bei Kamāl ud-dīn Ismāʿīl aus Isfahan, Beirut 1993, p. 22). Regarding the theological problem see v. Grunebaum, Kritik und Dichtkunst 143f.; concerning its place in poetics see Heinrichs, Arabische Dichtung und griechische Poetik 87f., and above all the terms ikhtilāq al-imkānī and ikhtilāq al-imtināʿī in Ḥāzim al-Qarṭajannī, Minhāj al-bulaghāʾ 76, 10ff. (also Ajami, The Alchemy of Glory 108f.). It is of course a different matter altogether that it was possible to address Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn-i Zarkūb, Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s lover and inspiration, as ‘our lord’ and ‘our creator’ in the latter’s circle (Rūmī, Fīhi mā fīh 95, 9). 34  Text 89–90. Regarding zāʾid = ‘superfluous’ cf. Reckendorf, Arab. Syntax 49, and also the instances in N. Kinberg, A Lexicon of al-Farrā’s Terminology 316f. In this sense the word is only tenuously linked to the term ziyāda, that also had some relevance within grammar

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with Ḍirār, he argued from a different perspective. His concern was to keep the tawḥīd pure; that was why he emphasised that khāliq was always the same as bāriʿ.35 Fundamentally, his looked on this subject as part of the dotrine of the attributes. However, his theory was as little successful as Ḍirār’s. While a generation later al-Nāshiʿ described his view as that of the ahl al-ʿadl in general,36 Juwaynī pointed out that the wind changed within the Muʿtazila37 soon afterwards: Jubbāʾī did not want to discuss khalaqa separately from other verbs such as awjada and aḥdatha, which had always been used with reference to humans. Two generations later, Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Baṣrī (d. 369/980) would turn the tables: humans are khāliq in the true sense of the word, while it applies to God in the figurative sense only.38 The fact that the philosopher Ibn Jinnī (d. 392/1002) also explored the question shows how relevant it was at the time.39 It is consequently no surprise that Abū ʿAbdallāh’s most prominent (and youngest) pupil, the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, described ʿAbbād’s interpretation of sura 23:14 as ‘nonsense to which no sensible person would agree’.40 Entirely in accordance with his teacher’s views he denied what Jāḥiẓ had still maintained, namely that khalaqa had the same meaning as ikhtaraʿa.41 The volte-face was probably partially due to the fact that the opponent from whom they wished to distance themselves all along, namely Ḍirār, stood on firmer ground again by this time, thanks to Najjār and especially Ashʿarī;42 it was limited to the Basran school.43

(cf. Fleisch in: Festschrift Bielawski, RO 43/1984/74f.; Owens, The Foundations of Grammar 109ff. 35  Text 88; bāriʿ cannot be said of humans. Cf. also Mānkdīm, ShUKh 547, apu. f., although the definition there probably did not come from ʿAbbād; the text merely pointing out that he anticipated the gist of the opinion of the later Baghdad school (regarding the context cf. Gimaret, Théories 73). 36   Awsaṭ 94, 7f. 37   Irshād 106, 11ff.; Ashʿarī’s rather schematic information in Maq. 228, 5ff., fundamentally amount to the same thing (cf. Gimaret 7f.). 38  Cf. the deliberations in Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 529, 13ff., and Maḥmūd alRāzī, Al-munqidh min al-ḍalāl I 234, –5ff.: in Abū ʿAbdallāh’s eyes deliberation (tafakkur) was the essential factor in a creative process; this could not be asserted of God. For general information on Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Baṣrī cf. EI2, Suppl. 12ff. 39  Cf. Carter in: Festschrift Leslau 203. 40   Mughnī VII 210, 16. 41  Ibid. VIII 163, 5ff.; cf. Peters, God’s Created Speech 198 and 119. 42  See p. 172 and 562f. below. 43  Cf. Mufīd in Madelung in: Le Shîʿisme imâmite 24; also Maḥmūd al-Rāzī loc. cit.

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Regarding the philological discussion cf. also Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Furūq 111, 15ff.; on the development in general Gimaret, Theéories 8ff. and 337ff. It is worth noting that Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī was of the same opinion as ʿAbd al-Jabbār (in the treatise edited by Pines and Schwarz in Festschrift Baneth; cf. p. 70, pu. ff., and 72, 13ff.). It seems that he was influenced by Muʿtazilites; being a Christian he had not actually wanted to approach the issue, and he does not understand the terminological use of iktisāb (ibid. 64ff.). 4.1.2.1.1.6

Faith and Sin

We have already said that ʿAbbād followed Hishām al-Fuwaṭī in his definition of faith.1 However, he reimagined the associated theory of sin by introducing the concept of ‘distance’ (tafriqa). This enabled him to assess the heathen. Abū l-Hudhayl’s theory that it was possible to perform ‘works of obedience’ the objective of which was not God did not make sense to him;2 someone who does not know God performs every action as an unbeliever.3 Belief ‘for God’s sake’ is possible only once one has ‘belief in God’. However, there are heathen who have recognised God through reason (such as e.g. the Ḥanīfs); with every ‘work of obedience’ they perform they gain some ‘distance’ from others who in other things have the same status.4 They cannot claim a reward, but they have a certain advantage, which may ultimately pay off. ʿAbbād seems to have called them ahl al-ʿafw, potential candidates for God’s mercy. They are even able to become rationally aware of this very ‘distance’ as it is a component of rational theology; everyone who thinks can come to the conclusion that God will treat evildoers different from those who do not incur any guilt. However, only a Muslim will learn from the revelation what form God’s retribution will take.5 The term ‘distance’ may be used in the case of a Muslim, too; namely when he is a believer but commits a minor sin.6 This does not make him a fāsiq, but he has a different status from someone who has not sinned at all. ‘Distinctive’ 1  See p. 22 above. 2  Maq. 430. 7f.; also vol. III 273f. above. 3  Text 91, d. 4  Text 95, b. 5  Text 95. The meaning of ahl al-ʿafw may be inferred from the relation between the statements 94, a, and 94, b. I have assumed consequently that 95, b, also refers to an unbeliever who has already recognised God. 6  Text 95, a.

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is every action that is added to the balance but does not influence the ‘state of faith’ – as long as it is performed by someone who knows that he performs it ‘for God’s sake’. This sounds like basic ethics of reward, and ultimately follows that tradition, but it resulted in some peculiarities that were noted with attention within the Muʿtazila. Mānkdīm, following Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, emphasised that in ʿAbbād’s view actions could not be offset against one another without reservation.7 As long as one has not done penance for a particular sin it cannot be undone by a good deed, however deserving. While a human can ‘mix’ the account of his actions in this way, the result is merely ‘distinction’ against ‘distinction’.8 Or, conversely: even if someone apostatises he is not necessarily condemned to hell; if he previously served God honestly (i.e. was a pious Muslim), he has merely acquired a – admittedly very grave – negative distinction.9 Someone who never commits a mortal sin and increases his ‘distance’ continually through good deeds may even become a prophet in the end: one becomes a prophet as a reward for one’s actions, and remains a prophet even after death.10 ʿAbbād was apparently reluctant to classify the wealth of human actions into fixed limits, preferring to think of a gradual scale. This may well be linked to his regarding those categories describing humans’ salvational status (kāfir, muʾmin and fāsiq) as ‘placed’, in the same way as the names of God. He wondered whether the separation between muʾmin and fāsiq would have to be abandoned, considering the changing ‘distances’, but shrank from actually taking such a step, being too much of a Muʿtazilite. Still, although a fāsiq might never be called muʾmin, he could be described as āmin – because God gave him an amān, a guarantee of safety.11 This did not mean that a grave sinner, as long as he remains a Muslim, will always ultimately achieve paradise: he had nothing in common with the ‘Murjiʾites’12 among his fellow-believers.13 The point was probably that good deeds – of which faith was, after all, one – are never lost. Even in the case of an apostate they come into their own in the end, if he does penance. Jubbāʾī adopted the new term āmin, regarding it, however, as the description of a circumstance (waṣf) rather 7   ShUKh 624, 12ff. 8   Text 96. 9   Text 97, if it is expressed correctly. The legal consequences for an apostate are unlikely to be affected by this reticent assessment of his salvation status in the afterlife. 10  Text 98. Regarding the question of whether prophethood continues after death see p. 672 below. 11  Text 93. 12  Regarding them see p. 140ff. below in more detail. 13  According to Ibn al-Murtaḍā he did not recognise the irjāʾ as an expression of wellintended piety (Qalāʾid 125, –4f.).

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than a salvational status (ism).14 It is unlikely that ʿAbbād was asking more than this. Jubbāʾī, however, offset deeds against one another.15 The reason why ʿAbbād did not do this may have been that his teacher Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s theory of the muwāfāt was still fresh in his memory. The two approaches were not compatible, as later scholars would see clearly.16 This may well have been why his theory of ‘distances’ did not gain ground. We know too little about it to be able to assert this with any certainty, but we know that he – together with Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir, about whom more below17 – contributed to the issue becoming more central and accompanying the Muʿtazila from then onwards. ʿAbbād’s refusal to regard the shahāda as a profession of unity (tawḥīd) probably belongs in the context of these considerations as well. He seems to believe that the shahāda is ‘placed’ and thus expresses the profession of unity but cannot itself be the profession. The tawḥīd is the greatest of the works of obedience; this cannot be said of the shahāda. One does not have to recite it continuously; after all, the tawḥīd can be expressed in different ways as well (Text 92). 4.1.2.1.1.7

Questions of Epistemology

As we have seen, ʿAbbād’s selection of the names of God he discussed in his theory of the attributes was based on the consensus of Muslims. He thus accorded this criterion precedence over the Quran in this matter; it was no coincidence that his teacher Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had warned against the ideologization of the scripture. However, the shift of emphasis was in the air in any case, as consensus meant in this context: language usage, and recourse to usage (lugha) had gradually entered theology since the beginning of the third/ninth century. Above all, it had been used in legal hermeneutics in the attempt to solve the complex question of the proper distinction between generic and specific Quranic statements.1 ʿAbbād did indeed intervene in this discussion, too, and it is interesting that he did not rely on consensus in this particular issue, but attempted a definition of the two types of statements.2 14  Ashʿarī, Maq. 274, 12f. The extent of the claim is not entirely clear. 15  See p. 73 and 657 below. 16  Cf. e.g. Ṭūsī, Tibyān VI 204, 1f. 17  See p. 73 below. 1   Regarding Abū l-Hudhayl cf. Text XXI 171, regarding Naẓẓām Text XXII 240, regarding Ibn Shabīb Text XXXI 23. With reference to other areas Text XXXI 9, c (Ibn Shabīb), and 26 as well as 34, e (Ṣāliḥī); of course also in ʿAbbād’s own works (Text XXV 24). 2  Text 101.

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Ibn al-Rēwandī would later emulate this approach.3 ʿAbbād regarded clear boundaries as important, while his colleagues had always asked so far whether a specific verse might be interpreted as generic once, and vice versa. In this context he did give scripture its due. It is a matter of course that the third authority he named besides the consensus and the Quran was reason.4 People believed he could put ‘sophists’ in their place: when one of them said to him it might be that one relies on insights like a man dying of thirst relies on a mirage, he was said to have replied that there was always the Tigris if one wished to find out what real water was like.5 Abū l-Hudhayl had written against the ‘sophists’, i.e. the sceptics, earlier.6 Ṣāliḥ Qubba seems to have been the first to introduce the issue of illusions into kalām;7 his helpless reaction demonstrated that the sensualist approach of the early generations could not be maintained in its entirety. There is, of course, no reference to the sunna as evidence. However, ʿAbbād is the best example of how much ground it had gained by that time and how little even a Muʿtazilite was able to resist it. ʿAbbād is, in fact, the first of his school who gave a limited degree of credence to the miracle stories about the prophet found in hadith. This had to be all the more difficult for him as he had inherited the principle from his teacher that one cannot use accidents as the basis of religious proof.8 Thus if a story mentioned that a wolf told a shepherd of Muḥammad’s appearance, or that a tree left its place in order to greet the prophet, these were fleeting occurrences and not reliable.9 ʿAbbād even wrote a book on the subject.10 This book may also have demonstrated how to extricate oneself from the difficulty; in fact, the title indicates as much: ‘Proof of the evidential value of accidents’. Of course this only tells us that it is about this proof, and it is true that ʿAbbād did not actually restore the evidential value of accidents.11 He did, however, incorporate what his teacher had said before him: that accidents 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  See p. 344f. below.   Text 18, d.   Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 215, –9ff.   Catalogue of Works XXI, no. 4.   See vol. III 460 above.   See p. 10 above.   Text 18, a–c, and 20, c; also Abū Hāshim’s verdict in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XV 390, 1ff., and Ibn Mattōya, Muḥīṭ I 166, 22ff. Houben/169, 1ff. ʿAzmī (where the crucial passage at 167, 7/169, 13 should read fī l-amr al-mutaqaḍḍī mithl majīʾ al-shajara instead of fī l-amr al-muqtaḍā mithl muḥyʾ al-shajara!). 10  Catalogue of Works no. 2. 11  Madelung even considers whether tathbīt ‘proof’ had not better be emended to read tafnīd ‘refutation’ (EIran 170b), but this is not necessary in my view.

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generally manifest themselves on bodies, and that these bodies are indeed evidence, ‘signs’ (dalīl). Thus it is not the approaching of the tree that is evidence, but the tree itself;12 by perceiving it with the senses at the time of the prophet it was accepted as a sign. This is clearly barely more than splitting hairs, and ʿAbbād did not regard it as the crux of the problem. The actual question was how this sensual perception, i.e. the experience of the person who had seen the miracle, convinced others and remained convincing for generations. ʿAbbād’s answer was that it must have been due to those reporting the miracles. Some of them are protected from lie and error (maʿṣūm) and are consequently authorities (ḥujja) whom one can trust and to whom one owes the ‘necessary’ knowledge of these miraculous events.13 This theory is undoubtedly part of the tradition of Abū l-Hudhayl who had assumed that there was a specific number of ‘candidates for paradise’ whose veracity guarantees the authenticity of a tradition.14 Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had adopted this,15 but possibly left out Abū l-Hudhayl’s second remark that in the concrete case these ‘candidates for paradise’ must be among a group of twenty independent transmitters all of whom reported the same event.16 It is certainly the case that ʿAbbād presents this reduced version. People would inquire of him even more than of Abū l-Hudhayl how the ‘authority’ he postulated should be recognised.17 He does not appear to have relied on rijāl criticism by hadith experts; after all, this was only in its earliest stages at the time. It is possible that he was looking in an entirely different direction from the outset. While the few extant reports of his theories are not particularly explicit, it does seem that he concentrated on the first generation of transmitters, i.e. the contemporaries of the prophet. Among them he saw some who were beyond any doubt, and others who were not necessarily safe from lies and errors. Naẓẓām had not made such a distinction; he had thus shaken the foundation of the tawātur.18 Things were different now; certain miracle stories appeared to result in ‘necessary’ insights after all.19 We do not know whether ʿAbbād went to the trouble of explaining whom he regarded as an ‘authority’; it is likely that the 12  Text 20, e. 13  Text 19; also Mughnī XV 217, 9f., and Muwaffaq, Iḥāṭa 23 b, ult. f. Regarding the later discussion of this theory cf. Mughnī XV 382ff. 14  See vol. III 288 above. 15  See p. 19 above. 16  Which could be inferred from Tet XXI 173, f. 17   Mughnī XV 389, 8ff. 18  See vol. III 417 and 422f. above. Sarakhsī consequently summarises his theory as stating that no individual was maʿṣūm ʿan al-khaṭa‌ʾ (Uṣūl I 295, 13ff.). In another passage he lists those ṣaḥāba whose word was ḥujja ‘argument’ (I 338, –6ff.). 19  Text 18, b, and 19, a.

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discussion took place on the general epistemological level – but it is clear that he was on the defensive. The importance of miracle stories had increased, and the companions of the prophet were not necessarily seen as normal, fallible humans. ʿAbbād’s teacher Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had already made a concession in this matter. It is consequently not surprising that ʿAbbād now retracted his teacher’s opinion that the lack of evidential force of accidents had to be linked to the denial of miracles. ʿAbbād’s remarks on the Quran demonstrate that in other areas he tried hard to preserve his teacher’s position as much as possible. He took great care not to say that the Quran was a miracle due to its linguistic appearance; the latter, just like the recitation, is merely an accident and can consequently not be employed as an argument. This was different during the prophet’s lifetime: then, the Quran was brought down by Gabriel, and Gabriel was a body20 and at the same time the trustworthy ‘authority’. Later generations lacked this immediate, tangible witness. To them the Quran was merely a text; this is not enough for iʿjāz. ʿAbbād was not yet thinking in this category at all; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār saying of him that he regarded the Quran metaphysically as a miracle probably referred to the descent of the revelation as such. Text 20. It does not appear to be true, as Ashʿarī claimed (Text 18, a), that ʿAbbād considered conclusions concerning God based on earthly things (istidlāl bil-shāhid ʿalā l-ghāʾib) to be impossible; after all, there were bodies enough. It may well be that he did not need the usual analogies in his theory of the attributes, as the names of God are, as we have seen, ‘placed’. – The existence of ‘authorities’ who furnished veracity was also occasionally adduced as proof of the validity of consensus, (Mughnī XV 257, 9ff.). ʿAbbād may have been one of those who thought in such terms; the account names no names.

20  In the Islamic world of ideas angels are not disembodied beings (see vol. III 285 above and p. 597 below).

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Political Theory

The awe of the companions of the prophet that had informed Hishām alFuwaṭī’s thinking so strongly also influenced ʿAbbād’s political opinions through the ‘ecumenical’ tendencies resulting from it. He claimed, like his teacher, that the hostilities in the battle of the camel were not the protagonists’ fault,1 but he emphasised more – possibly merely favoured by tradition – how the exculpation of the ṣaḥāba combined with the four-caliph theory to form the image of an ideal past. The first four caliphs were the right men at the right time. This was why Abū Bakr was ‘more excellent’ (afḍal) than ʿAlī; in keeping with Basran tradition, ʿAbbād proved this in a separate text.2 Theologians with close links to the Shīʿa could, of course, easily take this the wrong way,3 but ʿAbbād had nothing against ʿAlī: once he had acceded to the caliphate he was not only the legitimate caliph but also the only one suited to be the ruler.4 He did not make any mistakes; he was not pleased with the arbitration court, and had not ordered it in the first place.5 Since his death, however, there had not been another legitimate ruler, as clearly demonstrated by the fact that no-one since then had enjoyed absolute authority. There had always been uprisings and independence movements which established their own functioning authorities, curtailing the right of the caliph.6 In ʿAbbād’s view the split between Sunna and Shīʿa had marked the end of the ideal unity; he appears to have believed that the first four caliphs, on the other hand, did not make any wrong decisions. Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s remarkable theory that the community only required a ruler while it was united7 thus makes more sense: only under those circumstances does the community deserve the ideal leadership that only a legitimate ruler can provide. ʿIṣma is found only when this is effective, i.e. accepted.8 We do not know whether Hishām shared this opinion.

1  Text 104. 2  Catalogue of Works no. 6; cf. Mughnī XX 2 115, 1ff. 3  Regarding a Shīʿite theologian who debated with him see p. 21 above. 4  Text 103. 5  Text 105. 6  Text 106 and 107. 7  Regarding ʿAbbād cf. Text 102. 8  The argumentation proposed by Abū Hāshim, Naqḍ al-abwāb (Mughnī XV 254, 4ff.) seems to imply that ʿAbbād expected ʿiṣma from a ruler for his duties’ sake.

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4.1.3 Shaḥḥām In Ibn al-Nadīm’s view Hishām al-Fuwaṭī and ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān were Muʿtazilites who ‘introduced innovations and seceded’.1 This is probably a judgment with hindsight; by Ibn al-Nadīm’s day, ʿAbbād’s forceful attempt at giving Basran thought a new foundation had long petered out. This was because Jubbāʾī, who would determine the general line of the Basran school for a long time, had not studied under ʿAbbād but under his contemporary Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf b.ʿAbdallāh b. Isḥāq al-Baṣrī, called al-Shaḥḥām.2 This was linked to the fact that Jubbāʾī was focussed more on Abū l-Hudhayl, as Shaḥḥām – unlike ʿAbbād – had been Abū l-Hudhayl’s assistant; ʿAbd alJabbār even called him the latter’s most competent pupil (aʿlamuhum). This probably does not mean much;3 it is one of those generalising judgments expressed at a later time that are often found in biographical literature. What we might most reasonably infer from it would be that he was most faithful to his master’s work, but not even this is accurate, for like ʿAbbād, Shaḥḥām believed that ‘that which is not, is something’ (al-maʿdūm shayʾ). Indeed, he went further than ʿAbbād, according the denotation ‘body’ even to those things that existed only within God’s knowledge;4 Khayyāṭ would later take the same step in Baghdad.5 This seems to suggest that Shaḥḥām was dependent on ʿAbbād; he certainly could not have found out about the problem from Abū l-Hudhayl but only from Hishām al-Fuwaṭī. Just how little original thought he expressed is shown by Ashʿarī mentioning him much less often than ʿAbbād. Posterity thought differently, regarding Shaḥḥām as the one who had introduced the dimension of potentiality into kalām.6 However, this was in fact once again adopting Jubbāʾī’s point of view: he had modified the theory and incorporated it into his own, and he had little interest in being seen as one of ʿAbbād’s followers.7 1  Fihrist 214, 1f. 2  Regarding his being Jubbāʾī’s teacher cf. Faḍl 280, 13 > IM 72, 1f. 3  Not even if the editor’s rather unusual reading of akmaluhum (Faḍl 280, 12) as opposed to aʿlamuhum (Ḥākim al-Jushamī, and IM 82, 9; the latter quoting the qāḍī explicitly). Describing someone as the ‘most perfect’ of pupils was contrary to the usual phraseology and the reading is probably a result of the poor and illegible MS. 4  Text XXVI 1, a–c, and 2, a; more details below. 5  E I2 IV 1163a. 6  Juwaynī, Shāmil 124, 6f.; Shahrastānī, Nihāya 151, 2f. (also Pretzl, Attributenlehre 60); Ibn Taymiyya, Madhhab al-ittiḥādiyya, in: Majmūʿa (Cairo 1341) IV 6, 8ff.; also Text XXVI 3. 7  Text 3, a; he mainly diverged in the terminology, avoiding shayʾ with reference to that which did not exist (Maq. 162, 5ff. = 522, 9ff.). Regarding Jubbāʾī in more detail see Frank in: Philosophies of Existence 261 and 264.

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The way in which the Muʿtazilite sources depict the dependencies is problematic to a high degree. Ḥākim al-Jushamī added Shaḥḥām as the link between Jubbāʾī and Abū l-Hudhayl in the formal isnād with which he went back to the ancestors of the Muʿtazila.8 However, the chronological distance is considerable and it was impossible to hide the fact that Jubbāʾī also met ‘other theologians of his time’.9 In reality he was the beginning of something new – it was, however, presented as the renaissance of Abū l-Hudhayl. Baghdādī was certainly wrong in equating Shaḥḥām’ theories with Jubbāʾī’s;10 on the contrary, Shaḥḥām was needed for the long leap required to reach back as far as Abū l-Hudhayl. Jubbāʾī was said to have memorised everything he ever heard from Shaḥḥām,11 but there was no denying that he diverged from him in more than one point.12 There is no doubt that Shaḥḥām did indeed study under Abū l-Hudhayl – admittedly as his youngest student13 – but we have Khayyāṭ’s evidence that he also attended Muʿammar’s lectures.14 And Murdār’s attacking him for his epistemology15 sounds as if Shaḥḥām, rather like Jāḥiẓ, had been one of Thumāma’s followers.16 We also now have a chronological marker: Shaḥḥām is likely to have been a grown man by 220. He may have held an office of state under Wāthiq, probably around 229/844. Muʿtazilite sources tell us that the caliph assigned people of religious standing, among them Muʿtazilites, to treasury officials (aṣḥāb al-dawāwīn) in order to prevent irregularities in the collection of taxes. Ibn Abī Duwād was said to have appointed Shaḥḥām the overseer (nāẓir ‘inspector’) of Faḍl b. Marwān, who had been vizier under Muʿtaṣim and was now the expert for land tax in the ministry.17 In Ibn al-Nadīm’s account this had evolved to Shaḥḥām being the head of the Dīwān al-kharāj at that time.18 This position was certainly not a long-term one. After all, Shaḥḥām had a proper profession; going by his sobriquet, he was presumably a fat seller. Maybe he was rich enough, quite apart from his piety, to be immune to corruption.

8    I M 7, 8. 9   Ibid. 80, 5f.; similar already Faḍl 287, 4. 10   Farq 163, 5/178, 5f. 11   Faḍl 287, 5. 12  Thus not until IM 95, 8. 13   Faḍl 280, 12 > IM 72, 9; Shahrastānī 37, 2. 14   Intiṣār 45, 17 = Text XVI 31, f. 15  Catalogue of Works XVIII b, no. 21. 16  Regarding the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif see vol. III 181 above, and p. 125f. below. 17  Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Sharḥ I 100 a, 11ff. > IM 72, 5ff.; cf. vol. III 533 above. Regarding Faḍl b. Marwān cf. EI2 II 730 b. 18  The original passage in the Fihrist is not extant, but it was very probably quoted by Dhahabī (Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ X 553, 1) and Ibn Ḥajar (Lisān al-Mīzān VI 325 no. 1159).

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The recommendation that taxes should be collected by pious men, i.e. experts in religious law, had already been expressed by Abū Yūsuf.19 Shaḥḥām lived to be quite an old man; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār mentions 80 years of age.20 In his later years he was regarded as the doyen of the Basran Muʿtazila; ʿAbbād, who might have vied with him for this honour, may have retired to Ṣaymara. This was why he, when the Zanj attacked Basra in 257/871, was the representative of his school brought before their leader ʿAlī b. Muḥammad. The Muʿtazilites transmitted his meeting with the ṣāḥib al-Zanj in different ways, but both the extant versions hint21 that they wondered afterwards why they had not staged their own uprising. ʿAlī b. Muḥammad was said to have expressed his disappointment that the Muʿtazilites did not join him but remained in the city, awaiting the outcome of events like law-abiding citizens.22 This tells us that in his eyes, as well as in those of the narrators, they were still an organisation with a programme of militant social criticism. Shaḥḥām was said to have likened his followers to the mustaḍʿafūn of sura 4:98, the ‘suppressed men, women and children who had no opportunity’ to leave heathen Mecca behind. In any case he survived the sacco di Basra that claimed the lives of so many scholars, but we do not know for how long; Jubbāʾī had already studied under him before that time.23 ʿAbbād’s pupil Bardhaʿī also met him, but this, too, was during the mid-fifties.24 It is difficult to be sure to what degree he preserved Abū l-Hudhayl’s legacy; the sources hardly ever point out correspondences explicitly.25 The doxographers are more interested in recording his divergences; this is why we learn of his theory of potentiality. It is clear to see that he, too, started with God’s foreknowledge; ‘God knows from the very beginning of worlds and bodies he has not created’.26 The plural ‘worlds’ proves that he will never create them, either;27 more than ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, and in clear contradiction to Abū l-Hudhayl, Shaḥḥām emphasised that the κόσμος νοητός is greater than the present creation. This does not, however, mean that the world as a whole is set out within the cosmos; even though the bodies in their composition are already part of it, 19   Kharāj 106, 15ff.; see also vol. I 84f. and vol. II 333f. above. 20   Faḍl 280, 12 > IM 72, 9f. 21  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 280, pu. ff., and Tathbīt 341, 8ff.; the qāḍī himself does not seem to have been concerned with uniformity. 22  Regarding the followers of the ṣāḥib al-Zanj cf. Halm, Traditionen 43ff. 23  Malaṭī, Tanbīḥ 32, 6f./39, ult. 24  Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir III 223, 1ff./2VI 154 no. 484; cf. p. 21 above. The date of 233/847 Madelung has in GAP II 327 as Shaḥḥām’s death is an error in any case. 25  Cf. Text XVI 52 as well as XXI 84, 112, 171 and 180. 26  Text 2, a. 27  Confirmed ibid., b.

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the divine imagination is still rather like the kind of lumber-room ʿAbbād had in mind. Shaḥḥām drew the dividing line in such a way that all the qualities a body lacks – or even must lack – when it is created are not inherent in it earlier, within God’s knowledge, either.28 Unfortunately this distinction was not as clear-cut as he might have wished. Ashʿarī countered that a body has existence from the moment it comes into being; but Shaḥḥām had not wanted to accord it this very quality during its metaphysical pre-existence.29 Later this was the point at which a clearer distinction would be drawn; things would be described as ‘existing’ (thābit) before their creation, but not as ‘being’ (mawjūd).30 This theory continued to be entertained, albeit never entirely unchallenged, within the Muʿtazila until its later years.31 Ibn Sīnā, too, refers to it.32 Observing where criticism of this definition did not see a starting point is just as interesting. Nobody pointed out to Shaḥḥām that he might be removing the evolution of living nature beyond divine foreknowledge and consequently beyond divine guidance as well; people did not think along those lines at the time. A human does not develop his height after he has entered the world, but he has it from the very beginning; consequently it is something that is in God’s power. What he does not have at the time of his birth, his ‘coming into existence’, is acting; he will become a believer or an unbeliever later, as a result of his own decision.33 The question is thus still theological rather than ontological, and the answer corresponds to ʿAbbād’s;34 not even Ashʿarī unmasked this Muʿtazilite fundamental axiom. It was not about human freedom only: things, too, possess secondary qualities such as, e.g., movement.35 They are

28  Text 1, b, and 2, d. 29  Text 2, h. He appears to have adopted this from early critics (cf. 1, d). He added the quality ‘created’ (2, h); but Shaḥḥām probably embraced the theory, like ʿAbbād did, that creating was distinct from that which is created (Text XXV 14, a; cf. p. 30 and 33f. above). 30  Cf. Text 3, b–c, where c says: al-thābit min kulli nawʿin min tilka l-maʿdūmāt ‘what there is in the way of not-being’; cf. my Erkenntnislehre 192. 31  Cf. Frank in: MIDEO 14/1980/185ff.; also in: Philosophies of Existence 258ff. Ashʿarī, too, believed it at first and wrote about it, but subsequently retracted it (Gimaret in: JA 173/1985/256f. no. 49). Regarding divergent positions within the Muʿtazila cf. e.g. Abū Rashīd, Al-masāʾil fī l-khilāf 37ff. § 3, and Shahrastānī, Nihāya 151, 6ff. 32  Cf. Marmura in: Festschrift Wickens 220f. amd 227ff., also 235f. On its continued relevance in the works of Ibn ʿArabī cf. Nyberg, Kleinere Schriften 44ff.; this includes the first reference to the parallel with the κόσμος νοητός and Christian speculations concerning the logos. Wolfson tried a different approach in: JQR 36/1946/371ff. = Studies II 338ff.; N. Rescher pointed out the kinship with Stoic thought (Studies in Arabic Philosophy 69ff.). 33  Text 2, e–g, and 1, b. 34  See p. 33 above. 35  Text 1, b.

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consequently, we conclude, at rest when they are created – but ʿAbbād had already said this as well,36 and there were no voices of disagreement. The move towards potentiality did not only influence the terminology in the generations following Shaḥḥām; the shift is tangible in his own works as well. The transition from pre-existence in divine knowledge to existence is not only called creating (khalq) or ‘causing to come into existence’ (iḥdāth), but also kawn ‘becoming’, ‘coming into being’; we may safely assume that this usage, which is found in Ashʿarī’s reports, does indeed go back to Shaḥḥām.37 Kawn is thus not simply ‘being in space’ any more, as Abū l-Hudhayl employed it, but it has become dynamised. It is possible that Shaḥḥām saw this new interpretation of the term as the central concept of his theories; he wrote a K. kāna wa-yakūn.38 The list of books, which is incomplete in any case, is not very informative. There is, however, a further title that hints at a connection to ʿAbbād: K. dalālat al-aʿrāḍ.39 While we do not know whether ʿAbbād’s similarly entitled work was already available by the time Shaḥḥām composed this treatise40 – maybe Shaḥḥām was the more conservative of the two, and maybe he simply defended Abū l-Hudhayl whose proof of the existence of God had triggered the entire discussion – but the issue as a whole had shifted since Hishām al-Fuwaṭī.41 The situation was similar to the argument Shaḥḥām had had with Yaḥyā b. Bishr al-Arrajānī concerning Abū l-Hudhayl’s theory of eternal rest in paradise, where he appeared to try to salvage his teacher’s honour at the same time as distancing himself from him.42 A last instance is his attitude to the question of whether actions of which God is capable can be at all identical with those a human could perform. It caused a stir because, unlike his fellow believers, Shaḥḥām considered this to be possible. He thus seemed to be determined to help Ḍirār to come into his own post festum, while in fact he was presenting a more precise version of Abū l-Hudhayl’s arguments against Ḍirār’s position. All it takes is a closer look, where as the rather sparse accounts allow it.

36  Text XXV 10, b; also p. 36 above. 37  Text 1, b–d, and 2, e–f. How little the distinction was that was perceived between ‘being’ and ‘coming into being’ is illustrated by the use of wujūd in 1, b. 38  Catalogue of Works no. 2. The title is also transmitted as a work by Najjār (Catalogue of Works XXXII a, no. 19). 39  Catalogue of Works, no. 1. 40  See p. 48 above. 41  See p. 10 above. 42  See vol. III 315, also 282, above. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s text, on which this is based, is not entirely clear.

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Shaḥḥām taught that a particular ‘movement’ (meaning: an action), as long as it can be performed at all (i.e. does not imply something absurd), could be performed by God as well as humans, with the difference that God effected it ‘of necessity’, while humans performed it through iktisāb only.43 This recalls Ḍirār down to the terminology, and maybe this was the intention, in the hope of putting his approach onto the right track. What he meant, however, was something else altogether. Following a remark of Kaʿbī’s in his ʿUyūn al-masāʾil, Baghdādī demonstrated the difference between him and Ḍirār very clearly: he was not saying that God and humans would be active at the same time, but that ‘each of them may cause the event in turn (ʿalā l-badal)’.44 Shaḥḥām does not intend to say that God creates every action, and that consequently every human action is ‘appropriated’; rather, he appears to have actions in mind that may be performed deliberately as well as involuntarily, such as blinking, or chattering of teeth. If such an action occurs without human input it must be, as Shaḥḥām had to say in keeping with Basran theology, effected by God and is thus unavoidable or ‘necessary’; if the human performs this action deliberately, it appears artificial, secondary, or ‘appropriated’.45 Not, then, a synergism, as Ḍirār would have said, but no intention of allowing humans the ‘creation’ of their own actions, either, as some Muʿtazilites would have put it at the time. Here, Shaḥḥām is once again entirely in agreement with ʿAbbād,46 but when he uses the term kasb/iktisāb, he is not thinking of the contrast with khalq, but with ḍarūra; he appears to have adopted this from Muʿtazilite epistemology47 and can thus claim that he did not give in to Ḍirār. We are looking here at what would later be described as jihāt al-fiʿl ‘the points of view from which an action is seen’; Shaḥḥām’s Baghdad contemporaries Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb and his pupil Iskāfī characteristically and firmly rejected the mere idea. Gimaret, Théories 181f. after Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla II 670, 4ff. (= Text XXXII 28 A). According to this passage they were polemicizing against Najjār and his school. – Regarding Shaḥḥām cf. Text 4 and 5; regarding the connection with Abū l-Hudhayl Text XXI 82–84, and vol. III 269 and 298 above. When comparing Text 5, b and e, with Ashʿarī, Maq. 199, 10ff., we can see that Jubbāʾī followed Shaḥḥām overall, later also referring to Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī (cf. Maḥmūd b. ʿAlī al-Rāzī, 43  Text 4, b–c. 44   Farq 163, 9/178, 8. 45  Thus also Gardet in: EI2 II 570a. 46  See p. 42 above. 47  See p. 740 below.

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Al-munqidh min al-taqlīd I 206, 5f.). Interestingly, the question of whether ‘acquired’ insights could be bestowed upon humans ‘of necessity’, and vice versa, was soon debated (Gimaret, Ashʿarī 164). – Watt’s interpretation in JRAS 1943, p. 240, is similar to my own: he, too, points out that one should leave Ḍirār out of the argument. However, his subsequent considering of the possibility of Muʿammar’s influence seems doubtful to me. Gimaret, Théories 72, uses the term ‘acte contraint’ with reference to Watt in this context, which, although prone to misunderstanding, also denotes involuntary actions. Daiber, Muʿammar 381, on the other hand, classifies the passage incorrectly when he associates ‘al-Ashʿarīs ḫalqkasb-Theorie’. The difference to the mujbira, i.e. Ashʿarī and his predecessors, was always emphasised by the Muʿtazilites (cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī VIII 275, 16ff., and Ibn Mattōya, Muḥīṭ 363, 17ff. ʿAzmī/I 379, 10ff. Houben); Baghdādī agreed. The qāḍī rejected the theory that God has the power to do something that humans are also empowered to do. However, his drawing the conclusion that in that case one might as well say ‘as Muḥammad b. Shabīb and Abū Yaʿqūb al-Shaḥḥām asserted, that it was impossible for God to do this when (i.e. at the moment at which) the human performs that action’ confirms our interpretation. In his view, as in Shaḥḥām’s, the two can act only by taking turns. The parallel passage by Ibn Mattōya confirms that Shaḥḥām and his contemporary Ibn Shabīb were of the same opinion in this matter, adding – probably incorrectly – Abū l-Hudhayl to their number. We must bear in mind that this only ever refers to one particular action at one particular point in time which the human is or becomes empowered to perform at this very moment. There are some isolated pieces of information on Shaḥḥām’s political ideas; he followed the trend here, too, recognising all four early caliphs. Being a Basran he accorded Abū Bakr precedence over ʿAlī;48 but he approved of the measures the latter took during his caliphate.49

48  Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB I 7, 6ff. 49  Text XXVII 21.

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4.1.4 The Wider Effect of the Muʿtazila. Aḥmad b. al-Muʿadhdhal The population of Basra was probably overall pro-Muʿtazila at the time, at least in the upper classes. It is not, however, possible, to prove this conclusively,1 as biographical texts did not always consider ‘denomination’ relevant in the case of intellectuals who were not experts in a field of religious science, or of political figures. We have already pointed out that some philologists were regarded as ‘Qadarites’ in the city.2 We might also add the example of a man who combined Muʿtazilite convictions with not necessarily mainstream professional training in a remarkable fashion: Abū l-Faḍl Aḥmad b. al-Muʿadhdhal b. Ghaylān, a brother of the Basran poet ʿAbd al-Ṣamad b. al-Muʿadhdhal (d. ca. 240/854)3 who was a member of an originally Jazira (?) family of the ʿAbd al-Qays.4 He wrote verses as well, but was primarily a jurist, interestingly a Mālikite. He had studied in the Hijaz under ʿAbd al-Malik, the son of the very ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Ibn al-Majāshūn (d. 164/780) who had spent his last years in Baghdad,5 but also under ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. al-Qāsim al-ʿUtaqī (d. 19/806), like ʿAbd al-Malik a pupil of Mālik’s. He had gone to find ʿAbdallāh b. Wahb (d. 197/812) in Egypt, who also followed this tradition.6 Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ’s report in Tartīb al-madārik suggest that it had not even been noted in Medina that he was a Muʿtazilite.7 In his home town he introduced Ismāʿīl b. Isḥāq al-Jahḍamī al-Azdī (d. 282/895) and his brother Ḥammād (d. 267/881) to the madhhab. They both became qāḍī in

1  Qāḍī Nuʿmān’s (d. 363/974) believing the majority of the inhabitants of the city to be Muʿtazilite to his day (Sharḥ al-akhbār III 367, 4 and –5f.) was probably not based on his own observation but rather on hearsay or literary reminiscences. 2  Vol. II 97ff.; cf. also vol. III 325 and 515 above. 3  Regarding him see GAS 2/508. 4  Regarding the family overall cf. Pellat in: EI2 III 878f. s. v. Ibn al-Muʿadhdhal. Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb al-madārik I 550, ult., tells us that his father was a Syrian (suryānī!). It seems that the majority of the ʿAbd al-Qays were Christians before converting to Islam (EI2 I 74a s. v.). 5  Regarding father and son cf. vol. II 773ff. 6  Fihrist 252, 15f. Regarding ʿAbdallāh b. Wahb cf. GAS 1/466; Khoury, ʿAbdallāh b. Lahīʿa 122ff.; Mashhadānī in: Al-muʿarrikh al-ʿarabī 34/1987/121ff.; esp. Muranyi, ʿAbd Allāh b. Wahb. Leben und Werk, Wiesbaden 1992, and in: S. Wild (ed.), The Qurʾan as Text 230ff.; briefly also vol. II 771 above. 7  We know from Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī that he was a Muʿtazilite (Agh. XIII 226, 13). In the eyes of Western authors this information stood alone. Bakrī adopted it (Simṭ al-la‌ʾālī 325, ult., where ʿAlī b. al-Ḥusayn = Abū l-Faraj); Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, on the other hand believed it, and others, to be unreliable (Tartīb I 558, 11ff.). A Muʿtazilite transmitted from him in Agh. III 207, 1f.

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Baghdad later;8 they were clearly not Muʿtazilites, either. The same was true of a further pupil, Yaʿqūb b. Shayba (d. 262/875), who became most prominent as a traditionist.9 Aḥmad died before his brother; however, the information that he lived only to around 40 is clearly erring on the side of brevity.10 There were people who thought that it was his brother who would have deserved an early death,11 as Aḥmad was the pious one of the two. The philologist Abū Khalīfa Faḍl b. al-Ḥubāb, himself qāḍī in Basra at times,12 ranked him ‘our Aḥmad’, above the Aḥmad revered by the people of Baghdad, namely Ibn Ḥanbal;13 the people of the city called him ‘the monk’.14 What they meant to say was that he was very observant of morals, and took an active part in the border wars in his family’s homeland of Syria.15 His brother, on the other hand, was a cynic and a libertine: he drank wine and wrote obscene poetry. His sharp tongue was the reason for his sobriquet Abū l-Samm, the ‘poisontongue’.16 The poems composed by Aḥmad were mainly ascetic and gnomic in style; he was generally regarded as a man who internalised the seriousness of life.17 This was probably what people found to be ‘Muʿtazilite’ about him; he also was, as would have been expected of a Muʿtazilite of the old school, a competent orator.18 The two brothers shared a house and thus had sufficient opportunity to irritate one another.19 The last straw was when Aḥmad was granted an audience with the caliph in Samarra – apparently al-Wāthiq; he received generous gifts 8    Fihrist 252, 15, and Tartīb 551, 7f. Regarding them GAS 1/475f. and 302; cf. also vol. II 396f. above. Regarding Ismāʿīl b. Isḥāq see also Pellat in EI2 Suppl. 113a, and Muranyi in: The Qurʾan as Text 252. The nisba al-Jahḍamī emphasised by Sezgin and included by Muranyi and myself, is in fact not very well documented. It is mentioned by Ibn Farḥūn, Al-dībāj al-mudhahhab I 282ff., who also reports that the two brothers were the great-grandsons of Ḥammād b. Zayd (regarding him see vol. II 429 above and Index s. n.). 9    Tartīb, ibid.; regarding him GAS 1/144. 10   Tartīb I 558, 12f. He is documented in Mutawakkil’s time (Wakīʿ, Akhbār II 165, 11ff.; Tartīb 552, 1ff.); Ṣafadī dates his death to ‘before 240’ (Wāfī VIII 184, 13). There is no reason to believe that he attended the lectures of ʿAbd al-Malik Ibn al-Majāshūn’s father ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz, as the Fihrist claims; Ibn al-Nadīm confused father and son here. 11  Thus the poet Abū l-ʿĀliya al-Shāmī (d. 240/854; GAS 2/526); cf. Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 210, 7ff. 12  Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt al-naḥwiyyīn 199. 13   Tartīb I 551, –4f. 14  Ṣafadī, Wāfī VIII 184, 6f.; regarding this sobriquet see vol. III 145f. above. 15   Agh. XIII 226, 12f.; 249, 16f., and 250, 3f. 16  Cf. Pellat in EI2 III 879. 17  Ṣafadī, Wāfī VIII 184, 8ff.; also Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭab. 456, 5ff. There were also some entirely worldly verses from his pen (Ibn al-Muʿtazz 369 15ff.; Ḥuṣrī, Zahr al-ādāb 670, 8f.). 18  Jāḥiẓ, Bayān I 103, 3f. 19   Tartīb I 552, 13ff.

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and won the favour of Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm b. Muṣʿab, the long-serving chief of police and spearhead of the miḥna.20 When he returned, the city’s dignitaries received him with great honours, while his brother presented him with a verse satire: the ascetic who had always criticised those who became involved with the authorities had now himself been corrupted by the authorities.21 The fact that he used the money Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm gave him for the jihād made no difference; ʿAbd al-Ṣamad believed these ambitions to be showing off and mocked him for his vanity and his military walk.22 Aḥmad got his own back by remarking that ʿAbd al-Ṣamad’s mother had been a cook;23 they would appear to have been half-brothers. As we have seen, he succeeded in founding a Mālikite school in Iraq. It is no coincidence that this initiative started in Basra; this was the most likely place for people to conceive the idea of countering the growing Kufan influence. This may have played a part when Aḥmad chose the place where he studied, although in that case it would be surprising that he did not go to study with Aṣamm. It was certainly not easy to establish the foreign tradition in Iraq; he was challenged by people remarking that Mālik’s works were really only written down as marginalia (ḥawāshī) of Abū Ḥanīfa’s works.24 He responded with defamatory verses accusing Abū Ḥanīfa and Zufar b. al-Hudhayl, who had brought Abū Ḥanīfa’s teachings to Basra in the fifties of the second century,25 that their way of thinking in analogies closed the path to hadith.26 In his K. al-ʿilla he defended the Mālikite school;27 the K. aḥkām al-Qurʾān attributed to him also appears to have contained Medinan ideas.28 A book on Faḍāʾil alQurʾān, a K. al-Risāla and a K. fī l-ḥujja have also been transmitted.29 He possessed a valuable booklet Ayyūb al-Sakhtiyānī had been given by the tābiʿī Abū Qilāba and which preserved letters from the prophet and from the first caliphs

20  Regarding him see vol. III 492 above. 21  This event is reflected in different ways by Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭab. 368, 15ff., and Ḥuṣrī, Zahr al-ādāb 671, 10ff.; cf. also Agh. XIII 226, 13f., 249, 16, and 250, 13. 22   Agh. 250, 3ff., and 252, 4ff. (although the same verses refer to a nephew of his in 257, 7ff.). Further satirical verses in Qālī, Amālī I 107, 10ff., and Bakrī, Simṭ 325, 8. 23  Ḥuṣrī 673, 12ff.; cf. also 670, apu. f. 24  Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir I 81, pu. ff./2I 74 no. 204. 25  See vol. II 172f. above. 26   T B XIII 393, 15ff. 27  Bakrī, Simṭ 325, pu. 28  Cf. the two titles Fihrist 40, ult. f.; they probably refer to the same book. 29   Fihrist 39, apu.; Tartīb 551, 5. It seems that neither the titles nor the date of his death were ever inserted in the biography Fihrist 225.

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(but not from ʿAlī!).30 None of this seems particularly Muʿtazilite. Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ even found a source that told him Aḥmad refused to comment on the khalq alQurʾān,31 but he seems at a loss as to what to do with this information; maybe he included it only in order to calm the suspicious Medinans.32 It was certainly the case that from Jubbāʾī and Abū Hāshim onwards, many Basran Muʿtazilites – allegedly including the famous Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī – were Mālikites.33

30  Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir II 534, apu. ff./2VIII 159ff. no. 557; a letter from ʿUthmān to the Basrans from the year 30 is cited subsequently. Cf. vol. II 397 above. 31   Tartīb 558, 9. 32  Yaʿqūb b. Shayba, who attended his lectures (see above), did indeed find fame in connection with the khalq al-Qurʾān because of his waqf (see p. 248f. below). 33  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 97, 1f. The same is claimed regarding the Sālimiyya, which was also based in Basra (ibid. 97, 13f.).

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Baghdad Muʿtazilites

Until the catastrophe in 257 AH Basra retained its leading position in Muʿtazilite theology. In the Baghdad school of the time we would look in vain for a thinker with a systematic approach equal to ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān’s. This may be partly due to the fact that life in the capital was more turbulent, and people reacted more actively to the political impulses from the caliph’s court. As we have seen, even before the miḥna this reaction found expression mainly in protests encouraged above all by the ascetics who were the basis of the school. People became increasingly distant from the authorities because of the religio – political profession of faith; the ‘Zaydite’ attitude inherited from Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir had not been in demand at court since Ma‌ʾmūn’s death. Ibn Abī Duwād belonged to a different world, and Jāḥiẓ – who would later forget the Shīʿite views for which he had found arguments during Ma‌ʾmūn’s time1 – was silent on the subject of those members of the school of whom we want to speak now. However, their decision to live away from trouble would later, when circumstances changed under Mutawakkil, prove to have its advantages. It was probably also thanks to this self-imposed distance that the Baghdad school did not surrender to the influence of the great Basrans who appeared at court. They had barely anything in common with Abū l-Hudhayl. Naẓẓām had some influence, but Shahrastānī’s calling the ‘two Jaʿfars’ (al-Jaʿfarān), who represented the Baghdad Muʿtazila during Wāthiq’s caliphate, his pupils, is an exaggeration.2 They both studied under Murdār,3 and Shahrastānī does indeed mention them again in the chapter about his school.4 Through him they are part of Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s tradition. Still, we must take care not to lump them together in the way that the heresiographers have done at least since Baghdādī. This was sheer laziness: two people with the same name would be discussed together for as long as possible. Thus while the name al-Jaʿfarān is old, it does not point to any theological similarities.5 The two thinkers’ individuality has been appreciated very little altogether. Shahrastānī does not devote separate paragraphs to them at all, while Baghdādī invents a Jaʿfariyya for their sake,6 but lists only what he found in Ibn al-Rēwandī. The difference in age between the two was minimal; both died very soon after the end of the miḥna. 1  Cf. Bayān III 374, 15ff.; also Pellat in: Arabica 31/1985/143, and Zahniser in: MW 69/1979/8ff. 2  Milal 41, 13f./86, 4f.; also Gimaret, Livre des Religions 218, n. 86. 3  Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 4; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 278, 5f. (after Khayyāṭ) > IM 71, 6; Malaṭī, Tanbīḥ 31, 3/38, –5ff. 4  Milal 49, 2/103, 7. Cf. Gimaret in: Annuaire EPHE 89/1980–81/381. 5  Text XXVII 10, f. 6  Farq 153, 6ff./167, 1ff.

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4.2.1 Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir Abū Muḥammad Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir b. Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Thaqafī,1 also called al-Qaṣabī, d. 234/849,2 was a true Arab; maybe this was why he loathed the colleagues who were successful at court despite being mawālī. His opponents, including those within the Muʿtazila, called him the sugar cane seller (al-Qaṣabī). His friends did not like this;3 he probably eked out a living as a street vendor.4 He was certainly not a rich man; on the contrary: he lived on alms (zakāt) from his followers.5 It was pointed out that he was quite modest: he did not like to ask.6 He did not accept money from the authorities as he did not consider it to be clean.7 He did not accept support from Ibn Abī Duwād, either, refusing even to receive him.8 He was a lawyer; Khayyāṭ called him shaykh al-muslimīn wa-faqīhuhum.9 Bishr al-Marīsī was said to have ‘fled’ from a discussion with him once; this report carries weight as it originates with a source that was probably not even Muʿtazilite.10 We also learn that he once, presumably in this function, gave the wedding speech for a merchant, but did not take money from him, either: he had no wish to be remunerated for his admonitions.11 He was a capable preacher; by means of ‘pleasant stories’ (qiṣaṣ) and his own personal example he was able to convert the population of ʿĀnāt on the upper Euphrates from Sulaymān b. Jarīr’s teachings to Muʿtazilism.12 Like his fellow believers, he enjoyed travelling. He probably did not come from Baghdad originally at all, but from Ṭūs, as this was the home of his brother Ḥubaysh who had also trained as a jurist. 1   The complete name is found in TB VII 162 no. 3608, and was adopted by Muḥsin Amīn, Aʿyān al-Shīʿa XVI 66f., but his information is as derivative as that in Mīzān no. 1517 and Lisān al-Mīzān II 121 no. 507. 2   The date probably goes back to Kaʿbī or Khayyāṭ via Marzubānī (cf. TB VII 162, 19ff., and Fihrist 208, 9; also Masʿūdī, Murūj VII 231, 7f./V 21, 8). 3   Text XXVII 10, c. 4   Sugar cane may have been cultivated as early as the late Sasanid era, from the seventh century onwards, in Iraq; it was chewed or made into juice (Watson, Agricultural Innovation 24ff.). Aʿsam’s assumption in Faḍīḥat al-Muʿtazila 266, n. 99, on the basis of Ma‌ʾlūf, Almunjid, that the name was derived from qaṣab ‘sequinned silk fabric’ (cf. Dozy II 361f.) means that he accorded Ibn Mubashshir far too high a social position. 5    Faḍl 283, 6f. and 14f. > IM 76, 13f., and 77, 3f. 6    Faḍl 283, –6 > IM 77, 6. 7    Faḍl 283, 9f. and 14 > IM 76, 16, and 77, 3. 8    Faḍl 283, –5ff. > IM 77, 8ff. 9    Intiṣār 67, pu. 10  Text 17, e, with commentary. 11   Faḍl 283, 7ff. > IM 76, 14ff. 12  Text 17, c; see vol. II 534 above. Text 3 shows how he argued when he was not addressing an academic audience; it should be compared with Murdār’s sermon (Text XVIII 6).

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They also shared the Shīʿite inclinations; Ḥubaysh wrote a K. akhbār al-salaf in which he criticised ʿAlī’s opponents. In other respects they got along less well: Ḥubaysh was a ‘Ḥashwite’, i.e. an anthropomorphist, and did not agree with the khalq al-Qurʾān. His attitude to money is likely to have been different, too; he was an official in the ministry (kātib). Thus after Najāshī 107, 1, if we analyse the sentence correctly. Considering the information listed above it seems improbable that the word should refer to the Muʿtazilite brother (although it would be syntactically possible). Ḥubaysh was probably also the better Shīʿite of the two, as only he was included in Najāshī’s Rijāl work, with the remark: kāna min aṣḥābinā. Lālakāʾī tells us that he rejected the khalq al-Qurʾān (Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 293, 4, in a long list of names). He died long after Jaʿfar, on 9 Ramadan 258/19 July 872. Regarding him cf. TB VIII 272 no. 4369; TT II 195 no. 363; Najāshī 106, –8ff.; Ḥillī, Rijāl 64, 5; Ardabīlī, Jāmiʿ al-ruwāt I 179. The two last-named biographers also transmit the variant Ḥabash, but as he was called Muḥammad anyway, he only used the other name as his laqab. Regarding the quarrel between the two brothers cf. Fihrist 208, 8f.; Masʿūdī, Murūj V 443, 1ff./IV 28, 6ff.; Ibn Ḥazm, Naqṭ al-ʿarūs 246, –5f. (the name Ḥubaysh is corrupted in the last two). Both shared an interest in hadith, probably due to their legal training. Even so, it is remarkable in both their cases: for Ḥubaysh because he was a Shīʿite but the hadiths we have from him come with normal, Sunni isnāds;13 he would seem to have gained the Shīʿites’ favour mainly by means of the book mentioned earlier. In the case of Jaʿfar, because the Muʿtazila had not been favourably inclined towards hadith for a long time; similar to ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān he marks a point of change. He did, however, achieve more, even publishing his collections. Of course, there was no way this could be done without criticism: he collected all the ruʾya hadiths in one work the better to refute them.14 It can thus not be said that he was working together with the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth; furthermore he attacked them in a separate treatise.15 His most important Iranian authority had a bad reputation when it came to material, and was said to transmit from ʿAlī although he was not entitled to. On the other hand he was a distinguished man, an Umayyad who had been governor of Wāsiṭ at one

13  Cf. e.g. TB VIII 272, 10ff., or Bayhaqī, Shuʿab al-īmān I 176 no. 156. 14  Catalogue of Works no. 15–16, probably also 17. 15  Ibid. no. 14.

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time.16 It seems that Ibn Mubashshir made exceptions in his dealings with the establishment. One of the sayings he heard from this authority praised renouncing the world and had been addressed by ʿAlī to the South Arabian qāṣṣ Nawf b. Faḍāla al-Bikālī invoking the example set by Jesus.17 This was a subject Jaʿfar was interested in. He had put in writing for all his contemporaries to see that he regarded the ‘house of Islam’ as a ‘hotbed of sin’ (dār fisq);18 placing himself in the tradition of the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila.19 He appears to have been the one to coin the phrase dār al-fisq, intending to express that in a metropolis like Baghdad transgression was rife on streets and in the market.20 He actually moderated his predecessors’ perspective, as they had spoken of kufr rather than fisq.21 ‘Unbelief’ was something to be avoided with loathing, while ‘transgression’ had to be branded. This was probably why he also held forth about the amr bil-maʿrūf;22 he believed that one must confront the corrupt present actively and in the traditional way. He was not, as we have seen, a mendicant, but he believed that one must not have dealings with anyone who was not entirely honest.23 He campaigned for the zakāt money, which sura 9:60 said was to be spent ‘in God’s way’, to be used for community projects such as mosques, bridges etc.24 His connections with Sufi circles may be why Masʿūdī named him together with Aḥmad b. Khābiṭ and Ibn Mānūs. Murūj III 266, 7ff./II 258, –4f. (where the name has been corrected); cf. vol. III 466ff. above. Masʿūdī clearly intended to say that Ibn Mubashshir shared their theory of the migration of souls, although there is no evidence of this, or of his having glorified Jesus as a creator and judge of 16  ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Abān al-Qurashī, d. 14 Rajab 207/3 Dec. 822. Regarding him cf. TB X 442ff. no. 5604, and Mīzān no. 5082. 17   T B VII 162, 9ff., quoted frequently elsewhere, too (cf. the variant in Ibn Baṭṭa, Ibāna 45, 7ff.). 18  Text 8–9; it probably belongs with the book title no. 9. It is likely that Ibn al-Rēwandī’s K. faḍīḥat al-Muʿtazila included something similar originally; Khayyāṭ skipped a passage (Intiṣār 67, pu. f.) shortly after the same had been said of Thumāma (67, 4f. = Text XIX 13). 19  Thus explicitly a commentary by Ibn al-Murtaḍā with reference to Ḥākim al-Jushamī; cf. Sayyid in: Al-ijtihād 1991/3, no. 12, p. 232. apu. f. 20  Text 9, b–c. Regarding the subsequent effect of this idea on Jubbāʾī’s works cf. Maq. 464, 2ff., and p. 795 below. 21  See vol. III 142 above. 22  Catalogue of Works no. 8. 23  Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 97, 12ff. = Qalāʾid 150, 6f. 24  Ṭūsī, Tibyān V 284, 18f.; Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān III 42, 18f. Regarding the usual interpretation of the Quranic passage cf. e.g. Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XIV 319, 9ff.

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worlds like they did. Regarding his ascetic inclinations see also Intiṣār 72, ult. f.; Fihrist 208, 8; Faḍl 283, 4. – Sometimes his social involvement becomes clear only in the context of the juristic or exegetic debates of the day. His suggestion that the zakāt money which, once again according to sura 9:60, was meant to benefit slaves should then be used to buy their freedom from their masters is indeed in agreement with the Quran; however, the majority had limited this public money to the mukātabūn who had agreed a manumission contract with their masters and contributed financially to it (cf. Ṭabarī 3XIV 316, –7ff.). The only condition proposed by Ibn Mubashshir, on the other hand, was that the slave in question should be a Muslim. His approach to sura 4:8 was similar: ‘And when the division (of the inheritance) is attended by kinsmen and orphans and the poor, make provision for them out of it (too)’. His regarding this as a recommendation was not much compared to Mujāhid’s view, who had seen it as a mandatory commandment (Ṭūsī, Tibyān III 122, 11ff.), but it has to be remembered that many in Iraq considered the verse to have been abrogated altogether (Ṭabarī VIII 9, –9ff., e.g. with reference to Qatāda; Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān II 11, 4ff.). 4.2.1.1 Political Theory In his political theory Ibn Mubashshir, like Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, supported the imāmat al-mafḍūl: ʿAlī was the most excellent of the companions of the prophet, but Abū Bakr, although less excellent, was the ṣaḥāba’s preferred and thus legal candidate. The prophet had not always adhered to the ideal sequence with regard to his confidants, and the comparison with the prayer leader (imām) shows that anyone can be head of the community as long as he possesses the required fundamental knowledge. ʿAlī, too followed this convention, recognising the first three caliphs and playing a part in the life of the community.1 However, the standard of government was gradually falling: ʿUmar was less excellent than Abū Bakr, and ʿUthmān less excellent than ʿUmar.2 So far, there is nothing new in this theory,3 but we can feel how respect for the early community had grown compared to earlier, moderate Shīʿites; Ibn Mubashshir shares common ground with his Basran contemporary Hishām 1  Text 20, a–e. Regarding the comparison of ruler and prayer leader (the term imām comprises both) see vol. III 143 above. 2  Text 19. 3  Cf. Text IX 12, where it is traced back as far as Wāṣil, probably by Jaʿfar’s colleague Ibn Ḥarb. Regarding Bishr b. al Muʿtamir cf. Text XVII 58, and vol. III 139f. above.

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al-Fuwaṭī here. In his case this was due to his appreciation of hadith. He recognised the traditions of the ʿashara al-mubashshara, to whom Abū Bakr, ʿUmar, and ʿUthmān belonged as well as ʿAlī, and he believed a prophetic dictum which promised paradise to all the prophet’s wives, including ʿĀʾisha who was hostile to ʿAlī. This marked the boundary: one has to side with the ṣaḥāba, as long as they were not in opposition of one of the ten.4 Thus Muʿāwiya’s followers such as Abū Mūsā al-Ashʿarī were ruled out,5 but not Ṭalḥa and Zubayr, who were themselves among the ten; they had been absolved because they repented before they died.6 This extension spelled the end of the old fāḍil – mafḍūl system, to which Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir had adhered; now there were ten companions of the prophet, possibly more, who were ‘excellent’ to the same degree. What ʿAlī lost in political entitlement, he gained in religious authority. ‘Excellence’ was, after all, not merely a moral example, but also outstanding religious knowledge. This had so far usually been interpreted as legal expertise, but Ibn Mubashshir regarded it as authority on theological guidelines. He appears to have regarded ʿAlī as the ideal Muʿtazilite, who had anticipated the entire doctrine in every detail.7 There had been some indication of this ‘fundamentalist’ construction when Abū l-Hudhayl had traced his theology back to the prophet via ʿAlī. However, he had had the isnād – and this was an anachronism even at that time – go via Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya and his son Abū Hāshim;8 now the model was purely Zaydite. It was, in fact, around the same time that the Zaydiyya under Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm made a move towards the Muʿtazila;9 Muḥammad b. Manṣūr al-Murādī, Aḥmad b. ʿĪsā b. Zayd’s longterm companion (d. 247/861), was closely acquainted with the two Jaʿfars and with Iskāfī.10 The Baghdad Muʿtazila would later identify with the theory as a whole. This may be inferred from Malaṭī’s introductory remarks on Text 20 (cf. also Text 19 and XVIII 13, h). Malaṭī’s account is strangely isolated in the 4   Text 20, f–i. 5   In addition to some older followers of ʿUthmān such as Walīd b. ʿUqba; but this had no relevance to the system (20, h). 6   Ibid., f, and 21, c–d with commentary; also Text XVIII 13, g. 7   Text 20, k–n. 8   See vol. III 233 above. 9   Even though they were not entirely agreed on everything (cf. Madelung in: Festschrift Löfgren 43; ibid. 39ff. also in more detail on Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm’s attitude to the Muʿtazila). 10  Madelung, ibid.; the text on which this was based is also found in Ibn al-Wazīr, Tarjīḥ asālīb al-Qurʾān 28, –7ff. Regarding Murādī cf. in more detail Madelung, Qāsim 82f.; the date of his death in GAS 1/561 is too late. More on the subject see p. 91 and 759 below.

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old sources, but this may be because Nawbakhtī and Qummī, who go back to Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, as well as Pseudo-Nāshīʾ, i.e. presumably Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb, did not include this period in their accounts. A parallel text in Mufīd (Text 21) presents a slightly shifted perspective; the Zaydite model was not normative in every detail for an Imāmite (cf. 2, c–d). Consequently Mufīd indiscriminately lists Muʿtazilites from Baghdad and Basra together. Ibn Mubashshir had still attacked the ‘Rāfiḍites, but because of their anthropomorphism which they later renounced (Catalogue of Works no. 1). 4.2.1.2 Theological Questions In theology Ibn Mubashshir inherited Murdār’s rigorism and Bishr b. alMuʿtamir’s system. We are unable to estimate the degree to which he remained faithful to this tradition; the sources tend to note divergences only.1 These do, however, show that he was not necessarily averse to new ideas and allowed himself to be influenced sufficiently to change some accents. This is where Naẓẓām in particular has to be discussed. Like Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, Ibn Mubashshir set generous limits in the question of tawallud. Later generations would recall especially that he believed humans to be capable of ‘generating’ colour. In fact this was not an original idea.2 Since Naẓẓām’s time, however, this theory could not be stated quite so easily; consequently he adduced new evidence.3 He appears to have had Naẓẓām in mind in his theory of the soul as well, saying that it was something between a substance and a body. He declined to enlarge on the precise nature of the ‘something’, using the term maʿnā. Still, the soul being a ‘body’ was in keeping with Naẓẓām. The soul as a ‘substance’ probably meant: the soul as an atom. Clearly he recognised that a purely atomist definition was not sufficient any more.4 We also know of some clear agreement with Naẓẓām.5 He turned away from Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir most noticeably in the latter’s theory of the

1  One instance of clear agreement with Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir was noted in Text XVII 49 (against Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb!; cf. Text XVI 52). 2  Regarding Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir cf. Text XVII 18, a; also Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī IX 12, 5ff. 3  Text 2. One of the arguments listed there (d) uses an example Naẓẓām had also employed (Text XXII 87, e). Abū Rashīd, the author of the text, does not seem to be aware of the origin of the theory. 4  Text 1. The fact that this text uses the term nafs, rather than rūḥ like Naẓẓām, is probably irrelevant. 5  Regarding Text XXII 231 see p. 73 below; perhaps also Text XXI 137, where we do not, however, know which of the two Jaʿfars it refers to.

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proof of God’s grace and wrote against the aṣḥāb al-luṭf.6 While he did still occasionally use the term itself,7 he does not seem to have accorded it quite as much notice as Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb.8 His theory of the Quran is an interesting case. He was not able to learn much from Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir; the original ideas came from the Basrans. He saw that they were not in agreement among themselves: he believed with Abū l-Hudhayl that the Quran was an accident, a text that was set down,9 but he did not agree that this accident might be in several places at once – or, put differently: the text cannot be recited by one person at the same time that another is writing it down and a third one committing it to memory. Naẓẓām had not believed this, either.10 Ibn Mubashshir did not, however, adopt his system,11 but rather conducted his criticism based on Abū l-Hudhayl’s categories. The Quran exists in one place: on the preserved tablet, where Abū l-Hudhayl had located it, albeit not exclusively. On earth, on the other hand, there are only reproductions or renditions (ḥikāya), either spoken or written, but neither endures. This is not the word of God (kalām Allāh), but it is that which is reproduced (maḥkī), and the reproduction is identical with it.12 In this way the word becomes audible and, once written down, visible.13 Ibn Mubashshir elucidated this theory in a treatise;14 in this instance he was a genuine innovator. He had probably adopted the term ḥikāya from grammar, where it referred to oratio, and was used for oratio recta as well as oratio obliqua.15 Abū Hāshim recognised Jaʿfar’s originality, adopting the idea in order to attack his father’s system, which was based on Abū l-Hudhayl’s in this area.16 Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb, too, followed Ibn Mubashshir, as did Iskāfī to a degree, and later also Kaʿbī. The tradition appears to have been continuous in 6   Catalogue of Works no. 4. 7   See p. 72f. below on the doctrine of sin. 8   See p. 85 below for more details. 9   See vol. III 305 above. 10  Text XXII 205, e. 11  Cf. vol. III 442ff. above. 12  Text 5–6; also 4, d–g. Cf. Text 113–114, and vol. III 306 above. Peters, God’s Created Speech 388ff. introduced ‘reproduction’ as the translation of ḥikāya. 13  Text 5, g. On the subject see also Wolfson, Theology of the Kalam 268ff., where this theory is presented under Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’s name. – Ashʿarī found a completely divergent doxographical account somewhere (Text XIII 9), but believes it – probably correctly – to be based on a misunderstanding. 14  Catalogue of Works no. 12. 15  Reckendorf, Arabische Syntax 378, n. 1; more details in N. Kinberg, A Lexicon of al-Farrā’s Terminology 185ff. 16  Regarding his arguments cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī VII 192, 1ff. (summarised by Peters, loc. cit. 391ff.).

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Baghdad.17 The disadvantage of the model was that now the Quran appeared to be entirely detached from humanity; it could be said, as both Ibn al-Rēwandī and after him Ibn Ḥazm did, that one could not see or hear it in its true sense.18 Khayyāṭ went to some lengths to explain that the content was what mattered, ‘that which is reproduced’; that was what people heard, and heard in the true sense.19 What he did not explain was how this came down to earth; but he probably assumed that Gabriel ‘carried the text down’. Ashʿarī’s account seems to hint at a different solution: that which is reproduced is created by God in each case (Text 5, d). However, this can hardly be true as God and human would then have an equal share in it. This would take us to Ḍirār’s theory – which Ibn Mubashshir refuted in a separate text (Catalogue of Works no. 2) in the form it had acquired in Burghūth’s version. He furthermore presented all the positions proposed up to his time carefully and systematically, but unfortunately without naming any names. Ashʿarī adopted this passage, which was probably originally included in Ibn Mubashshir’s book on the subject, into his Maqālāt (cf. in detail Catalogue of Works no. 12). Murdār’s rigorism made its presence felt in Jaʿfar’s doctrine of sin. He displayed the same intransigence as his predecessor in his approach to anthropomorphists and predestinarians, regarding them as apostates.20 Naẓẓām had still made allowances for someone who maintained that God ‘determined’ (qaḍā) sins, as he might have meant that God knew them in advance; Ibn Mubashshir, on the other hand, considered him a determinist pure and simple, and thus an unbeliever.21 He did not tolerate the views of the Murjiʾites – of whom there were more than a few among the Basran Muʿtazilites during his time – even as a pious alternative, albeit a wrong one.22 Of course the fact that in his eyes the Islamic world was a dār fisq in any case also played a part.23 In addition he was 17  Text 6, a. Regarding Iskāfī see p. 94f. below; regarding Kaʿbī see Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 260, ult. f. The latter points out that the Māturīdites could agree up to a certain point, too (286, 5ff.). This was not only because Kaʿbī’s teachings were known in eastern Iran, but also and in particular because Ibn Kullāb agreed with Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir in a number of points (see p. 206f. and 685, n. 30, below). 18  Text 4, a, and 7. 19  Text 4, c–g. 20  Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid 136, –9; regarding Murdār’s view cf. vol. III 148 above. 21  Ibid. 140, 3f. 22  Ibid. 125, –4f.; this also mentions that the Basrab Muʿtazilites thought differently. The exception in this city was ʿAbbād (see p. 46, n. 13, above). 23  See p. 66 above.

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a rationalist who had high hopes of natural theology and ethics. He believed that not only was it possible to recognise God before the revelation and independently of it, and with all his qualities, but also that reward and punishment in the otherworld could be deduced rationally. We have already come across this idea in the context of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān,24 but he was younger, and did not pursue it as far. Ibn Mubashshir even thought that the eternal duration of reward and punishment was freely perceivable to reason, and that thus the Quran did not contribute anything essential in this point.25 Someone who achieves these insights of himself and embraces them is actually more deserving of salvation than a Muslim who knowingly transgresses against the commandments and, as we might add, falls short of true faith.26 Jubbāʾī would later go deeper, to the effect that a human may reach the rational insight of just how much he owes his life to divine grace, and feel bound to gratitude;27 maybe Jaʿfar was anticipating certain aspects.28 Conversely he regarded a Muslim’s sinning deliberately as particularly grave; even trivial matters become significant in that case, as he would have transgressed against reason as well as the Quran. The essential traits of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s polemic (Text 12, a) are confirmed by Ashʿarī (Text 13). Khayyāṭ evades the issue in 12, f–g; for Ibn al-Rēwandī’s speaking of a ‘grain of barley’ or a ‘brass farthing’ (ḥabba) may be an exaggeration, but it points in the right direction, as Ashʿarī’s use of the word ‘dirham’ shows. Fundamentally Khayyāṭ clearly agrees (c and e). However, he is right in saying that in Ibn Mubashshir’s view even a deliberate sinner, being fāsiq, remains a Muslim (h). Sins committed accidentally, on the other hand, are much less grave, but Jaʿfar could not bring himself to go so far as to ignore them, as some people did. God could punish people for them; if he does not do so, this is purely proof of divine grace (luṭf). God has committed himself to this proof of his grace by ‘publishing’ it in sura 2:286, which states that God asks no more of any human than he is capable of. No ordinary human is immune from forgetfulness; prophets, however, are different – as they know more, they are also able to take greater 24  See p. 46 above. 25  Najjār, another Basran and exact contemporary, appears to have thought along similar lines (see p. 178 below). Certain Shīʿites argued against him, citing sura 17:15: ‘We never chastise, until we send forth a messenger’ (Ashʿarī, Maq. 52, 10ff.). 26  Polemically expressed in Text 10, a. 27   Erkenntnislehre 330. 28  This might be inferred from Shahrastānī 49, 10/104, 7.

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care. If they sin by accident, they are by no means absolved.29 The question is whether they have sinned at all. Ibn Mubashshir wrote a treatise on this subject, the tanzīh al-anbiyāʾ, possibly the first one.30 Rigorism is also noticeable when Ibn Mubashshir mentions iḥbāṭ,31 as he seems to understand the word as it was already used in the Quran: that in the case of grave sinners, and thus a fortiori of unbelievers as well, God will ‘ignore’ the good deeds they have performed during their lifetime and not count them.32 He probably saw this as proof that a fāsiq would stay in hell forever. Many others disagreed; the Murjiʾites, of course, but also other Muʿtazilites. They assumed that not only would the wrong actions annul the good ones, but also, inversely, the good ones annul the wrong ones. This was illustrated by the concept of the scales of the Last Judgment, independently of whether it was interpreted metaphorically or not; what counted at the end was the balance.33 This was Jubbāʾī’s opinion, and that of many others after him.34 However, the correct phrase would have been iḥbāṭ wa-takfīr ‘annulment and atonement’, and the word takfīr is missing from the extant document concerning Ibn Mubashshir (which furthermore traces iḥbāṭ back to ʿAlī).35 In this case universal atonement before death was not needed, as some transgressions would have been balanced on account already. ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān recognised this consequence and protested against it.36 It is not surprising that Ibn Mubashshir also fought it; like Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ37 he believed that repentance limited to only a few of the sins committed was invalid at the end of life.38

29  Text 14, and XXII 231 (where Naẓẓām is also mentioned). 30  Catalogue of Works no. 11. Regarding the presumable contents cf. Sharīf al-Murtaḍā’s work of the same title (3Najaf 1394/1974). 31  Text 20, l; in general concerning the Baghdad school. 32  Cf. sura 33:19, 47:32 etc.; also in the I. form (e.g. sura 11:16). For general information see L. Ibrahim in: WO 11/1980/117ff., and N. Gudhashta in: GIE VI 639ff. 33   Maq. 473, 6ff.; Ashʿarī asserts this of the Muʿtazila in general, but there is no instance dating to the time before Ibn Mubashshir. 34  Gimaret, Une lecture muʿtazilite du Coran 157f.; cf. also Gardet in EI2 III 465b s. v. Ḥisāb. 35  Later Muʿtazilites omitting this term often used the word taḥābuṭ instead of iḥbāṭ in order to emphasise the mutuality. The balancing effect would not apply any more, in their view, at the moment where someone had committed a mortal sin (cf. Madelung in: Actas XII Congreso UEAI 489; Schmidtke in: Spektrum Iran 7/1994, Issue 3–4, p. 14). 36  See p. 46 above. 37  See vol. II 305 above. 38  Mānkdīm, ShUKh 794, apu. ff., and 797, 6.

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4.2.1.3 Issues on the Field of Law Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir wrote more on legal matters than any of his Muʿtazilite predecessors of contemporaries. Of the 23 titles transmitted from him, nearly half are in some way or another linked to fiqh. He wrote about the purity laws and about the prohibition of alcohol,1 both suggesting themselves in the case of an ascetic. A K. al-kharāj is also on the list; he appears to have been of the opinion that taxes had to be levied even in the ‘house of sin’.2 When commenting on individual matters in this way, his knowledge of tradition is sure to have come in useful; many problems in the field of furūʿ were by that time almost impossible to resolve without recourse to hadith or akhbār. However, he preserved his independence, as we have seen,3 sometimes even adhering to opinions that had been abandoned among Sunnites overall by that time. Thus he thought that it was permissible to marry the niece of one’s wife, if the latter agreed to it. Naẓẓām had been of the same opinion, and the Twelver Shīʿites would later embrace it.4 It had first been considered among the Khārijites, or some groups among them.5 It adhered to the word of the scripture, based on sura 4:23, the āyat al-taḥrīm which lists the kinship taboos but in fact omits this case. The interpretation was contradicted by a hadith that would later become canon.6 By disregarding it, Ibn Mubashshir was practising ijtihād; he even devoted a monograph to the subject.7 Still, he also wrote against the aṣḥāb al-ra‌ʾy wal-qiyās,8 which probably referred to the Ḥanafites. The same combination of agreement and rejection was already found in Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s9 and Thumāma’s systems.10 It is hard to say whether his views had any effect on the 1   Catalogue of Works no. 21–22. 2   Ibid. no. 23. Regarding kharāj literature in general cf. the list in Modarressi, Kharāj in Islamic Law 61ff.; regarding Ibn Mubashshir ibid. p. 65. 3   See p. 66f. above. 4   Here we also find the documented instances (Mufīd, Al-iʿlām fīmā ttafaqat alayhi l-Imāniyya min al-aḥkām, Najaf 1370/1951, reprinted in ʿIddat rasāʾil, Qom n. d., p. 327, 6ff.; Muḥammad al-Ṭūsī, Khilāf, Tehran 1382/1962. II 160 no. 64; Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Intiṣār 116, –4ff.; ʿAbd al-Jalīl Qazwīnī, Naqż 714, 4ff.). Naẓẓām and Ibn Mubashshir are mentioned only in Mufīd; the nisba al-Qaṣabī is misprinted there. 5   See vol. II 652 above concerning the Khāzimiyya; cf. also ibid. 604 and 623. Mufīd, probably generalising too much, speaks of ‘all’ Khārijites. They do not mention the aunt’s consent, either. The niece’s consent was not considered a requirement in any case. 6   Cf. e.g. Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ, Nikāḥ 4 (no. 33–40); parallels in Conc. IV 347 b. 7   Catalogue of Works no. 19. 8   Ibid. no. 18. 9   Catalogue of Works XVII, no. 25 and 26. 10  See vol. III 182 above. Bishr’s pupil Murdār also composed a K. ʿalā aṣḥāb ijtihād al-ra‌ʾy (Catalogue of Works XVIII b, no. 30); but he may have rejected ijtihād in general in this text.

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practice. It would not be impossible; it was not absolutely necessary to have a qāḍī in charge of a wedding, and perhaps his community followed his precepts. He was greatly respected even beyond the Muʿtazila.11 His books were known for some time after his death;12 the Sharīf al-Murtaḍā still referred to one of them.13 Sometimes the theologian’s hand is noticeable. Premeditation was an important category not only when it came to sin. If someone consummates marriage with a woman without previously agreeing a contract, everything depends on the intention: if he made the promise of marriage only in order to seduce her to have intercourse with him, he must be punished for fornication; if, however, his intention was to marry her, the marriage is valid.14 It is quite clear that whenever Jaʿfar’s contemporaries or successors noticed him because of some peculiarity, this was usually tied in some way to a fundamental decision. Besides his strict adherence to scripture, his critical attitude to the conclusion by analogy is particularly relevant. Even in particularly favourable circumstances, when the ratio legis is explicitly given, it is preferable to remain suspicious, as one can never be sure whether it might apply to one specific case only. If someone says that he is going to manumit one of his slaves because he is a black man, this does not allow the conclusion that he will then manumit all his black slaves.15 His conclusion has some points in common with Naẓẓām’s, but the explanation given is different, as, indeed, is the greater context. Naẓẓām wanted a different, better process of deduction,16 while Ibn Mubashshir insisted on Quran, sunna and consensus.17 Khayyāṭ tells us that he adhered to the external wording (ẓāhir) of the authoritative texts, apparently anticipating the Ẓāhirite position which would be developed a generation later by Dāwūd b. Khalaf (d. 270/884).18 He was thus not as far removed from the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth as Schacht 11  Text 17, e. It is possible that the Shīʿites among the Muʿtazilites had their very own jurist in him. 12  Khayyāṭ lists a number of them (Text 10, e, and 16, b; cf. the Catalogue of Works). 13   Rasāʾil I 23, 2. 14  I am connecting Text 17, a, with the version in Baghdādī (cf. the commentary). Khayyāṭ’s protest sounds hollow; of course Jaʿfar presumed that there would be a subsequent marriage contract. 15  Text 18, with further instances, although not all of these may have originated with him. In general Text 17, d, and Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Jāmiʿ bayan al-ʿilm II 62, 6f., and Shawkānī, Irshād al-fuḥūl 175, 18f. (also regarding Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb and Iskāfī); a slightly different interpretation in Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 188, 16f. 16  See vol. III 419f. above. 17  Text 17, d. 18  The connection was explicitly stated by Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī (Text 18, a).

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thought;19 if he wrote against them it was because they believed in the visio beatifica and other untenable things, i.e. for theological reasons.20 He even recognised isolated traditions (āḥād).21 As we have seen,22 he did not reject ijtihād either. His dismissing the qiyās was a continuation of the old ra‌ʾy; ijtihād could be undertaken just as well based on Quran and sunna.23 However, every Baghdad Muʿtazilite rejected the kullu mujtahid muṣīb.24 His acceptance of igmāʿ did not separate him from the later Ẓāhirites, but it did separate him from Naẓẓām. Unfortunately we do not know how he interpreted igmāʿ, whether as the consensus of the companions of the prophet, like the Ẓāhirites,25 or as the consensus of the community, like ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān.26 As he was speaking as a jurist and not as a theologian, the former is more probable; we furthermore learn that he did devote some thought to this issue. He did not consider the consensus of the ṣaḥāba to be infallible by any means; on the contrary, when they agreed to increase the punishment for the consumption of wine from 40 to 80 lashes, they were undoubtedly in error.27 This opinion should probably be seen in the context of his preference for ʿAlī, as it was believed that he adhered to the punishment transmitted of the prophet, namely 40 lashes.28 The majority who agreed to increase the number really only agreed a compromise (ṣulḥ).29 They did not want a quarrel, but it was not a methodical approach at all. It is unlikely that Ibn Mubashshir assumed this whenever open questions were decided by means of consensus in the first generation after the prophet; he only pointed out that one khilāf broke the consensus, as Ibn Ḥazm did later, too.30 Quite how much Ibn Mubashshir relied on the Quran may be seen from the fact that he is sometimes cited in Tafsīr texts that are in the Muʿtazilite tradition, even though he himself never composed a Quranic commentary. 19   Origins 259. 20  See p. 65 above. 21  Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Rasāʾil I 23, 2f. 22  See p. 74 above. 23  See p. 66f. above. 24  Bājī, Iḥkām al-fuṣūl 707, apu. f. A layperson must not rely on his own opinion but always has to consult a scholar (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 195, 14f., regarding both Jaʿfars). 25   H W 817, a, s. v. Ẓāhiriyya, and EI2 II 182 regarding Dāwūd b. Khalaf; regarding Ibn Ḥazm see in detail Turki, Polémiques 131ff., e.g. 139f. 26  See p. 47 above. 27  Text 16. 28  Cf. my K. an-Nakṯ 58. 29  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XVII 298, 11. 30  Turki, Polémiques 200ff.

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He did, however, write a book on abrogated verses (al-nāsikh wal-mansūkh).31 The words of scripture were apparently not always the ultimate authority in his view. He included the possibility that a verse might not abrogate another Quranic verse, but rather a religious custom practised by the prophet up to that point. An instance of this was the change in the qibla; nowhere in the Quran does it say that previously people had to turn to Jerusalem to pray: it had been introduced by the prophet as a sunna.32 He continued to explore the question of which suras should be considered Meccan and which Medinan. He noticed that sura 5, which was generally regarded as Medinan, contained a verse that was really only revealed after the end of the Medinan period, namely verse 3 which the experts agreed the prophet spoke on the occasion of his farewell pilgrimage (Ṭūsī, Tibyān III 413, 3ff.; Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān II 150, 8f.; also Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3IX 517ff.).

31  Catalogue of Works no. 13. An example from this case is probably the one recorded in Ṭūsī, Tibyān III 524, 14ff.: sura 5:49 abrogates sura 5:42 (later, the prophet did not have the freedom to ‘turn away’ from those who submitted disagreements to him for adjudication). 32  Text 15.

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4.2.2 Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb Abū l-Faḍl Jaʿfar (b. Muḥammad) b. Ḥarb al-Hamdānī, also called al-Ashajj, ‘scar face’,1 died a mere two years after his namesake, in 236/850 at the age of 59.2 He was no jurist,3 and he did not write on al-nāsikh wal-mansūkh either. He did, however, engage in exegesis, but with the objective of employing it against the predestinarians, in a K. mutashābih al-Qurʾān that would be valued for generations to come.4 And of course he, too, was an ascetic,5 albeit not as disaffected towards the state as Ibn Mubashshir. After all, Ibn Abī Duwād succeeded in persuading him to take part in a disputatio in the presence of alWāthiq. However, he avoided performing the prayer behind the caliph. The courtiers were outraged at this insult, and Ibn Abī Duwād advised him to steer clear of the court in future as Wāthiq was a ‘savage beast’ (sabuʿ). The story goes back to Khayyāṭ via Kaʿbī. It was transmitted by Ibn alNadīm (Fihrist 213, 3ff.) and Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Faḍl 282, 10ff. > IM 73, 14ff., who was the only one, surprisingly, to include the isnād). Sabuʿ is corrupted to tashayyuʿ in Faḍl. Ḥākim al-Jushamī appears to have come across this version already; he as well as Ibn al-Murtaḍā omit the word. – Furthermore Jaʿfar had taken his shoes off to pray; apparently this was not the custom in the palace. It remains to be seen whether one should infer a close acquaintance between him and Wāthiq, as al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī did;6 but he may well have taken part in more than one meeting, as his best friend at court was the Ibāḍite Yaḥyā b. Kāmil, at the time possibly still a member of Bishr al-Marīsī’s school.7 1  Actually: ‘the man with the scar on his forehead’. The sobriquet appears to have been avoided in Muʿtazilite sources. It was recorded by Ibn ʿAsākir (Tabyīn kadhib al-muftarī, 138, 13), by Shahrastānī (Milal 49, 3f./103, 9), by Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī (Text XXVIII 2), and by Baghdādī (Farq 188, 1/200, 11, where, however, the identity becomes clear only after a comparison with 188, 6/200, 16, and the name is furthermore corrupted in the Badr edition). A poem from Maʿarrī’s Luzūmiyyāt mentions one Ashajj besides Aṣamm (Cairo ed. 1891, I 209/Beirut ed. 1961, I 259, ult.); it is not, however, referring to the two Muʿtazilites at all but rather to two of Bukhārī’s authorities. 2  Thus Fihrist 213, 9, and Masʿūdī, Murūj VII 231, 9f./V 21, 9f.; according to TB VII 163, 2ff., the date goes back to Khayyāṭ. Dhahabī, Mīzān no. 1497 > Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān II 113 no. 456, has the rather vague ‘after 230’. 3  Thus at least if we go by the catalogue of his writings; but cf. Text XXVIII 18. 4  Cf. the information on Catalogue of Works XXVIII, no. 3. 5  Fihrist 213, 2f.; Faḍl 281, ult. 6  T B VII 163, 1. 7  Regarding him see p. 196f. below.

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They appear to have conducted a number of debates circulated under the title Al-masāʾil al-jalīla in theological circles.8 He was the son of a government official9 and had been in the army, apparently as a non-commissioned officer.10 Qutham b. Jaʿfar, an Abbasid who held a number of high offices, was acquainted with him and was said to have invited him, perhaps around 220/835, from Baghdad to Basra (where he was governor at the time) for him to debate with Abū l-Hudhayl.11 He was a South Arab and a member of the Hamdān. Thus after Masʿūdī, Murūj VII 231, apu./V 21, 10. The nisba should not be read al-Hamadāni, as Pellat did in his index to Masʿūdī (VI 244), Nader (in EI2 II 373 a), and Sezgin (in GAS 1/619). In the same place Masʿūdī says that Ḥarb Gate Street on the western bank in Baghdad was named after Jaʿfar’s father Ḥarb; this, however, is not correct. Madelung pointed out that the Ḥarbiyya quarter together with the Bāb Ḥarb was named after an Abbasid general who had already been killed in 147 (Der Islam 57/1980/231; regarding the latter see vol. III 13 above). Furthermore according to Kaʿbī (Text XXI 158) Jaʿfar’s father was not called Ḥarb at all, but in fact Muḥammad b. Ḥarb. In this case it is tempting to assume that he was identical with the Ibāḍite Muḥammad b. Ḥarb who was police chief in Baghdad a number of times, and whom Ashʿarī mentions as a theologian besides Yaḥyā b. Kāmil (Text XXXII 61, i; regarding him see p. 198ff. below). The problem here is that the Ibāḍite was a member of the Banū Hilāl, a North Arab tribe. However, there is some doubt about his person in general. Jaʿfar renounced the military life when he met Murdār. He is said to have reviled his followers before then – maybe because they were ragged ascetics, and he and his squadron had to keep order among the dropouts. His penance was to bathe naked in the Tigris in order to wash off his sins; afterwards he had Murdār give him new clothes.12 This recalls a baptism; the pseudepigraphical Vita Adae et Evae tells us that Adam stood up to his neck in the river Jordan for forty days, and Eve eighteen days in the Tigris after they had been cast out 8   Catalogue of Works XXVIII, refutation b. 9    Faḍl 282, 4 > IM 73, 8. 10   Faḍl 278, 7ff. > IM 75, 12ff. 11  For details cf. Festschrift G. Hourani 15f.; also Madelung in: Der Islam 57/1980/231f. 12   Faḍl 278, 7ff. > IM 75, 12ff.; it says al-māʾ ‘the water’ for the Tigris, which does not, as Madelung interpreted in: Der Islam 57/1980/231, refer to ‘a water’, but rather to the ‘water’ in Baghdad as such. The parallel named in n. 16 below also has al-māʾ; later versions replace it with ‘Tigris’.

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of paradise.13 Jaʿfar is said to have rejected his father’s inheritance;14 it was generally assumed that government officials enriched themselves unlawfully.15 According to a parallel account he only performed the rite of purification at the end of his life when he gave away all his possessions.16 At that time he also lost interest in discussing theological niceties (daqīq al-kalām). He only put pen to paper to compose popular treatises. He had a woman sell them; using the proceeds to purchase as much paper as he happened to need and paying for his daily needs with the rest of the money.17 A total of six such titles are extant;18 we can thus assume that this phase lasted some time, presumably a number of years. Two of them are identical with titles by Murdār.19 This does not mean that he engaged in popular paraenesis only. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār mentions one among these six books that discussed the question of the imamate,20 and perhaps the Maqālat text the extant fragment of which I have edited under the name of Nāshiʾ al-akbar was another of them.21 However, he had sworn off sharpening the scholastic stylus, and seems to have had enough of debates, too. His early successes as a dedicated dialectician have been transmitted; it seems that he either narrated the stories of his victories or wrote them down himself. He claimed to have silenced the Shīʿite Sakkāk who, like his teacher Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, believed in the finite duration of 13    §§ 11–6; cf. K. Rudolph, Antike Baptisten 12f. Regarding the text in general cf. Eissfeldt, Einleitung in das Alte Testament 3862ff.; it was composed between 20 BCE and 70 CE. 14   Faḍl 282, 4; cf. p. 751 below. 15  See p. 796 below. 16  Ibid. 282, 2ff. > IM 73, 5ff., in more detail in Ibn al-Jawzī, Ṣifat al-ṣafwa II 265, 6ff. > Ibn Qudāma, Tawwābūn 157, 3ff. (where we read that Ibn Ḥarb had previously occupied high government offices and received a salary nearly as high as a vizier’s). The example found imitators; a certain Abū Bakr al-Ḥaddād in Cairo, who could not bear the thought that his father was a money exchanger, wanted to walk into the Nile and surround himself with water ‘like Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’ (Ibn Zūlāq, Akhbār Sībawayh 25, 4ff.). – Of course, the reverse case was also reported. The mystic Ruwaym was said to have decided to rejoin the world after 40 years of living as a Sufi, when he had the opportunity to work in the legal administration (Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara III 120 after Jaʿfar al-Khuldī; cf. Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums I 450f.). The version found in Ibn al-Jawzī goes back to Jubbāʾī via Tanūkhī (Nishwār al-muḥāḍara I 223, –5ff.). The legendary additions are thus of Muʿtazilite origin. 17   Faḍl 282, 5ff. > IM 73, 8ff. 18  Catalogue of Works no. 4–9. 19   K. al-diyāna and K. al-taʿlīm (cf. Catalogue of Works no. 8–9 and Catalogue of Works XVIII b, no. 2 and 22. Did he by any chance revise Murdār’s treatises? 20  Ibid. no. 9. Further details below. 21  As he says there, he had already composed numerous writings against religious opponents (Uṣūl al-niḥal 21, 8). Further details Catalogue of Works no. 4.

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divine knowledge.22 Having missed the debate between Abū l-Hudhayl and a Zoroastrian named Zādhānbukht during Ma‌ʾmūn’s caliphate, he was said to have challenged Zādhānbukht to another dispute afterwards. While the tradition is of a later date,23 we learn in another source that he had prepared a standard argument refuting the dualists. It was set out in the same way as that which Ma‌ʾmūn was quoted as having empoyed,24 and that was also transmitted from Naẓẓām in a similar form,25 although he used a different example.26 By this time a Mazdaist counter-argument was also known, but he was able to deal with that, too.27 The Zaydite al-Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, who grew gradually closer to the Muʿtazila, also swore off scholasticism. The two were acquainted. According to a tradition, traced back to Kaʿbī in Zaydite circles, Jaʿfar once went to visit Qāsim and came away with a very high opinion of him (Madelung, Qāsim 154). If we can believe al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Jaʿfar studied under Abū l-Hudhayl in Basra,28 but this does not really agree with the account of his conversion. Jaʿfar was certainly acquainted with Abū l-Hudhayl,29 but their relations may well have been rather tense. He attacked Abū l-Hudhayl’s idea of the permanent rest in paradise; an anecdote quoted several times above pits him against Abū l-Hudhayl in this context.30 He did not agree with his understanding of human action, either.31 Neither of these went beyond the usual disagreements of the kind that Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had also had with his teacher, and if Jaʿfar’s father was indeed chief of police in Basra, it is not entirely impossible that he studied with Abū l-Hudhayl in his youth. There are more similarities with Abū l-Hudhayl in his than in Ibn Mubashshir’s works; like Abū l-Hudhayl he refuted

22  Text XXVIII 9; cf. vol. I 392f. above. 23   I M 74, 9ff.; cf. vol. III 238 above. 24  See vol. III 218f. above. 25  Ibid. 393, with a divergent analysis of the train of thought. 26  Text 5 and 4, a–b. Included by Māturīdī in Tawḥīd 36, 11ff., and 162, 9ff. (transl. in Monnot, Islam et religions 144 and 153). 27  Text 4, c–e. The Zoroastrian’s writing to a ‘leader’ for advice after his defeat is a topos of this type of account (cf. e.g. vol. II 567 above regarding Jahm b. Ṣafwān). 28   T B VII 162, ult. f. 29  Cf. also the conversation with Abū l-Hudhayl reported of him by Tawḥīdī after Kaʿbī (Text XXI 158). 30  Catalogue of Works no. 10–11; cf. vol. III 283 and earlier above. 31  Text 23, b; also vol. III 267f. above.

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astrology,32 and one might even say that he was the first to come up with the theory of the non-locatedness, i.e. the hypostatic nature, of divine acts of will characteristic of the latter.33 On the other hand his dependence on Murdār sometimes shines through very clearly.34 For further similarities with Abū l-Hudhayl cf. Text XVI 52 as well as XXI 66 and 78; in general also XVII 13. Text 7, which is rather isolated, could most convincingly be linked to Text XXI 60, a, and 59; in that case Ibn Ḥarb would have continued one of Abū l-Hudhayl’s ideas. If Ibn Mattōya’s remark that ‘one of the two Jaʿfars’ used the term kawn referred to him, that passage would also belong in the present context (Tadhkira 450, apu.; cf. earlier 448, 10ff.). 4.2.2.1 His Teachings. His Relationship with Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir He certainly possessed his own individual profile distinct from his namesake Ibn Mubashshir, but because ‘the two Jaʿfars’ are so often treated as one this is frequently blurred. They both dismissed Naẓẓām’s ontology and physics,1 but Ibn Ḥarb wrote against him explicitly, in a refutation of infinite divisibility, and maybe also in a treatise against the aṣḥāb al-ṭabāʾiʿ.2 His psychology, too, appears more clearly distinct from Naẓẓām than Ibn Mubashshir’s. When it came to the spirit (rūḥ) he did not wish to express a firm opinion on its nature with reference to sura 17:85; the self (nafs), which he seems to have understood as the soul, he regarded as a straightforward accident.3 His doctrine of sin showed little originality, sharing Ibn Mubashshir’s emphasis on premeditation.4 He also seems to have been dependent on the latter in his concept of the Quran; the sources usually name both of them together,5 but it was Ibn Mubashshir who wrote the book on the subject.6 In the case of the luṭf theory 32 Text 6; also vol. III 225f. above. 33  Text 8; also vol. III 259 and 302 above. 34  Thus in Text 10; see p. 87 below. 1   Cf. Text XVII 13. 2   Catalogue of Works no. 1 and 12. Jāḥiẓ makes fun of one of these books in Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Al-ajwiba al-muskita 151 no. 905. 3   Text 21–22. 4   Text 26. 5   Text XVII 5–7, where divergence from Ibn Mubashshir is noted specifically in 5, g. Regarding only Ibn Mubashshir in Text XXVII 4. 6   See p. 70 above. Wolfson, on the other hand, gives precedence to Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb in his version (Philosophy of the Kalam 268ff.).

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things were different: Ibn Mubashshir wrote a book against it, while the sources trace an important modification back to Ibn Ḥarb, but without transmitting a respective title.7 The relationship between the two theologians is particularly complex on the field of political theory. The doxographers sometimes reported the concept presented above with reference to Ibn Mubashshir only.8 On the other hand the only book on the subject we know from either of them was composed by Ibn Ḥarb. The Shaykh al-Mufīd would later refute it from an Imāmite point of view,9 but it appears to have been an instance of the exaltation of ʿAlī as the founder of Muʿtazilite kalām characteristic of the Baghdad school.10 Just how much we must beware of treating the two as one becomes clear in their different opinions on ʿUthmān. The precise nature of their difference remains unresolved between Ibn al-Rēwandī and Khayyāṭ in the relevant passage in K. al-intiṣār, but there is no doubt that Ibn Ḥarb, however much he admired ʿAlī, did not wish to discriminate against his predecessor either. Whether he declared his solidarity outright, as Khayyāṭ claimed, or whether he merely practised ἐποχή, as Ibn al-Rēwandī asserted – possibly with Shīʿite emphasis,11 compared to Ibn Mubashshir his attitude appears ‘Basran’, and as this constitutes another brushstroke in the picture we are composing of him, it is not insignificant. We can discover just how incomplete this picture is by systematically looking at his individual ideas. On the field of physics he was an atomist, but we do not know how he imagined the relation between atoms and bodies. We learn that he tried to show, using numbers as an example, that the part (baʿḍ) is something altogether distinct from the whole ( jumla): 1 is indeed a part of 10, but otherwise it is an entirely different thing.12 Perhaps he intended to say that an atom does not have to possess the qualities of the body which it joins as a constituent part; jumla and baʿḍ had a long tradition in this context.13 However, it seems that he believed several accidents could be inherent 7   See p. 85 below. 8   Thus Text XXVII 21, differently Text 19–20. 9   Cf. Catalogue of Works, refutation c. 10  In his K. al-diʿāma the Zaydite imām Abū Ṭālib al-Nāṭiq says of Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’s K. al-diyāna that it discussed ʿAlī and his theological knowledge (cf. the quotation Catalogue of Works no. 9). 11  Text XVIII 13, e–f. 12  Text 3. The terms are found in the parallel in Baghdādī: baʿḍ al-jumla ghayr al-jumla. 13   Jumla was used by Abū l-Hudhayl (see vol. III 264 above), baʿḍ by Ḍirār (ibid. 41f.). However, the relation between the part and the whole (kull) was also used as an instance of the relation between specific and generic (Text IX 21, c). Regarding the internal philosophical

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to one atom,14 and the accident ‘movement’ can even be divided on it, such as when the movement of the body is triggered by two agents at the same instant – an entirely unusual theory, as an accident is attached to an atom and consequently as indivisible as the latter.15 In his view motion was identical with ‘setting in motion’ (taḥrīk),16 i.e. always an external impulse. Here we have already reached the end of the relevant information. It would seem that Ibn Ḥarb felt more strongly than many of his fellow believers that this area encouraged people to indulge in terminological niceties; he thought that the word ‘accident’ (ʿaraḍ) as it was used by the theologians did not have a basis in Quran, nor in hadith, nor indeed in everyday usage.17 This was controversial at the time. Some referred to the Quran;18 others, such as Naẓẓām, took the everyday meaning of the associated verb as their starting point.19 The path for Ibn Ḥarb’s view was prepared by Abū l-Hudhayl;20 but the fact that in the long run he distanced himself from the hair-splitting customary in the field also played a part. It is interesting that no-one had the idea to point to Aristotle.21 When it comes to anthropology the yield is barely greater. As we have seen, Ibn Ḥarb distinguished between soul (nafs) and spirit (rūḥ), apparently according greater importance to the soul, describing it as ‘one of the instruments a human uses when acting’.22 There are more instruments of this kind, such as health; thus he is saying that the soul is a precondition for acting. It is not, however, identical with the human, and the same is true of the spirit.23 The immediate foundation for acting is the capacity to act, which in its turn is different from the soul and presumably also from health. Humans possess it permanently;24 even someone who is temporarily incapable of performing an action retains his capacity to act.25 Only ‘generated’ actions (mutawallidāt) discussion cf. J. Kraemer, Philosophy in the Renaissance of Islam 186ff.; regarding its roots in antiquity e.g. Damascius, Dubitationes § 88. 14  E.g. colour and flavour; this seems to be the basis of the objection raised in Text 2, d. 15  Text 2, a. Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī remarked on the unusual opinion (Tabṣirat al-adilla II 648, 16f.). Concerning the controversy out of which this theory grew – as a compromise – see p. 529f. and 535 below, with the sources cited there. 16  Text 2, f. 17  Text 1. 18  Ashʿarī, Maq. 370, 1ff. 19  Form VIII: iʿtaraḍa ‘to manifest itself on a body’; cf. Text XXII 2, a. Similar probably Ashʿarī, Maq. 322, 5f. (= Text XXI 30, f.). 20  Cf. Text XXI 17. 21  Unless this is the basis of Maq. 322, 5f. 22  Text 21. 23  Text 22. 24  Text XXI 127. 25  Text 24.

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can happen after someone has lost his capacity to act; he triggers them, but subsequently they develop with entelechy.26 Even so he remains responsible for them, even if he had not intended the consequences.27 When it comes to theology Ibn Ḥarb has always been regarded as being part of a line from Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir via Murdār; his personal views would be presented before this background. He believed faith to be created; by that time he was probably the only one among the Muʿtazilites.28 Bishr appears to have assumed this, too; his only explanation of the fact that some people believe while others do not believe was that a proof of divine grace (luṭf ) must be at work.29 Given the increasing criticism, Ibn Ḥarb did not find it easy to adhere to this view, and finally attempted a compromise: while faith is created, it is at the same time enjoined upon all humans. It may be generated by luṭf, but this is not necessarily the case. If one finds the faith without divine aid, it becomes all the more deserving. All the same, the ‘proof of divine grace’ does not have binding force; one would still choose faith of one’s own accord, but the reward would be less.30 The drawback of the construction was that it was difficult to combine with the aṣlaḥ theory: if God effects the most beneficial thing for all humans, i.e. grants them the highest grace, he would really have to withdraw the luṭf.31 Ibn Ḥarb evaded the issue with the remark that God – presumably due to his foreknowledge – put every human in the position most suitable for him.32 It might have helped that he did not ascribe central significance to the optimum as a category; Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir had not done this, either (see vol. III 135f. above). His theory was not particularly valued among the Muʿtazila in the generation following him, as can be seen from people’s claiming that he had later converted to the view of the majority (Text 16, c, and 17, b). Abū Hāshim found something to like in it (Qāḍī ʿAbd alJabbār, Mughnī XI 173, 3ff.). Ashʿarī shows that it took a different course in the end. While the Muʿtazilites had deliberated the issue of whether God 26  Text 23, c–d. Regarding the criticism of Abū l-Hudhayl see p. 97 below concerning Iskāfī. 27  Text 35. 28  Cf. Ashʿarī, Masʾala fī l-īmān in Spitta, Zur Geschichte 138, 14f., where he is named in the same breath as Muḥāsibī and Ibn Kullāb. 29  See vol. III 133f. above; more details on p. 642 below. 30  This appears to me to be the shared fundamental idea of Texts 16–18; it is presented under different aspects there. Text 19 demonstrates the degree to which Ibn Ḥarb believed divine aid was necessary to human action. 31  One of Muḥammad b. Shabīb’s pupils would later come to this very conclusion (see p. 152 below). 32  Text 16, b.

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created faith or whether humans choose it freely, the question now was whether faith was created or uncreated. It might have been uncreated because God, too, is called muʾmin in the Quran (sura 59:23). This is Ashʿarī’s argument against Ibn Ḥarb, which adopts a Ḥanbalite position. It is interesting that he counted Ibn Ḥarb among ‘our comrades’ (aṣḥābunā), like Muḥāsibī and Ibn Kullāb, not drawing a distinction between the Muʿtazila and its theological opponents. Cf. also p. 643f. below. Ibn Ḥarb would certainly have protested if he had been linked to the predestinarians because of his teachings, as he had a very low opinion of them: they are incapable of debating, and essentially they know that the Quran does not help them.33 Like Ibn Mubashshir he believed them to be worse than unbelievers due to their obduracy.34 He did not even agree with Shaḥḥām’s theory of the jihāt al-fiʿl; one ought to avoid every pretence that God might take on the action of a human.35 He probably regarded faith as created only in the sense that everything except for God is ultimately created, and thus finite.36 He was furthermore very careful not to extend this concept to include unbelief. God does not create unbelief, he ‘causes it to be’, and only in the sense that he ‘causes it to be the opposite of faith’. He does not effect the act of unbelief, but qualifies it as evil. From this point of view it is even possible to say that he wills unbelief: God declares certain actions to be contrary to faith, and thus causes them to be unbelief.37 When, as the Quran puts it, he seals the unbelievers’ hearts, he is not intervening in their actions either, but only delivers his judgment to the effect that they will not believe.38 Ibn Ḥarb probably made use of the circumstance that Arabic does not usually specifically mark the future tense. He could pretend that there were only past and non-past; the verdict could be valid under either aspect, the perfective and the imperfective, without necessarily being predetermining. Someone who was an unbeliever yesterday could not possibly have believed, and someone who is an unbeliever now cannot be a believer in

33  Text 15, a–b; also 14. 34  Mānkdīm, ShUKh 777, 12f.; regarding Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir see p. 70 above. 35  See p. 57 above; also Gimaret, Théories 182. 36  Cf. the context given in Ashʿarī. An anecdote on the subject, in which he was retrospectively substituted for Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, was probably also intended to show that he had not moved away from the general line (Text XVII 52, commentary). 37  Text 11. Regarding the background of this idea cf. vol. III 132 and 448 above; Ashʿarī later based his own report on it to a degree (Gimaret, Ashʿarī 206f.). 38  Text 13.

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any way. It is possible to wish him faith in the subjunctive: if he believed, this would be more beneficial to him.39 The question of whether God can act unjustly or lie is closely linked to this train of thought. Here, Ibn Ḥarb began with Murdār, adding a distinction of his own at the outset. Murdār had still answered the question, put in this way, in the affirmative, while Ibn Ḥarb believed that God could not act unjustly (yaẓlumu) but only effect injustice (yafʿalu l-ẓulm), or effect lies but not himself lie.40 Subsequently, based on this new formula, he engaged in deliberations like the ones Murdār had published under pressure from his critics: we know that God, in spite of being theoretically capable, would never de facto effect injustice, as he has provided proof.41 The proof is mainly found in his revelation; while the latter does not shackle his omnipotence, it gives us the guarantee (amān) that he will not do anything contrary to it.42 Ibn Ḥarb also had rational proof in mind; the order of the world allows us to infer the theodicy. While we can still imagine that God might effect injustice – after all, he is capable of it – we cannot imagine that he would do it in spite of the proof, as the two contradict one another and are thus impossible (muḥāl).43 God’s omnipotence remains superior, but if he really applied it in such a way that the result would be an injustice, the revelation would first have to be repealed (probably by means of abrogation),44 and the things in this world that enable us to draw rational conclusions would have to be constituted differently. They would not have to change their identity as God would not create a new world; but their structure would be different, i.e. they would present themselves to us in a different way with the result that we should infer different proof from the same things.45 Ibn Ḥarb’s concern that even harmful and dangerous animals should be rewarded if they have caused something beneficial shows how much he thought about the theodicy. They will receive compensation, not in the otherworld but rather in this world, or at the place where they await the Last Judgment. Afterwards they will go to hell, where they will not be 39  Text 12. 40  Text 10, a; and cf. Text XVIII 8, a. Baghdādī, Farq 188, 1ff./200, 11ff. simplifies Ibn Ḥarb’s position to resemble Murdār’s once again. 41  Cf. Text 10, c, with XVIII 8, d; also vol. III 152f. above. 42  Text XXI 78; cf. Text 10, b. 43  Text 10, e and i; cf. the definition of muḥāl in Text 27. Murdār had decided differently in this case (Text XVIII 8, e). 44  Text 10, k, and XXI 78. 45  Text 10, f–g.

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punished but be used as punishment for the damned. They will not feel pain in hell (Text 20). 4.2.2.2 His Pupil al-Iskāfī. Life and Works Ibn Ḥarb was influential beyond Baghdad. This explains Baghdādī’s writing a book against him as late as the early fifth century, probably in his time in Nishapur.1 In the capital itself, Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad2 al-Iskāfī followed in his footsteps, taking over the leadership of the school after his death.3 However, he outlived him by a few years only and died in 240/8544 of diarrhoea. He had deliberately chosen the wrong treatment because did not think much of medicine as a science.5 He probably was not a young man by that time any more, as his son Jaʿfar was already the head of a ministerial department (dīwān) under Muʿtaṣim.6 Iskāfī himself was greatly respected at court as well; the caliph valued his clarity of thought and often invited him to give lectures.7 He was believed to have considered employing him as a preacher and missionary against the ‘clients’ (mawālī), i.e. the Nābita;8 Iskāfī would have been entrusted with similar duties as Jāḥiẓ was by Ibn Abī Duwād. He wrote a refutation of the opponents of the khalq al-Qurʾān.9 A 1  Catalogue of Works, refutation e. Regarding Baghdādī cf. my article in: EIran III 409f. 2  Thus only according to Masʿūdī, Murūj VII 231, 6/V 21, 6f. The other components of the name are documented everywhere (cf. e.g. Fihrist 213, 12, after Kaʿbī). 3  I M 78, 15ff.; he is usually introduced as Ibn Ḥarb’s pupil (thus by Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 6f.; Baghdādī, Farq 155, 5/169, –4f.; Shahrastānī 19, 2f./31, 7f., and 49, 2f. corrupt/102, 8f.; Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal III 140, pu.). Shahrastānī’s counting him furthermore among the followers of Naẓẓām (Milal 41, 11/86, 1) is of no factual relevance. 4  Fihrist 213, 16f.; TB V 416, 17 > Samʿānī, Ansāb I 235, 2. Masʿūdī noted that he died in the same year as Ibn Ḥanbal (Murūj VII 321, 5f./V 21, 6f.). This would refer to the solar year, as the latter died in 241. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān I 181 n, 13f., inverts the figure: 204 instead of 240. For general information cf. also EI2 IV 126f., and GAS 1/619f. The poet of the same name mentioned by Ṣafadī, Wāfī III 336f. no. 1399, has no connection to our theologian; he was a contemporary of Thaʿālibī (cf. Tatimmat al-yatīma II 45f. no. 142. 5  After a report preserved by Ibn Hindū, Miftāḥ al-ṭibb 16, 3ff. If he, as we learn here, exacerbated the illness by taking laxatives, it must be remembered that this was a drastic cure considered – at least in literary fiction – as ultima ratio (cf. the story in Niẓāmī-i ʿArūżī, Chahār maqāla 80, –5ff.). 6  Fihrist 213, apu. ff.; cf. also Ṣafadī, Wāfī XI 129 no. 209. 7  Ibid. 213, 14ff.; abridged also IM 123, 9ff. 8  Fihrist, ibid.; cf. vol. III 507 above. 9  Catalogue of Works XXIX, no. 16; cf. also title no. 17.

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theologian acquainted with Jāḥiẓ, Abū ʿAffān al-Raqqī, debated with him in Ibn Abī Duwād’s salon; a summary of the results was preserved and circulated as a book.10 His output was impressive; he is said to have composed over 70 texts on questions of theology.11 The titles of 25 of these are extant.12 It seems that he was well-versed in hadith and in legal matters as well.13 It seems that theology was his second career. His parents had made him train as a tailor, not wishing their son to waste his time practising kalām; Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb, when he realised his gift, was only able to release him by paying his mother 20 dirham every month to compensate her for the loss of income.14 The family came from Samarqand,15 but appears to have settled in Iskāf Banī l-Junayd between Baghdad and Wāsiṭ, as that is the origin of the nisba.16 Jāḥiẓ was consequently able to call him a ‘peasant lad’ (ghulām sawādī); even among like-minded persons, the sawād was considered very much a backwater.17 At that time the two of them were for once not in complete agreement, as Iskāfī had refuted Jāḥiẓ’ K. al-ʿUthmāniyya point by point. He had accused him of fanaticism and stubbornness,18 at the same time criticising his style: Jāḥiẓ gave free rein to his rhetoric and thus lost touch with reality.19 His main concern, however, was once again defending the ‘Zaydite’ position his teacher had occupied. His argumentation was gradually approaching saturation, with broad reconstruction of historical processes and conscientious examination of hadiths in order to determine their authenticity. This probably explains why, unlike the two Jaʿfars, Iskāfī was so often copied in full and quoted verbatim. 10  Ibn al-Nadīm 220, ult.; regarding Abū ʿAffān see p. 135f. below. 11  This is, of course, a round number. It originates with Ibn Yazdād; cf. IM 78, 2 < Faḍl 285, 7f. (which has tisʿūn instead of sabʿūn) > Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB XVII 133, 3f. His great productivity was also emphasised in Fihrist (213, 13). 12  Cf. the Catalogue of Works. Text XXIX, 6 might indicate a publication against the Christians. 13  Catalogue of Works, no. 21 and 24. He was said to have rejected the conclusion by analogy, like the two Jaʿfars (Shawkānī, Irshād al-fuḥūl 175, 18f.). 14   Fihrist 213, 17ff., apparently after Khayyāṭ > Kaʿbī (cf. IM 78, 2ff.). It seems that by that time his father had already died. 15   Fihrist 213, 12. 16  Thus not derived from iskāf ‘cobbler’ – which, of course, Iskāfī was not. Cf. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān I 181 b s. v.; concerning the region see also Adams, Land behind Baghdad 95f. Consequently the theologian Ashkāb (?), whom we meet in Marv in Ma‌ʾmūn’s entourage (TB VI 73, –4), was certainly not identical with Iskāfī. 17  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 276, 6ff. > Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd XVII 133, 5ff. It may be possible to infer from Fihrist 230, 1 that he was a client (of the Banū Jusham); this was not, however, a blemish by that time any more, and Jāḥiẓ had the same status. 18   Naqḍ al-ʿUthmāniyya 302, –9f. Hārūn. 19  Ibid. 320. 5ff.

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Someone looking for information regarding complex issues such as the date of ʿAlī’s conversion compared to Abū Bakr’s,20 or for texts such as his inaugural speech after his accession to the caliphate,21 was in the right place here. In addition there was the fact that Iskāfī had dared defy the famous Jāḥiẓ. However, his Naqḍ al-ʿUthmāniyya was not the only one of his works in this area that people liked to consult: his K. al-maqāmāt fī tafḍīl ʿAlī. Regarding the content of the K. al-ʿUthmāniyya and its refutation cf. also Pellat in: Arabica 3/1956/312f., and BEO 30/1978/152f.; Zahniser in: MW 69/1979/8ff.; Nagel, Rechtleitung 453ff. Nagel correctly points out that one should not simply identify Jāḥiẓ with what he says in his text in the name of the ʿUthmāniyya. In fact, in the introduction to his K. al-ḥayawān he himself lamented this premature conclusion (I 11, –6ff.); after all, he had also written a K. al-radd ʿalā l-ʿUthmāniyya (Catalogue of Works XXX, no. 54). However, Nagel’s theory that Jāḥiẓ was fundamentally of the same opinion as Iskāfī, and that the latter only revised the treatise by adding the ‘Zaydite’ evidence, is hardly convincing. After all, Jāḥiẓ was a Basran. It was precisely where he professed the Muʿtazila most emphatically that he dismissed the Zaydiyya (Ḥayawān I 9, 7f.). It is noticeable that Ibn al-Nadīm did not mention the refutation of Jāḥiẓ in his section on Iskāfī. Even so, there is no reason to doubt the independent existence of the work. The alternative, i.e. that the extant fragments were part of a general text on the subject, e.g. the K. al-maqāmāt, seems hardly likely; they refer too closely to Jāḥiẓ’ deliberations, which Iskāfī surely quoted at the same time. While Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, to whom we owe the excerpts, sometimes expresses himself rather vaguely concerning their origin (e.g. ShNB VII 35, ult. f.), in one place at least (XIII 215, pu.) he explicitly names the title of the book. Perhaps the Teheran MS noted by Sezgin, GAS 1/620, can clarify matters although, as I found during a brief perusal, it does not contain the entire text, either, but rather an abridged version which contrasts Jāḥiẓ’ and Iskāfī’s arguments. Before looking at it as an independent textual witness we must discover whether it is not simply dependent on Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd. The collection of fragments compiled by Sandūbī, and after him ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn, after Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd is not entirely complete; the same is true of the information on K. al-maqāmāt in GAS 1/620 (cf. the Catalogue of Works, no. 19 and 23). A third text, entitled Faḍāʾil 20  Ibid. 286ff. and 298ff. 21  Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd VII 36, 11ff.; also after him but entirely differently Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XX 2 66, 16ff.

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ʿAlī (no. 20), named by Ibn al-Nadīm besides K. al-maqāmāt, is as yet difficult to distinguish from the latter which is apparently sometimes cited as K. tafḍīl ʿAlī. Some quotations tell us nothing about their origin, thus Mughnī XX 2 63, 6ff. (cf. Gimaret Ashʿarī 564) and 107, 8ff., as well as the doxographical reports ibid. 73, 15ff., and 114, 10f. with 15f. Texts XXVII 19–21 and XVIII 13, g, include remarks on Iskāfī’s opinion of the first caliphs. Regarding his significance as an author on this field cf. Intiṣār 76, 1f.; Masʿūdī, Murūj VI 58, 1ff./IV 77 § 2282 Pellat; Mughnī XX 2 122, 3; Abū Ṭālib al-Nāṭiq bil-ḥaqq, Diʿāma 220, 1. – His son also composed a K. al-miʿyār wal-muwāzana fī l-imāma or fī tafḍīl ʿAlī ʿalā Abū Bakr, which was considered exemplary until the time of Abū Ḥayyān alTawḥīdī (Imtāʿ I 58, 10). It is extant and has been edited by Muḥammad Bāqir al-Maḥmūdī (Beirut 1402/1981). In this case, too, the authorship is worth examining. It is supported by Ibn al-Nadīm who devotes a separate entry to Abū l-Qāsim Jaʿfar al-Iskāfī after his father, and mentions this book in particular (Fihrist 213, pu. f.). On the other hand, Tawḥīdī and other sources (e.g. Ibn Shahrāshūb, Maʿālim al-ʿulamāʾ no. 1012, and Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Ṭabaqāt al-Muʿtazila 84, 15f.) as well as two of the three manuscripts known so far simply name ‘al-Iskāfī’ as the author. This is not surprising; what is important, however, is that the third manuscript explicitly attributes the text to the father directly on the title page, emphasising that it was also known under the title K. al-maqāmāt walshawāhid. This title is linked to no. 19 in the Catalogue of Works. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-Ṭabāṭabāʾī consequently decided in favour of the father (in: Turāthunā 5/1410, issue 3/87ff.). The text will have to be compared to the two fragments discussed above. The son was successful in Khorasan; in Baghdad, people had not liked his style, but in Iran, he became famous for it. Tawḥīdī preserved a number of aphorisms from him (Baṣāʾir 2VI 170f. no. 513; cf. 171, –4ff.). Perhaps he found in his new sphere that there was a need for a new edition of his father’s deliberations. When Iskāfī agreed to hold a disputation with Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī al-Karābīsī, this may have been about the same subject,22 as the latter was reputed to be an opponent of the Shīʿites, and in fact of all those who supported the ahl al-bayt.23 However, he was a protagonist of the ‘Nābita’ at the same time; it was possible to argue on other matters with him as well.24 When debating with Shakkāk, 22   T B V 416, 16f. > Samʿānī I 235, 1f.; also Yāqūt, Buldān I 181 b, 12f. 23  Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd IV 65, 1f. 24  Especially concerning the lafẓ al-Qurʾān (see p. 241 below). Regarding him in detail see p. 238ff. below.

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Hishām b. al-Ḥakam’s pupil, the subject would most certainly not have been ʿAlī, but rather a theological question.25 He did not conceal his disagreement with the ‘Rāfiḍites’, emphasising instead that he accepted the infallibility of the companions of the prophet, including even ʿUmar or Zubayr. It is interesting that rather than Rāfiḍa he used the term Imāmiyya;26 it seems that the term had just then taken hold.27 Iskāfī probably used it in order to calm the tension; after all, once the mahdī has arrived, inner-Shīʿite dogmatic differences should have no relevance any more. ‘If this event comes to pass’, he had said to Murādī, ‘we will write upon our banners: There is no God but God; Muḥammad is the messenger of God, and the Quran is the word of God. By means of this we want to ensure concord and harmony, leaving disagreement and division behind us’. In that case he would not even have insisted on the khalq al-Qurʾān.28 4.2.2.2.1 Iskāfī’s Theological Views While Iskāfī can be seen as a perfecter of the Baghdad school’s political theory, when it came to theology he was someone who thought the details through, uncovering additional aspects – a most meticulous mind. Some questions of the doctrine of the attributes that Ashʿarī included in the systematic part of his Maqālāt were initiated by Iskāfī. Ashʿarī’s version conceals this by often contrasting Iskāfī with the entire Muʿtazila, but this really only tells us that his ideas would not be adopted later. Furthermore, closer scrutiny confirms that much would, after all, become common property of the Baghdad school. In some cases, one might also discover ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān’s influence. This would not be remarkable considering ʿAbbād’s pre-eminent position in this field, although Iskāfī’s early death leads to the question of whether the relation should not be inverted? Unfortunately we do not know the frame of reference based on which Iskāfī formulated his theory of the attributes. His being willing, like ʿAbbād, to call God mukallim but not mutakallim,1 or his opinion, as attributed to him by Shahrastānī, that one must not say that God had been speaking (qāʾil) for all eternity, but not that he had not been speaking for all eternity,2 may have had other reasons. We can see that, like ʿAbbād – and unlike, for instance, Naẓẓām – 25  See vol. I 460 above after Intiṣār 103, –4ff. 26   Naqḍ al-ʿUthmāniyya 318, –8ff. Hārūn; cf. also 340, –8f. 27  Regarding an earlier, divergent usage of the term see vol. II 537ff. above. 28  Cf. Madelung in: Festschrift Löfgren 43. 1   Cf. Text XXV 44–45 with commentary on 44. 2   Text XXV 40 with commentary (after Shahrastānī 51, 6f./111, 4f.).

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he felt free to derive names of God independent of the Quran. Thus he also believed that God was perceiving (mudrik) since the beginning of time, as he was also seeing and hearing since the beginning of time.3 This was determined by the Quran, but generated difficulties because seeing and hearing as such were actions. Early Muʿtazilites had, in fact, noticed this,4 but Iskāfī appears to have been the first to rephrase the question to focus on whether one could interpret the samīʿun baṣīr of scripture as sāmiʿ mubṣir. Jubbāʾī would later answer this in the negative;5 Iskāfī, on the other hand, thought it possible as long as sāmiʿ mubṣir was interpreted figuratively as in, God had knowledge of everything and nothing was hidden from him.6 This state could easily be expressed by the predicate mudrik ‘perceiving’. Kaʿbī, too, would later regard perceiving like hearing and seeing as one aspect only of divine knowledge; to the Basrans, on the other hand, idrāk was a separate attribute (cf. Madelung in: Actas del XII Congreso UEAI Malaga, p. 490). Explanations are provided by Sharīf al-Murtaḍā (Rasāʾil I 359ff.), Yūsuf al-Bāṣir (Muḥtawī, transl. Vajda 72ff.), and especially Malāḥimī (Muʿtamad 212, 14ff.). An in-depth assessment based on a late Muʿtazilite text may be found in Elshahed, Das Problem der transzendenten sinnlichen Wahrnehmung, esp. p. 73ff. (Madelung pointed out in: BSOAS 48/1985/128f. that ‘sinnlich’ (sensory) does not really belong in this title). In the Sālimiyya, which emerged in Basra as well, but did not have much in common with the Muʿtazila, the idrāk evolved to become a kind of super-attribute (cf. Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 217, 15ff.; also Böwering, Mystical Vision 94 no. 2). Ibn Kullāb appears to have rejected the idea (see p. 216f. below). The introduction of new names of God was linked to the attempt, as it had been in ʿAbbād’s case, at stricter definitions for the older names in order to eliminate all equivocation. If one says that God has continued existence it means something else than if one says it of earthly things, namely that he is eternal;7 if one

3  Text XXIX 8. 4  See vol. III 273f. above regarding Abū l-Hudhayl. 5  Maq. 175, 13ff. 6  Text 7. Sentence b is also found, anonymously, in Maq. 506, 3ff., but it would appear to refer to the entire Baghdad school in that context. 7  Text 4. Regarding the definition of ‘existence, duration’ in the case of earthly things cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 177.

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calls him ‘living’, it means that he has the capacity to act.8 ‘Noble’ (karīm) may have two meanings: magnanimous in his actions, or august in his essence.9 Only God is eternal; unlike Muʿammar, Iskāfī does not seem to have spent any time discussing that the word qadīm might also mean ‘old’.10 ‘Creator’, too, can be predicated of God only. Like ʿAbbād, Iskāfī reached the conclusion that ‘to create’ cannot be the same as simply ‘to make’; rather, it means ‘to act without having the need for a dedicated organ or instrument’, i.e. to act from one’s own essence.11 A human cannot do this, as he requires his body in order to act. His actions, as these circles would have put it, are dependent on a power he was endowed with (bi-quwwa mukhtaraʿa).12 This circumstance would soon be denoted by the term kasb.13 A similar distinction has to be made in the case of God’s speech. It has permanence, but human speech does not.14 This does not mean God’s speech had eternal duration; after all, God may be called mukallim only. However, if once it does exist, it does not fade like human words. Rather, it can be repeated at will and is thus found in many places at once, wherever humans think or recite it, or write it down.15 Ashʿarī clearly shows the contrast between this theory and that of Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb, Iskāfī’s teacher, who believed this repeatability to be impossible.16 In his version it seems as if Iskāfī went back to Abū l-Hudhayl via Ibn Ḥarb, and Ibn Mubashshir.17 However, if we introduce the concept of ‘reproduction’ (ḥikāya), with which he was surely familiar, the difference between him and the Baghdad tradition thought up by the Jaʿfarān

8   Text 9; thus also ʿAbbād (Text XXV 47, a). The anonymous account Maq. 506, 3, probably refers to the entire Baghdad school once again. 9   Text 11 with a philological explanation. Regarding ʿĪsā al-Ṣūfī’s adopting the question cf. Text XVIII 20 and p. 101 below. It is perhaps not insignificant that in Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm’s view noble-mindedness (karam) and magnanimousness ( jūd) – which the two passages mentioned see as identical – are attributes of essence; this may well be due to Christian influence (cf. Madelung in: Aram 3/1991/40). 10  Text 5. Regarding Muʿammar see vol. III 90 above. 11  Text 10. 12  Cf. Maq. 195, 7ff., where Iskāfī’s theory is repeated anonymously, presumably for parts of the Baghdad school. 13   Maq. 542, 1ff., anonymous once again. Regarding the greater context cf. Gimaret, Théories 8 and 72f. Iskāfī admitted that humans did not have to perform actions with the specific organ: a hand can perceive something just like the eye would, etc. (Text 26). We do not, unfortunately, learn how he imagined this. 14  Text 14. 15  Text 12–13. 16  Cf. Text 12 and Maq. 192, 8f.; also Text XXVII 5, b, and 6, f. Also p. 69 above. 17  Cf. Text XXI 113, b–c, and 114.

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is not all that great.18 What separates him from Abū l-Hudhayl, on the other hand, is that the latter claimed that human speech, too, might be found in many places at any one time, and was thus repeatable.19 He probably did not use the term ḥikāya, as we can infer from Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī’s linking him with Jubbāʾī who rejected the idea that God’s speech was repeatable.20 According to Nasafī they both assumed that that which someone recited on earth was God’s speech and action itself21 – albeit not his permanent speech, as the Ḥanbalites believed. This action of God as realised within time may be reiterated again and again; not, however, because it is repeatable but because it occurs only ever indirectly, ‘due to a cause’ such as recitation etc.22 It seems that within the Muʿtazila this was mainly a quarrel over semantics,23 but one with ramifications, as it ran parallel to a discussion that took place mainly in Ḥanbalite circles and had been initiated by the very Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī al-Karābīsī with whom Iskāfī, as we saw above, debated: whether, if the Quran was not created, at least its recitation was?24 This was not, in fact, any of Iskāfī’s business, as he considered the Quran to have been created in any case, but ultimately it converged with what he stood for: in both cases the articulation (lafẓ) of the Quran was the created realisation of divine speech. Consequently he had to state his opinion, and he once again focussed on the term: one may recite the Quran, but one cannot articulate it, for if one were to articulate it, one would be speaking, and speaking is speech – the Quran, however, is speech only in that it is God’s speech. This is how I should like to classify the two isolated and not entirely clear texts 15 and 16. We must bear in mind that ‘recitation’ is only ‘reading’ (qirāʾa), after all, the reproduction of previously composed speech. It seems that in his view lafẓ expressed more, an independent combining of words. If Text 15, a, conveys the impression that other Muʿtazilites approved of equating qirāʾa and lafẓ, this may be once again one of those cases in which Ashʿarī constructed an opposing opinion (see p. 92 above). – Text 17 is also part of this subject, at least marginally. The rather simple

18  Text XXVII 6, a, names him in this context together with them. Cf. p. 69 above. 19  Text XXI 113, e, and 114, h; also vol. III 283. 20   Maq. 599, 7ff. 21   Tabṣirat al-adilla I 286, 9f., and 288, 5ff.; cf. also 260, 12ff., and earlier. 22  Ibid. 288, ult. ff. 23  Text XXVII 6 does not link Iskāfī with Jubbāʾī in this issue, but rather with the two Jaʿfars; the term ḥikāya, however, does not appear. 24  See p. 241 and 686 below.

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definition of muḥkam and mutashābih presented by Iskāfī was adopted by Ashʿarī (cf. Gimaret, La doctrine d’al-Ashʿarī 521). As for the second great field of problems concerning the image of God, namely theodicy, Iskāfī followed in the footsteps of his Baghdad predecessors. We have seen how Ibn Ḥarb, following Murdār, spoke of evidence to show us that God was able to do wrong but would never put it into practice.25 Iskāfī streamlined the train of thought further; the proof that God will not do wrong is found within human reason, as that which is good is good for its own sake,26 and God has granted humans reason for them to recognise this. Thus he also knows that God will do what is good because it is good, and that he will not do wrong; God would have to suspend reason before doing wrong.27 Ibn Ḥarb was believed to have found this reinterpretation of his argument astonishing: it now looked as though humans whose intelligence was weak, such as mentally ill people, but also children, were not safe from God’s injustice.28 It is possible that this reaction was ascribed to him retrospectively; there is no certain proof of the objection before Ibn al-Rēwandī.29 Iskāfī composed a treatise on the suffering of children; the title – which is all that is extant – leads us to assume that he did not agree with Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s solution.30 His actual excuse for God, however, can only be guessed at. Like Ibn Ḥarb he employed the concept of compensation.31 Where he evolved his own new ideas, these would be recalled more clearly. He is said to have insisted that God had not share in the manufacture of musical instruments:32 these serve forbidden amusements and are made by humans only. If God curses the unbelievers, he is not wishing them ill; on the contrary, the curse is beneficial because it may inspire them to repent. And unbelief is certainly not determined by it; after all, they could repent and mend their ways at any time.33 Even the punishment awaiting them in the afterlife is, seen under this aspect, pure mercy, for as it is prophesied in this world, it has a deterrent 25  See p. 87 above. 26  Text 23. 27  Text 19, b–g; also Text 18. 28  Text 20. 29  Text 19, a. Classified differently by Daiber, Muʿammar 262f. – Regarding this issue cf. also Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir 2IV 80 no. 244. 30  Catalogue of Works no. 15. 31  Text XXVIII 20. 32  Text 22. 33  Text 21. The curse is only ever valid at the moment when they are exhibiting unbelief; only then are they indeed incapable of faith (Text XXVIII 12). Opinions on the problem see p. 33 (ʿAbbād) and vol. III 136 above (Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir; cf. Text XVII 44).

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effect.34 The stay of punishment they are granted according to sura 3:178 serves the same purpose – with the small catch that this passage did not actually say it. On the contrary, it tells us that the unbelievers must on no account think that the stay of punishment is beneficial for them: it is given so they can sink even deeper into sin. Only brute exegetic force could come up with a solution; Iskāfī turned the verse on its head by means of ὕστερον πρότερον.35 After this there can be no doubt that Iskāfī did not question humans’ freedom of decision, but then that was a matter of course. Only a few idiosyncrasies were noted. We can limit ourselves to two issues. The first concerns the theory of the capacity to act; the new idea was probably included in the K. al-badal Ibn al-Nadīm mentions as one of Iskāfī’s books.36 Before one performs an action, one has the alternative capacity (ʿalā l-badal) to perform either it or the opposite. Once one has performed the action, it cannot be said that one has the capacity, as one has already performed it. The question is whether one still has the capacity to perform the opposite. It was usually answered in the negative: the decision included pro and contra. Iskāfī was the only one to diverge: the capacity to act continues to exist with regard to the opposite.37 Someone who is sitting also has the capacity to stand up – to us, this is a matter of course, but within the framework of the categories used at the time it posed difficulties. If an atomist concept of time was employed, the result was that someone could be sitting and standing at the same time. This is how I should like to classify Text 25. The example itself was taken from Aristotle, De caelo I 12. 231 b 12ff., where it was described not only as wrong but also as impossible. According to Plac. phil. I 7.3, not even God is capable of it (Ar. transl. 117 Daiber); in this form the sentence receives a critical commentary from the Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾ (Rasāʾil III 358, 6). Cf. also Text XXII 51, u. This asserted at the same time that the capacity to act continues to exist during the action. In the Baghdad school this was nothing new; Ibn Ḥarb had already shared this view, distancing himself from Abū l-Hudhayl, as his pupil

34  Ibid. 35  Sharīf al-Raḍī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-ta‌ʾwīl 288, 8, and earlier; the philologist al-Akhfash, presumably the younger (d. 315/927), followed this path. Regarding this subject cf. furthermore Ibn Khallāl, Al-radd ʿalā l-Jabriyya al-Qadariyya 73, apu. ff. 36  Catalogue of Works no. 14. 37  Text 24, which does not, however, use the term badal.

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would later.38 However, it was asserted only with regard to primary actions, while people agreed with Abū l-Hudhayl when it came to mutawallidāt: the latter take place without the responsible human’s capacity to act still being involved.39 This distinction suggested itself; after all, mutawallidāt were events and only became actions thanks to the theory linked to them. Iskāfī may have responded more closely to Abū l-Hudhayl than his teacher, as it was transmitted of him as well as Abū l-Hudhayl that he admitted the possibility that God used the distance between the causative action and the event caused to interrupt the entire process. This is why it may happen that someone puts a light to firewood without it catching fire.40 Iskāfī realised that there were consequences for the definition of mutawallidāt. As a result this was the second issue on which his views were recorded. ‘Generated’ actions, he said, are those one did not intend;41 if the capacity to perform them has passed by the time of the event, one has no control over the latter. One is not, however, necessarily free from all responsibility for it; but the question was now asked in a more pointed form. Ibn Ḥarb had already explored scenarios where some of the processes caused by someone’s action would be intended and others would not.42 It became even more complex when two agents were involved: such as when one person attempts to kill another one with an arrow, but the other one shields himself with a hostage, possibly a child, who is then killed. Iskāfī’s view was that there were two responsibilities: the archer was responsible for loosing the arrow, and the opponent was responsible for the death of the hostage. What matters is the intention. Of course, this means that if the hostage was in the line of the arrow the responsibility is the archer’s, as he clearly allowed for his or her death.43 The new definition had the further consequence that many processes previously covered by the tawallud model were now included in the reach of immediate actions: if someone causes another person pain through a blow, this pain was now not ‘generated’ any more as it was intended. Iskāfī regarded it as ‘caused’, in the first stages of employing terminology more closely related 38  Cf. Text 27, a, and XXVIII 23, a–b; also p. 85 above. Concerning the connection with Abū l-Hudhayl cf. Text 27, a and d, and XXI 77, b–c, and 128. Iskāfī agreed with ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān on the view that everything living possesses the capacity to act (cf. Text 27, e, and XXV 78, a). 39  Text 27, b; also XXVIII 23, c. 40  Cf. Text 27, c. and XXI 77, a. Similar claims are made about ‘some people from Baghdad’, such as Khayyāṭ, in Maq. 314, 3ff. 41  Text 28. 42  Text XXVIII 25. 43  Text 29. At 29, d, Iskāfī cites the example given by Ibn Ḥarb in XXVIII 25, and modifies the answer.

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to that of ancient philosophy, and also more familiar to us. At the time it was traditionally linked to the question of to what degree the causal nexus was inevitable, for if it was, it would be difficult to explain why God can interrupt it. Iskāfī thus tried to differentiate: causes leading to a free decision do not have inevitable effect; furthermore they are not concomitant to the effect but precede it. The capacity to act, for instance, is the cause of an action, but it does not determine it. Iskāfī did not yet distinguish between cause and condition.44 The question of the relation between an act of will and the intended action had a slightly different angle; it presumed that the action would then be a free decision. Consequently the act of will would immediately precede it. Iskāfī, however, believed that they might occur at the same time, such as in the case of an intentio (nīya) accompanying actions relevant to worship and faith. In the same way it was possible that the realisation of the intention might not follow immediately (Text 31–32). – The only transmitted title that would fit all these deliberations is K. al-badal, but it is possible that some ideas evolved in debates with Ḍirārites such as Najjār or Burghūth; Iskāfī also wrote a K. ʿalā Ḥusayn (al-Najjār) fī l-istiṭāʿa (Catalogue of Works no. 8; cf. also no. 7 and 9–11). Furthermore Abū ʿAffān al-Raqqī wrote a book against him on the subject of tawallud (Catalogue of Works, refutation a1; regarding him see p. 135f. below). When it came to ontology, Iskāfī probably took a significant step. He is said to have concluded that, if the body is defined as that which is combined, two atoms would suffice to constitute a body. Later, among the Ashʿarites such as Bāqillānī or Juwaynī, this would become the predominant opinion.45 We cannot, however, be certain whether Ashʿarī, who discovered this doctrine without an author in one of his sources, was right to attribute it, albeit cautiously, to Iskāfī.46 This view has some similarities with Ṣāliḥ Qubba’s, and we do not know where the dividing lines were, and who had priority.47 What is clear is that like him – and also like ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, in fact – Iskāfī did not think in terms of geometrical models. For Abū l-Hudhayl or Muʿammar, two atoms would have been enough to build one dimension, length, only. Iskāfī, on the other hand, regarded length as an accident inherent to an atom, but only once, 44  Text 40. 45  Cf. Frank in: Festschrift Hourani 47f. To the sources listed we can add Shīrāzī, ʿAqīdat alsalaf 63, –8f., and Mutawallī, Mughnī 1, pu. 46  Text XXIII 7, a–d. He shared this opinion, too (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 68); this is the origin of the tradition of the school. 47  See vol. III 461 above.

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not multiple times. This means that it cannot effect physicality, but also that it is not generated in combination only. Other accidents, such as colour, could inhere in an atom in multiples; after all, some colours, as Naẓẓām demonstrated, only come into being through mixture.48 Interestingly, Iskāfī was closer to Naẓẓām in the question of kumūn than other atomists. While the latter accepted it only where they had the proof of their own eyes, as in the case of the oil hidden within the olive, he admitted it even where it must be inferred – thus when fire is said to be hidden within wood.49

48  Text 1; also vol. III 385 above. 49  Text 2; also Text XXII 48.

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Later Representatives of the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila Iskāfī had a rival in Baghdad, Abū Mūsā ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham al-Ṣūfī.1

He had committed the imprudence of publishing a verse presenting himself as the single candidate for Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’s succession upon the latter’s death. He died a few years after Iskāfī, in 245/859,2 but he does not seem to have succeeded in outshining him either during his lifetime or after his death. He studied under Abū l-Hudhayl3 and later became a follower of Ibn Ḥarb,4 but he appears to have been less productive as well as less original than Iskāfī.5 The few theories transmitted from him seem to provide a background before which Iskāfī’s position appears much more clear-cut. Iskāfī had tried to prove that when said of God, karīm ‘noble’ could denote an attribute of essence as well as of act; ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham persisted in the more established view that it was an attribute of act only. He evaded the criticism that in that case God must be regarded as ignoble before the act of creation with the unconvincing remark that this conclusion would not be drawn of other attributes of act, either.6 By saying that these negations were disparaging and not suitable for God he repeated one of Murdār’s arguments.7 Iskāfī had taught that the two atoms that might form a body could not each be a body separately; ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham said that as soon as they combined they were each a body, even though this was not possible when they were separate.8 Regarding the question of whether an act of will generates that which is intended immediately and inevitably he embraced the view that had been widely held since Muʿammar’s day;9 Iskāfī, as we have seen, introduced a distinction here.10 1    Faḍl 286, 8ff. > IM 78, 15ff. (with better text). References for the text that was not his may be found in the apparatus on Faḍl (n. 570) and IM (79, n. 1; with additions by Fück in OLZ 59/1964/374). 2   Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 216, 5f. > Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān IV 408 no. 1248. 3    Faḍl 286, 8. 4   Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 6f.; Faḍl 286, 11f. > IM 79, 2f.; Shahrastānī 49, 2f./103, 6. 5   Ibn al-Nadīm has a gap in the place where his books were meant to be. This does not usually happen in the case of a well-known and prolific author. Dhahabī, who bases Siyar X 552 on Ibn al-Nadīm, does not list any titles, either. 6   Cf. Text XVIII 20 and XXIX 11. 7   See vol. III 153 above. He met Murdār in person (Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 7). 8   Cf. Text XVIII 19 and XXIII 6, b. However, this was the very variant adopted by Bāqillānī or Juwaynī (see p. 99, n. 45, above; also Daiber, Muʿammar 334, n. 1). 9   Text XVI 52. 10  See p. 99 above.

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The reason why he was unable to gather the school behind him even after Iskāfī’s death was presumably that – at least in the opinion of later observers – he became ‘funny in the head’ or ‘spread confusion’ (khallaṭa), i.e. taught unsuitable ideas.11 Ashʿarī did not preserve any of this; everything we have reported so far was perfectly acceptable and probably originated in the time before he changed. It is not easy to determine what caused this change, although it is tempting to look to ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham’s sobriquet – he probably was one of the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila. In that case it is possible that he considered trade and acquisitions to be ungodly occupations, and regarded the Islamic ecumene as a realm of sin.12 However, this was nothing new. Could the school’s overall attitude have become radicalised? Ibn al-Rēwandī accused the ‘ascetics (among the Muʿtazilites) of Baghdad these days’ of believing that God would send an unbelieving and sinful prophet.13 He was probably referring to simple people influenced by the ideas of Murdār and Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir. They believed – entirely consistently, considering their pessimistic view of society – that the entire community might sink into unbelief; Naẓẓām had put in some theoretical groundwork here.14 From a historical point of view their remarks on the prophet were comparatively harmless: before being called, Muḥammad was a heathen like all other Meccans were, too;15 clearly he did not ‘earn’ his calling as ʿAbbād appears to have believed,16 but was chosen. This was an ancient belief17 which was slowly being superseded. We must bear in mind that Ibn alRēwandī also embraced it, and employed it in polemic;18 in this way it became discredited in Iraq. ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham was Ibn al-Rēwandī’s teacher.19 Was this by any chance the reason why he ‘spread confusion’? We shall see more clearly when we include someone else in this picture, a man whom Khayyāṭ regarded as Ibn al-Rēwandī’s teacher as well, and who came from the same circles:20

11  Thus Ibn al-Nadīm 216, 5. Khallaṭa/takhlīṭ meaning ‘to spread false doctrine’ also in Ṭūsī, Fihrist 295, 5f.; 299, 6.; 303, 4 etc.; cf. also vol. II 4f. and 67 above. Similar ikhtilāṭ = ‘delirium’ in Ullmann, Rufus von Ephesus 122. 12  Cf. vol. III 143f. and p. 66 above. 13  Text XVIII 21, a. 14  Ibid., g. Regarding Naẓẓām see vol. III 417ff. above. 15  Concerning Muḥammad’s heathenism before his mission cf. the traditions in Text XXII 254: 9, d–f. Burghūth also believed this (see p. 187 below). More detail p. 664f. below. 16  See p. 46 above. 17  Cf. vol. III 286 above and p. 669f. below. 18  See p. 384 below. 19   Fihrist 216, 5. 20   Intiṣār 73, 10f., and 103, ult. f.; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 129, –7.

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Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar b. Ziyād al-Ḥaddād.21 The Muʿtazila regarded him as a complete outsider. Ibn al-Nadīm counted him among the ‘party of the innovators’ (bidʿiyya),22 while Kaʿbī and Qāḍī ʿAbd alJabbār did not mention him at all. He is not connected with the Khorasanian mystic Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād, although he probably was a Sufi too, as the latter’s name was ʿAmr b. Sālim or something similar.23 He was a Shīʿite, but not of the ‘Zaydite’ persuasion like Iskāfī. Kashshī knows him as the transmitter of Yūnus b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Qummī,24 and Khayyāṭ even thought him capable of believing two eternal principles in this context.25 As the Imāmite rijāl works do not mention him it is tempting to regard him as one of the ancient Ismāʿīlites who saw the world grow out of the primeval pair of Kūnī and qadar.26 We know nothing about the date of his death. Perhaps he was slightly younger than ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham. In his K. tathbīt dalāʾil al-nubuwwa, the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār thrashed him with some dedication, telling us that he adopted the false doctrine of Abū Shākir al-Dayṣānī,27 and that he reviled Abū Bakr and ʿUmar.28 Even more, that he even disparaged the prophet and claimed that Muḥammad was a liar and deceiver. The Quraysh, being stupid people, fell for it; only his companions noticed the deception but covered it up out of love for him.29 All this remains rather vague; it seems to have been directed at the truth of some traditions in the Sīra.30 The qāḍī exaggerates out of all proportion, and attacks several wrongdoers each time, one of whom was Ibn al-Rēwandī in a number of 21  The sources usually call him Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād; the full name is recorded in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 232, 2. 22   Fihrist 216, 2. 23  Qushayrī, Risāla, transl. Gramlich 60. The explanation of the other versions of the name transmitted: Salama, Muslim, Maslama etc. might be that people could not interpret a corrupt spelling of Sālim. Regarding him cf. J. Chabbi in: EIran I 293f.; also Meier, Abū Saʿīd, Index s. n., and Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums II 113ff. Nyberg, Intiṣār, n. 86, and ʿAbbās Iqbāl, Khānadān-i Nawbakhtī 83, still believed the mystic and the Muʿtazilite to be one and the same. Different in GIE V 371f. 24   Rijāl 258ff. no. 477. Regarding Yūnus b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān see vol. I 454ff. above. 25   Intiṣār 108, 12f., and 110, 6. 26  Cf. Halm, Kosmogonie und Heilslehre 53ff. – Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, on the other hand, claimed not to know whether Abū Ḥafṣ had ever been a Shīʿite (Shāfī 13, 14ff.). Daylamī quoted him without reservations (Text XVIII 23). 27  P. 371, 7ff. 28  Ibid. and 232, 2ff. 29  P. 51, 1ff., and 128, 5ff. 30  This can only be inferred from the context; cf. e.g. p. 508, –6ff. or 51, 12ff. (in the context of an account of the prophet’s nocturnal journey).

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cases.31 He is not, however, able to conceal the fact – and it seems that he was not even trying – that these theologians were most successful among the Shīʿites. At first their books would be circulated in secret, but soon they were sold publicly in the market, and everyone spoke about them.32 In another passage he reveals that their intention was ultimately another one: prophethood, in their opinion, had a rational explanation: humanity is in need of wise leaders to teach them to distinguish between beneficial and harmful substances (‘nourishment and poison’).33 This is, in fact, not particularly heretical. Even so it seems that a section of the Baghdad Muʿtazila moved further to the left within the Shīʿa, possibly even joining groups beyond the Imāmiyya, where ʿAlī was revered above Muḥammad. Abū Ḥafṣ may have lived to see the beginnings of the ghayba, but the ghulāt had already become popular earlier.34 We are not able to present this hypothesis any more concretely. However, Muḥammad’s worldliness had been criticised before by Sufis who may have been close to the Shīʿa; we find them in the circle around Faḍl al-Ḥadathī.35 Even at the time this attitude was not unique: Bishr al-Marīsī had made similar remarks without anyone taking particular notice of them.36 It was said of ʿAmr al-Māzulī, a Karrāmite of the fourth/tenth century,37 that he regarded Ibn Karrām as more worthy of prophethood than Muḥammad because the former did not wage wars and led a more ascetic life.38 Some reports may simply be part of the chapter of the mathālib al-ʿArab; ʿAllān al-Shuʿūbī’s39 writings on this subject led to him being accused of discrediting the prophet.40 In our present context it is useful to add another theologian who was also included in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s abovementioned criticism, and whom he mentioned together with Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād every time: Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlī al-Baṣrī al-Ḥaḍrī (?). 31  Regarding arguments Ibn al-Rēwandī revived see p. 384 below. 32  Ibid. 52, 2f., and 129, –6ff. (transl. Monnot, Penseurs 62f.); 374, 4ff. 33   Mughnī XX 1 35, 16ff., and 37, 15ff. The argument would play a central part with Ibn alRēwandī later (see p. 362f. below), but is linked to Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād here. 34  Cf. Halm, Islamische Gnosis 276ff., and vol. III 104f. above. 35  See vol. III 474 above. 36  Ibid. 193. 37  Cf. my Ungenützte Texte 28f. 38  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 65, ult. ff. 39  Regarding him see vol. III 215, n. 6, above. 40  Leder, Das Korpus al-Haiṯam b. ʿAdī 225ff. The ideas mentioned are also, of course, fundamentally related to the argument of Christian polemic that Islam owed its success to violence only (see p. 708 below). Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī saw a connection with the mulḥidūn (Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 90, 10); regarding Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ (?) see vol. II 34 above.

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He, too, ‘caused confusion’, as Ibn al-Nadīm tells us, and he, too, was a Sufi.41 The nisba might indicate that he came from Hatra; in that case it would be less surprising that he was a Shīʿite but spent time in Basra all the same. However, the nisba is not assured; this form is only found in one place in Fihrist, the variant al-Ḥuṣrī is found frequently,42 and there are also al-Ḥaṣīrī43 and even al-Ḥaḍramī.44 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār mentions the complete name twice.45 This author’s approach is ambivalent. As we have seen, he reviles him thoroughly, but he also draws on him as a source, as Abū Saʿīd was a heresiographer, among other things. He had written about the system of the Manichaeans, and Nawbakhtī had preserved some information from him.46 He ought to have been taken seriously as a theologian as well. The five titles Ibn al-Nadīm lists under his name would have been a credit to any Muʿtazilite. His writing on the Faḍāʾil ʿAlī connected him to Iskāfī.47 In a discussion he conducted with his colleague Ṣāliḥī, and which Ibn al-Rēwandī finally decided in his favour, he was not presented as an evil presence, either.48 Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī called him ‘one of the cleverest theologians in Baghdad’,49 and Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād kept his books in his library.50 His dates can be inferred from the discussion with Ṣāliḥī at which several other Muʿtazilites were present, and from his connection with Nawbakhtī, who wrote between 266 and 297. Consequently he is unlikely to be identical with the traditionist Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlī b. Zakariyyāʾ al-ʿAdawī al-Baṣrī who died in 319/931 (TB VII 381, 3ff.; Mīzān no. 1904). In any case, our theologian had not much of an interest in hadith; consequently it is of no importance that the traditionist was a Shīʿite (Aʿyān al-Shīʿa XXII 351ff.). The Manichaean Abū Saʿīd, whom Vajda and subsequently Monnot (Penseurs 61f.) brought into play, is also not relevant here. With regard to Tawḥīdī we must bear in mind that in his books he sometimes mentions a contemporary named Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥasṣīrī 41   Fihrist 215, pu. 42  Thus throughout in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Tathbīt, loc. cit.; Mughnī V 19, 1). Monnot, Penseurs 61f. has the same reading. 43  Thus Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn 183, 2, and Hawāmil 212, ult.; also Malāḥimī, Fāʾiq 130 b (where the spelling Ḥuṣrī has been corrected thus). 44  Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ III 192, 14 (= Text XVIII 24). 45   Tathbīt 232, 3, and Mughnī V 18, ult. f. 46   Mughnī, ibid./transl. Monnot, Penseurs 170. 47  Catalogue of Works XVIII g, no. 5. 48  Sakūnī, ʿUyūn al-masāʾil § 326ff. (= Text XXXI 43). 49  Text XVIII 24. 50  Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq 182, ult. ff.

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(Akhlāq al-wazīrayn 465, 1ff., and 255, 4f.); clearly, the nisba on its own is not unambiguous. However, Tawḥīdī’s praised the very matter his contemporaries disliked. Abū Saʿīd, he tells us, ‘openly professed the doctrine of the takāfuʾ al-adilla’. The ‘equal value of (all) evidence’, the ἱσοσθένεια τω̃ ν λόγων of the ancient sceptics, was a concept after Tawḥīdī’s own heart, but in the mid-third century it was still seen as scandalous. Whoever embraced it ‘spread confusion’, as he was criticising theology itself from beneath, as it were. Abū Saʿīd composed a book in which he proved that theologians are no different from common people.51 It is not among those mentioned by Ibn al-Nadīm, but the attitude suited someone who, as a Sufi, was not part of the establishment and who might even have been open to gnostic ideas within the Shīʿa. It was for precisely this reason that rumours began to spread about Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād, as he had written a K. al-jārūf that dealt with this subject: like a ‘torrent’ scepticism was supposed to wash away rational argument. No fewer than three theologians of the following generation attempted a refutation, as with Ibn al-Rēwandī’s works; colleagues reacted nervously, but remained convinced of their superiority for the time being.52 Abū Ḥafṣ was easily able to find arguments: in the Quran, in hadith, and finally in the traditions of the ‘Sophists’. How does one know that which one knows?, he appears to have asked, and pointed out that when seeking a guarantee of truth one would end up in an infinite regression.53 We do not learn which verses from scripture he adduced,54 but it seems that he did not simply played verses off against one another but rather combined Quranic statements that emphasised the frailty of human thought. He employed the same approach for the prophetic tradition; the ahl al-ḥadīth had not really found anything to like in theological speculation.55 There was an additional interesting nuance in the case of Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥaḍrī. If humans were not deceived and led astray, they would all obey God’s commandments. At the rational level they are aware that they must obey God. On the way to God, however, they are confronted by people claiming to be speaking in the name of God, but who are 51  Catalogue of Works XVIII g, no. 6. 52  Catalogue of Works XVIII f, no. 1. A book of the same title was attributed to Jābir b. Ḥayyān (Kraus, Jābir I no. 2978). It is noticeable that Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār once names Jābir in the same passage as Abū Saʿīd and Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād (Tathbīt 232, 2ff.). He was also believed to be a Sufi. Cf. also my Erkenntnislehre 223. 53  Abū Rashīd, Masāʾil fī l-khilāf 337, 2 and earlier; cf. Gimaret in: JA 1971, p. 294. 54  Text XVIII 22, a. 55  Ibid., b–f. Hardly any of the dicta quoted was adopted into the canonical collections.

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really only interested in ‘fraud, tricks, and theft’. Abū Saʿīd employed a parable, but there can be hardly any doubt that he was referring to the theologians. They enrich themselves at the expense of the common people, and what they offer in return is without value. God know this, and will consequently admit everyone into paradise, even the sinners. But did Abū Saʿīd include non-Muslims in this concept? Text XVIII 24. Abū Saʿīd did certainly not count the prophets among the deceivers, but with a little ill will, the parable could be interpreted along those lines quite easily, moving it into dangerous proximity to the tribus impostoribus (see p. 374 below). Interestingly Abū Bakr al-Rāzī repeated the hadiths mentioned earlier (cf. Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 36, 9ff.; 38, 5; 40, 9; 43, 3), probably in an attempt at demonstrating the obscurantism of the theologians. A last theologian to be named in this context is Muḥammad b. Suwayd (b. Ṣabīḥ?). According to Kaʿbī he was Murdār’s pupil, and presumably his nephew.56 The Karaite author Salmān b. Yerūḥīm said of him that like Ibn al-Rēwandī ‘called upon people to deny God, his prophet, and his holy scriptures’.57 It is worth noting that Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār did not include him in his Ṭabaqāt at all. It is possible that he was slightly older than the scholars mentioned earlier. He is unlikely to be connected with the men of the same name mentioned in TB V 330 no. 2853f. This would be confirmed if he was indeed Murdār’s nephew, in which case we should be able to complement his name in the way suggested. The place of the traditionist discussed in Mīzān no. 7660 is not here, either; he transmitted from the Basran Qadarite ʿImrān alQaṣīr (see vol. II 83 above) and was thus considerably older. We have no information on Ibn Dharr al-Ṣayrafī who, according to Intiṣār 108, 12, and 110, 6, was a Shīʿite like Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād and 56  For the latter assumption it depends how one interprets the relevant document (Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 11f.). It could alternatively be translated to read that Ibn Suwayd (and Abū Zufar, see vol. III 66 above) were pupils of Murdār and of his nephew Muḥammad. However, this nephew would then not be documented as a Muʿtazilite at all. Shahrastānī, who transmitted from Kaʿbī, omitted this part of the sentence altogether (49, 2/103, 7). 57  Vajda, Deux commentaires caraïtes 62.

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believed in two eternal principles. He might be the same as the Muʿtazilite Abū Shuʿayb al-Ṣayrafī whom Kaʿbī names (in the list in Fihrist 220, n., l. 6) together with ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham. The parallel version in Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 8, on the other hand, has the nisba in the form al-Ṣūfī. This has led us to classify him elsewhere (see vol. III 156, n. 8 above).

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4.2.4 Civilian Muʿtazilites: Abū Mujālid The impression of this development probably led to two pupils of ʿĪsā b. alHaytham’s, Khayyāṭ and Aḥmad b. ʿAlī al-Shaṭawī,1 to leave their teacher and join Abū Mujālid Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Baghdādī (al-Balkhī)2 al-Ḍarīr,3 d. 268/882 or 269/883.4 He, too, was regarded as one of Murdār’s followers,5 but it seems that he studied mainly under Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir,6 as he was a jurist and delivered fatwās according to the latter’s precepts.7 His specialist area was the compilation of legal formularies (shurūṭ) that were consulted even by non-Muʿtazilites.8 He was believed to be an ascetic,9 but Ibn al-Rēwandī probably exaggerated when he linked him to those who believed all property to be forbidden.10 He was no Sufi, and his relationship with the state was not characterised by complete rejection; after all, he was Muʿtaṣim’s mawlā.11 He studied hadith extensively; Muʿtazilites found his knowledge to be extraordinary.12 He probably had a good memory; he was blind.13 Being a jurist he had to be well-versed in tradition; Muwaffaq (d. 278/891) had him debate with Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī, the founder of the Ẓāhiriyya, in Wāsiṭ, on subjects such as the

1 2 3 4

  Gest. 297/910; regarding him cf. TB IV 308 no. 2096.   Thus according to Text XXVII 21, a. Was this his home?   Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, –8ff.; also Faḍl 296, 11f. Regarding Khayyāṭ cf. also EI2 IV 1162.   Both dates go back to Marzubānī who preserved two different reports (TB IV 96, 7ff.). Ibn al-Nadīm appears to have adopted only the first one (as preserved by Dhahabī, Siyar X 553, 6?). Ṣafadī has 270 (Wāfī VI 334, 14, and Nakt al-himyān 96, 16. 5    Faḍl 296, 11 > IM 85, 10. 6   Kaʿbī 74, 13f.; TB 95, 19. According to Faḍl 296, 10 > IM 85, 9, he was a follower of both Jaʿfars. 7   Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān I 162, 14, after the lost article in Fihrist (cf. Fück in: ZDMG 90/1936/316). 8    Faḍl 296, 9f. > IM 85, 9. 9    Lisān al-Mīzān I 162, 13; cf. also the dictum he transmitted from Abū l-Dardāʾ (TB IV 95, ult. ff.). 10   Intiṣār 77, 11f. with reference to 77, 5. Ibn al-Rēwandī also accused him of being a believer in astrology (ibid. 77, –6). Cf. Aʿsam 137 no. 106–108/transl. 207. 11   T B IV 95, 18. Ibn Ḥajar reported after Ibn al-Nadīm (Līsān I 162, 12) that his grandfather was a slave of Muʿtaḍid’s (r. 279/892–289/902) and later freed by him; this must be a mistake. 12   Faḍl 296, 6ff. > IM 85, 6ff. (in part after the Ḥanafite jurist Aḥmad b. ʿIṣma al-Ṣaffār alBalkhī, d. 326/938). 13  Cf. his sobriquet al-Ḍarīr; also Ṣafadī, Nakt al-himyān 96, 15f.

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validity of the khabar al-wāḥid.14 He was victorious in spite of his opponents much-feared dialectical style which was known to make use of every weakness he found. Ṭabarī, who had been Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s pupil at one time, took detailed notes of the debate which he included in one of his books, thus becoming the source to which posterity owed the recollection of this event.15 Ṭabarī did not mind that Abū Mujālid was a Muʿtazilite; the intention of his book was to refute Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī ‘the prolific writer’.16 Others were not so considerate; they regarded Abū Mujālid as a ‘propagandist’ (dāʿiya).17 They were probably referring to the fact that he wrote on the subject of the khalq al-Qurʾān at a time when it was not the obvious thing to do any more – and sometimes not a wise thing, either.18 He was said to have accused Ibn Kullāb, at the time on the rise as a serious opponent to the Muʿtazila, of Christian inclinations.19 The same was also said of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān; it was the standard argument of Muʿtazilite polemic.20 He also debated with Nāshiʾ, possibly regarding the latter’s Shīʿite tendencies.21 He was the type of theologian in whom prominent Muʿtazilites confided unreservedly at the time.22 4.2.4.1 Jāḥiẓ The first one to put pen to paper against the radicals was, not for the first time, ʿAmr b. Baḥr al-Jāḥiẓ, d. 255/869. The Rāfiḍites had long been anathema to him; he had written about – and presumably against – them and demonstrated the difference between them and the Zaydiyya.1 In his K. al-tarbīʿ wal-tadwīr, writ-

14  Dhahabī, Siyar X 553, 8ff.; Lisān al-Mīzān I 162, 14ff.; also Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Risālat Iblīs 50, 1f. 15  Yāqūt, Irshād VI 450, pu. ff.; transl. Rosenthal in: The History of al-Ṭabarī, Introduction 121. 16  This is how I interpret dhū l-asfār in the title Radd ʿalā dhī l-asfār. This probably also conceals an allusion to the donkey carrying the books in sura 62:5 (cf. Gilliot in: SI 69/1989/187, MIDEO 19/1989/57ff., and in: Exégèse, langue et théologie 47f.). 17   T B IV 95, 19f.; Khayyāṭ describes him as al-duʿāʾ ilā l-ḥaqq (Intiṣār 77, 13). 18  Dhahabī, Siyar X 553, 5. The disputatio also took place ‘after a quarrel concerning the khalq al-Qurʾān broke out’ (Irshād VI 451, 2); but this does not necessarily mean that this was the topic of the actual debate, nor does it mean that it took place during the miḥna: that would be too early for all involved. It is also certainly not necessary to imagine a further, separate debate, as Raven suggests in Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahânî 5f. 19  Mānkdīm, ShUKh 294, apu. ff. 20  See p. 213 below. 21   I M 93, 10f.; regarding Nāshiʾ see p. 160ff. below. 22  Ibn Abī ʿAwn reports an argument between Abū Mujālid and a Manichaean (Al-ajwiba al-muskita 147 no. 883, where the name must be corrected accordingly). 1   Catalogue of Works XXX, no. 61–62.

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ten between 227 and 230, i.e. during Wāthiq’s caliphate,2 he exhorted the addressee to convert from the Rāfiḍiyya to the Muʿtazila.3 Under al-Mutawakkil the political climate was such as to make it advisable to continue along this line; the caliph did not permit ‘defamation of the companions of the prophet’, and Jāḥiẓ tells us that he would have liked the caliph to appoint him tutor to the princes.4 The K. faḍīlat al-Muʿtazila against which Ibn al-Rēwandī fulminated could have been composed during this time.5 The latter particularly criticised those chapters or the book, four in total, in which Jāḥiẓ attacked offensive Shīʿite ideas: the anthropomorphic image of God, the idea of the imāms having enlightened understanding, the ‘defamation of the companions of the prophet’ and the deification of ʿAlī.6 These were certainly not the only controversial topics;7 the title promised something else altogether. Of course Ibn al-Rēwandī had no cause to be writing about the ‘excellence of the Muʿtazila’, but it is quite possible that he kept quiet on other things as well. Jāḥiẓ may have polemicised not just against the ‘Rāfiḍites’ but against an entire section of the population – the very one that we have described previously and to which Ibn al-Rēwandī belonged. The deification of ʿAlī and the idea of enlightened understanding were by no means mainstream Imāmite doctrine. So far we have no other way of inferring the contents of Jāḥiẓ’ polemical writings than through Ibn al-Rēwandī. Only Sharīf al-Murtaḍā has a brief literal quotation (Shāfī 14, 3ff. = Text X 15). This is not a typical one, however; it describes Muʿtazilite views on the battle of the camel. Ibn al-Rēwandī probably explored this (cf. Khayyāṭ’s reference 73, pu. f.). He does not include any quotations; 110, 11f. may look like one but may just as well be a summary. Regarding this problem cf. also Aʿsam 234ff. Jāḥiẓ did not reap much gratitude in the long run for giving the Rāfiḍites a piece of his mind. It is understandable that the Shīʿa was not amused, but it was more concerned with his K. al-ʿUthmāniyya. This book would be the object 2  Cf. Pellat in: Arabica 31/1984/159 no. 216. 3  P. 97, 10; cf. the translation by Adad in: Arabica 14/1967/313. 4  Pellat in: EI2 385 b; in general on Jāḥiẓ’ biography id. in: CHAL II 78ff. 5  Pellat dated it to the time before 232 (Arabica 31/1984/150 no. 156). However, the passage Ḥayawān I 9, 8 to which he refers is not clear enough. It could also refer to K. al-iʿtizāl wafaḍlih that Jāḥiẓ wrote as well (ibid. 144 no. 115), or it might not be based on any particular boot at all. 6  Intiṣār 78, 3ff. = Aʿsam 140f. no. 120. 7  The translation in Aʿsam 208 gives the incorrect impression that the book consisted of these four chapters only.

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of a number of refutation until the Mongol era; we know of more than half a dozen.8 However, the K. faḍīlat al-Muʿtazila was attacked not only by Ibn alRēwandī but, as late as the turn of the fifth century, by Shaykh al-Mufīd.9 The venomous remarks Ibn al-Rēwandī made about Jāḥiẓ would then be quoted by Sunni opponents of the Muʿtazila. The picture Baghdādī or Shahrastānī paint of him consists nearly entirely of these: they collected heresies, and had found the most convenient source. 4.2.4.1.1 Jāḥiẓ’ Epistemology In one area only, things are different: Jāḥiẓ’ epistemology. Here, Ibn al-Rēwandī holds back, while the other Muʿtazilites went on the attack soon. It is easy to see the reason for Ibn al-Rēwandī’s reticence: he shared Jāḥiẓ’ point of view.1 The opposition of others was more deeply rooted: Jāḥiẓ had limited the scope of human reason. Jubbāʾī turned against him because of this, as did Abū Hāshim;2 their ideas are preserved in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s works. Of course they learnt much from him, too; with the problems he raised, Jāḥiẓ sharpened the vision of later generations. The development took place, as always, following the law of challenge and response. Jāḥiẓ’ challenger had been Naẓẓām. As we have seen, the latter embraced a truth criterion with strongly subjective traits: something is true when one believes it and feels it in one’s heart. His pupils used the term ‘tranquillity of the heart’ (sukūn al-qalb).3 Naẓẓām had presumably used the term himself, as his definition of coming to know something was complementary: ‘movement of the heart’. It became convoluted due to the analogous assertion that something one does not believe is consequently false. After all, a statement one does not believe can still be objectively true; Naẓẓām had adduced an instance from the Quran.4 Naẓẓām’s definition did not apply to the false statement but to the deliberate lie. Both were denoted by the word kadhib in Arabic;5 it seems that the equivocality of the concept had not been perceived at first. Jāḥiẓ, however, did notice it. He retained Naẓẓām’s approach, but corrected the definition. If only something that is a lie is false, a human would utter a false statement only when he deliberately ignores reality; a false statement 8  Cf. Catalogue of Works XXX no. 53 with the refutations b, d, f, l–m, o, and 1. 9  Ibid., n. 1  Text 10, e. Cf. p. 350 below. 2  Catalogue of Works, refutations e and g. 3  Cf. Aristotle, Physics VII 3. 247 b 17ff. 4  See vol. III 413 above. 5  Cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 445, 7.

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must thus not only be at odds with reality, but the author must be ‘convinced’ that this is the case.6 In this way Jāḥiẓ arrived at a three-valued logic: there are not only statements that are true and statements that are false, but also those that are neither true nor false. Those are particularly common, as for instance when one says something that is objectively true but one does not believe, or conversely something that is objectively false but one does believe.7 The latter, we should say, is an error; but we lack a term to denote the former, a kind of lucky strike, as it were. Jāḥiẓ does not seem to have attempted to find clear terms for the respective cases,8 and he apparently did not write out in full all the eight possibles of the value table of a three-valued logic. This made it easier for his opponents to refute him, although the system was consistent in itself, as we can see in a graphic summary of what we have presented so far: Statement

I II III IV V VI VII VIII

Event

Conviction

[in all three cases: Zayd is (+) / is not (-) at home] + + + + – – + – + + + – – – – – + + – + – – – +

Text

true false (lie) 0 (error) 0 true false (lie) 0 (error) 0

2, g

2, e 2, b 2, f

Jāḥiẓ, as was only proper, found evidence in the Quran that one had to assume a third category between true and false, and that this had been done in the past, too. The heathen Meccans were torn between regarding the prophet as a liar or a man possessed (sura 34:8); they ruled out, of course, that he might 6  Text 1–4; also Logic in Islamic Culture 30f. The oldest document (Text 1) has ‘know’ instead of ‘believe’ or ‘be convinced’. Jāḥiẓ probably still used the same vocabulary. From a later point of view, however, this was incorrect, as one can ‘know’ only something that is true, while in this case the author was aware of the falsehood. 7  Text 1, a; 2, c and e–f. Similar the anonymous report in Ashʿarī, Maq. 445, 9ff. 8  Besides ṣidq and kadhib he also used the pair of opposites ḥaqq and bāṭil or muḥiqq and mubṭil (cf. Text 5, d); a mubṭil in this context is someone who says something wrong and feels ‘tranquillity of the heart’] at that moment, i.e. someone who was in error. Jāḥiẓ had to be prepared for some people to call this kind of error kadhib (Maq. 445, 8).

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be speaking the truth. A man possessed, in their view, was someone who said things that were untrue without deliberate intention to do so; the statements he made were neither true nor false.9 Furthermore, the Muʿtazilites had long agreed that ‘being convinced’ was somewhere in between, neither knowing nor not-knowing.10 True knowledge was consequently, as expressed in the words of Naẓẓām, ‘a movement generated when the thing is present in the heart (i.e., when the object of knowledge truly exists), in the way in which it exists and has been recognised’.11 Unfortunately we do not have the original text of Jāḥiẓ’ theory. He explored it further in his K. ṣināʿat al-kalām (Catalogue of Works no. 11; cf. Text 1, a, with commentary), and it is presumed in the brief remark Ḥayawān I 77, 12ff., which conveys the impression that the definition of the term muḥāl also played a part, as had been indicated in Sībawayh’s text (see p. 346f. below). Later reports are not always quite so clear (thus Text 2; cf. the commentary). The main points are most unmistakeably presented by Muḥammad b. Yūsuf al-Sanūsī (d. 892/1486?) in the commentary on his own ‘theological prolegomena’ (Text 4); he, rather like we have done, lists the various possible variations. His structure, however, is different: he combines the parallels of the two groups I–IV and V–VIII (I = V etc.), arriving at four variants instead of eight; on the other hand, in III–IV/VII–VIII he distinguishes between statements of whose opposite one is convinced and those which one merely doubts. This distinction goes too far. While doubt is an important category for Jāḥiẓ (see p. 120 below), this is not the place for it. – There is some confusion in the secondary sources, too. L. Souami translated Text 2 in: SI 53/1981/45f., but misunderstood it entirely. In Problème de la connaissance 174f. M. Bernand was led astray by Āmidī (cf. the commentary on Text 2), resulting in her presenting as ‘false’ cases II–III and VI–VII, but only cases IV and VIII as ‘neither true nor false’ (0). – A further instance for reference is: Ibn al-Najjār al-Ḥanbalī, Sharḥ al-Kawkab al-munīr II 309, 6ff. From here it was only a small step to the assertion that only those could be unbelievers who deliberately embrace a false doctrine or persist in it;12 a step 9   Text 3. 10  Text 1, b, and 2, d; cf. vol. III 254 above. 11  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XII 22, 3ff.; anonymous. The characteristic final clause points to Jāḥiẓ’ circle. 12  Text 11, e; 17, b; 18, a; 19, d. A statement concerning the trinity made by a child is neither true nor false (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid 137, –6).

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that Thumāma had already taken.13 Jāḥiẓ apparently learnt a number of things from him; presumably it had been Thumāma who collected the instances in the Quran on which Jāḥiẓ would later base his ideas:14 the unbelievers know that they transgress against truth (sura 3:70f. and 75), and they shall be condemned ‘after they have received clear proof’ (sura 4: 153). They are ‘obstreperous’ (ṭāghūna; sura 51:53), i.e. unteachable (muʿānid), as would be said in the context of the theory.15 Or, particularly apposite: they deny ( jaḥada) although they are entirely convinced (sura 27:14).16 The case of the sinner is similar: he is only a sinner in the true sense of the word if he knows that God’s wrath is due to his sin.17 This brought with it a consequence that Jāḥiẓ might have preferred to have avoided: it could not now be said that the prophets sinned inadvertently only.18 One might have ascribed complete sinlessness to them now, but Jāḥiẓ did not want to resort to this loophole. He thought that the sin of Adam, which could not be interpreted away as it was documented in the Quran, did not result in his losing God’s friendship.19 What is more important is the greater context in which he placed his idea. Did it not ‘exculpate’ all those who did not have the necessary knowledge? Indeed, one cannot accuse non-Muslims of ignorance if they have never heard of God or of Islam;20 once again, Thumāma had already embraced this opinion.21 In the case of Jāḥiẓ we must furthermore bear in mind that the trust in Abū l-Hudhayl’s proof of the existence of God had waned; Jāḥiẓ was a Basran and certainly familiar with Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s objection.22 While he was not entirely on the latter’s side – he believed proof of the existence of God to be possible in principle: God ‘erected signs’ (naṣaba l-adilla) in creation and consequently ensured the presence of markers (ḥāl dālla)23 – he did not believe 13  Text 11, b; cf. vol. III 179 above. 14  Cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XII 333, 3ff. 334, 7ff.; 335, 4ff. and 10ff.; 336, 1ff., etc., a total of 16 passages from the Quran each of which Jubbāʾī straightened out. The text was probably based on Jubbāʾī’s K. naqḍ al-Maʿrifa (cf. Catalogue of Works, refutation e). 15  Thus e.g. Text 11, e; 17, b; 18, a. Regarding the term cf. Erkenntnislehre, glossary 446 s. v. 16  Text 17, c. Jāḥiẓ seems to have preferred this instance, as the source refers to it separately. 17  Text 15, d; also 10, d. 18  Text 10; cf. also p. 72f. above and 668f. below. 19  Text 10, c. In another dialectical context – and in a comparatively early text – he emphasised the prophet’s transgression clearly (ʿUthmāniyya 91, 7ff.). 20  Text 18; also Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 277, 11, and Suyūrī, Irshād al-ṭālibīn 425, 7f. 21  See vol. III 179f. above. 22  Cf. p. 10 above. 23  Examples Ḥayawān II 109, 2ff., and III 299, 2ff. (cf. transl. Souami 53ff.). Jāḥiẓ describes this in his well-known list of the ways of communication Bayān I 76, 9ff./ Ḥayawān I 33, ult. ff./transl. Souami 97ff. with the term niṣba (meaning ‘the way in which the signs are placed’; consequently the readings naṣba in Ḥayawān I 35, 3, or nuṣba in Souami 98, must

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that the insight came of itself. The proof of the existence of God could be conducted in retrospect, once one believes, but one does not know from the outset that this could or should be done, and it is consequently not an obligation.24 After all, one cannot know it from the outset, as knowledge of God always presupposes the concept of God. If we expected an unbeliever to feel an innate obligation to recognise God, we would need an a priori concept of God; but not even Abū l-Hudhayl believed this any more. One cannot condemn an unbeliever before he has been shown the truth. This last argument, conceived in a legal fashion and directed at the category of taklīf, found widespread acclaim and prompted Jubbāʾī to a most original response.25 Considering the sources available it would be saying too much that Jāḥiẓ was the first to discover it, but we can be as good a certain that he adopted it.26 All these deliberations do not apply to a Muslim. He knows God and his commandments thanks to the revelation. The ahl al-kitāb, too, are not necessarily ‘exculpated’. While some of them may not know Islam, in which case they have no obligation to reflect on its truth, they have been warned by their prophets, and consequently must obey the commandments they were given.27 The natural law, on which Naẓẓām had placed such great emphasis, was rather less relevant now. It has not been revoked, but it is introduced to humans only together with other commandments by their prophets.28 The way in which the abovementioned question of taklīf reappeared in a new light is also characteristic: how do we know that revelation is indeed revelation and that we are obliged to abide by its commandments? This was mainly a question for the first Muslim community as it was their witness that vouched for the truth of Muḥammad’s message. How, then, were they able to determine that they be rejected). The two passages have been adduced or discussed a number of times in secondary sources (cf. Geries, Al-maḥāsin wal-masāwī 38; Frank, Beings and Their Attributes 31; Enderwitz, Gesellschaftlicher Rang 166f.; also Shehaby in: Cultural Context of Learning 65ff., who starts with a quotation in Jashshāsh’s K. uṣūl al-fiqh and presumes a Stoic background). Attributing the apocryphal K. al-dalāʾil wal-iʿtibār to Jāḥiẓ thus went unchallenged; the text goes to some lengths to present the teleological proof (more detail p. 235f. below). 24  Text 7, b contra g. 25  Cf. Erkenntnislehre 329ff., also my essay in: Islam and the Medieval West, ed. Kh. J. Semaan, 64ff., and p. 743 below. 26  Text 16, b. with commentary; also 17, d–e, where, interestingly, the subject changes in e. 27  Cf. Ghazzālī’s version in Text 18. They act from fear of God, according to his interpretation (18, e). 28  Text 7, a. Shahrastānī, who also considers the issue (Text 19), has an a priori understanding of the necessity of a prophet in mind (a). However, this is probably the wrong approach, notwithstanding his excellent categorisation later.

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were not being taken in by a fraud? Jāḥiẓ’ answer was: by using their experience. It would be too abstract to look at the moment of the decision only. Adult humans have gone through a lengthy learning process and are consequently able – and prima vista, too – to distinguish whether someone is performing miracles or merely practising witchcraft.29 Of course this was just as true of the other side; for this very reason the Meccans firmly and knowingly held on to their unbelief. Jāḥiẓ describes vividly how a child gathers experience;30 rather unexpected in a theologian.31 His emphasis – a matter of course for us – on the fact that this process is unintentional and consequently unconscious on the part of the child32 was due to his using a term that was not unambiguous in that respect: tajriba meant – and still means – experience as well as trial, experiment. The same is, of course, true of Fr. expérience.33 Conversely Jāḥiẓ lacks clarity, in our view, when he calls the insight that prophets tell the truth ‘necessary’ in keeping with the terminology of his field.34 It is neither a given, nor does it exist a priori; we should say, instead, that it is acquired together with the experience on which it is based. It appeared ‘necessary’ only if insight was regarded in the atomist way as a momentary process, and knowledge was linked to deliberation; in that case insight was not ‘acquired’ by means of deliberation at the moment of its emergence. The wording is due to the fact that the process of gaining an insight was usually explained in accordance with the tawallud model. Jāḥiẓ rejected this: insight is not ‘generated’ through deliberation. It would of course be absurd to deny the value of deliberation and thought, but they do not automatically lead to certainty. Some people strive in vain to acquire knowledge and insight, others have it handed to them. It is similar to finding treasure: it can be planned only to a certain degree.35 For the rest, the results at which one arrives often differ even with the same approach; consequently it would be foolhardy to put too much faith into the method alone. And the one who arrives at a correct result is not necessarily more deserving for it; after all, he might just have been lucky.36 29  Text 7, c–p; in general also 11, d. 30  Ibid., l–n. 31  As we can see from Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s quoting a characteristic portion of this passage later (cf. the commentary on m). 32  Ibid., k. 33  He states Ḥayawān III 300, 7ff., that experience is possible only in a world that contains good and evil. On the subject in general cf. T. Khalidi in: Islamic Quarterly 19/1985/139ff. 34  Text 7, c; also Gimaret, Livre des Religions 255, n. 5. 35  The sceptic Sextus Empiricus uses the same image, with shifted emphasis, of discovering truth (Adv. Logicos I 52). 36  Text 9 and 15. Regarding experiment and observation in Jāḥiẓ cf. Shalḥūt, Al-nazʿa alkalāmiyya 141ff., also earlier 136f.

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What Jāḥiẓ says here smacks of scepticism, and he was indeed familiar with the arguments of the aṣḥāb al-tajāhul, as the sceptics were called at the time.37 They claimed, he tells us, that in different people the senses react differently; that everyone’s sensations differ.38 Here, he transferred this very idea onto the concept of thought. He was thinking along the same lines when pointing out to his colleagues from Naẓẓām’s school that one feels ‘tranquillity of the heart’ when one is convinced of something false as well;39 sukūn al-qalb alone was, as we have seen, not a truth criterion in his eyes. After all, one sometimes changes one’s point of view and believes oneself to be right before as well as after such a change.40 Jāḥiẓ appears to have refuted the causal nexus between deliberation and insight by stating, among other things, that if deliberation ‘generated’ knowledge, an incorrect argument must always result in ignorance or ‘not-knowing’, i.e. a false conclusion.41 Insight, he said, happens at random (bil-ḥads),42 but of course we know that this is rather less serious than it sounds; after all, there was always experience. Jāḥiẓ’ arguments possess mainly dialectical meaning. They were not new;43 people knew them from tradition, but they came back to the surface now. Jāḥiẓ believed in the possibility of gaining an insight, but it could not be forced. Delusions will be resolved by reason.44 Errors exist, as do truths, but they are all preceded by primary ‘necessary’ knowledge.45 The controversial part is how errors and truths came to be. In his view this was the same as the question of how experience works, and his answer was: through experience (ṭibāʿan).46 This answer applied not only to gaining an insight, but to actions in general;47 at the moment of introducing the category of experience, the two became impossible to separate. The tawallud model was, after all, also applied to both areas. However, once again the wording is not entirely clear. By using the term 37  Regarding the term cf. my Erkenntnislehre, glossary 438. 38  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XII 47, 3ff. 39  Text 5, d, g and r. 40  Ibid., t. 41  Jubbāʾī appears to have rejected this in his Naqḍ al-maʿrifa (Mughnī XII 107, 4ff.). Cf. Erkenntnislehre 352ff. 42  Text 15, a. He does not call knowledge itself ḥads, as I said in Erkenntnislehre 135 and elsewhere; consequently the link to ḥads = ἀγχίοια (or rather: εὐστοχία) in Ibn Sīnā is not as close as I hinted there (cf. also ibid. 399, and Gutas, Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition 159, esp. 166, n. 46). 43  In some places similar to e.g. Abū l-Hudhayl (see vol. III 274f. above). 44   Tarbīʿ 14, 7ff. 45  Text 5, m; also 17, e. 46  Text 11, a; 12, a; 17, a; also 16, c. 47  Text 11, c; 13, a; 20.

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ṭibāʿan Jāḥiẓ was not implying that everything should be left to natural forces (ṭabāʾiʿ). While they play an important part: desires and passions can lead the human, just as, in fact, he is dependent on the combination of humours, this is merely one component within the natural play of forces out of which experience grows up and to which it contributes. There is also reason which ‘watches’ the impulses, the ‘nature’ (ṭabīʿa) in this sense: it remains to be seen which of them will prevail. If a human performs an action, the motivations (dawāʿī) leading to it will be fed by both these components of the human person (nafs). They can both exert pressure, and the degree of pressure may differ according to the situation. Thus while one would naturally shrink from great heat, it is easier to withstand if it approaches as a sandstorm than as an open flame. In the first case reason will have a greater chance of success if it recommends for some reason – and with reference to a previous experience – to stay put in spite of everything. Still, it would be wrong to call this freedom of decision; it is really only a question of which one outweighs the other. After all, reason is not added to a human from outside, but it is part of the person and will consequently be influenced by impulses if they become too strong. Jāḥiẓ expresses it quite clearly: the imaginary world of someone ruled by his impulses changes, and he does not even notice his wrong reactions.48 Someone who shuns the heat too often will grow soft; someone who grows used to unbelief will become ‘unteachable’.49 Humans are capable of free decision under one specific condition only: when the ‘motivations’ for or against an action are evenly balanced for a while. In that case nothing can take place ‘in the natural way’; the action will either not happen at all, or through a conscious act of will.50 A human will not suffer quite as much as Buridan’s ass; on the contrary: in such a situation the human will develop responsibility and is consequently under an ‘obligation’. Other conditions must also be present: he has to have the physical ability to perform the action, and he must have the necessary resources; he must know how to go about the action, and of course must not be impeded by anyone.51 This is Jāḥiẓ’ definition of the capacity to act – more restrictive than others’, but with conditions that had already been set by others before him.52 The capacity to

48  Text 6, f–k; also Gimaret, Théories 33f. 49  Text 11, e. In K. ḥujaj al-nubuwwa Jāḥiẓ describes how impulses such as anger, pride etc. invite reason onto the scene as a corrective (Rasāʾil III 237, apu. ff.). 50  Text 6, g, and earlier d–e; 13, a. 51  Text 6, a–c and l; cf. Jubbāʾī’s report in Text 8. 52  Regarding Abū l-Hudhayl’s view on ‘knowing how to do something’ see vol. III 269 above; the capacity to act as health in Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s system ibid. 125; concerning the part

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act is what makes a human a human; when he reacts according to natural impulses he behaves like an animal.53 The model differed from that proposed by his predecessors and contemporaries in that it was not primarily based on exegetic or juristic considerations but rather on psychological ones. While Jāḥiẓ’ explanation was a verse from the Quran,54 the dualism of the ‘motivations’ recalls the image of humans embraced by mystics such as Aḥmad b. ʿĀṣim al-Anṭākī and Muḥāsibī at the time. They were both familiar with the term dāʿī;55 Anṭākī pitted reason against ‘nature’ (ṭibāʿ).56 The differences are immediately visible, too. Anṭākī as well as Muḥāsibī focussed on the contrast between nafs and qalb; while Jāḥiẓ does not use the words as an antithesis, as he does not interpret nafs as the animal soul but as the person.57 Mainly, though, his conclusions are entirely different from the mystics’. At the point when the ‘motivations’ are evenly balanced the human is not only free, but he also does not know how to act; he is in doubt. Jāḥiẓ, like Naẓẓām before him,58 regards doubt as something positive, but goes a step further than his teacher: doubt is the obligation to come to a decision. While the dawāʿī for one side or another prevail, the human will act ‘of his nature’ either deliberately correctly or deliberately wrongly. It is only in the state of uncertainty in between that he is not determined and does not know whether he will make the right decision end in an error.59 This weakness, however, is at the same time a sign of particular dignity as ‘common people feel less doubt than educated ones (khawāṣṣ), as they do not hesitate to believe something to be true or false … They know nothing other than believing something either to be absolutely true or absolutely false. They do not take seriously the third possibility, namely that one feels doubt in a variety of degrees … depending on the probability.’

played by resources cf. ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān’s opinion p. 40f. above. Already very complex: Hishām b. al-Ḥakam (see vol. I 434 above). 53   Ḥayawān V 542, apu. ff. 54  Text 6, m. Cf. p. 122 below. 55  Regarding Anṭākī cf. his K. al-khalwa in: Mashriq 49/1955/53, 5 and 16 (regarding the attribution see vol. I 167f. above). Regarding Muḥāsibī cf. Riʿāya 105, 12 (also 103, 10); in this case it is Satan or the animal soul that approach the human with a ‘suggestion’. In general see Radtke, Psychomachia in der Sufik, in: Studia Iranica, Cahier 11, p. 135ff. 56   Khalwa 52, 4, and 451, 20. 57  Cf. Text 6, f, with note. 58  See vol. III 382 above. 59  Cf. Text 5, o; also ibid., e, and 7, b. Vajda compares the dawāʿī with the προτροπαί and ἀποτροπαί of which Aristotle speaks in his Rhetoric A 5. 1360b, 9ff. (REJ 128/1969/163, n. 3).

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Ḥayawān VI 36, ult. ff.; cf. also earlier 35, 2ff. (transl. Rosenthal, Knowledge Triumphant 303ff.). Cf. also, with further passages, especially from the K. al-tarbīʿ wal-tadwīr, Bernand in: SI 39/1974/52. Doubt is by no means a new guise for the manzila bayna l-manzilatayn. Jāḥiẓ, being a Muʿtazilite, believed that the status of faith depended on one’s actions; only if knowledge combines with grave sin will a human enter into the intermediate state (Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 255, 8ff.). And, what is more: doubt, as long as it was honest, could not be interpreted as unbeliev any more (Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mutashābih al-Qurʾān 188, 4ff.). It is not surprising that this was the point where Jubbāʾī added some qualifications (Mughnī XII 188, 15ff.). Regarding the further history of the issue cf. Erkenntnislehre 346ff. Doubt, we see, is not a matter for the intellect only but also intervenes in actions. It is the only state of consciousness that allows freedom. This throws a shadow over Jāḥiẓ’ three-valued logic, for if someone lies, he does so deliberately, but really only because his consciousness followed his impulses and has become deformed in the process.60 Conversely, the act of will linked to such an action or insight is really only a form of becoming aware of something, as will implies that one knows what one is doing and is not acting mindlessly.61 This definition may have been developed with regard to divine will, where it suggested itself.62 However, it also fits in with the model described above; volition, as Frank has shown, meant no more than a ‘class of mental actions’ to the Basran Muʿtazila.63 At the same time we must point out that the word irāda is not found in the texts by Jāḥiẓ we have looked at so far, which compels us to look at the reception history. One reason why Jāḥiẓ was repeatedly attacked from Jubbāʾī onwards was that theorists remained very close to him in one point, adopting the idea of the dawāʿī in a different context.64 As a consequence this term, which for Jāḥiẓ had been one among several and might not have been emphasised more strongly than in Muḥāsibī’s theories, suddenly dominated the

60  This explains the misunderstanding in M. Bernand’s analysis I criticised on p. 114 above. The connection between the logical and the epistemological model was emphasised by Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Dharīʿa 480, 1f. 61  Text 23, a–b; also Gimaret, Théories 35. 62  Text 22. The Jewish theologian Yūsuf al-Bāṣir emphasised the link with the aṣlaḥ theory (cf. Vajda in: SI 31/1970/263f.). 63  In: Le Muséon 95/1982/332; similar also Notion de liberté 39ff. This had consequences for the interpretation of the term dawāʿī (Le Muséon 333, n. 20). 64  Gimaret, Théories 47ff., 58f., 247 and passim.

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picture.65 Another consequence was that, in order to refute them the better, Jāḥiẓ’ teachings were laid out in bite-sized sections. We are able to see the problem clearly only because the fragments from Jāḥiẓ’ Masāʾil wal-jawābāt fī l-maʿrifa used so far are original versions of his texts that can be compared to later summaries. The latter are mainly found in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī, and probably do not even go back to Jāḥiẓ himself but only to Jubbāʾī’s Naqḍ al-maʿrifa.66 Unfortunately the fragments do not provide a complete image; Jubbāʾī had more material than we have. However, we can venture certain conclusions. After all, we do know that Jāḥiẓ was not a systematist. The wide scattering of terminology thus comes as no surprise. Dawāʿī is found only once (Text 6, h), then there is nawāzī (6, b), awāmir (6, d), and quwā (6, g). Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār frequently uses khawāṭir instead, usually joining the two terms in a zeugma (cf. Text 12, commentary). Jāḥiẓ also has khawāṭir, but uses it more lossely (6, b). The question of whether there was a difference between khawāṭir and dawāʿī had thus better remain unasked. It might be possible to infer from the relation between 6, b, and 6, d, that the khawāṭir precede the dawāʿī as an external impulse to do something. In another passage, however, Jāḥiẓ says that khawāṭir are ‘generated’ by sensory perception (Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa in: Rasāʾil III 238, 11f., transl. Enderwitz, Gesellschaftlicher Rang 143; cf. also the usage of the word in Ḥayawān I 127, 1), while the Quranic passage he quotes in 6, m, to justify his model commits him to the view that by ‘balancing’ the dawāʿī, God inspires the idea of good and evil in humans (sura 71:7f.). Jāḥiẓ appears to have made hardly any distinction between external and internal. In addition the Quranic verse mentioned also includes the verb alhama ‘to inspire’, which played a part in the epistemological discussion at the time. Jāḥiẓ wrote a K. al-ilhām (Catalogue of Works no. 40) in which he explored his model (cf. Text 9). However, we do know that he also refuted the so-called aṣḥāb al-ilhām, the illuminationists among the Shīʿites and the anti-intellectualist Sunnites (Ḥashwiyya), who believed that God implanted knowledge directly into the human heart (Mughnī XII 343, 18ff.). This may have been within the same text, as it is likely to be the one named K. al-radd ʿalā aṣḥāb al-ilhām in the Fihrist (210, –7). Still, it would probably go too far to limit this book to the polemical intention (as Bernand does in: SI 39/1974/50, n. 1); in that case Abū Hāshim would not have needed to refute Jāḥiẓ in his turn (Catalogue of Works XXX, 65  Cf. e.g. Text 12, b, or 13, b–c. 66  Regarding Jubbāʾī’s arguments against Jāḥiẓ cf. Vajda in: SI 24/1966/25ff.

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refutation g). Furthermore the title K. al-ilhām is documented already in K. al-intiṣār (123, 4). Jāḥiẓ explored the the aṣḥāb al-ilhām elsewhere, too, e.g. in his K. faḍīlat al-Muʿtazila (cf. Intiṣār 110, 11ff.), maybe also in K. ṣināʿat al-kalām (cf. the reference there in Rasāʾil IV 243, ult. f.). He interpreted ilhām in the sense of ‘instinct’ (Ḥayawān II 147, 6ff., with a rather good description of the issue). The first one to collect Jāḥiẓ’ teachings in a doxographical fashion was Kaʿbī. His account was influential all the way to Shahrastānī, and is consequently the basis, in one form or another, of all modern studies, even those that use Jāḥiẓ’ original text.67 He emphasised the act of will as special, at the same time establishing the link to Thumāma, probably because Kaʿbī was measuring Jāḥiẓ’ theory against the tawallud model. Jāḥiẓ not only rejected tawallud in the context of knowledge but generally, as he had learnt from Naẓẓām.68 When things receive an impulse they react according to their khilqa, the latter had said. Jāḥiẓ, transferring this idea onto humans, said: when ‘motivations’ are generated within the ‘agent’, his limbs will move according to their nature.69 Only the act of will remained for self-determination. Kaʿbī, interestingly, did not mention the dawāʿī. The qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, on the other hand, omitted the reference to Thumāma. While he did recall the tawallud theory, he saw Jāḥiẓ as a follower of the aṣḥāb al-ṭabāʾiʿ.70 This made sense in that Jāḥiẓ had written about the afʿāl al-ṭabāʾiʿ.71 Like Kaʿbī he isolated the act of will;72 he is sure to have known the latter’s text. However, he arranged the process of gaining insight and knowledge according to his own system, which was once again based on the idea of tawallud: act of will > deliberation > knowledge,73 or, better: act of will > deliberation > conviction,74 as, of course, the result of the deliberation does not necessarily have to be true. In this way he saddled himself with the question of whether the act of will might be determined by the ‘motivations’.75 The 67  Text 11 with commentary. 68  See vol. III 390 and 411, n. 9, above. 69   Mughnī IX 29, 4ff./transl. Hecker, Responsibility and Reason 63. The identification of this anonymous theorem is inferred from 29, 11f. 70  Text 12, f; however, previously he puts only movement out of the entire area of mutawallidāt into relief (e). Might this be because Jāḥiẓ interpreted gaining knowledge as movement of the soul? In another place (Faḍl 246, pu. and earlier) he links Jāḥiẓ to Naẓẓām. 71  Catalogue of Works no. 14. 72  Text 12, c. 73  Ibid., a–c. 74  Text 13, d. 75  Ibid., b–c, with the parallel cited previously in the commentary on 12.

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answer was pure scholasticism; this was precisely how Jāḥiẓ had not imagined the matter.76 Text 23, c, is probably another case of secondary doxography. It was often pointed out to Jāḥiẓ that the dawāʿī work only within a person, while an act of will affects other people as well (Mughnī IX 29, 7ff./transl. Hecker 64; Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 74, 2ff.). The argument was based on the correct understanding that the dawāʿī are usually identical with the act of will. Text 23, c, which is late and isolated in any case, should probably be understood to mean that Jāḥiẓ would not have used the word irāda to denote an act of will aimed at others, rather describing it as a wish or an ‘inclination’ (mayalān al-nafs). We do not know whether Jāḥiẓ used this term. One passage in Maqdisī (Badʿ I 22, ult. f.) might indicate it, but it is anonymous. The parallel with God, that had been so relevant in all the deliberations so far, would have been abandoned: God does not have ‘inclinations’. It is easy to imagine that the determinist element inherent in these constructions became a problem within a Muʿtazilite context. With reference to Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī would later claim that this was where the Muʿtazila dug its own grave; Gimaret was of a similar opinion. Jāḥiẓ, however, left enough scope for the human freedom of decision, only bringing the complexity of human consciousness to Muʿtazilite theory. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, too, preserved the balance, even though he distorted Jāḥiẓ’ approach in some places. The alarming consequences became apparent in the transition to Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, but even he evaded them in the end, as Madelung has demonstrated.77 Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s overlooking this, and not evading them himself, was because of his fundamentally Ashʿarite views. He, however, now became entangled in contradictions on the subject of free will. While he denied its existence in humans in favour of causality in accordance with natural laws, in the debate with the philosophers he found himself compelled to defend it with regard to God and his free decision to perform the creation.78

76  Cf. also the doxographical note in Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 240, 2ff. Jāḥiẓ never wrote on the subject of irāda. 77  Cf., also regarding the preceding, the article The Late Muʿtazila and Determinism. The Philosophers’ Trap, in: Yād-Nāma. In memoria di A. Bausani I 245ff. 78  In more detail Gimaret, Théories 149ff.

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4.2.4.1.2 Overview of Jāḥiẓ’ Doctrine The determinist traits of Jāḥiẓ’ ideas had already been pointed out with polemical intent during his lifetime. Iskāfī found his idea of the inevitability of many cognition processes as well as his belief in the natural course of events remarkable and idiosyncratic.1 All the same, people realised that Jāḥiẓ was part of a greater tradition within his school. This was always emphasised in the context of the last-named of the two issues, albeit with a different point of reference each time: to the aṣḥāb al-ṭabāʾiʿ, to Thumāma, to Naẓẓām, to Muʿammar.2 Only Ibn al-Rēwandī and those who copied from him tried to make Jāḥiẓ appear in a bad light, showing how he was even more outrageous than his predecessors in some ways: that he considered the fundamental components of creation to be eternal,3 or believed the fires of hell had their own ‘nature’ that pulled the condemned towards them of its own accord.4 God, it was said, according to Jāḥiẓ created a starting point for everything that was, but then left things to function out of themselves. They may disintegrate, but only in order to enter into a different combination.5 This was undoubtedly in accordance with Naẓẓām’s ideas,6 even though Jāḥiẓ did not apparently agree with his theory of bodies any more. He advanced Naẓẓām’s concept because he, too, regarded the otherworld merely as a different state of matter than this world. It is composed of the matter that remains after earthly things decay, as God can dematerialise bodies.7 It does not surprise us when we learn that Jāḥiẓ believed that, spontaneous generation without involvement from God was possible in the earthly world.8 In epistemology he was just as obviously embedded within a greater area of tradition, but this is obscured by the fact that most references are not so much to Jāḥiẓ but rather to the entire group to which he belonged: the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif. They were concerned with the ‘insights’ (maʿārif ) in that they believed them to be innate in some way or another. Thumāma was one of them;

1  Naqḍ al-ʿUthmāniyya 334, –4f. 2  Thus Ibn Ḥazm several times (Fiṣal III 49, 2f.; 54, apu. f.; 58, ult.; 82, apu. ff.); in this Western tradition also Ibn ʿArabī, ʿAwāṣim II 119, ult. ff. 3  Text 24–25. 4  Text 26. 5  Cf. also Shahrastānī 52, 12/113, 6f. 6  Text XXII 188; cf. vol. III 399f. above. 7  Text 25, b. 8  Ḥayawān III 361, 4ff., where he points out the religiously motivated opposition to this idea. Regarding generatio spontanea in Islam cf. the sources at vol. II 517, n. 66 above, and Kruk in: JSS 35/1990/265ff.

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he wrote on the subject9 and was attacked by Murdār over it.10 Murdār had also taken the young Shaḥḥām to task in this matter,11 and Abū l-ʿAtāhiya had already believed that insight is the natural consequence of deliberation.12 Early Shīʿite theologians had shared this view.13 Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir turned on Jāḥiẓ particularly,14 but ʿAlī al-Uswārī was another member of Naẓẓām’s school who embraced this theory.15 It would thus be incorrect to speak of it as Jāḥiẓ’s personal fad. The ‘spectrum’ of the theory, however, is likely to have differed from one person to the next; the term aṣḥāb al-maʿārif is overall rather vague. Jubbāʾī claimed that Jāḥiẓ was the first to express this opinion (iftataḥa hādhā l-ra‌ʾy; quoted by Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Shāfī 12, 7), but this is probably merely an attempt at making the polemic easier for himself. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār refutes the arguments of the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif in great detail (Mughnī XII 262ff. and earlier); we learn that Jāḥiẓ was already familiar with the majority of these (ibid. 235, 10ff.). Following the Muʿtazila, the Shīʿites in particular were interested in the matter. In their Quranic commentaries Muḥammad al-Ṭūsī as well as Ṭabrisī marked the verses on which the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif based their views as well as those with which they could be refuted (cf. e.g. Tibyān II 498, 11; IV 108, 9ff.; 114, 12ff.; 269, apu.; 293, ult.; 469, 10f.; VI 312, 9ff.; Majmaʿ al-bayān I 47; 17f.; 50, 3f. etc.). Among the Zaydites it was Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Raṣṣāṣ who embraced the theory (d. 65/1258; cf. GAL2 1/509 S 1/700f.; thus after Hādī b. Muḥammad b. al-Mahdī li-dīn Allāh, Al-kawkab al-muḍīʾ, fol. 18b). This was probably why Ibn al-Wazīr (d. 840/1436) devoted so much space to the question in his Tarjīḥ asālīb al-Qurʾān (p. 46, 6ff., and 97, 1ff.). As the period demanded, Jāḥiẓ frequently discussed theological subjects, and despite his numerous other interests he was noticeably more productive on this field than e.g. Abū l-Hudhayl. However, we know that he did not always write on his own initiative; he was a typical intellectual ‘for hire’. He wrote at

9   Catalogue of Works XIX, no. 2. 10  Catalogue of Works XVIII b, no. 20. 11  Ibid., no. 21. 12   Agh. IV 5, ult. f.; cf. vol. I 526 above. 13  See vol. I 399f. above. 14  Catalogue of Works XXVII, no. 7. The heading may have addressed the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif in general. 15  Mānkdīm, ShUKh 3 ,52; Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 201, –6f. Text XXIII 4 should probably be adduced in comparison; see also vol. III 456f. above.

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Ma‌ʾmūn’s request16 and in order to please Ibn Abī Duwād;17 the caliph had the contents of the book scrutinised.18 It was thus entirely conceivable that he would once write in favour of a certain idea or party, and another time against it.19 He did not offer much material for the doxographers, even less as he does not seem to have taken part in any theological disputations.20 We are unable to do their work retrospectively, as most of the treatises on theological subjects in particular are not extant. We should very much like to know what he had to say on the subject of the philosopher al-Kindī’s ignorance,21 but maybe he just collected derogatory judgments, as in the case of Muḥammad b. al-Jahm al-Barmakī.22 Even those of his writings we do have yield but little, as Jāḥiẓ was undoubtedly a shrewd observer, but wrote entirely unsystematically. It is always risky to draw inferences concerning the contents of a book from its title. He had no interest in overly technical language; his aim was a text pleasing to the reader. The passages we translated from K. al-maʿrifa are almost an exception, but even here the influence of adab cannot be denied: he cultivates changes of style and delights in portly repetition. While his style is influenced by kalām,23 he handles the set structures loosely, especially the in qāla-qulnā dialogue, not preferring them over other forms by any means. Instances of this may be found above all in K. al-ḥayawān, where Jāḥiẓ evolves the idea of theodicy in elegant discourses on the productive effect of contrast: if there was no evil in the world besides good, there would be no test, and even if a wild animal mauls its enemy, at least the animal itself enjoys the action.24 He does not, however, use the term aṣlaḥ, and the aporiai are smothered in rhetoric. Jāḥiẓ clearly thought Naẓẓām’s complex physical theories interesting enough to reproduce them in great detail in a place where they do not belong at all, i.e. Book V of K. al-ḥayawān, but he did not continue them.25 16  Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 209, 5 (where amara bihī ought to be read instead of umirtuhū), and perhaps also 209, –7f. (where the caliph’s name is not, however, given): on political theory and on the khalq al-Qurʾān. 17  See vol. III 503f. above. 18   Fihrist 209, 5f. 19  See p. 90f. above; cf. also Catalogue of Works no. 56–58. Sharīf al-Murtaḍā pointed out this circumstance (see p. 357 below). 20  Malaṭī, Tanbīḥ 32, 3/39, –6f. 21  Catalogue of Works no. 62. 22  See vol. III 221 above. 23  This phenomenon has been studied by Arab scholars in particular (cf. e.g. V. Shilḥūt/ Chelhod, Al-nazʿa al-kalāmiyya fī uslūb al-Jāḥiẓ, Cairo 1964; Aḥmad Khālid, Shakhṣiyyāt wa-tayyārāt 222ff.; Dāwūd Sallūm, Al-naqd al-manhajī ʿinda Jāḥiẓ, Baghdad 1960). 24   Ḥayawān I 204ff.; cf. Geries in: SI 52/1980/73ff. 25  Cf. also the reserved remark in the preface to K. al-futyā (vol. III 454 above).

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We do not know, either, whether he went beyond his teacher in his K. iḥālat al-qudra ʿalā l-ẓulm,26 although it is quite possible that he added new facets to his theories in some point or other.27 His own contribution is more clearly visible in theories concerning the Quran. As we have seen,28 he may have been the first to use the term ṣarfa, focussing Naẓẓām’s central idea and at the same time placing it in a greater context of further examples. He also seems to have taken a step closer to the classical doctrine of iʿjāz. Naẓẓām, as we know, had doubted that the Quran was truly unsurpassable, although he appreciated its rhetorical beauty.29 Jāḥiẓ, on the other hand, frequently ventured the claim that not even the most eloquent Arab would be able to compose something that was equal to the Quran either as to the form or the language.30 He described Muḥammad’s actions matter-of-factly using the later key term taḥaddī,31 even though he did not assign it a terminological function. He was furthermore of the opinion that the iʿjāz could be proved not so much by citing individual passages but rather from the structure as a whole; he was not a Quranic philologist. He did not grasp that the prophet’s being illiterate was an essential component of the theory; according to him, Muḥammad simply concentrated his abilities on other things.32 Khayyāṭ knew of no other book on Naẓm al-Qurʾān and the proof of prophethood (evolved out of it?) than that by Jāḥiẓ.33 The wondrous composition of the Quran as a whole is at the same time proof of its createdness, for arrangement (naẓm) also means composition (ta‌ʾlīf); Jāḥiẓ often used the two words interchangeably. And anything that has been composed is always a body and created as such (Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa III 290, apu. ff.). As bodies never decay fully but only ever change their appearance (see above), Ibn al-Rēwandī concluded maliciously that the Quran, too, could change into something else, such as a human or an animal (Text 27). He may have hoped that people would 26  Catalogue of Works no. 19; also Text XXII 191. 27  Text 21. Cf. also Text XXII 142, and vol. III 408 above. 28  Vol. III 411f. above. 29  Ibid. 412. 30   Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa in: Rasāʾil III 229, –5ff., and 275, 1ff.; transl. Rescher, Excerpte 117. Cf. also the arguments earlier (273, 6ff.) which recall Abū l-Hudhayl (Text XXI 179–180); transl. Pellat/Müller, Arabische Geisteswelt 78ff. Directly against the school of Naẓẓām Khalq – alQurʾān in: Rasāʾil III 287, 7f./Rescher 149. Also Ḥayawān IV 90, 11ff. 31  Cf. Ḥujaj III 277, 6; also the fragment in Suyūṭī, Itqān II 117, –6ff. 32   Bayān IV 32, 5ff. 33   Intiṣār 111, 16f.; also Catalogue of Works no. 22. Regarding Jāḥiẓ’ theory of iʿjāz cf. also Munīr Sulṭān, Iʿjāz al-Qurʾān bayna l-Muʿtazila wal-Ashāʿira 53ff.

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recall the popular hadiths in which the Quran is resurrected in human form (see vol. V 22 below [of the German edition]). Cf. Nallino in: RSO 7/1916–8/421ff., who refers to a similar argument in Ashʿarī’s Ibāna. The prophets who came before Muḥammad were unable to legitimise themselves by means of the linguistic beauty of their revelation; their audiences, Jāḥiẓ believed to have learnt from his encounters with Arab Christians or Jews, were not susceptible to this category.34 For this reason Moses worked magic and Jesus healed the sick; those were the arts people admired at their time. The heathen Arabs were more sophisticated, and Muḥammad employed a proof that was rather less blunt.35 He was confirmed by natural miracles as well; like ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, Jāḥiẓ made certain allowances for hadith.36 Muḥammad also showed his supernatural knowledge by predicting the future. This had been Naẓẓām’s criterion,37 which had since met with scepticism; Jāḥiẓ had to deal in some detail with the argument that astrologers, too, can predict the future.38 Finally there were the prophecies that regarded Muḥammad himself. Jāḥiẓ did not go to the trouble to look these up in the holy scriptures of the ahl al-kitāb, but he pointed out that converts frequently cited these as the reason for their conversion.39 His younger contemporary ʿAlī b. Rabban al-Ṭabarī presented all the evidence in his K. al-dīn wal-dawla, written under al-Mutawakkil.40 Both, miracles and foretelling the future, are ‘things which are not in keeping with the accustomed order’ (ashyāʾ khārijiyya min nasaq al-ʿāda).41 The definition of miracles that would later become commonly accepted comes to our notice for the first time in this rather casual remark.42 Not everyone

34   Ḥujaj III 270, 10ff. 35  Ibid. 278, 8ff.; cf. Text 7, p. Also Pellat in: SI 31/1970/228, and Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 73f. This idea, based on developmental psychology, would later find followers among nonMuʿtazilites as well, such as Ibn Qutayba (Ta‌ʾwīl mushkil al-Qurʾān 10, 5ff.), or Bāqillānī (Iʿjāz al-Qurʾān 302, pu. ff.). 36  Cf. Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa III 260, 1ff./transl. Rescher 139f.; Ḥayawān IV 82, 6ff. It is perhaps no coincidence that the K. al-amṣār wa-ʿajāʾib al-buldān, which Jāḥiẓ wrote in the last years of his life, includes a considerable number of hadiths. He had, however, already shown in K. al-ḥayawān that he was well-versed in the subject; they were part of a literary education by that time. 37  See vol. III 445 above. 38   Ḥujaj 261, 9ff. 39  Ibid., 269, –7ff./transl. Rescher 141 = Pellat/Müller, Geisteswelt 78; also Ḥayawān IV 276, 3ff. 40  P. 66, 6ff. = 130ff./transl. Mingana 77ff.; more details p. 702ff. below. 41   Ḥayawān IV 82, 10f.; cf. also Ḥujaj III 259, ult. ff. 42  Cf. Erkenntnislehre 214.

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requires this garish effect; in truth, Muḥammad showed in all his actions and his life that he was a prophet.43 Reports of miracles spread of their own accord, with an inevitability that is in itself a kind of miracle.44 Consequently they cannot simply be rejected, as that would be to pretend that they did not exist.45 A remarkable event imposes a mental compulsion onto people to tell others about it; they cannot lie because they would not have the opportunity to agree on a story beforehand.46 Of course there are any number of instances of collective error, or mass psychosis, as we would say nowadays, but they are the result of false assumptions rather than false tradition.47 Tradition is an accumulation of collective experience, and without experience, as we have seen, humans would not recognise salvation.48 However, it is possible for tradition to become worn after being transmitted for too long; then it is time for God to send a new prophet.49 Pellat has discussed Jāḥiẓ’ political theory in detail.50 Jāḥiẓ argued against the idea that the community would be better off without a leader; he probably had the Ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila in mind. Humans cannot find the way by themselves; the ruler must be an educator, rather like a prophet. This is why there should only ever be one ruler.51 God will ensure that there will always be a worthy person who can undertake this duty; Jāḥiẓ thought repeatedly about the conditions such a person must fulfil.52 An interregnum is thus not possible, and the community has the duty to elect a leader. However, this is a duty to be performed by representatives, by the elite (khāṣṣa), as the common

43   Ḥujaj III 280, 9ff.; after which a doxographical summary in Rāzī, Muḥaṣṣal 151, 16ff./2351, 13ff. Slightly divergent: Mānkdīm, ShUKh 745, 1f. 44   Ḥujaj III 260, 8ff./transl. Rescher 134ff. 45  Ibid. 250, 10f./transl. Pellat/Müller, Geisteswelt 73f. 46  Ibid. 257, pu. ff.; regarding the truth criteria cf. also Al-Maʿāsh wal-maʿād in: Rasāʾil I 119, 4ff./transl. Vial, Quatre Essais 55f. This is why Jāḥiẓ like Naẓẓām rejected the miracle of the splitting of the moon, as this effect did not occur (Marzūqī, Azmina wa-amkina I 115, 10ff.). 47   Ḥujaj III 251, –8ff., regarding the Christians’ belief in the godhead of Jesus; also ibid. 246, 7ff. 48  Ibid. 239. 10ff./transl. Rescher 123 = transl. Pellat 68f.; cf. also ʿUthmāniyya. 49  Ibid. 256, 2ff./transl. Pellat 74f.; also Enderwitz, Gesellschaftlicher Rang 144f. Regarding khabar in Jāḥiẓ’ works in general cf. Souami in: SI 53/1981/27ff. 50  In: SI 15/1961/23ff.; this article is the source for the following. Lambton, Stste and Government 59ff., also has a summary. 51  Cf. the edition of K. al-jawābāt fī l-imāma in: Rasāʾil IV 283ff., esp. 300, 3ff., and 304, –5ff.; also the translations in: Pellat/Müller, Geisteswelt 104ff. Regarding the idea itself see vol. III 59 and 483 above; also p. 789 below. 52  Pellat 42ff.; also Geisteswelt 107f.

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people have no understanding of what the caliphate means.53 The elite is also entitled to depose a tyrannical ruler under certain circumstances, but it is once again necessary to bear in mind that the balance of power may be complicated if the common people take part in the process.54 When applying these principles to the early Islamic period, Jāḥiẓ embraced the concept of the four ‘righteous’ caliphs. Even ʿAlī, to whose adoration by the Shīʿites he took such exception, had come by his position lawfully and performed his duty in an ideal fashion; there is one text among Jāḥiẓ’s political writings in which he defended his decision before the arbitration court.55 ʿAlī was not only ‘more excellent’ than his predecessors from the outset;56 the concept of four caliphs ruled out the concept of imāmat al-mafḍūl.57 The details of his opinion of ʿAlī may be inferred from his K. alʿUthmāniyya. We should also adduce the passage in Mufīd’s K. al-jamal (108, ult. ff.), which appears to be based on a quotation – yet to be identified. The Shīʿite side occasionally tried to adjust the image by adding apocrypha. Pellat translated such a text, a Risāla fī ithbāt imāmat Amīr al-muʾminīn ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib attributed to Jāḥiẓ, in: Mélanges Massé 317ff. It uses a process of elimination to prove that ʿAlī was the most excellent of the companions of the prophet; the last one to cede to him is ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbbās. The Arabic original was edited by Muṣṭafā Jawād in: Lughat al-ʿArab 9/1931/497ff. The earliest instance of the text so far is with the Zaydite imām al-Nāṭiq bil-ḥaqq (d. after 421/1030; cf. Madelung in: Der Islam 63/1986/9). Bahāʾ al-Dīn al-Irbilī (d. 692/1293) later included it in his Kashf al-ghumma fī maʿrifat al-a‌ʾimma (I 36ff.; also Pellat in: Arabica 31/1984/142). In Irbilī’s collection it is preceded by another text apparently originally from K. Faḍl Hāshi ʿalā ʿAbdshams in which Jāḥiẓ praised the ʿAlids’ excellence (I 28ff.; cf. Pellat 139 no. 82). Sulaymān b. Ibrāhīm al-Qundūzī (d. 1294/1877) included an abridged version in his Yanābīʿ almawadda (179ff.). The MS was said to have been originally in the library of one of the caliph al-Muqtadir’s grandsons. Other fragments of the latter work are translated in Pellat/Müller, Arabische Geisteswelt 95ff.

53  Pellat 41. 54   ʿUthmāniyya 261, 13ff.; also Pellat 47ff. 55  Catalogue of Works no. 56; translations in Geisteswelt 108ff. 56  Cf. also Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XX 2 115, 1ff. 57  Nashwān, Ḥūr 152, 3ff.; Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 245, 17f.

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The interest in sociology that distinguishes Jāḥiẓ from specialist theologians also led him to think about kalām and the mutakallimūn for himself. He was not blind to the weaknesses of the craft; kalām was not the preserve of the Muʿtazila any more by his time.58 He recognised that the dialectical method led those involved to cultivate the argumentum ad hominem and denigrate their opponents;59 any ignoramus could pretend to be a star.60 This is why representatives of the ‘exact’ sciences arithmetic and geometry accused theology of being inexact and boastful.61 There is indeed nothing to be said for mere polemic,62 but in the right hands kalām is a fine art, providing greater satisfaction even than the office of judge.63 However, one is a master of the art only once one can combine ‘religious’ and ‘philosophical’ kalām, theology and natural science or cosmology;64 Naẓẓām remains the ideal exponent despite more than a little criticism.65 The ideal presented by Jāḥiẓ is an intellectual one; he does not demand for theology to extend into lifestyle. On the contrary: anthropomorphists are frequently more pious than rationalists; the abstract image of God inhibits the immediate religious sentiment.66 Religious errors, however, are much worse than those in other areas;67 one cannot do without reason. Jāḥiẓ did not agree with the theorem ikhtilāf al-umma raḥma.68 4.2.4.1.3 His Legacy We would not expect Jāḥiẓ to have found a following as a theologian, and indeed: when Ibn al-Nadīm says of Ḥasan b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Ibn Khallād alRāmhurmuzī (d. ca. 360/970) that he followed the method (ṭarīqa) of Jāḥiẓ, he appears to be referring to his literary style. No theological texts by him

58  Cf. the material collected by W. al-Qāḍī in: SI 78/1993/54f. under this aspect. 59   Ḥayawān I 219, 2ff., and 220, 7f.; similar ibid. I 174, 13f. Cf. also the passage translated by Nagel, Rechtleitung 156. 60   Ṣināʿat al-kalām in: Rasāʾil IV 245, –5ff.; cf. also Heinen in: Der Islam 55/1978/64. 61  Ibid. 248, –7ff.; also Erkenntnislehre 274f. and Heinen 65ff. 62   Tarbīʿ 7ff. § 5ff./transl. Adad in: Arabica 13/1966/275ff. 63   Ṣināʿat al-kalām in: Rasāʾil IV 250, 4ff.; a praise of kalām also in the Risāla fī nafy al-tashbīh (Rasāʾil I 285, 5ff.). 64   Ḥayawān II 134, –5ff.; transl. Heinen, ibid. 60f. Cf. also van Vloten, Ein arabischer Naturphilosoph im 9. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart 1918). 65  See vol. III 332 above; regarding criticism ibid. 419, and Catalogue of Works no. 20. 66   Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa in: Rasāʾil III 253, 8ff. 67  Nashwān, Ḥūr 216, ult. ff., after K. al-akhbār. 68  Goldziher, Ẓâhiriten 101.

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were transmitted; he was a traditionist.1 Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā b. Sulaymān alMarwazī (d. 18 Shawwāl 298/19 June 911 at nearly 90 years of age) was another of the ahl al-ḥadīth; the author of the ʿUyūn wal-ḥadāʾiq called him ṣāḥib al-Jāḥiẓ.2 Jāḥiẓ did have some influence on Ibn Abī Duwād and his son Abū l-Walīd, but here we are looking at commissions rather than a teacher – pupil relationship.3 One of Abū l-Walīd’s sons, however, Abū Muḍar al-Walīd b. Muḥammad studied directly under Jāḥiẓ,4 but he was essentially a jurist and even quoted Ibn Ḥanbal and Ibn Rāhōya in a work on ikhtilāf.5 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār reports that Jāḥiẓ’ and Jubbāʾī’s followers quarrelled regarding the degree to which shooting stars should be understood as miraculous signs.6 Naẓẓām had already expressed an opinion on the question;7 maybe we are looking at theologians of the fourth century who were referring to him via Jāḥiẓ. We must beware of the legend of a Jāḥiẓ school in Spain, which is repeated to this day in secondary sources from time to time.8 It was the invention of AsínPalacios, whose study on Ibn Masarra linked certain passages in Ibn al-Faraḍī and found willing believers.9 However, his construction remains hypothetical at the decisive point. We learn that Abū Bakr Faraj10 b. Salām, a man of letters from Cordoba who practised as a physician among other things, visited Jāḥiẓ – presumably in Basra – during an educational journey to the east. He brought the K. al-bayān wal-tabyīn and others of his books home with him.11 Some decades later some further texts became known, together with the works of Ibn Qutayba. These were introduced by a certain Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. Aḥmad (b. Aḥmad) b. Hārūn who had travelled from Baghdad and whom 1    Fihrist 172, 11f.; regarding him GAS 1/193f., and especially A. Qureshi in the introduction to her edition of his K. amthāl al-ḥadīth (Hyderabad, Pakistan 1388/1968 = PhD thesis Bonn 1959). 2    ʿUyūn IV 156, 9ff. Saʿīdī. The name has been corrected in accordance with TB III 422f. no. 1555, where there is no reference to a connection to Jāḥiẓ. 3   Vol. III 504ff. above. 4    Faḍl 302, 3. 5   Cf. vol. III 542f. above. That he ‘moved closer to the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth’ for this reason, as I said, may be asserting too much, as he was a trusty Muʿtazilite otherwise. In a work on ikhtilāf it was part of the craft to present voices from the opposite side as well. 6    Tathbīt 78, 2ff. 7   See vol. III 26f. and 445f. above. 8   Especially in Cruz Hernández, Filosofia arabe 148f.; also G. Hourani in: SI 32/1970/146. 9    Obras escogidas I 27f. and 179/Engl. transl. 20f. and 151. 10  [Sic!] Asín has Fārij, which was adopted by Cruz Hernández and Hourani; the name is corrected in the English edition. 11  Ibn al-Faraḍī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-ʿulamāʾ I 393 no. 1037.

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several of his Andalusian fellow-believers believed to be a spy.12 While visitors from the east were a rare delight indeed, there may well have been some truth in the suspicions, as he became a high-ranking government official under the first Fatimids in the Maghrib. Under the mahdī ʿAbdallāh he led the dīwān alkashf in 298/910 and two years later the dīwān al-barīd, precisely the secret service, and may have lived until after 334/946.13 In Spain, Aḥmad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥabībī (d. 333/944), member of a well-known Marwānid family and descendant of Walīd I, had received Jāḥiẓ’ works from him.14 Asín regards all three as Muʿtazilites, but there is no reference to it in the sources. They are more likely to have been men of letters; someone whose repertoire included Jāḥiẓ as well as Ibn Qutayba could hardly have been a strict Muʿtazilite. Of course people got to know Muʿtazilite thought in Jāḥiẓ’ works, and maybe they learnt about individual points of Muʿtazilite theology, but it was easy to read past these. It is even more impossible that anyone would have been capable of distinguishing between individual Muʿtazilite schools. The physician Faraj b. Salām may have felt attracted by Jāḥiẓ’ interest in scientific and medical matters, but in all probability the main attraction was Jāḥiẓ’ style.15 Ibn al-Faraḍī names the ‘Fatimid spy’ as Aḥmad b. Muḥammad rather than Muḥammad b. Aḥmad; Ibn al-Abbār notes this without being able to decide the matter. Elsewhere we frequently see the short version Abū Jaʿfar al-Baghdādī (thus Ibn ʿIdhārī 162, 10, and Ibn Ḥajar, Rafʿ al-iṣr 74, 9ff.). Muḥammad al-Yamānī’s Sīrat al-ḥājib Jaʿfar (ed. Ivanov in: Bull. Fac. Arts Cairo 4/1936/132, 6ff.), however, confirms the sequence selected by Ibn al-Abbār. In the same place we also read that he was still greatly esteemed under the third Fatimid al-Manṣūr; this is the source of the 12  Ibid. I 74f. no. 201. 13  Cf. Ibn al-Abbār, Takmila 670 no. 1706 after ʿArīb b. Saʿd al-Qurṭubī. Ibn ʿIdhārī, Bayān I 163, 6ff. is based on the same source. Colin/Lévi-Provençal; cf. also ibid. 162, 10, and 169, 14f. 14  Regarding him Ibn al-Faraḍī I 45 no. 106; Ḥumaydī, Jadhwat al-muqtabis 119 no. 220; Ḍabbī, Bughyat al-multamis 184 b no. 421. The English translation of Asín’s book tantalisingly has Ghālib I instead of Walīd I. Regarding his family cf. Terés in: Andalus 35/1970/95ff.; regarding him personally esp. p. 103. Considering the chronology it seems doubtful that he could have studied under Faraj b. Salām, as Ibn al-Faraḍī claims (I 393, 5, with the name misspelt). His connection with Abū Jaʿfar al-Baghdādī is confirmed ibid. I 75, 1 (once again with the name misspelt). 15  Pellat also arrived at this conclusion (in: Andalus 21/1956/277ff., esp. p. 281 and 284; after him Fierro, Heterodoxía 92). Abū Jaʿfar al-Baghdādī probably transmitted those texts that were most closely related to his own profession: Jāḥiẓ’ K. al-bayān wal-tabyīn and Ibn Qutayba’s K. adab. al-kātib.

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abovementioned terminus post quem for his death. His position of trust under the mahdī ʿAbdallāh is emphasised in another early source, the Riyāḍ al-nufūs of ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad al-Mālikī (2II 58, apu., and 59, 5)’ he organised the ceremony after his death (ibid. 172, 7). He had left Baghdad because he had to flee from ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā (Sīrat al-ḥājib 132, 14f.); he had probably become embroiled in the partisan struggle as a young official. In Muʿtaḍid’s later years and during the caliphate of his successor alMuktafī (289/902–295/908) this would lead to the Banū l-Furāt, who were known for their Shīʿite sympathies, and the Banū l-Jarrāḥ, of whom ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā was a member, fighting over the viziership. Considering these dates it seems doubtful that he would have heard Ibn Qutayba’s works from the author himself, as the anecdote from Ibn Ḥajar cited above seems to presume (Rafʿ al-iṣr 74, 10); Ibn Qutayba died in 276/889. Later, his works would be transmitted westward especially by his son Aḥmad (cf. Lecomte in: Etudes Lévi-Provençal I 165ff., and in EI2 III 845 a); but Abū Jaʿfar does not seem to have had a high opinion of him (Ibn Ḥajar, ibid.). Regarding Abū Jaʿfar cf. also Wüstenfeld, Geschichte der Fāṭimidenkalifen 43; Makki in: RIEEM 2/1954, Arab. section/113f.; Fierro, Heterodoxía en al-Andalus 118f.; Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi 156f. and 248. 4.2.4.2 Abū ʿAffān al-Raqqī In Jāḥiẓ’ environment,1 although not too close to him as regards doctrine, we meet a theologian from the Jazira: Abū ʿAffān ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Muslim al-Raqqī.2 As we have seen, he conducted discussions with Iskāfī in the presence of Ibn Abī Duwād.3 In a polemical pamphlet he asserted that Burghūth was equal to heretics (mulḥidūn).4 He cannot have been much younger than Jāḥiẓ, who does not mention him at all. Ibn al-Rēwandī regarded him as one of Naẓẓām’s pupils;5 Ibn al-Murtaḍā even gives him the nisba al-Naẓẓāmī.6 Like him he still argued with the Manichaeans. He proved that if the cause of the mixture was eternal, the mixture itself had to be eternal as well, committing them to the 1  Thus according to Khayyāṭ, Intiṣār 27, 12f. 2  Thus according to Intiṣār 27, 9f. (Aʿsam 110 no. 15/transl. 177), and Fihrist, ed. Fück in: ZDMG 90/1936/309, 11ff.; Tajaddud reads Fāriqī based on the same MS (220, apu.). 3  P. 88 above. Regarding a further debate with Iskāfī see p. 99 above. 4  K. ʿalā Burghūth fī l-musāwāt baynahū wa-bayna l-mulḥidīn (Fihrist 220. pu.). 5  Intiṣār 27, 9. 6  Ṭab. 78, 9.

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doctrine of the eternal duration of the world. Ibn al-Rēwandī expressed surprise that he did not draw the same conclusion for himself; like Naẓẓām, Abū ʿAffān probably regarded God as the cause of the world insofar as he created the ingredients and elements that would be mixed – but at a point in time he determined himself.7 As a jurist he rejected the conclusion by analogy; we have seen that this led him to a very narrow definition of the prohibition of pork and also of pederasty.8 4.2.4.3 Zurqān As the last one we should mention a Muʿtazilite who probably made a name for himself as a doxographer: Abū Yaʿlā Muḥammad b. Shaddād b. ʿĪsā al-Mismaʿī, called Zurqān, pupil of both Abū l-Hudhayl1 and Naẓẓām,2 who died in 278/8913 or 279/892.4 He appears to have lived to a great old age as he was thought to be the last transmitter from Yaḥyā b. Saʿīd al-Qaṭṭān (d. 197/812).5 He is documented during al-Wāthiq’s time; he debated with Yaḥyā b. Kāmil, who followed Bishr b. al-Marīsī’s teachings, in the caliph’s presence.6 He was also friends with Ibn Abī Duwād7 and with the physician Ibn Māsawayh (d. 243/857).8 Jāḥiẓ names him in his K. al-ḥayawān which he completed before 232.9 He may well still have been active at court under al-Mutawakkil,10 but after that his trail went cold. The well-known Baghdad traditionist Abū Bakr al-Shāfiʿī (260/874–354/965)11 7    Intiṣār 27, 9f. 8    Agh. IX 251, 19f.; Fihrist 202, 3, and 205, 1f. 1    Agh. IX 251, 19f.; Fihrist 202, 3, and 205, 1f. 2   Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 395, 15; Faḍl 285, apu. > IM 78, 10. 3   Thus according to Abū Bakr al-Barqānī, teacher of Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, in TB V 353, 14f.; adopted by Dhahabī, Mīzān no. 7665 > Ṣafadī, Wāfī III 149, 2, and Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān V 199, 3f. Samʿānī, who based Ansāb XII 263ff. no. 3793 on TB, misread 278 as 298 (264, 8f.). 4    T B V 353, 15ff. after another source. Yāqūt has both variants, but misread as 208 and 209 (Muʿjam al-buldān s. v. Masāmiʿa). Minorsky is sceptical regarding the transmitted dates (Marvazī on China 128), but he is not familiar with all sources. 5   Ṣafadī III 149, 1. Dhahabī calls him shaykh muʿammar (Siyar XIII 148, apu.). 6    I M 78, 13ff. after Khayyāṭ. Regarding Yaḥyā b. Kāmil see p. 196f. below. 7    Agh. IX 251, ult.; Majlisī, Biḥār L 5ff. no. 7, with an account on the ninth imām. 8   Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Al-ajwiba al-muskita 45 no. 264 > Ābī, Nathr al-durr VII 403, 8ff.; also Marzolph, Arabia ridens II 64 no. 248. 9    Ḥayawān III 204, 6ff. 10  A certain Zurqān was the deputy inspector of gatekeepers at the time (Ṭabarī III 1461, 4). 11  Regarding him GAS 1/191.

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heard hadith from him as one of his last pupils.12 We gain the impression that Zurqān’s focus shifted entirely to hadith during his later years. While his Sunni pupil was said to have expressed doubt as to his competence,13 he appears to have enjoyed great esteem in his lifetime. It may have helped that he had at least a portion of his material imported from Basra; this made him an important intermediary. His clan, the Masāmiʿa, descendants of one Mismaʿ b. Shihāb of the Bakr b. Wāʾil,14 inhabited its own quarter in Basra.15 His Basran teachers are listed in Ta‌ʾrīkh Baghdād. Among them we find Abū ʿĀṣim al-Nabīl, who died in 212/828 (regarding him EI2, Suppl. 17f., and vol. II 704 above). The philologist Mufaḍḍal b. Salama (d. ca. 290/903) also transmitted from him (Qifṭī, Inbāh III 305, 16). Regarding Zurqān cf. also Brentjes, Imamatslehren 11, n. 1; Mohaghegh, Failasūf-i Raiy 36ff.; Monnot, Penseurs musulmans 58ff. He moved closer to the aṣḥāb alḥadīth when he assumed that there would not be an eternal punishment in hell for Muslims (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid 125, –8f., where the name is misread). Ibn al-Nadīm mentions a K. al-makhlūq from among his theological writings,16 but it was his K. al-maqālāt that endured;17 it was consulted not only by Maqdisī and Ashʿarī but also by Īrānshahrī.18 The material appears to have been classified according to subject areas rather than people where the Muʿtazila was concerned,19 but the book included sections on the Murjiʾa, the Khārijites etc. as well.20 Concerning the Shīʿa Zurqān used the same source

12   T H 602, 15f.; also TB V 456, 15. 13   T B V 353, 11f. 14  Regarding him Caskel, Jamhara II 409. 15  Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān s. v. Masāmiʿa; Ṣ. A. al-ʿAlī, Khiṭaṭ al-Baṣra 92f.; Crone in EI2 VI 640 s. v. Masāmiʿa. See also vol. II 68 and 137 above. 16   Fihrist 205, 2; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār mentions further books (Faḍl 285, apu.). 17  Mentioned Fihrist, ibid., and Faḍl, ibid. > IM 78, 10. 18  Pines, Atomenlehre 35. For Ashʿarī, where we find the great majority of the quotations, cf. the index of his Maqālāt s. n. Zurqān. Īrānshahrī was older, documented in Nishapur in 259/873 (Mohaghegh 17). Thanks to him the text may have been more influential in Iran, as Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī used it (Tabṣirat al-adilla 828, ult.), as did the Ismāʿīlite Abū Tammām in his K. al-shajara (cf. P. Walker in: F. Daftary [ed.], Medieval History and Thought, Cambridge 1996, p. 177). 19  This can be inferred from quotations in which several theologians are named in the context of one and the same topic (e.g. Maq. 339, 1f.; 436, 10ff.; 511, 7ff.; 594, 14ff.). 20   Maq. 476, 12f.; 94, 3ff.; 125, 11f.

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Nawbakhtī consulted for his Firaq, probably a work by Hishām b. al-Ḥakam.21 He was remarkable in that he was interested in doctrines from beyond Islam as well. He discussed Aristotle and the views of the scholars of Ḥarrān;22 he drew on an ambassador’s report addressed to Yaḥyā b. Khālid al-Barmakī for information on the ideas of the Indians and the ‘Sumaniyya’, a course of action Bīrūnī criticised in conversation with his teacher Īrānshahrī.23 The Fihrist tells us of the book by a certain Mismaʿī against the supporters of eternal matter (aṣḥāb al-hayūlā), which was refuted by Rāzī (358, 7f.; also Bīrūnī, Fihrist kutub al-Rāzī 9 no. 58). Mohaghegh believed this one to be the same as Zurqān as well (Failasūf-i Raiy 36). This might be supported by the fact that the same text was already criticised by Muḥammad b. al-Yamān al-Samarqandī, who died in 268/881 (see vol. II 634 above). However, another possibility is Zurqān’s nephew Aḥmad b. al-Ḥasan b. Sahl al-Mismaʿī, whose book against the dualists was consulted by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Monnot, Penseurs 56f., and Pines, Atomenlehre 34, n. 2; cf. the quotations vol. I 512 and 518 as well as II 16 and 38f. above). Masʿūdī lists him among the authors of Maqālāt works who were still influential during his time (Tanbīh 396, 3f.). Ibn ʿAsākir cites a K. maʿrifat mā yaḥtāju l-mulūk ilā maʿrifatihī fī uṣūl al-dīn wa-aqāwīl firaq al-umma (TD, Facs. XIV 316, 24f.). It was probably written at a ruler’s request. Regarding another Mismaʿī who was a well-known theologian in Basra see vol. II 137 above.

21  Madelung, Qāsim 63, n. 127; cf. vol. I 442 above. Ashʿarī preserved a wealth of material from Zurqān especially concerning Hishām b. al-Ḥakam himself (see vol. V 77, 80, 84–87, 91, 93, 95 [of the German edition]). 22  Maqdisī, Badʿ I 140, 8ff., and 143, 9f. (= 146, 9f.). 23   Taḥqīq mā lil-Hind 5, 3f./transl. 7; also Minorsky, Marvazī on China 128, and B. Lawrence, Shahrastānī on the Indian Religions 23ff.

chapter 5

Theologians on the Periphery of the Muʿtazila The case of Aḥmad b. al-Muʿadhdhal1 has shown that someone might be classed as a Muʿtazilite without conforming completely to the picture people, and the Muʿtazilites themselves, had of the Muʿtazila. Characteristically, he was ignored by the Muʿtazilite biographical literature. As we have seen, the case of Ḍirār b. ʿAmr had been similar. As long as the Muʿtazila dominated the field of theology, its borders were fluid in the eyes of observers; people had got used to there being theologians on the margins who disagreed in certain points. In the third century we can distinguish three groups, all of whom hark back to the past and are consequently not entirely unknown to us as regards their orientation: a) the so-called ‘Murjiʾites’, thinkers in the mould of Abū Shamir or Muways b. ʿImrān, who rejected the eternal punishment in hell for Muslims; b) synergists following in the footsteps of Ḍirār, and c) moderate Khārijites, who went their own ways in politics but were otherwise surprisingly close to the second group. The sources regarding them all are exceedingly sparse.

1  P. 59ff. above.

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5.1 ‘Murjiʾites’ Like Abū Shamir,1 the Murjiʾites of whom we shall speak now had their spiritual home in Basra, not in Kufa. They were no jurists like Abū Ḥanīfa; they were theologians who increasingly benefited from the discourse with the Basran Muʿtazila. At the same time they offered an alternative due to their liberality in the question of waʿīd and consequently their image of God. Zurqān was close to them in this point.2

1  Regarding him see vol. II 200ff. above. 2  See p. 137 above; he is never, however, called a Murjiʾite.

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5.1.1 Muḥammad b. Shabīb After Muways b. ʿImrān, who was executed under Ma‌ʾmūn,1 the first one to become tangible is Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh Ibn Shabīb al-Baṣrī.2 We owe this to a number of coincidences. Māturīdī used one of his books, probably his K. al-tawḥīd, extensively.3 He seems to have crossed the path of the Jewish theologian Dāwūd al-Muqammiṣ from Raqqa in Damascus. In his ʿIshrūn maqāla he latter mentions one [Ibn] Shabīb al-Baṣrī whom he claims to have embarrassed thoroughly in a debate, describing him not only as a well-known theologian (which he would have done in any case to emphasise his own achievement) but also, and we would not know this otherwise, as an ascetic.4 Jāḥiẓ made sure to mention him because he had a speech impediment: he did not roll the r but pronounced an uvular sound.5 Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir and Iskāfī criticised him for his Murjiʾite deviation,6 but that is all. He does not seem to have visited Baghdad at all. When we read that theologians met in his circle (majlis),7 this probably refers to Basra. He was respected as a doxographer.8 While he does not seem to have composed a separate Maqālāt work, he loved referring to other doctrines within a systematic context. It is possible that he prefaced his thoughts with an overview of the status quaestionis each time, like Aristotle was wont to do. When he spoke of the irjāʾ, he seems to have based his definition of the belief on Basran tradition, as Ashʿarī adopted some of his information about the Ghaylāniyya and Abū Shamir.9 This would explain why the information in the Maqālāt alIslāmiyyīn is arranged according to a consistent scheme and uses the same language throughout.10 The K. al-tawḥīd, in which he explored in detail the

1   See vol. III 206 above. 2   The complete name is found only once, hidden away in Shahrastānī (102, 5/253, 6); it lists Ibn Shabīb and other Murjiʾites incorrectly among the Khārijites. It seems highly improbable that he might have been a grandson of Shabīb b. Shayba (see vol. II 278f. above). 3   More detail below. 4   Text XXXI 20. 5    Bayān I 15, 15f., and 32, 12ff.; also Meier in: Fs. Singer 98 and 102. 6   Catalogue of Works XXXI a, no. 2–3. 7    Faḍl 279, 12. 8   Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 395, pu. 9   Text II 17, i, and 15, d. 10  See vol. II 200 above and vol. V 32 (of the German edition). The information about Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī, who was considerably younger (see p. 152ff. below), follows the same

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Dahrites and Dualists who believed in the eternal duration of the world,11 was reason enough to report not only their doctrine,12 but also those of Ṣābians,13 Christians,14 Aristotle,15 and apparently also the ‘sophists’, i.e. the sceptics.16 The account of the Manichaeans in Māturīdī 171, 8ff., immediately after the brief notice on the Ṣābians (see n. 13 above), could have been adopted from Ibn Shabīb as well (cf. vol. I 422, n. 32 above). This is probably also true of the preceding passage on the Marcionites (171, 2ff.), as Shahrastānī quotes from it under his name (196, 4–6/645, 10ff.), although he mistakenly refers to the Dayṣāniyya instead of the Marcionites (cf. Madelung in: Festschrift Spuler 219, n. 31). U. Rudolph suggests an even wider framework, presuming that Ibn Shabīb’s book was the source of Māturīdī’s book of the same title, and that the latter explores it in particular in sections 110, 8–176, 5, and 210, 11–215, 3 (Al-Māturīdī und die sunnitische Theologie in Samarkand 261f.). In that case it would have been an extensive work and perhaps the first summa known to us (see p. 805 below). It is possible that Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir and Iskāfī, too, when they wrote against him, did not refer to separate texts, as I assumed in vol. VI 338 [of the German edition], but only sections from the K. al-tawḥīd, namely those discussing the controversial issues such as the irjāʾ and the doctrine of the eternal punishments of hell (waʿīd). The title of the two refutations, Naqḍ kitāb Ibn Shabīb fī l-irjāʾ and Naqḍ kitāb Ibn Shabīb fī l-waʿīd allows both interpretations; either they criticise ‘Ibn Shabīb’s book’ with reference to the discussions of irjāʾ and waʿīd, or they criticise one book on irjāʾ and another one on waʿīd. If the former, we must assume that Ibn Shabīb wrote one book only, namely the K. al-tawḥīd. Māturīdī regarded Ibn Shabīb as a Muʿtazilite.17 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, too, accorded him a place in his Ṭabaqāt. He tried to convey the impression that Ibn Shabīb’s irjāʾ was a purely academic matter, and that when his Muʿtazilite scheme. ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān might have adopted the material and added to it (see vol. VI 237 [of the German edition] with regard to Text II 17, i). 11  Text 1–8, and 10. Text 10, r makes clear that he had the Dualists in his sights, among others. 12  Māturīdī, Tawḥīd 141, 9; also Abū ʿAmmār, Mūjaz II 185, apu. f., with a Dahrite argument against the Islamic doctrine of the attributes. 13  Māturīdī 7 ,171f. 14  Ibid. 210, 18f. 15  Ibid. 149, ult. ff. 16  Text 13, which also comes from Māturīdī. 17   Tawḥīd 131, 11.

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friends criticised it, he apologised by saying that he really only explored the subject for their sake, in order to clarify the position. If he had been writing for others, he would have emphasised the common ground more.18 This does not alter the fact that he was quite distinct from them. His definition of faith does not take human action into account; speaking, as was to be expected from a Murjiʾite, of knowledge and profession only.19 A grave sinner had to be called a fāsiq: Abū Shamir had already stated that; but neither he nor Ibn Shabīb regarded him as fāsiq in the Muʿtazilite sense, as he remains a believer.20 Ibn Shabīb did not recognise the manzila bayna l-manzilatayn.21 Consequently God cannot condemn the fāsiq for eternity – or rather, there is reasonable hope that he will not do so.22 There is no certainty on this count; one must rely on the Quran, and that is not entirely clear here. This addressed the hermeneutic aspect that the Murjiʾite Muways b. ʿImrān had already discussed: determining generic and specific assertions,23 although Ibn Shabīb emphasised the moment of uncertainty more strongly. The usage shows that even sentences formulated in a generic way can be interpreted as having a specific referent.24 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār turned this into the theorem that there was no linguistic indicator by means of which assertions could be proven to be universally applicable.25 This is probably an exaggeration; it sounds as if Ibn Shabīb had not read Aristotle properly. He had in mind not so much words such as ‘everyone’ etc., but rather the generalising relative pronouns that often introduce Quranic statements; on can never be entirely sure of their actual application.26 It is consequently advisable to interpret the threatening verses first and foremost paraenetically.27 If one tries to determine to whom precisely they refer, the only conclusion one can arrive at without methodological concerns is that they always address those humans who have incurred the heaviest guilt.28 It would later be added that this means those who deliberately ignored the commandments. But who can assure us that God will look only to them?29 18   Faḍl 279, 13ff. > IM 71, 10f. 19  Text 21, a–b. 20  Ibid., i; also Text II 17, h. 21   Intiṣār 93, 5ff., once again with Abū Shamir. 22  Text II 18 and 34. 23  See vol. III 208f. above, also 286 and 422f., and p. 47 above as well as 344 and 720 below. 24  Text 23, a. 25  Text 24, d. 26  Text 23, c. 27  Text 24, e. 28  Text 23, e. 29  Al-Manṣūr billāh, Shāfī I 134, –5.

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Texts 23 and 24 regard the facts from differing perspectives. Ashʿarī (Text 23) appears to summarise the original problem more accurately, while Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Text 24) attempts to consider it abstractly and commit Ibn Shabīb to a general theory which he may not, in fact, have believed in. This was a consequence of the systematisation undertaken in the uṣūl al-fiqh. What Ibn Shabīb had said could be listed under the heading of takhṣīṣ muḍmar, the unsaid specification. Jubbāʾī had already limited him to this term and then tried to refute him by pointing out that he did not accept the unsaid istithnāʾ, either (Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XVII 55, 18ff., and earlier 54, 8f., and 55, 15f.). Regarding the question cf. also Shehaby (after Jaṣṣāṣ) in: The Cultural Context of Medieval Learning 72ff. Those who called Ibn Shabīb a Murjiʾite30 thus did so with good reason. Khayyāṭ thought the Muʿtazila would do just fine without him.31 Shaykh alMufīd, on the other hand, remarked that Ibn Shabīb’s deviations were not regarded as sin from the Muʿtazilite side.32 After all, he had not even ruled out that Muslims might be condemned for eternity.33 He did not believe in the prophet’s intercession (shafāʿa).34 His definition of faith was rigorous, even though it did not include actions: someone omitting even one of its elements would lapse into unbelief.35 Abū Shamir had already proposed a number of these ideas. He, too, had allowed God complete freedom to decide whom he wanted to punish for all eternity, and whom he wanted to spare;36 and he had already believed that God’s justice was expressed in his not treating every human different at will.37 He had also spoken of the elements of faith and insisted that all of them had to be present for someone to be a believer.38 It seems that Ibn Shabīb came across Abū Shamir’s theology in the version revised by Yūnus who demonstrated it using the example of Satan: Satan recognised God but neglected another essential element of faith, namely 30  Thus e.g. Ashʿarī in Text 21; Baghdādī, Farq 19, 3; Ibn Ḥazm in Text II 34; Pazdawī, Uṣūl aldīn 252, 12. 31   Intiṣār 93, 11f. 32   Awāʾil al-maqālāt 16, 3ff./transl. Sourdel 261; also McDermott, Theology 246. 33  See above; noted in Mufīd, Awāʾil 14, 4/transl. Sourdel 258f. § 9 (also McDermott 251); Baghdādī, Farq 96, 11f./116, –8ff.; from the opposite perspective Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 242, 9ff. Different: Ibn Ḥazm in Text II 34. 34  Mufīd, Awāʾil 15, 2f./transl. Sourdel 259 § 10; also McDermott 254. 35  Text 21, f–g; more detailed in Text 22. 36  Ashʿarī makes this connection in Text II 18. 37  Cf. vol. II 202 above; regarding Ibn Shabīb cf. Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Sharḥ I, fol. 44 a. 38  Text II 17, d–f.

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humility.39 However, Ibn Shabīb was not part of this tradition only. He also studied under Naẓẓām40 and adopted his scientific view of the world. This can be inferred from the summaries Māturīdī provided for some of the systematic chapters of the K. al-tawḥīd. While they are brief and in places difficult to understand as they take the form of notes,41 they still convey why Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār thought it ‘an excellent book’.42 In it Ibn Shabīb evokes the Basran milieu with which Naẓẓām had to deal as well. The Dualists, who believed in the eternal duration of the world, are still reality to him; they inquire into the potential and the meaning of creation,43 and ask for an explanation of why God must be one.44 Ibn Shabīb responds entirely in keeping with Naẓẓām: the opposing forces we see at work in the world can only have been combined by one creator.45 Only by having a creator does the world have meaning: it was created to the benefit of humans.46 He knew that the opponents would ask trick questions to put God’s omnipotence into doubt: Could God fit the entire world into an egg? Can he create his equal?47 This may be the reason why Ibn Shabīb devoted a refutation to the sceptics (the ‘Sophists’); he is the first Islamic theologian from whom a detailed explanation of illusions has been transmitted.48 Especially when distinguishing between dream and reality he went beyond Ṣāliḥ Qubba.49 This shows clearly that he did not stop with mere emulation of Naẓẓām. He proved, as was the custom, the contingency and temporality of the world by 39  Cf. Text XXXI 21, d and II 22, c; also vol. II 210. This gives rise to the question of whether our source might be incorrectly attributing this doctrine to Ibn Shabīb (cf. Text 21, commentary); the chronology, too, is uncertain considering that we know pretty much nothing about Yūnus. Shahrastānī linked Ibn Shabīb to Abū Thawbān (Milal 106, 1/267, 3), but the passage does not betray much historical insight. 40  Masʿūdī calls him ṣāḥib al-Naẓẓām (Tanbīh 395, pu.); elsewhere he is even described as his ghulām (Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Al-ajwiba al-muskita 154 no. 912). 41  Concerning Māturīdī’s style cf. my remarks in: Oriens 27–28/1981/556f. 42  Catalogue of Works no. 1. Regarding the contents of the book cf. also Pessagno in: JAOS 104/1984/451. 43  Text 1, i, l, and m. 44  Text 2. 45  Text 1; 10, o–u; 13, k–q; esp. also 7, f, where the kumūn theory is implied; cf. vol. III 366f. above. tadākhul and mudākhala, on the other hand, are used only dialectically in 8, n. 46  Text 1, k; 4, d; 6, g. One should assume that the creator can be recognised through the world. Text 2, f, appears to contradict this, but it cannot be attributed with certainty in any case. 47  Text 5. Cf. vol. I 438 and III 97 above. 48  Text 13; regarding the corresponding modes of the sceptics (no. 4 and 5) cf. Annas/Barnes, The Modes of Scepticism 78ff. and 99ff. ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān was familiar with these arguments, too (see p. 47 above); but he should probably be dated later. 49  Text 13, r–w. Cf. vol. III 458ff. above.

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means of the alternation of rest and motion,50 but he prepared his own system to this end. Naẓẓām had only recognised motion as real: rest, being movement in one and the same place, is iʿtimād.51 Ibn Shabīb regarded rest and motion as separate states of being in space (akwān);52 they are both distinct from the body on which they manifest themselves.53 Consequently the body is neither at rest or in motion at the moment of its creation;54 afterwards, however, it is always in either one or the other of these states of being.55 All this is indebted to Abū l-Hudhayl to some degree, although it differs from his model in some nuances.56 Iʿtimād and forward motion are not separate, as they were in Naẓẓām’s model, but two aspects of the same process: the act of motion generated by the iʿtimād of an originally resting body is only named as such once it is over, i.e. when the body has reached the next point. This, however, is a purely linguistic convention and is not connected to the analysis of the process.57 Just as the movement is composed of individual acts of motion, so rest is composed of individual moments of rest; neither has permanence.58 This explains why they keep changing as to their substrate: they are accidents. Time is generated only as a corollary of creation; Ibn Shabīb probably saw it as tied to motion. Consequently one must not ask why God did not create the world at an earlier time;59 even though it might well have been created earlier.60 Most importantly, God could have created an infinite number of worlds exactly like this one; Naẓẓām had believed this, too.61 Like Naẓẓām Ibn Shabīb also believed that the created things continue to exist out of their own essence; they do not need a particular accident.62 Such an accident is needed, however, when they perish: it enters into them and brings about their decay.63 In this 50  Text 8. 51  See vol. III 351ff. above. 52  Text 9, a–b. 53  Proved with regard to rest in Text 10; asserted for both in 10, h. Cf. also Text 8, h and l–o. 54  Text 8, q (albeit after Māturīdī only); concerning rest also Text 10, c. 55  Text 10, i–m. 56  Cf. Text XXI 29, b, and 23, e; also vol. III 252f. above. Daiber’s interpretation, which is fixated on Naẓẓām (Muʿammar 306) appears to me to be missing the evidence of the text. 57  Text 8, e, and 9, c–e (which probably goes back to the original summarised in 8, e). 58  Text 11. 59  Text 1, l–m. 60  Text 6, a–b. 61  Ibid.; regarding Naẓẓām see vol. III 439 above. Jāḥiẓ shared this view (Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 195, 2ff. after his K. al-burhān); similar also Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir (see vol. III 135f. above). 62  Text 10, t; also Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 42, 16f. 63  Text 14–17. Ibn Mattōya presumes (Text 17) that he must have assumed that this accident would previously be lā fī maḥall, but this is not necessarily the case. Regarding the context see also Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 540f.

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way Ibn Shabīb was probably trying to avoid the consequence Jāḥiẓ had drawn from Naẓẓām’s approach: namely that the components of bodies continue to exist for eternity.64 Otherwise he would have pulled the rug from under the feet of his own criticism of the Dahriyya. However, by treating existence and perishing differently, he disturbed the symmetry of his system. We have little knowledge of Ibn Shabīb’s image of God. He distinguished between attribute of essence and attributes of act,65 defining the former by means of negative theology.66 He interpreted God’s omnipresence to mean that he is ‘within’ all things as the guide of the world,67 but these are general statements which were not new any more by that time; and we lack the details that would tell us whether he was closer to Abū l-Hudhayl or to Naẓẓām. This is also true of his use of the term aṣlaḥ,68 where, however, it is noticeable that he does not engage with Naẓẓām’s theory that God did not have the power of doing anything bad.69 On the other hand he appears to have exaggerated this optimism to the point that there was no evil in the true sense of the word. All actions are good, because they ultimately result in something good. If someone suffers terrible affliction, he will be rewarded in the otherworld; the person who caused the suffering at the same time gains the opportunity to repent. We speak of ‘evil’ and ‘bad’, but what we are referring to is pain, and pain is ultimately a good thing.70 This sounds open to challenge in this form; our only source is an opponent’s account, from memory, of a disputatio, and well might we ask whether it records Ibn Shabīb’s ideas correctly. We are required, furthermore, to emend his name71 – we are not even sure that he was the person expressing those ideas.72 If he was indeed the one, then he would have emphasised the theodicy to a degree rarely found in the Muʿtazila.73 This would be all 64  See p. 125 above. 65  Text 22. 66  Text 18, c. 67  Text 3, a–c. 68  Text 1, m, and 4, d. 69  Text 19. The explanation uses Naẓẓām’s term of āfa ‘detraction’, but sounds more like Abū l-Hudhayl overall. 70  Text 20. 71  See p. 141 above. 72  In a second place the name is completely misspelt (Dāwūd al-Muqammiṣ, ʿIshrūn maqāla 251, with n. 88 and 89; noted by Vajda in: Oriens 15/1962/68, n. 1). The text is altogether not without difficulty. 73  Qāsim al-Dimashqī came closest, who was probably his approximate contemporary as well (see p. 267 below); in fact, the disputatio took place in Damascus. A similar tendency may also be observed with ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān (see p. 38 above), but he was considerably younger. Regarding Jāḥiẓ see p. 127 above.

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the more astonishing as he continued to hold human actions entirely within the responsibility of the human; like the Muʿtazilites he proved free will by pointing out that the capacity to act existed long before the action itself.74 He was furthermore one of those who, like Shaḥḥām, embraced the theory of the jihāt al-fiʿl (see p. 57 above; also Text XXI 84, b, and Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī VIII 275, 16ff.); this, too, shows him firmly rooted in Muʿtazilite thought. – Regarding his doctrine of the prophetic miracles cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 511, 11ff. – Some more details are found in the works of the Ismāʿīlite heresiographer P. Walker brought to public notice in JAOS 114/1994/343ff., according to which Ibn Shabīb was a firm supporter of the imāmat al-fāḍil; someone who is not the best candidate at the moment of the election can never be the ruler. After all, the prophet had made it quite clear that he wished Abū Bakr to become his successor, not ʿAlī. This is of course the perfect attitude for someone teaching in Basra.

74  Text 6, c, and II 35.

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5.1.2 Other ‘Murjiʾite’ Theologians of the Same Generation Unless we are very much mistaken Ibn Shabīb died in the 230s. It was probably around the same time that Yaḥyā b. Bishr al-Arrajānī, Abū l-Hudhayl’s pupil,1 debated with another ‘Murjiʾite’ whom he claimed to have converted to the true Muʿtazilite faith in his old age: Abū Saʿīd Aḥmad b. Saʿīd Al-Asadī al-Bāsbānī (?).2 He was above all a jurist and traditionist. As Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār put it, he had ‘the same isnād as Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir’, which means that he had probably studied under the same teacher, although he also transmitted traditions from Ḥasan al-Baṣrī and Ibn ʿAbbās that were not available from Ibn Mubashshir. He was the author of a K. sharḥ al-ḥadīth. He was in favour of emending the morning prayer with additions (so-called qunūt), and collected traditions that might be used in this way, interpreting them where necessary. He was no friend of the anthropomorphists, which was why his relaxed approach to the question of waʿīd had been overlooked for a long time.3 – Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Karīm also occupied a position between Muʿtazila and Murjiʾa, but we only meet him in a note in the Fihrist.4 He composed a K. al-maʿrifa and a K. al-makhlūq ʿalā Burghūth. The latter title showed him to be a believer in free will, suggesting that he lived at the same time. – This is fairly certain in the case of Ḥumayd b. Saʿīd al-Bakhtiyār, under whose name Ibn al-Nadīm lists a number of book titles that identify him as a controversial theologian and opponent of the anthropomorphists as well 1  Regarding him see vol. III 314f. above. 2  Thus according to Ḥākim al-Jushamī, the MS of Faḍl al-Iʿtizāl has Bāsnānī. Is this nisba derived from Pers. pāsbān ‘guardsman’? Or ought we to read Bāsyānī or Bāsibyānī instead, after place-names in Khuzestan or eastern Iran (near Marv) mentioned by Yāqūt (Muʿjam al-buldān I 322a s. n.)? 3  Concerning all this cf. Faḍl 284, 6ff. > IM 79, 5ff. (abridged). Regarding qunūt cf. EI2 V 395; also my K. al-nakth 69, and Bashear in: JSAI 19/1995/36ff. Opinion was divided on it; concerning the Muʿtazilite view cf. Jāḥiẓ in his Risāla fī l-ḥakamayn § 12 (ed. Pellat in: Mashriq 52/1958/422). 4  P. 220. n., l. 14f. Might he have been a son of ʿAbd al-Karīm b. Rawḥ or ʿAbd al-Karīm b. Hishām, both of whom were Muʿtazilites (vol. II 478f. above)?

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as a supporter of the khalq al-Qurʾān.5 He is probably identical with Ḥumayd b. Saʿīd b. Ḥumayd b. Baḥr, introduced as a Muʿtazilite of Persian origin in K. alaghānī; he may well have Arabised his grandfather’s (?) name retrospectively.6 His son Abū ʿUthmān Saʿīd b. Ḥumayd was proud of his noble Iranian descent; he is documented as a secretary under Mustaʿīn (248/862–251/866) and made a name for himself as a poet.7 The father, probably also a high-ranking official, had not always fared so well. He had fallen out with Ibn Abī Duwād who, as we have seen, was a class-conscious Arab,8 and had consequently been persecuted as a Shuʿūbite and zindiq under Muʿtaṣim, remaining in prison until al-Wāthiq’s caliphate.9 This may explain why the Muʿtazilite ṭabaqāt works omit him altogether. He is also missing from Ashʿarī’s Maqālāt. He is the typical prolific author in theology who was clearly not original and certainly found no followers. Interestingly he named one of his Christian opponents by name in a book title: Īshōʿbukht, the Metropolitan of Fars, presumably a Nestorian (Catalogue of Works no. 13). Fück suggested (ZDMG 90/1936/313) that he might be identical with Īshōʿbukht of Rēvardashīr, an expert in philosophy – he wrote about categories and the concept of potentiality (cf. Baumstark, Geschichte der syrischen Literatur 215f.) – and who composed 5  Cf. Catalogue of Works XXXI b, also Fihrist 220, n., l. 9f.; also Ṣafadī, Wāfī XV 213, 12. 6  Saʿīd suggested itself as complement for Bakhtiyār. Consequently we should be prepared for the possibility that the component ‘ibn Bakhtiyār’ appears parallel with ‘ibn Saʿīd’ in the name (as in ‘ʿAlī b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya’), in which case it would have been the father who was called Bakhtiyār rather than the grandfather. Baḥr, too, might have been chosen for similarity with Bakhtiyār. Ibn Ḥajar noted the name twice in Lisān al-Mīzān, once as Ḥumayd b. Baḥr (II 362 no. 1478: after Aghānī) and once as Ḥumayd b. Saʿīd b. Bakhtiyār (II 364 no. 1490: after Fihrist). 7  Regarding him cf. Ritter, Geheimnisse der Wortkunst 229, n. 227, and Bencheikh in: JA 263/1975/308ff., each with a summary of the material; also GAS 2/583, and my Ṭailasān des Ibn Ḥarb 13, also Heinrichs in EI2 VIII 856. He supported free will; cf. the story recorded by Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Al-ajwiba al-muskita 146 no. 877 (where the correct reading is min al-mujbira rather than min al-muḥayyira). 8  See vol. III 523 and 561f. above. 9  Agh. XVIII 155, 5ff. The incident would take on a more concrete form if we, following a suggestion made by Fück (in ZDMG 90/1936/313), identifying him with the mutakallim Saʿīd b. Ḥumayd al-Bakhtakān. whom Ibn al-Nadīm lists among the kuttāb (p. 137, –6ff.), saying that he listed his theological texts elsewhere. He had composed a K. faḍl al-ʿAjam ʿalā l-ʿArab waftikhārihā. Ibn al-Nadīm may have accidentally switched the names as he discusses the son Saʿīd b. Ḥumayd shortly before (137, 13ff.). Heinrichs, on the other hand, believes the passage in the Fihrist to be correct and consequently regards the mutakallim named as an otherwise unknown namesake of the son.

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the Persian original of one of the Syrian law books that E. Sachau edited. However, he lived much earlier than Ḥumayd. He was ordained as archbishop by a Patriarch Ḥenānīshōʿ; this was either Ḥenānīshōʿ I, who held the office from 686–693 and again from 694–701, or Ḥenānīshōʿ II who ruled 775–779 (Syrische Rechtsbücher, vol. 3, p. ix, with reference to the note on p. 289). He would thus have begun his career either during ʿAbd al-Malik’s or during al-Mahdī’s caliphate. The Patriarch Timothy, who conducted the well-known religious debate with al-Mahdī (see vol. III 23f. above), had his book translated into Syriac (cf. the heading of the text, p. 3; also Putman, Timothée I, p. 62ff.). The last-named fact leads me to conclude, against Sachau and later secondary sources relying on him, that Īshōʿbukht lived during the Umayyad era; at that time he would have more of a reason to write a book for his community in Middle Persian. The author of K. al-dalāʾil wal-iʿtibār, which is attributed to Jāḥiẓ (see p. 235 below), mentions an Īshōʿbukht among his sources who was said to have lived during the Umayyad era (Gibb in: Goldziher Mem. Vol. I 154; Plessner, Turba Philosophorum 104). However, even if our metropolitan should have been ordained by Timothy’s immediate predecessor (thus Sachau, p. ix), we would have to ask why in that case Ḥumayd b. Saʿīd was interested in him at all? He was probably referring to someone else; the name Īshōʿbukht is not infrequent. – Īshōʿbukht’s law book also contains the oldest reference to the so-called Syro-Roman law book; regarding the status quaestionis see P. Crone, Roman, Provincial and Islamic Law 12 with n. 114–119.

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5.1.3 The Next Generation. Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī and Nāshiʾ Among the next generation we find Ibn Badad (?) al-Ghazzāl, whom Ibn Ḥazm mentioned as a pupil of Ibn Shabīb’s.1 He is not documented in other sources; Ibn Ḥazm did not know much about him, either. He counted him among the aṣḥāb al-aṣlaḥ and reported his argument explaining why God would never implement the proof of divine grace (luṭf ) by means of which he could lead the unbelievers to the faith. This sounds as if he regarded him as a Muʿtazilite; he does not mention the Murjiʾite tendencies Ibn Badad would certainly have adopted from Ibn Shabīb. – Abū l-Ḥusayn Muḥammad b. Muslim al-Ṣāliḥī was probably younger still. As he debated with Khayyāṭ,2 he really takes us beyond the period discussed here, but being a pupil of Ṣāliḥ Qubba’s – to whom he owed his nisba – he may still have a place here. He had a Basran education, but had come to Baghdad at some point during the pilgrimage and had presented his theological expertise there.3 He had taken part in disputations in the house of Abū Sahl al-Nawbakhtī (d. 311/924).4 We learn of a debate in which Ibn al-Rēwandī and Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥaḍrī were his opponents.5 Towards the end of his life he was said to have spent some time in Khorasan. The caliph appears to have recalled him to Baghdad to debate with a Christian who had come from Byzantium and believed in the eternal duration of the world. However, this tradition is more than suspicious for several reasons. He probably lived to the late third century. The text is preserved in ʿUmar al-Sakūnī’s (d. 717/1317) ʿUyūn al-munāẓarāt, which reproduces it after an older source (239f. § 322–324). It was clearly written with the aim of glorifying Ashʿarī, who remains as the victor in the end while Ṣāliḥī is defeated by the Christian, as are Kaʿbī and Jubbāʾī – the grand old men of the Muʿtazila, in fact. Ashʿarī would have been very young at the time, which was a popular motif in this type of 1  Fiṣal III 186, 9ff. 2  I M 72, 16f. 3  Ṣafadī, Wāfī V 27, 9f. 4  Cf. Madelung in: EIran I 372 b. 5  Text XXXI 43.

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success story. The narrator stresses explicitly that Ṣāliḥī was the oldest in the circle, and that he was allowed to begin the questions for that reason. His defeat is explained with the Christian’s attacking him in a point that according to the doxographers was one of his idiosyncrasies (cf. ʿUyūn 233, 1f., and Juwaynī, Shāmil 205, 2f. = Text XXII 8); the stranger seems suspiciously well-informed concerning his two colleagues as well. The Christian’s, of all people, believing in the eternal duration of the world does not make the story any more probable. The narrator only introduces him as a Christian because he can have two heresies meet, making the Muʿtazilites’ defeat all the more noticeable. The account of the debate we mentioned previously, which follows soon after in the same source (234, –6ff. = Text 43), is not entirely without problems. It also originates in an Ashʿarite source, Abū Isḥāq al-Isfarāʾinī’s (d. 418/1027; regarding him cf. Madelung in EI2 IV 107f.) K. al-jāmiʿ alkhafī. He had heard it via his teacher al-Bāhilī from Ashʿarī himself. The participants in the debate are more probable here, although the topic once again touches on a doxographical report (cf. Text 43, b, and 42, d). It is particularly distracting that considerably older theologians like Iskāfī or even Hishām al-Fuwaṭī are introduced as the audience (235, 2ff.). However, this is an impression conveyed by Isfarāʾinī’s interpretation; Ashʿarī was probably only saying that these theologians agreed with the doctrine discussed. Like Ibn Shabīb, Ṣāliḥī, too, was classified as a Muʿtazilite.6 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār included him in his Ṭabaqāt, in close proximity to Ṣāliḥ Qubba,7 but could say nothing about him other than that he wrote ‘many books’, like his teacher. Only two titles are known to us, which, oddly, are identical and indicate a subject matter that had already been characteristic of Ṣāliḥ Qubba.8 Ashʿarī had much more wide-ranging information. While he criticises him severely,9 he does treat Ṣāliḥī as an important representative of Basran scholarship. He declares himself in agreement with his definition of faith;10 indeed, it is nearly the only point of the entire spectrum of his theories compiled by Ashʿarī that

6   Thus Sakūnī 232, 6; also occasionally Baghdādī (e.g. Farq 95, pu. f./116, 5). 7    Faḍl 281, 11. 8   Cf. Catalogue of Works. 9   Cf. Text 34. 10  Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad maqālāt al-Ashʿarī 151, pu. f., following Text 45; also Gimaret in: Arabica 32/1985/211, and Ashʿarī 474f. We do not know in which of Ashʿarī’s works this passage was included, but it is just something he said in his Maqālāt put differently.

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is still mentioned by later authors.11 They, consequently, usually regard him as a Murjiʾite.12 Shahrastānī emended the name incorrectly when analysing Text 44. Ashʿarī has Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī, which is frequently found elsewhere; Shahrastānī suddenly comes up with Ṣāliḥ b. ʿUmar/ʿAmr al-Ṣāliḥī (107, 11ff./272, 3, where the textual notes document the variant ʿUmar/ʿAmr in more detail). This is probably the result of a confusion with Ṣāliḥ Qubba (Gimaret, Livre 430, n. 86; cf. vol. III 464 above). Ibn Abī l-Dam (in Ṣafadī, Wāfī XVI 267, 3ff.) adopted it. Compared to Ibn Shabīb Ṣāliḥī’s concept of faith was much more ‘Jahmite’. Faith, to him, was fundamentally independent of the revelation, pure knowledge of God; unbelief, on the other hand, is simply that one has no knowledge of God at all.13 He was not, however, a rationalist, as he was said to have believed knowledge and insight to be achieved ‘of necessity’.14 In this context this can really only mean that he believed faith to be a gift from God from which only true heathen are excluded; he probably followed Ṣāliḥ Qubba here.15 However, this was nothing more than a purely theoretical framework, to be filled with reality in concrete human behaviour. To Ṣāliḥī, coming to know God meant to feel like a creature before him, to abase oneself before him; even to love him. De facto the Christians are unbelievers, although they have recognised God and worship him as their Lord, for the Quran says so, and the ijmāʿ of Muslims agrees. And de facto one must believe in Muḥammad – not because faith would be unthinkable without this element, but because the prophet himself demanded it. It is indispensable, but not essential; a sign of faith but not its component. The profession of the trinity is not itself unbelief, but it is only ever recited by an unbeliever. Conversely, the prayer as well as the performance of all other Quranic commandments is not service of God (ʿibāda) in the true sense, as only faith embodies service of God in the true

11  With the exception of a fragment from Text 35 and a remark on his theory of substances (Text XXIII 8). 12  Baghdādī, Farq 96, 11f./116, –6ff., tells us that he had no fixed opinion in the matter of the eternal punishment of hell. 13  Text 44, a. 14  Baghdādī lists him with Thumāma and Jāḥiẓ among the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif (Uṣūl al-dīn 155, 15); cf. p. 125f. above. 15  Text XXIII 15.

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sense, namely behaving as a servant.16 This recalls Bishr al-Marīsī down to the examples – and even more Ibn al-Rēwandī, who was Ṣāliḥī’s contemporary.17 As the act of faith has no ‘elements’, cannot be divided, as e.g. Ibn Shabīb had assumed, it is a very simple cognitive act. It consists in the knowledge that God is the absolute Other, being, and ‘something’, but not like other things (shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ). All statements God made about himself in the Quran, ‘names’ he gave himself’, do not add anything to this insight. His not calling himself knowing or powerful only means that he is not like other beings in this particular respect; it is really only a change of expression.18 Attributes are not suitable for him, not even in the sense of a theologia negativa; for even if one said that God while not knowing is certainly not un-knowing, one would have equated him to created things.19 A single assertion can be made of him besides shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ, and it is, characteristically, a positive one: he is eternal. Both statements are identical, as no other ‘something’ shares eternal existence with God.20 This does not apply in the case of God’s uniqueness; it is purely an honorific.21 Ashʿarī correctly emphasised the radical nature of this point of view,22 but his criticism is rather simplified;23 after all, Ṣāliḥī was not alone. Statements like his on the eternal existence and uniqueness of God were also found in ʿAbbād’s works,24 and the phrase shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ was apparently widely used among the Baghdad Muʿtazilites;25 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam’s followers were using it around this time, too.26 In Kufa it may have been used among the Shīʿites earlier still.27 It appears to have entered even Jewish theology.28 It was certainly less radical than what Jahm b. Ṣafwān – and possibly much later Hishām 16  Text 44–45. 17  Cf. Text XX 29, e, and XIV 1; also vol. III 197 above and p. 348 and 343 below. Abū Isḥāq al-Isfarāʾinī emphasises, albeit superficially, the connection between Ṣāliḥī and Ibn alRēwandī (cf. the text in: MIDEO 19/1989/175, 9); briefly also Frank in: JAOS 109/1989/39, n. 9). 18  Text 42, b–c; 32, d–e. 19  Text 34, a. 20  Text 33. 21  Text XXV 35 in the commentary. 22  Text 33, b. 23  Text 34, c–f. 24  See p. 24 and 31 above. 25  Ashʿarī, Maq. 503, 12ff. (esp. 504, 2). 26  See vol. I 422f. above. 27  Ibid. 334f. 28  The Christian Risāla fī tathbīt waḥdāniyyat al-bāriʾ, whose editor attributes it to Israel of Kaskar, tells us that the Jews followed the view of the Muʿtazilites in this point (p. 25 § 84 Holmberg).

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al-Fuwaṭī – had said: that God was by no means shayʾ ‘something.29 By means of the doxographical fragmentation Ashʿarī furthermore conceals how independent Ṣāliḥī’s train of thought was. If the affirmation of faith was to exist independently of the Quran, as Ṣāliḥī wished, it was possible only by exalting the concept of God above any univocal language usage; the revelation presents illustrations of the shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ, but nothing more. Qadīm, the only interpreted term accepted by Ṣāliḥī, was not found in the Quran; theological jargon used it in place of Allāh because it sounded less ‘personal’.30 Just like he concentrated the knowledge of God into one single statement, Ṣāliḥī also regarded other acts of knowledge as holistic; they would be modified, but not supplemented. If a boy has a baby brother, he, too, becomes a brother, but he has not changed. It is similar when someone recognises first that a body exists, and then that it exists within time, i.e. came into being; a second act of knowledge, that God generates things within time, put the first one into a different relation. Nothing new was added to the first one; it is as complete an act of knowledge as it was before.31 Human knowledge as a whole, on the other hand, the ἐπιστήμη, is infinitely atomised; it is a conglomerate of isolated acts of knowledge.32 Ṣāliḥī was indeed an atomist, and it would be possible to find certain similarities between the structures of his approach in this and in the preceding question. He did not ask how many atoms constitute a body; each of them is now in itself a body, which means that a single atom can become the carrier of all manner of accidents. This became difficult in the case of the accident ‘cohesion’; his teacher Ṣāliḥ Qubba, who had been moving towards this concept had seen himself forced at this point to postulate at least two atoms as the basis of a body.33 Ṣāliḥī, however, resolved the difficulty in a similar fashion as he had done in the case of the acts of knowledge: even a single atom can – and usually does – carry ‘cohesion’ within itself, but we only speak of being combined 29  Regarding Jahm see vol. II 561f. above; regarding Hishām al-Fuwaṭī see p. 12 above (where n. 33 reference to Abū l-Hudhayl). In general p. 484f. below. 30  Cf. e.g. Text XXI 54, c, and 84, a; XXII 171, a etc.; also Gräf in: Vorträge XIX. DOT Freiburg 418; Roman, Vision humaine 25; Gimaret, Noms divins 164. ‘Allāh’ was felt to be a proper name (see p. 481 below; on the question in general Gimaret 121ff.). 31  Text 42, a and d. The conjecture in d appears to me to be inevitable for the sake of the overall meaning; it is supported by 43, b. Thomas Aquinas called this sort of thing, albeit in a Christian context, the relatio rationis (cf. A. Krempel, La doctrine de la relation chez S. Thomas d’Aquin, Paris 1952, p. 487ff.). 32  Text 43, d and g–h illustrate beautifully how Ṣāliḥī separated related acts of knowledge and refused to regard them as aspects of one and the same insight. The disputatio shows that he did not always meet with his fellow-believers’ agreement. 33  See vol. III 461f. above.

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once it has been joined to another atom that also carries an innate accident of this kind.34 Thus the actual physical combination does no add anything new; a relation has been realised, and that is all. This might be called a ‘climax of extreme logic’,35 but at the same time it was a strikingly simple yet brilliant solution. Ṣāliḥī was the first to free himself from the geometrical models that had been used so far – admittedly with increasing scepticism – to attempt an explanation of the abstract approach Islamic atomism had embraced from the first. He was also now able to simplify the terminology: substance and body are the same thing; both can be represented by a single atom.36 This was not based on a corpuscular theory, as Pretzl assumed,37 but was a simple shift in the terminology.38 Body or substance do not necessarily have to carry accidents; God could create them without any.39 Usually, however, they are accompanied by accidents; otherwise they could not be perceived.40 They carry the accidents, but are not their substrate (maḥall)41 – presumably because Ṣāliḥī could not imagine an isolated atom as a substrate or a ‘place’. By stating that we can perceive things only because of their accidents he simply followed the widespread view that we do not see bodies but only colours,42 but he also had to make this assertion, as he equated body and atom while refusing to abandon the – evident – axiom that the atom is invisible. It might also have irritated him that Ibn Kullāb had arrived at a different view by that time: he claimed that while we do not see bodies in the actual sense, we can see substances, which meant he could presume that God would be visible in the visio beatifica.43 Ṣāliḥī did not regard the problem so much under this aspect, but rather under another one that he had come across in his teacher’s system: the reflection.44 For if one perceives a body because of colour only, one must ask how the colour can be in the mirror, even though the body is not. Ṣāliḥī’s 34  Text 26, b–i, once again confirmed by linguistic proof (i) as in the case of the names of God above (Text 32, e). 35  Pines, Atomenlehre, 23. 36  Text 25, 26, a–c. 37  In: Der Islam 19/1931/120. 38  Cf. Pines, Atomenlehre 5, n. 1. This is probably also the ‘Murjiʾite’ atom theory of which Nazwānī – following Kaʿbī? – tells us (Al-jawhar al-muqtaṣir 74, 7ff.). 39  Text XXIII 8, also for Ṣāliḥ Qubba; from another point of view Text 27. Text 28 probably also results from this. 40  Text 29 and 30, a. 41  Ashʿarī, Maq. 307, 6f. 42  See vol. III 384 above with references; also Text 29–30. Regarding the question as such cf. Maq. 386, 1ff. 43  Cf. Text XXXIII 27 A and 28, a; also p. 217 below. 44  See vol. III 460f. above.

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solution was that a body emits rays which touch the mirror and generate the reflection; they have the same colour as the body itself.45 This was a far more technical explanation than Ṣāliḥ Qubba had given. It would not be astonishing if it were not for the fact that elsewhere Ṣāliḥī followed his teacher quite closely with regard to sensory perception. Like him he accorded God the power to intervene in the process of perception as he rejected tawallud.46 He adopted his excessive expansion of God’s power in the field of natural processes and causal relations in general.47 It only reaches its limits when direct opposites come together: not even God is able to make a dead man alive at the same time. Still, he is able to make him act or grant him knowledge (as in the case of the punishment of the grave),48 and he can also remove all capacity to act from a living person.49 This takes us straight to anthropology, as human action is the action of created bodies; bodies, however, cannot in turn create bodies. This was an axiom nobody questioned, and of which it was believed that God had to respect it as well in order not to question himself; consequently he can only grant a human the power over accidents.50 Furthermore: if even a dead man can act, it must be assumed that his capacity to act is simultaneous with the action; it is not possible that the capacity is present only before the action and has stopped existing by the time the action is being performed, as Abū l-Hudhayl had claimed.51 Not even God can change this.52 The capacity to perform one particular action may be unique and specific, but it is present before and during the action.53 During the transition from the first to the second stage it loses some scope: while before the action one has the option of refraining from doing it, this is not possible later on.54 45  Text 30, b. As not only humans have reflections, shuʿāʿ certainly do not refer to the rays of vision emitted by the eye. In their case it would also be difficult to understand why they should have the colour of the face. 46  Cf. Text XXIII 12 and 9 (with commentary) and Text 40, d, here; cf. also vol. III 458f. 47  Cf. Text 36 and the parallels named there. The only deviation may be due to a conceptual specification. Ṣāliḥ Qubba tells us that fire and wood can spend a long time together without God creating fire (Text XXIII 9, d), while Ṣāliḥī says: ‘… without God creating fire or its opposite’, in the other examples as well (Maq. 310, 9ff.). This states more clearly that God does not do anything in this case. 48  Text XXIII 16. 49  Text 36, a–b; also XXIII 13. This point provoked Khayyāṭ to disagree with him (Maq. 314, 3ff.). 50  Text 37. 51  Text 40, a; cf. vol. III 266ff. above. 52  Text 36, e. 36, d, too, is directed against Abū l-Hudhayl. 53  Text 38, a. 54  Text 39–40. Iskāfī differed (see p. 97 above).

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A human is a created, combined body, but he has a core that distinguishes him from other bodies – a separate atom living in his heart.55 Following Naẓẓām, ʿAlī al-Uswārī had located the spirit just there.56 When he spoke of an atom, like Muʿammar before him, Ṣāliḥī had to continue the train of thought within the categories of his system: this atom is a ‘body’ itself, and thus able to exist on its own. We do not know whether he regarded this as more than a theoretical possibility, believing that a human can exist without his body – e.g. after death. From the point of view of the history of ideas, everything mentioned so far could have been thought at any time since the end of the second century. At one point only does it become noticeable that Ṣāliḥī was reacting to a later stage in Basran theology: he was rejecting the concept of potentiality developed by ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān and Shaḥḥām. It is likely that this was the point where he clashed with Khayyāṭ, too. Something that is not yet (al-maʿdūm) cannot be called ‘something’;57 a ‘thing’ is only thing when it exists,58 because in the case of all earthly things ‘existing’ means ‘being created’. Only God, who is ‘not like other things’, is eternal. And, to make the contrast with ʿAbbād and Shaḥḥām complete: something that does not (yet) exist, cannot be the object of knowledge or action.59 This was quite conservative, as were a number of Ṣāliḥī’s ideas; it recalls Abū l-Hudhayl. It suited Ṣāliḥī’s concept of God very well; God, too, was shayʾ in that he existed, albeit different to other ‘things’.60 At the same time it made him confront the question that had induced ʿAbbād and Shaḥḥām to formulate their theory: what about divine foreknowledge in this case? The doxographical summary is so brief that it does not allow us to determine the degree to which Ṣāliḥī’s answer to this question stood up to scrutiny. He does seem to have emphasised that time, and consequently earlier/later (before/after), comes into existence only through the creation. It is not possible to say that God had existed before things for all eternity, as this would always define him in relation to these things. The statement has to be reworded in such a way that it does not follow the rules of everyday language: not lam yazal qabla l-ashyāʾ, but qablu l-ashyāʾ. In this way the latter is uncoupled from the rest of the sentence and ‘for all eternity’ (lam yazal) is separate. Clearly Ṣāliḥī not only distanced himself from ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, but he had also learnt much from 55  Text 41. 56  See vol. III 456 above. 57  Baghdādī, Farq 163, pu. ff./179, 5ff. 58  Text 31, d; also Farq 95, pu. ff./116, 5f. 59  Text 31, b–c; 32, c; 38, b. 60  Cf. also Frank in: MIDEO 22/1995/269, n. 44.

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him. In a sentence such as lam yazal Allāhu khāliqan, ʿAbbād had changed the word order in order to separate lam yazal and khāliqan: inna llāha khāliqun lam yazal.61 While Ṣāliḥī retained the word order in his sentence (inna l-bāriʾa lam yazal qabla l-ashyāʾ), he changed the vocalisation of the predicate, like ʿAbbād had done, in order to show that there were two asyndetic statements in the same sentence, namely inna l-bāriʾa lam yazal and (inna l-bāriʾa) qablu l-ashyāʾ. The word qabl is thus not a preposition any more, but rather a noun, meaning: ‘God is the “before” with regard to things’.62 God’s knowledge and his capability are ‘before’ in this ontological sense, even though lam yazal does not express the time-reference – or a reference beyond time, either. They do thus not yet include things qua things. God, however, knows that he will create things at their respective point in time; he has known them for all eternity at their respective point in time – and ‘is capable of them’, too.63 The latter sentences begin by asserting eternity, and end by asserting temporality, which could hardly be avoided as they join incommensurables. It was for the same reason that Ṣāliḥī could not assume that God created the world for the sake of humans (see vol. III 302 above). God could have limited himself to creating inanimate objects, as the Ashʿarites would later say, too. The Muʿtazilites, on the other hand, could not imagine that creation might be perceived by no-one (Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 152, 6ff.). This was not a problem to Ṣāliḥī, not least because bodies are, in theory, invisible (see p. 157 above). Ṣāliḥī’s contemporary Abū l-ʿAbbās ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. Mālik al-Anbārī, known as al-Nāshiʾ al-akbar (d. 293/906) embraced a closely related theological approach. He, too, was part of the tradition of the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif, rejected the Basrans’ concept of potentiality, and regarded God as the absolute Other beside whom all other existing things pale and could thus not have been ‘things’ before their existence.64 In 61  See p. 28 above. 62  Text 35. Precisely how qablu should be understood as opposed to qabla was explained by Mubarrad in his Muqtaḍab (III 102, 6ff., and IV 341, 4ff.); it is not in the casus adverbialis, i.e. qablu meaning ‘previously’. 63  Text 31, a, and 32, a–b. Discussed in detail by Frank in: MIDEO 22/1995/256ff. 64   I dedicated a monograph to this author some decades ago (Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie, Beirut 1971) and shall summarise the most important insights only. My point of view has changed somewhat; I pushed the ‘Murjiʾite’ component of his thinking

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the definition of faith he, like Bishr al-Marīsī and later al-Ashʿarī,65 focussed on the term taṣdīq. Ṣāliḥī, as we have seen, had believed faith to be the same as knowledge of God and had thus encountered the difficulty that Christians and Jews, too, ‘knew’ God;66 taṣdīq, ‘considering to be true’, sounded rather better. The equation followed, as people were fond of emphasising at that time,67 language usage.68 Actions had no place in this act of inner recognition, as Nāshiʾ proved in the same way as Abū Ḥanīfa had done before him: the first followers of the prophet were imbued with the fullness of faith, even though the commandments had not yet been revealed.69 As his nisba reveals, he came from Anbār on the left bank of the Euphrates, thus probably sharing Abū Ḥanīfa’s place of birth as well.70 Unlike the latter, however, he appears to have been a kātib. He was a man of wide-ranging education, knowledgeable not only about theology but also about grammar and the sciences of antiquity. Above all he wrote poetry, and it was probably this skill that led to his sobriquet al-Nāshiʾ, ‘new blood’, the ‘new one’, or possibly: ‘the original one’.71 Like Naẓẓām before him, he gained friends at court thanks to the versatility he showed. He corresponded with Ismāʿīl b. Bulbul, al-Muʿtamid’s (r. 256/870–279/892) vizier.72 When he was overthrown immediately after al-Muʿtaḍid’s accession, Nāshiʾ appears to have been in danger, too; after all, in that same year 279 the new caliph prohibited the sale of all books that treated of theology or philosophy.73 There is no reason to believe that this was directed exclusively against the Muʿtazila; quṣṣāṣ, astrologers and soothsayers were also forbidden to appear in public. Clearly the authorities hoped to establish close supervision over religious life in general.74 Al-Nāshiʾ

too much into the background. Regarding the points mentioned above cf. ibid., p. 140ff. (= Text XXXI 56, with the modification in Text 64) and 9ff. (= Text 46–53). 65  Cf. Text XX 29, a, and Gimaret, Ashʿarī 472f. 66  See p. 154 above. 67  Thus e.g. Nāshiʾ’s contemporary Ibn al-Rēwandī (see p. 344 below). 68  Text XXXI 63, c; also 62, a. 69  Text 62, b, and 63, b; also vol. I 222 above. 70  Cf. vol. I 187 above. 71   Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie 2f. after Samʿānī, Ansāb XIII 10, 8; Fihrist 192 b, –5f., with the correction after Flügel. Regarding the poems cf. Catalogue of Works XXXI d, introduction; also the fragments in Ibn ʿAsākir, TD XXXVIII 290ff. 72  Regarding the latter cf. EI2 IV 189 s. n.; he, too, had an interest in philosophy, astronomy, geodesy etc., and highly esteemed Muʿtazilite theology (cf. the defamatory qaṣīda by Ibn al-Muʿtazz, ed. Lang in: ZDMG 40/1886/573 vv. 140–44, and 41/1887/236f.). 73  Ṭabarī III 2131, 3ff.; cf. p. 810f. below. 74  Some years later, the philosopher al-Sarakhsī, one of al-Kindī’s pupils, fell out of favour and was executed in the end. Here, too, it is difficult to determine the reasons (cf. the texts in Rosenthal, Saraḫsî 25ff.). Concerning the issue in general cf. R. Glagow, Das Kalifat des

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went to Egypt; he is documented there in 280/893.75 He remained in exile until his death. His second sobriquet Shirshīr might recall that the wild ducks (shirshīr) were migratory birds that came from Central Asia to Egypt in order to nest on the beach of Damietta. It seems that his grandfather had already borne the sobriquet (cf. Samʿānī, Ansāb XIII 10, 11); consequently Ibn Shirshīr is a frequently transmitted form (already in the book title Catalogue of Works XXXI d, refutation b). Regarding the meaning cf. Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie 1f. Aristotle had already told us that cranes migrate from the Scythian plains to Upper Egypt ‘to the sources of the Nile’ (Hist. An. VIII 597 a 3ff.); Masʿūdī alludes to it (Murūj I 212, 6ff./I 116, 3ff.). Shimshāṭī, Al-anwār wamaḥāsin al-ashʿār introduces Nāshiʾ as Shirshīr al-Jadalī (p. 259, –4; 275, –4 etc.). Besides Shirshīr the form Sharshar was also transmitted; Ṣanawbarī uses it in his Dīwān (poem no. 63, v. 1 ʿAbbās), indicating that this variant was in use as a sobriquet in general. We even find Shurayshir, albeit not with reference to Nāshiʾ (cf. Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb al-madārik II 345, –7f.). Shurshur means ‘finch’ (Eisenstein, Zoographie 60). – Regarding Nāshiʾ’s Egyptian period see also M. K. Ḥusayn, Fī l-adab al-miṣrī al-islāmī 247ff. and Adabunā l-ʿarabī 222f. His being refuted more than 30 years before his death in Israel of Kaskar’s (d. 872) Risāla fī waḥdāniyat al-bāriʾ (esp. p. 96ff.) is probably explained by that text being incorrectly attributed by its editor; proof of Israel of Kaskar’s authorship is less than reliable. Ibn Ḥazm recognised that he could be counted among the Murjiʾites.76 Nāshiʾ himself did not see it that way. In his view, ‘Murjiʾites’ were people who ruled out the capacity to act that precedes an action, and only ‘alternatively’ postulated a capacity to perform the opposite at the same time, i.e. moderate determinists like Najjār.77 He was prepared to call out the Muʿtazilites’ errors, too.78 He sometimes subsumes them under the name ahl al-ʿadl or ʿadliyyūn, but does not always seem to identify with them,79 as he had his own ideas on al-Muʿtaḍid billāh (PhD Bonn 1968), p. 147ff.; Laoust, Ibn Baṭṭa xix, n. 31; Sourdel in: SI 13/1960/18ff. 75  Qifṭī, Inbāh al-ruwāt II 129, 11f. 76  Cf. Text II 34–35. 77   Awsaṭ 95 § 80 and 83; cf. p. 174 below. 78   Awsaṭ 91, 3/transl. ibid. intro. 127. 79  Cf. Awsaṭ 99 § 105 with § 103 and 99; also intro. 93, n. 1. Regarding the usage elsewhere ibid. 94, 7; 100, 11; 101, 11. This may explain the arguments he had with Abū Mujālid (see p. 110 above) and his pupil Shaṭawī (IM 93, 9ff.).

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divine justice. He did believe that God always acts in such a way that we can comprehend it with our rational sense of fairness;80 the epistemology he embraced forced him to say that God could not commit a human to something, or punish him for something, that he does not know.81 However, a believer will not be subject to eternal punishment; God’s justice is demonstrated simply by his not making exceptions.82 God has not committed himself elsewhere, either: he acts wisely, but he does not have to do only what is just or most beneficial (aṣlaḥ) to humans.83 After all, he is different from everything else that has being, and that in the sense that the positive attributes ascribed to everything else can be presumed to be his as well, but they are increased infinitely. His ‘Seinsmächtigkeit’ (essential force) exceeds everything. Like Ṣāliḥī, Nāshiʾ saw the reason for this in God’s eternity.84 He cannot be similar to humans, not in his essence, not in an accidental way, and not even when bearing the same name.85 Only God is truly and veritatively knowing, powerful, acting and, ultimately, just; humans are all this in the figurative sense only.86 God is truth (al-ḥaqq); everything else is merely ‘come true’ (muḥaqqaq).87 God alone is ‘something’, a ‘thing’ (shayʾ); everything else is ‘thing-like’ (mushayya‌ʾ).88 This recalls Jahm b. Ṣafwān;89 and that was indeed its ultimate origin, even though it is in no way linked to determinism here. Just as the human concept of justice remains valid and is only exalted in God, so does the human remain capable of acting. In fact, his capacity to act is permanent, as it is identical with his physical soundness.90 One may say that he ‘acquires’ acting, but there is no contribution from God the creator.91 Humans 80  Text 54. 81  Text 56 and 64, a; also 54, d–e. Also p. 115f. above. 82  Text II 34, d. He shares this opinion with Muḥammad b. Shabīb (see p. 144 above). 83  Text 55; cf. also Awsaṭ 103, 9ff./transl. Frühe muʿt. Här. 130f. 84  Text 46, c–e, and 47, f; also 49. 85  Text 46, a–b, and 47, e–f. 86  Text 47, a and g; also 51, a; mentioned anonymously in Rājib al-Iṣfahānī, Iʿtiqādāt 88, –5ff. Also, briefly, Heinrichs in: ZGAIW 7/1991–2/256. 87  Text 53. 88  Text 48; also 50. 89  Cf. Text XIV 7, where God is not regarded as shayʾ, but is still found as mushayyiʾ (alashyāʾ) in some parallels. Regarding this neologism cf. also Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla II 660, 7, and p. 484f. below. 90  Text 57, a. 91  Text 54, d–e, and 61; in more detail Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 676ff. Nāshiʾ seems to have used the word iktisāb mainly with regard to the insights, as opposed to ḍarūrī (Text 64), where he started with the meaning of the word (as, indeed, he did with actions in general): one ‘acquires’ them for oneself, to one’s account (ibid., h). Cf. similar p. 57 above concerning Shaḥḥām.

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have a soul, just like things have a nature; just like things can function of themselves, humans are masters of themselves.92 Nāshiʾ follows Naẓẓām in this, quoting and agreeing with his proof of the existence of the soul.93 God, however, remains the absolute Other; if there is indeed a statement that applies to God and humans in the same concrete way it is that they are different from each other.94 There is no analogia entis. Consequently one cannot infer the creator’s wisdom from the wisdom of creation, as humans, too, at times act wisely, although they are not wise in the true sense of the word.95 Nāshiʾ allowed one exception: in the case of the prophet. When the prophet passed on the revelation he was acting in the figurative sense, but what he said was the actual truth, and consequently it could be said of him, veritatively and contrary to the rule, that he spoke the truth (annahū ṣādiq fī l-ḥaqīqa).96 In the Quran divine speech and human speech met – not in daily recitation, but during the process of the revelation and its first public proclamation. Nāshiʾ was thus not able to assert the khalq al-Qurʾān quite as impartially as early Muʿtazilites and Murjiʾites; the Ḥanbalites were correct when they discovered a hidden kinship between his teachings and Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s, although the latter was anything but a Muʿtazilite.97 The Baghdad Muʿtazilite Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Zayd al-Wāsiṭī (d. 304/917) could not imagine anything more stupid than to practise kalām after Nāshiʾ, fiqh after Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī, and grammar after Nifṭawayh (d. Ṣafar 323/Jan. 935).98 This was fundamentally an attack on Nifṭawayh who was not only a Ẓāhirite but also Nāshiʾ’s pupil.99 It tells us at the same time that Nāshiʾ’s theology could be linked to his affiliation with the Ẓāhirite school of law,100 and Nifṭawayh did write against the supporters of the khalq al-Qurʾān.101 92  Text 58 and 60; also 57, c, and 59, a. 93  Text XXII 138; concerning the continuation cf. Frühe muʿt. Här. 134, as well as Text 59. 94  Text 47, c; also 49, b. 95  Text 47, h. 96  Text 47, d. 97   T B VIII 374, 15ff.; cf. p. 253f. below. 98  Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 220, 4f. 99  Ibid. 220, 5f.; also 90, 5. and Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 344, 12f. (although both of these do not mention his having been Nāshiʾ’s pupil). Nifṭawayh gave lectures in the mosque of the people from Anbār (Fihrist 90, 5); he may have met Nāshiʾ there in his youth. 100  Interestingly Nāshiʾ also recorded his thoughts on love (Text 66), like Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s son who wrote the K. al-zahra. Should he have been the originator of the ‘symposium’ on love that would be occasionally quoted by sources in the time following him? (see vol. III 33, n. 3 above). 101   Fihrist 90, 9. Al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī acquired the right to transmit several of Nifṭawayh’s books, among them a Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya (cf. his Mashaykha, fol. 130a, 4ff.). The Ḥanbalite

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Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī was nearly a generation older than Nāshiʾ. Nāshiʾ regarded him as an authority, and authorities were his favourite target. He had tried to improve Khalīl’s metrics while doing away with his circles and markers,102 his starting point being that the poets were able to explain younger metres, such as the madid, within the old system with constraints only, and not according to their actual function.103 Dāwūd criticised him for this, and Nāshiʾ in turn called him an ignoramus in dire need of someone who told him so; he, Nāshiʾ, was actually the only one who had understood Khalīl correctly.104 While this was rather harsh, it does conform to the image he had of himself in general. He believed that he could teach his colleagues a thing or two, not just the logicians and physicians whom orthodox circles were always happy to see taken down a peg,105 but also others who were really part of the family, such as grammarians.106 He mocked Kindī,107 and tried to beat the poets when it came to originality.108 Of course, everyone did that, but the Muʿtazilite philologist Marzubānī (d. 384/994) arrived at a rather withering judgment from the distance of a century: wherever he went Nāshiʾ paraded his own originality, pretending to introduce innovations at every turn. He wrote many poems, but had not much to show for it: he was a scatterbrain (mutahawwis) who valued only originality.109 A contemporary applied a proverb to him: ‘Hearing from Muʿaydī is better than seeing him’, i.e. one had respect for him only as long as one was not face to face with him.110 Qifṭī, however, who seems to have been able to study some of his works, admired his acumen and his independent opinion (ijtihād); while he did not name Marzubānī, he made it clear that he considered his verdict to

Barbahārī said the prayer of the dead over him (TB VI 162, 2f.; after which Fihrist 90, 6, ought to be corrected). 102  Qifṭī, Inbāh II 128, 9f.; IKh III 91, 11f. 103  Masʿūdī, Murūj VII 88, 6ff./IV 337 § 2773; transl. G. Weil, Grundriß und System der altarabischen Metren 48. 104  Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 61, 13ff. 105  Cf. Catalogue of Works XXXId, no. 3–4. 106  Qifṭī, Inbāh II 128, 7f.; IKh III 91, 11. This concerned question of the uṣūl al-naḥw, presumably the use of qiyās. Here, too, Nāshiʾ was in fact part of the Murjiʾite tradition; he adopted Akhfash’s interpretation of Sībawayh based on the theology of Abū Shamir (Abū l-Ṭayyib al-Lughawī, Marātib al-naḥwiyyīn 137, –5ff. > Suyūṭī, Muzhir II 409, 18f.; cf. vol. II 98f. above). 107  Cf. Catalogue of Works, intro.; also Frühe muʿt. Här. 4. 108  Samʿānī, Ansāb XIII 11, 3f. 109   T B X 92, 19ff. > Samʿānī 11, 4ff.; Ibn ʿAsākir, TD XXXVIII 291, 4ff. 110   I M 93, 9f. Concerning the proverb cf. e.g. Zamakhsharī, Mustaqṣā I 370f. no. 1598, and especially Abū l-Ḥasan al-Bayhaqī, Ghurar al-amthāl (ed. H. El-Saghir, PhD Frankfurt 1984), p. 14ff.

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have been unjust.111 Mubarrad, too, who had been friends with him,112 thought him highly intelligent and regretted that his knowledge had not become more widely known.113 Of course, this would never happen. Nāshiʾ’s emigrating seems a symbol: the combination of ‘Arabian’ and ‘Greek’ sciences he represented in spite of all his recalcitrance would not be realised later any more, and not much was heard of ‘Murjiʾite’ Muʿtazilites after him, either, once Jubbāʾī’s school became the dominant one. He never really came into his own among the theologians of his own generations, Ibn al-Nadīm tells us; some even believed him to be a dualist.114 Later it would be said about him that he had a stroke when trying to emulate the Quran.115

111   Inbāh II 128, 9ff. 112  Ḥuṣrī, Zahr al-ādāb 539, 2. 113  Abū l-Ṭayyib al-Lughawī > Suyūṭī loc. cit. 114   Fihrist 217, 16f. 115  Ṣafadī, Wāfī XVII 522, 10ff.

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Najjār and His Circle

The members of the second group were ‘Murjiʾites’, too. However, this was not a defining characteristic any more; the emphasis shifted onto the theory of action. Ashʿarī described them collectively as ahl al-ithbāt, meaning presumably – as he did not explain the term anywhere – those people who looked favourably upon the khalq al-afʿāl, the createdness of human actions, an idea that was anathema to the Muʿtazilites. Their first significant exponent – after Ḍirār, whom Ashʿarī counted among them in this respect1 – was Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥusayn b. Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Najjār. He came from Qom,2 but appears to have studied in Basra and lived there for some time.3 He got along well with the Murjiʾite tradition there, at least as far as the concept of faith was concerned.4 Ghassān b. Abān, the reformer of Abū Ḥanīfa’s theological approach, knew him personally;5 Yūsuf al-Samtī may have been an example to him of how more determinist ideas could be defended in Qadarite surroundings.6 However, he seems to have been influenced most by Ḍirār, and consequently looked far too old-fashioned to the Muʿtazilites of the following generation. In his reaction to their criticism his conservative traits were highlighted even more, giving his theology its own profile. In Basra, the time was not yet ripe for it; his ideas would come to fruition only with Ashʿarī.7 He seems to have felt the hostility of his environment deeply; he was said to have contracted a violent fever after a discussion with Naẓẓām, and died of it.8 He was trusted more in Iran where his school

1  Maq. 408, 6. 2  Fihrist 229, 9. Flügel has Bam instead (179, 13), but Maqrīzī, whose text probably depends on Ibn al-Nadīm in one way or another, also reads Qom (Khiṭaṭ II pu.). 3  Pazdawī gives him the nisba al-Baṣrī (Uṣūl al-dīn 115, pu., and 250, 15f.). 4  See p. 176f. below. 5  See vol. I 252 above. 6  See vol. II 176 above. 7  See p. 171 and 635 below. 8  The subject of the conversation is reported in different versions; cf. Fihrist 229, 10ff. with Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Munya 109, 6ff./transl. Daiber, Muʿammar 104 (where it should read ‘on the Raḥba’ instead of ‘in an open square’; regarding the place cf. Ṣ. A. al-ʿAlī, Khiṭaṭ al-Baṣra 71ff.). It is clearly a Muʿtazilite success story, possibly suggested by Najjār’s having written a book against Naẓẓām concerning the same matter (Catalogue of Works XXXII a, no. 16).

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survived for a long time in Ṭabaristān and in Rayy.9 Bağdatlı Pașa dates his death to the time around 220/835,10 presumably correctly. Nearly nothing was known about his circumstances. People agreed only on the fact that despite his sobriquet he was not a carpenter or cabinet­maker, but apart from that, speculation was wide-ranging. Ibn al-Nadīm, the only one to include any information about him, reports that he was a weaver in the ṭirāz factories belonging to ʿAbbās b. Muḥammad (d. 186/802), the brother of the first two Abbasid caliphs, but also that he was a manufacturer of scales.11 His social status certainly does not seem to have been high. He never appears to have been summoned to the court; he is not recorded as having visited Baghdad. This is surprising as he is occasionally described as Bishr b. al-Marīsī’s pupil.12 Could they have met in Kufa? After all, Ghassān b. Abān’s home was presumably there as well.13 Other information about him is clearly coloured by Muʿtazilite malice: he had a voice like a bat,14 he treated weaker people with arrogance, and superiors with cunning.15 Jāḥiẓ, however, knew him as someone who was a particular expert in ‘all manner of expression’ (ʿibārāt); his terminological flair was probably noteworthy. Dhamm akhlāq al-kuttāb in: Rasāʾil II 192, 6; the older edition by Finkel (Thalāth rasāʾil 42, pu.) has ʿibādāt instead, which does not really fit. ʿibārāt is by no means unambiguous, either. It is improbable that it indicates Ibn Kullāb’s theory on the word of God (see p. 206 below); it is not linked to Najjār at all. In the passage cited he is listed together with Muʿtazilites and philologists who are all named because of certain expert knowledge. Jāḥiẓ did not always approve of them; it is thus not necessary that Najjār felt admiration for them all. – Regarding him in general cf.

9   Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Sharḥ I 40 b, 13f. > al-Manṣūr billāh, Shāfī I 132, 2f., and Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Munya 109, 11f. Regarding Rayy see also p. 183f. below; after all, the city was not too far from his birthplace Qom. There, the Shīʿites probably prevented his school from spreading. 10   Hadiyya I 303, pu. f. 11   Fihrist 229, 8f.; regarding ʿAbbās b. Muḥammad cf. EI2 I 12 b. Regarding the ṭirāz factories cf. Grohmann in EI1 IV 850ff. s. v. Ṭirāz. The tradition that he was a weaver was the one his opponents would spread later because of its disparaging nature (cf. Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Risālat Iblīs 129, 7f.; al-Manṣūr billāh, Shāfī I 132, 2). 12  Shīrāzī, Ṭab. 138, pu. f.; IAW I 164, apu.; similar Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 116, 3ff.; cf. Text XX 25. 13  Najjār’s connection with the Ibāḍiyya also went via Marīsī (see p. 195f. below). The Kufan Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd anticipates some of his ideas (see p. 173 below and vol. I 411 above). 14   Fihrist 229, 9. 15  Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir 2VII 64 no. 198.

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also Ziriklī, Aʿlām II 273; Kaḥḥāla, Muʿjam IV 53, and Myberg/Athamina in EI2 VII 866ff. Jāḥiẓ’ identical remark shows that Najjār was known for his qawl bilithbāt and thus regarded as one of the ahl al-ithbāt; possibly their leader or founder. Ashʿarī does not say this quite so clearly, but he counted his pupil Kūshānī among this group (Maq. 262, 5ff., and 540, 4ff.; regarding him see p. 191f. below). The numerous correspondences in the presentation of his teachings are also convincing (cf. Maq. 554, 14, and Text XXXII 17, b; Maq. 540, 1ff., and 541, 6ff. and Text 26, a, and 27, a; Maq. 263, 6, and 265, 6, and Text 30, f, and 31, b; Maq. 259, 9 and Text 30, i; Maq. 260, 6f., and 573, 9ff., as well as 577, 7ff. and Text 34; Maq. 408, 6f. and Text 35; finally the terminology in Maq. 537, 14f. Text 30, f and i). It is important for the interpretation of the term ithbāt in this context that all the passages cited refer to God’s part in determining human action. This also applies to other statements on the ahl al-ithbāt. Only once do we read that like Ḍirār they embraced a negative theology (Maq. 487, ult. ff.), but the name could not have been based on this – it would have had to be ahl al-nafy in that case. It is possible that ithbāt refers to ithbāt al-qadar; Ibn Qutayba had already contrasted ahl al-ithbāt and ahl al-qadar in this sense. Gimaret has explored the issue most recently (Théories 62ff.); he relied on Watt’s study in: Free Will and Predestination 55f. and 112f. It is probably to be read against the background of the argument of who should be called a Qadarite. As the Muʿtazilites believed their predestinarian opponents to be the same as the Qadariyya reviled by hadith (muḍāhāt; see vol. V 302 [of the German edition]), the latter felt compelled to point out that, when they returned the epithet, they were referring to people who did not believe in qadar. They themselves were positively inclined towards qadar, and that was how they behaved as well. The passage Maq. 430, 1ff., is characteristic of this dialectical relation. While it makes for some difficulties in the interpretation, it is clear in the most important point (cf. my remarks in: Oriens 18–19/1965–6/128f., and Gimaret 63; I am not maintaining the explanation of ahl al-ithbāt I had proposed in Oriens p. 126 any more). Further references are IS VII 1 145, 17; Agh. IX 113, 1; Fasawī II 40, pu. = Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 2XIV 9, 13.

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5.2.1 Najjār’s Teachings The ahl al-ithbāt were linked to Najjār by the concept of kasb and the theory connected with it. A human performs (yafʿalu) his actions, God creates them.1 Consequently humans do what was created by God (yafʿalu lladhī huwa khalq Allāh),2 as actions, like everything else on earth, are generated within time.3 Performing them means ‘acquiring them’, i.e. carrying them out in order to receive a reward in the otherworld.4 This is what the sources record of Najjār, although the variations in the vocabulary used seem to indicate that he may indeed have used faʿala and iktasaba indiscriminately, at least with reference to humans;5 he presumably allowed faʿala with reference to God as well.6 It might have looked like scholasticism if one inferred that an action could then be permitted or prohibited under its human aspect only.7 The problem became clear as soon as the subject was sin: a sin is evil when it is a human action, but not when it is God’s action or creation. Najjār compared this with e.g. blackness, which is an accident and a colour, but it is not blackness because it is an accident and a colour.8 There is always something, he was trying to say, that the human has to add or, indeed: God would not have the power to act unjustly or lie if humans did not ‘acquire’ these actions.9 The fact that Najjār really learnt this way of looking at things from Ḍirār is supported by his having adopted other elements of the latter’s theology as well. He believed that God had an inner and individual essence (māhiyya) beyond what he says about himself in the Quran; humans are unable to recognise this.10 1   Text XXXII 26. Regarding the following cf. also Watt, Free Will 106ff. 2   This was presumably the phrase used by Najjār. The preceding anecdote concerning Naẓẓām recorded by Ibn al-Nadhīm (229, 10ff.) derides it. 3   Text 25. 4   Text 27. Regarding Ḍirār cf. vol. III 48f. above. 5   Thus recorded by Baghdādī, Farq 197, 5f./209, 11; regarding the ahl al-ithbāt in general Maq. 540, 1. Both words occur together in Nāshiʾ, Awsaṭ 92 § 67, where Najjār is concealed beneath the generic label al-Murjiʾa (cf. Text 26, commentary). Regarding the issue cf. Gimaret, Théories 70 and 72. 6   Thus recorded by Maqdisī, Badʿ V 147, 3f., albeit perhaps with Muʿtazilite terminology; the Muʿtazilites paraphrased the theological model using the words fiʿl wāḥid min fāʿilayn (Abū ʿAmmār, Mūjaz II 34, pu. ff.). God describes himself as fāʿil in the Quran as well (sura 21:74 and 104). 7   Text 28. 8   Thus according to a summary in Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla (Text 28 A, d; translated in part in Gimaret, Théories 205). 9   Text 17; also Maq. 554, 14, as the opinion of the ahl al-ithbāt in general. 10   Intiṣār 98, 3; also Maq. 154, 1ff., if we assume once more that the term ‘Murjiʾa’ refers to Najjār in the same way it referred to Nāshiʾ earlier. Regarding the translation of māhiyya see vol. I 425f. above.

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He also, conversely, regarded bodies as mere ‘bundles’ of accidents with no essential core inherent in them. The kinship has been emphasised frequently in the context of the last-named point;11 it appears to have gone as far as the details of Ḍirār’s concept.12 However, there are indications that Najjār was by no means oblivious to subsequent development. He followed the discussion on the phenomenon of movement,13 and appears to have seen that Naẓẓām’s inquiring of the atomists how something possessing dimension, i.e. a body, could be generated by adding things that lack dimensions, i.e. atoms, also applied to Ḍirār’s approach. He believed that the ‘accidents’ entering into the bundle would have to possess spatiality (taḥayyuz), i.e. a position in space, from the outset. Interestingly he left movement out of this system; as in Naẓẓām’s case, it would be added later.14 Ibn Mattōya was probably correct in saying that Najjār imagined the constituent accidents, and only those,15 as disembodied entities (maʿānī bāqiya) that exist beyond the moment. We do not, however, know which expression he himself used in this matter, and ‘spatiality’, too, is a term employed by later atomism. It seems that people understood Najjār to say that these accidents, which took on the function of atoms, as it were, were themselves bodies;16 thanks to Ḍirārite tradition Najjār was, of course, familiar with the idea that God could transform accidents into bodies.17 Thus it could also be claimed that he believed in infinite divisibility, although in his model it did not stop at the single last atom, but with nothingness; his models did not yet possess independent existence.18 The development away from Ḍirār allows us to see the differences in the kasb theory more clearly, too. In Ḍirār’s view, humans were not ‘doing that which God has created’;19 rather, they were working together. Najjār, on the other hand, interpreted the synergism much more in favour of God. Humans have no power over the mutawallidāt,20 and the capacity to act is granted them

11  Text XV 3; also Baghdādī, Farq 196, 11ff./208, pu. ff. Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 12, 1f.; Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 337.; further instances in Daiber, Muʿammar 337. It also applies to the image of the human (Text 22). 12  Cf. Text XV 8 (also vol. III 41ff. above), and XV 49 with commentary. 13  Documented for the example of the rotation of an axle; see vol. III 352, n. 6 above. 14  Ibn Mattōya, Tadhkira 49, 9ff.; also Dhanani, The Physical Theory of Kalām 91ff. 15  Regarding the other cf. Text XV 8, a. 16  Ashʿarī, Maq. 109, 6f. 17  Text XV 49. He appears to have presumed this with reference to God’s speech, as well (Text XXXII 16). 18  Text 1. 19  See p. 170 above. 20  Text 35.

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only at the moment of the action.21 Najjār was moving away not only from Ḍirār but also from the Muʿtazilites in general, who were at a loss to understand how someone could ‘acquire’ something if he did not have the capacity for it beforehand. Indeed, they thought that Najjār was not able to justify his theory himself, either; it simply allowed him to be the ‘head’ of something individual, rather than the ‘tail’ of the Muʿtazila.22 They mocked the kasb al-Najjār long before they grew accustomed to saying adaqqu min kasb al-Ashʿarī.23 The ramifications arising from this were considerable. The capacity to act had come to mean God’s aid and protection from sin in Najjār’s eyes,24 rather than sound health as it might have been for Ḍirār.25 It comes from outside and is thus not a part (baʿḍ) of the human any more.26 It applies to one action only27 and does thus not have continued existence.28 If it implies God’s aid, this action must be a work of obedience. It is not possible to apply it to the opposite;29 usage alone demonstrates that one asks God’s aid for good deeds only.30 The unbelievers will be abandoned (khidhlān) or afflicted (balāʾ).31 God’s abandoning them is in fact God’s granting them a capacity to act; the unbelievers have everything one needs in order to perform an action, with the exception of God’s ‘granting them success’ (tawfīq) and his protection.32 It would thus be wrong to say that the unbelievers are incapable of belief. They are not incapable of action (ʿājiz), as in that case they would stop performing actions altogether. Someone lacking the capacity to act will be incapable

21  Text 30, a–b. Cf. also Gimaret, Théories 69). 22  Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Risālat Iblīs 129, 8ff.; regarding ‘head’ and ‘tail’ see vol. I 211 above. 23  Cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī VII 110, 1 (to be corrected accordingly; cf. Peters, God’s Created Speech 359, n. 167); also Yūsuf al-Bāṣir (in: REJ 131/1972/279), Mufīd (in: Sharīf alMurtaḍā, Al-fuṣūl al-mukhtāra II 115, 10ff./2279, 8ff., an in Turāthunā 4/1409/588, 8ff.), and Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 116, 13ff. 24  Text 30, b, and 31, b. Thus basically already Bishr al-Marīsī (cf. Text XX 25, and vol. III 200 above). Regarding the ahl al-ithbāt cf. Maq. 263, 6. 25  See vol. III 42 and 48f. above regarding Text XV 1, c. 26  Text 23 and 24, a; cf., however, Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad maqālāt al-Ashʿarī 108, 16. 27  Text 30, c–e; 31, i. 28  Text 24; 30, d; 31, i. 29  Text 31, a and f; Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 116, 3ff. 30  Text 31, c–e. 31  Text 30, f and h. In addition the concept of evil (sharr), not actually divine action, is mentioned in the text, probably because in prayer one might just as well say ‘protect me from being abandoned’ as ‘protect me from evil’ (cf. 31, c). 32  Text 32. Ashʿarī would later connect khidhlān only to unbelief, and tawfīq only to faith, not to actions in general (Gimaret, Ashʿarī 136). He also interpreted the ahl al-ithbāt in this way, as implied by Maq. 265, 6f.

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permanently and consequently absolved from the duty of obeying the law,33 as only the capacity to act is related to a concrete action, not the incapacity;34 and incapacity does not render a particular action impossible but stops the capacity to act as such.35 This was linked to the action and the capacity to act occurring at the same time; if God creates an action, he has to create the capacity to act linked to it as well.36 However, everything the unbelievers do will go the wrong way, as they are not rightly guided.37 Here – and only here – it is possible to say that if God puts them under an obligation to believe, he enjoins the impossible upon them (taklīf mā lā yuṭāq). The capacity to ‘perform’ unbelief which he grants the unbelievers is in itself unbelief, one might say.38 However, he could guide them to salvation at least in theory at any time by granting them a proof of divine grace (luṭf).39 This last idea only appears to be influenced by the Muʿtazila. Instead, Madelung has recently pointed out its kinship with the Kufan Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd.40 The Muʿtazilites were not satisfied with these deliberations because they were not primarily concerned with unbelievers, but rather with sinners. Unlike the unbeliever, the sinner’s position, if we think in Najjār’s categories, was ambivalent. He believes in God and Islam, and consequently receives divine aid, because faith is created.41 However, he transgresses against God, and is consequently abandoned. We do not know exactly how Najjār resolved this dilemma; after all, he was not familiar with the manzila bayna l-manzilatayn. He seems to have regarded the act of faith as superordinate;42 it is no accident that one of our central texts – the one, in fact, we followed above – quickly moves on to this issue.43 Najjār may have presumed that there was a fundamental decision in favour of either the friendship or the enmity of God; he had no 33  Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad maqālāt al-Ashʿarī 334, 22ff.; also 112, 8ff. Cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 438f. 34  Text 37; cf. Text 36. Also McDermott, Theology of Al-Mufīd 178f. 35  Ibn Fūrak 335, 11ff.; i.e. including faith and unbelief, as the Muʿtazilites pointed out with glee (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Munya 108, ult. f.). 36  Ibn Mattōya, Muḥīṭ I 368, –7ff. ʿAzmī/384, 14ff. Houben. 37  Text 30, h–i. 38  Text 33. 39  Text 34 and 30, k. Mānkdīm, ShUKh 402, 1ff., appears to imply that understandably the school did not like to hear the phrase taklīf mā lā yuṭāq; the passage refers to the unmarked doctrine 400, 6. Māturīdī, Tawḥīd 321, 19f., emphasises that the proof of divine grace remains a theoretical option. 40   Streitschrift des Aḥmad al-Nāṣir, intro. 10. 41  Ibn ʿAsākir, Tabyīn 150, ult. f. 42  Cf. also p. 175f. below. 43  Text 30, f and h–k; in g a remark on the works of obedience in general. Similar in Text 31 (cf. a–g with h and l).

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scruples calling this ikhtiyār, a free decision on the part of the human.44 Sin, in his view, appears to have been less deliberate transgression against God’s will, and more the tardiness in fulfilling it. In the case of an unbeliever, sin is due to his unbelief, but in the case of a believer, to omission (tark). If one has God’s aid, one may not be able to do the opposite, but one can let the moment pass in which one could have performed the good action, and become a sinner in this way. Conversely it is possible to perform a work of obedience by performing a good deed at the moment when one nearly let the opportunity pass.45 Thus although the action is created, the attitude one displays towards it allows a free decision. Najjār appears to have used the word badal ‘alternative’ in this context frequently. He did not interpret it to mean that one performs an entirely different action from the one for which one has been granted the capacity to act; humans are not able to do that. However, an ‘opposite’ (ḍidd) to any given action is always imaginable, as long as the latter does not occur or one does not perform it.46 The question is whether this should be seen as a real option, or merely a theoretical one. If we attempt an answer in the light of what we explored above, both may be true: the Muslim can, in a kind of passive resistance, actually refuse to commit a sin. A heathen, on the other hand, was not granted the power to believe, but there would have been an alternative to his unbelief, namely the proof of divine grace mentioned above. The sources do not provide much support for this graduated interpretation,47 not just because it was a subtle issue, but mainly because Najjār has no champion. Not only the Muʿtazilites had fallen out with him, but Ashʿarī, who agreed with him in many points, had also turned his back on him.48 The concept made sense to the Muʿtazilites only if the action did not already exist; in order to give scope to an ‘alternative’ one has to presume the capacity to act before the actual action.49 Thanks to his theory Najjār was a household name50 but, as in the case of kasb, usually 44  Text 31, l; on the use of this term in his environment cf. also Maq. 390, 12f. 45  Text 30, g. 46  Cf. the text mentioned (30, g) with Text 40; also Text 39 and Nāshiʾ, Awsaṭ 95 § 83. 47  Cf., however, with polemical distortion, Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Risālat Iblīs 129, –4ff., and Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Munya 108, apu. ff. Usually they speak of the heathen only (cf. e.g. Ibn Mattōya, Muḥīṭ II 69, 6ff.). 48  Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad 115, 6ff.; similar the Ḥanbalite Abū Yaʿlā in Text 39, b (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 146f.). The Māturīdites were not on his side, either (Gimaret, Théories 220). 49  Ibn Fūrak 119, ult. ff.; also Text XXV 57, and XXVIII 12, as well as Ashʿarī, Maq. 563, 4f., and al-Manṣūr billāh, Shāfī I 131, n. 1, after al-Hādī ilā l-ḥaqq, K. al-miʿrāj; also Mufīd, Awāʾil almaqālāt 87, ult. ff./transl. McDermott, Al-Mufīd 180. 50  Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ I 58, pu.

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with an undertone of derision.51 After all, he had not invented the term; Abū l-Hudhayl had used it before him.52 Precisely because he had used it to express the free will of humans Najjār had no choice but to explore it.53 The fragments of the tradition are not easily fitted together again. Not only do we not have original quotations from Najjār, people frequently looked askance at his teachings, too. Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī tried to include him in the category of jihāt al-fiʿl and set him beside Shaḥḥām,54 but it is entirely uncertain whether either of them was even familiar with the term, and quite certain that they both thought different things. Shaḥḥām concentrated on actions that are once performed by a human as his free decision, and another time befall him in spite of himself as the result of God’s will.55 Najjār, on the other hand, wants to absolve God of any blame in connection with unbelief, even though it was God who created unbelief; God, he says, created only the action as such, while its direction ( jiha), or qualification (ḥukm) as the Muʿtazilites would say,56 is added only once the human performs the action. Unbelief is thus evil it its form as a ‘lie’ for which a human bears responsibility, not when it is simply an intellectual proposition (iʿtiqād), and even less a mere ‘something’ (shayʾ), as in that case every position one might occupy and everything that exists would be evil from the outset.57 When talking about straightforward sin it was believed permissible to say that God acts unjustly (yafʿalu l-jawr) as long as the human does, too, but later even this would become controversial within the school.58 However, the idea that God would then be punishing humans not for their own actions but rather for his must, even if some sources not very far from Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī propose it,59 be judged a malicious distortion. 51  Cf. the remark by Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād in Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn 395, pu. ff. There was agreement from the ahl al-ithbāt (cf. Maq. 563, 5ff., where ʿalā l-badal may have to be added after the first lā yakūnu in 563, 7); but we do not know whether the relevant passage refers only to the Najjārites. 52  See vol. III 253 and 268 above. Most records for the Muʿtazila cannot be assigned to a particular date with any certainty and are probably of a later date (cf., besides the passages mentioned above, Maq. 205, 15f.; 233, 5f., and 236, 11ff.). 53  Cf. Abū l-Hudhayl’s polemic in Text XXI 90, l, and vol. III 298f. above. Sharīf al-Murtaḍā would later believe that the determinists began to talk of badal when they were pinned down to the taklīf mā lā yuṭāq (Dhakhīra 103, 6f.). 54  Text 28 A. 55  See p. 57 above. 56  The perspective is inverted here; cf. Text XVII 41, and vol. III 448 with further references. 57  Text 28 A, b–c. 58  Ashʿarī, Maq. 541, 3ff.; cf. p. 15f. and 37f. above as well as 189 and 352 below. Regarding the phrase yafʿalu l-ẓulm (instead of simply yaẓlumu) cf. p. 87 above. 59  Abū l-Muṭīʿ al-Nasafī (Radd 99, 6), or the later Tadhkirat al-madhāhib (129, 6f.); dependent on this also Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs 22, 10.

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The literary reflection shows how much Najjār already irritated his contemporaries; his case is similar to that of Ḥafṣ al-Fard.60 Murdār criticised the way in which he spoke of badal, and Abū Hāshim would later agree with the criticism. This was due to the fact that Najjār himself had also held forth on the matter in writing; both refutations referred to this treatise.61 He was a most diligent author: the Fihrist lists 34 titles in his name. At least six of these point to the topic described so far: besides the K. al-badal there was a K. al-tark from his pen, and no fewer than three treatises on the question of istiṭāʿa.62 Murdār attacked not only the K. al-badal but also the K. al-makhlūq;63 Iskāfī wrote against the K. al-istiṭāʿa and another, unnamed text.64 Najjār himself discussed Naẓẓām’s approach to the subject.65 This tells us something about the chronology: Abū l-Hudhayl and Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, Ḍirār’s most fervent opponents, do not appear any more. They had polemicised against Ḥafṣ al-Fard, probably when he was still staying in Basra. We do not know if Najjār studied under him. One of the typical anecdotes tell us that Najjār met Abū l-Hudhayl in Basra (vol. III 227, n. 8 above), but this may be purely paradigmatic. Ibn al-Rēwandī assumed that Abū l-Hudhayl debated with Najjār’s pupils (Text XXI 90, l), but this refers above all to their theories; a location is not mentioned. Najjār did not write at all on the subject on which the deliberations described were ultimately based, the concept of faith. He made a fundamental distinction between unbelievers and grave sinners;66 in that respect he was a Murjiʾite.67 Consequently his definition of faith was similar to that we have met among the first group above; once again, Abū Shamir may be perceived in the

60  See vol. II 817 and III 298 above; vol. V 252 (of the German edition). 61  Catalogue of Works no. 18. 62  Ibid. no. 13–18; no. 19 probably belongs in the same context. Text 31 might be drawing directly on one of these books. 63  Catalogue of Works XVIII b, no. 11 and 19. 64  Catalogue of Works XXIX, no. 8–9; cf. also no. 25. Regarding Iskāfī’s badal concept see p. 97 above. 65  Catalogue of Works no. 16. 66  Text 49, b; it is interesting that he was said to have explained this with God’s justice. Cf. p. 174 above. 67  Text 48, a; also Maq. 285, 2, and the passages cited n. 5 and 10 above. He wrote a K. al-irjāʾ (Catalogue of Works no. 21).

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background.68 Najjār was hardly original, and was not regarded as such either. What was new was the way in which he linked old ideas differently. Like Abū Shamir he spoke of the elements of the act of faith, and like him he refused to accord them a value in and of themselves. Only once they all come together do they acquire value individually: knowledge of God and the revelation,69 the resulting humility, and the profession of faith; and only when they have all been lost is the human an unbeliever.70 Faith is realised only as a whole, which is why it can be increased and intensified, but not reduced.71 Someone neglecting one of the elements commits a sin, but someone who consciously rejects an insight of faith will have lapsed into unbelief.72 Here, as everywhere in the Murjiʾa, we are looking at an intellectualist conception. Faith, Shahrastānī attempts to summarise Najjār’s theory, is mere believing something to be true.73 Someone whose faith is increasing believes even more deeply in God, and recognises him more clearly.74 Just like faith can be realised only as a whole, so God can be recognised as a whole only – unlike earthly things, which can always be partially compared to other things.75 In addition Najjār expanded the idea of a natural religion, which had long been familiar to the Basran Murjiʾa,76 in this context; almost more radically than his contemporary Naẓẓām, although it is unlikely that the latter had much of an influence on him in this matter. Humans, he said, are predisposed by their nature as well as by their social environment to recognise certain moral postulates such as the necessity of giving thanks or the reprehensibility of lying; they cannot ignore these insights. If these postulates are in addition spelled out in the Quran they merely have an intensifying, paraenetic function there.77 There were consequences for the image of God. The reasons because of which God creates things can be perceived; they take on many forms, but they are entirely rational. Above all he always has a reason; he never acts arbitrarily. Only the world as a whole was created for no reason; reasons exist 68  He is explicitly mentioned in Text 48, c; cf. Text II 17, d. The correspondences between 48, a, and II 17, a, are particularly convincing; cf. also 49, a, with II 17, b. 69  The law is part of the revelation, but only insofar as it all Muslims agree on its interpretation (Text 48, a). 70  Text 48, d–e; also II 15, i–k. 71  48, f–g. 72  Balancing sentences b and e of the same text. 73  Text 49, a. Agreement with Bishr b. al-Marīsī see p. 161 and 168 above. 74  Text 48, f. Is this connected to Najjār’s interpreting penance as a verbal asking for forgiveness only? (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 149, –7). 75  Text 47. 76  See vol. II 197f. above. 77  Text 45 and 46, a–c.

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within its order only.78 Even eschatology, the eternal duration of reward and punishment, can be proven rationally. Najjār was convinced in his Murjiʾite understanding that reward in the otherworld was based on faith, not on actions. God, at whom faith is directed, is eternal; consequently reward and punishment are never-ending, too.79 In the case of punishment this applies only if one has actually denied God; other sins, however grave and numerous they may have been, are finite.80 An anticipated punishment of the grave had no place in this concept; Najjār considered it unthinkable.81 After all this it comes as a surprise that in Najjār’s view God could treat the children who died before reaching intellectual maturity in any way he liked (Text 19). However, the sentence that God only does wrong (yafʿalu l-ẓulm) when humans do (see p. 175 above) implies, after all, that God was entirely free in other circumstances. Of course the answers as to how he would actually treat the ‘innocent children’ had to be speculation (cf. Text 20 with Text IV 64). Najjār’s belief that the duty to obey the law continued in the otherworld may have played a part in this (Ṭūsī, Tibyān IV 451, 3ff., and VI 305, 5f.). We cannot furnish a parallel to this peculiar theory. While Najjār’s Murjiʾite concept of faith may have paved the way for his theory of action, it did not predetermine the latter at all. On the contrary, it brought him closer to the Muʿtazila. When we look for a tangible foundation for his determinism – which attracted Muʿtazilite polemic on its own account – we shall find it elsewhere: in the image of God. Najjār regarded God’s will as an attribute of essence in which God’s royal power (mulk) manifests itself.82 In addition Najjār linked his will to his foreknowledge: everything he knows, he wills.83 This is why everyone dies at the time God determined and knew in advance; not even a murderer will shorten the allocated lifetime of his victim. Consequently even things unlawfully appropriated are a means of subsistence decreed by God.84 And finally, as was transmitted in the name of the ahl alithbāt, humans do not have power – i.e. capacity to act – over that of which God knows that it will not be.85 Najjār appears to have been the first to accord 78  Text 21. 79  Najjār does not appear to distinguish between eternal duration and essential limitlessness. 80  Text 46, d–e. Text 41 illustrates how the opposition presented this. 81  Text 43. 82  Text 11, b; 12, and 26, b; the book on the subject cf. Catalogue of Works no. 8. 83  Text 11, a. 84  Text 12. 85   Maq. 561, 15.

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the divine will such a dominant and independent role; at this point he set a new accent86 in the Murjiʾite–Ḥanafite tradition which he followed in his definition of faith and – through Marīsī – in his theory of action as well.87 In the Muʿtazila Jubbāʾī would be the first to adapt to it.88 The principle that God wills everything he knows applies only, as is clear from the foregoing, to events that actually come to pass. Najjār, like Abū lHudhayl, was not familiar with the concept of potentiality, but as he employed the category of divine will where Abū l-Hudhayl spoke of divine omnipotence, the problem of how to preserve God’s free will presented itself more immediately. While it was thus self-evident that God must know everything that can be known, it could not be said that he must will everything that could be willed (Text 13). One may also devote some thought to whether it was comparable to the human act of will. Najjār’s treatise on the irāda al-mūjiba (Catalogue of Works no. 9) presumably discussed that an act of will will of necessity lead to its result, not only in the case of God, but a human as well. Ashʿarī probably preserved a quotation from it (Maq. 415, 14ff.), which does indeed concern human will. It was basically self-evident that acts of divine will are mujīb. In the case of humans, however, there was always tamannī in addition to irāda, the ‘illusory intention’ consisting in wanting something that does not then come to pass (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 141, 17f.). In Najjār’s anthropology, will appears to have acquired greater relevance. God’s will cannot be defined positively, as God’s innermost nature, his māhiyya, remains hidden from us. Najjār continued Ḍirār’s negative theology: ‘God wills’ means ‘he does not loathe’89 or ‘he does not have to let it happen (against his will)’,90 ‘God is generous’: he is not miserly,91 ‘God is one’: nothing is similar to him or like him,92 and in the same way with the usual attributes such as ‘knowing’, ‘living’, etc.93 Najjār’s guideline was the laysa ka-mithlihī shayʾ in sura 42:11, for two things can be mithl ‘similar’ only when they correspond in an positive 86  Regarding Bishr al-Marīsī cf. vol. III 200f. above. 87  On which he continued to exert an influence in Iran (cf. Text XXXV 23). 88  This may be inferred from the description in Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 241, 1ff. 89  Text 11, b. 90  Text 12. 91  Text 9. 92   Maq. 528, 15f. 93  This is presumably the meaning of Text 8.

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quality, but we do not know the positive side of God’s attributes. One might ask if God does not share with things that he exists, like them, but Najjār covered himself with the clarification that similarity is present only ever if neither of the objects compared has been generated by the other.94 Once God’s matchlessness has thus been established, one can assert things of him that might otherwise be offensive. Now it is possible to understand why sura 2:15 tells us that he mocks the unbelievers; in the case of God this is not reprehensible as it would be in a human.95 On the other hand it provides the reason why we are unable to recognise him partially; he cannot be joined to anything.96 God is thus not light, either; as it is too earthly. Sura 24:35 calling him ‘light of the heavens and the earth’ must be interpreted to mean that he shows humans the right road.97 He is in every place in his essence, although we cannot recognise him as he is not inherent to places. Najjār believed him to be omnipresent because he is infinite; places only came into being thanks to his creation.98 All these deliberations focussed on the attributes of essence, as any insight into God’s māhiyya would have to go through them. A book title provides evidence that Najjār was familiar at least with the concept of ‘attributes of essence’,99 but we do not know if he also spoke of attributes of act; this was not widespread usage at his time. He certainly expanded the scope of attributes of essence to include not only willing and generosity but also God’s truthfulness (ṣidq) and his speech; in his view, all these were not generated within time as the Muʿtazilites believed, but had been God’s for all eternity.100 In the last two cases Najjār proved this by tracing them back to God’s omnipotence: ‘God has been truthful for all eternity’ means ‘he has had the power (or: not been without the power) to speak the truth for all eternity’, and ‘God has been speaking for all eternity’ means ‘he has been not incapable of speech for all eternity’.101 It is characteristic of his approach that he regarded God as having 94  Text 2; also my Erkenntnislehre 403f. Through an oversight I omitted to include the summary in Maq. 353, 12ff., which should also be adduced. 95  Text 18. 96  Text 47, a–b. 97  Text 6. Thus also later Jubbāʾī (cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 534, 3f.). 98  Text 3–5. Once again Najjār went further than the Muʿtazila; it did not interpret God’s omnipresence as relating to his essence but only to imply that God guides the world everywhere (see p. 457 below). 99  Catalogue of Works no. 8, which, however, has ṣif fī l-dhāt, not ṣifat al-dhāt. 100  Text 10, and 15, a. The collective account of his teachings in Ashʿarī tells us only that he differed from the Muʿtazila regarding generosity and will (Maq. 285, 1). 101  Ibid.; the alternation between positive and negative expressions is worth noting. Abū Yaʿlā has, blandly: mutakallim = fāʿil al-kalām (Muʿtamad 92, ult. f.).

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been ‘refraining’ (tārik) for all eternity as God, whenever he does something, at the same time refrains from doing the opposite.102 In this way he applied his badal theory to God and at the same time discovered a further attribute of essence, for while God could not have been fāʿil ‘doing’ for all eternity, but he could of course have been ‘refraining from doing’, as he might just as well have done the opposite. Two theologoumena to which Ḍirār had already devoted considerable attention went diametrically across this tendency: the vision of God and the temporalisation of divine speech that is the Quran. Like Ḍirār Najjār believed in the vision of God; however, he did not postulate a sixth sense for it but rather thought that in the otherworld God will grant our eyes the abilities of our heart, for us to see God even though he is not visible.103 This sounds like an attempt at interpreting the ruʾya bil-abṣār in accordance with Abū l-Hudhayl’s ruʾya bilqalb, but Najjār probably insisted that this was how one could advance all the way to God’s māhiyya; certainly he, like his contemporary Ibn Kullāb, appears to have emphasised that one does not see colours or bodies, but that which exists, and God does exist.104 He believed that the Quran came into the world during the laylat al-qadr.105 Thus while God has for all eternity been ‘not incapable’ of speech, his speech as well as the Quran are created.106 Its earthly manifestation adapts to the medium: when it takes the form of recitation it is an accident like human speech; when it takes the form of the written word it is a body like the material on which the writing appears.107 When Muḥammad proclaimed the Quran God chose him although he had not earned this mercy.108 The miracles he and other prophets performed in affirmation of their status could never have been performed by a fraud: if God allowed this, there would be no criterion left to the humans. Someone who claims to be God, on the other hand, may well perform the occasional miracle, as the absurdity of his claim alone would unmask him. After all God is not like or similar to humans in any way.

102  Text 14. 103  Text 7. 104  Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla I 388, apu. ff.; the passage is not entirely clear and strictly speaking refers only to the school of Najjār. Regarding the subject see p. 157 above. 105  Thus according to Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Baḥr al-kalām 33, 10f. It is of course based on sura 97:1; regarding the theological background cf. Suyūṭī, Itqān I 39, 5ff. 106  Text 15, b. 107  Text 16. 108  Text IV 51, together with Bishr al-Marīsī.

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An Ismāʿīlite heresiographer to whose works P. Walker drew attention in JAOS 114/1994/343ff. lists the remarkable doctrine for Najjār and his school that it was permitted to fight an unjust ruler (al-sulṭān al-jāʾir) in every possible way. The information may go back to Kaʿbī or the younger Nāshiʾ (d. 365/976 or 366/977; cf. GAS 2/591), but cannot be confirmed as yet.

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5.2.2 The School of Najjār Najjār poses a similar problem to Jahm b. Ṣafwān: we can barely distinguish between him and his followers. Consequently it is possible that the above synopsis blends the different stages of the development together. Some of the instances are from Ibn Fūrak’s writings; he knew very well that there were differences as well as isolated trends within the school.1 Living in the fourth century, he was familiar with the Najjārites from his own experience of them: he had studied in Rayy2 where they maintained their own mosque until the sixth century.3 Their power base was among the Ḥanafites; Muqaddasī, writing 200 years before him, stated that they were the majority in the city and all followed Najjār’s school.4 It was probably no coincidence that Mānkdīm so frequently discussed them in his Sharḥ al-uṣūl al-khamsa; after all, he lived in Rayy for many years, and was a Zaydite himself.5 Kiyā al-Harrāsī, a contemporary of Ghazzālī’s and familiar with circumstances in Iran,6 listed Najjār as the third force besides the Muʿtazilites and Ashʿarī.7 Muqaddasī found Najjārites in the Jibāl province and in great numbers in Jurjān in his day.8 Ibn al-Dāʿī – or rather the author who hid behind that name – knows of them in Bukhara and the surrounding area as well as the district (rustāq) of Kashan; they, too, were Ḥanafites to a man.9 He was probably reporting of the first half of the seventh/ thirteenth century. There had been a rift at the beginning of the fourth century when a certain Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Zaʿfarānī fell out with the traditional orthodox branch over the interpretation of the khalq al-Qurʾān. He appears to have been a zealot who fought the Ismāʿīlites and the Ṣūfīs and attempted to spread his doctrine as far as Nishapur and Bukhara.10 He did not find much support in 1   Cf. e.g. Mujarrad 112, 7ff., and 117, 18f.; 172, 6ff. 2   Cf. EI2 III 766 s. n. 3   Cf. Calmard in: Le monde iranien et l’Islam 1/1971/46, after ʿAbd al-Jalīl Qazwīnī, K. alnaqḍ (p. 599, 1). 4    Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 394, ult. ff.; also Shīrāzī, Ṭab. 138. pu. f. ʿAbd al-Jalīl Qazwīnī, loc. cit., distinguishes between Ḥanafites and Najjārites. 5   Madelung, Qāsim 182f. Abū Rashīd tells us that Kaʿbī’s pupil Abū Ḥusayn al-Aḥdab also debated with them (Al-masāʾil fī l-khilāf 285, pu. ff.), but we do not know where this was. 6   Regarding him EI2 V 234. 7    Uṣūl al-dīn, fol. 38a, 10ff. 8    Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 384, 14, and 365, 9. When stating a strong Jahmite influence among them (ibid. 37, 11, and 38, 9) he seems to regard it as an internal Iranian development, but he might be referring to similarities in the concept of faith etc. that had existed from the outset. 9    Tabṣira 91, 6f.; a name: p. 193 below. 10  Cf. Stern in: BSOAS 23/1960/60 = Studies in Early Ismāʿīlism, 194f.

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Nishapur,11 but in the region around Rayy he succeeded in attracting at least the rural population. His son returned to Najjār’s doctrine; his followers are probably those whom the sources know as ‘revisionists’ (mustadrika). The villagers disapproved of this about-turn, but in Rayy the ‘restitution’ was regarded favourably. Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī mentions both groups;12 Baghdādī debated with one of the mustadrika in Rayy shortly afterwards.13 In another place he tells us that the school there was divided into ten violently feuding factions.14 5.2.2.1 Burghūth Muqaddasī found Najjārites in Baghdad as well;1 in Basra they seem to have died out long before his time. Najjār himself, on the other hand, had had pupils there, one of whom played a comparatively influential part: Abū ʿAbdallāh2 Abū ʿĪsā (?)3 Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā al-Baṣrī,4 called Burghūth, ‘the flea’. The sobriquet is not explained anywhere, but then it speaks for itself and was not unusual in any case.5 Burghūth was an official (kātib)6 and died half a year after Iskāfī, i.e. 240/855 or 241/856.7 The Muʿtazila attacked him and Najjār with similar frequency, but it is noticeable that all those of his opponents who are documented with any certainty were members of the Baghdad school.8 11  Cf. Ḥākim al-Naysābūrī in TH 733, 9ff., and Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm III 214, 12ff.; also Goldziher in: ZDMG 62/1908/7 = Ges. Schr. V 141. 12   Imtāʿ II 78, 1f. 13   Farq 198, –5ff./210, pu. ff.; the ‘revision’, as the same account informs us, related to the khalq al-Qurʾān (198, 2ff./210, 7ff.; cf. also Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 62, 10ff.). Also Der Islam 44/1968/63. 14   Uṣūl al-dīn 334, 2f. 1    Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 126, 5f. 2   Thus according to Dhahabī, Siyar X 554, –6, who probably refers to Fihrist. 3   Thus according to Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 652, 17, and Ibn Taymiyya, Tafṣīr sūrat al-ihklāṣ 58, –6ff. 4   Concerning this nisba and Burghūth in general cf. the material collected by Gimaret in: SI 44/1976/11ff. 5   Cf. e.g. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Al-shajara al-mubāraka 181, 5, mentioning an ʿAlid – without the article here, too. 6   Thus according to Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal III 22, 9f. 7    Fihrist 213, 17; also Dhahabī, Siyar X 554, pu. 8   Cf. Catalogue of Works XXXII b under ‘Refutations’. He, in turn, wrote against Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb (Catalogue of Works no. 2).

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Circumstances were apparently different in Basra. While it was reported that Abū l-Hudhayl – certainly advanced in years – refused to debate with him,9 in the eyes of Ḥanbal b. Isḥāq, Ibn Ḥanbal’s cousin, he and his followers represented the Basran Muʿtazila.10 He is described as the brain behind and theological adviser to Ibn Abī Duwād;11 he was said to have been present during the debate with Ibn Ḥanbal, and to have called for his head to roll when the latter was at his wits’ end.12 Outside observers seem to have seen in him one of those mutakallimūn one would have expected to come from Basra. Of course it would be expecting too much of a Baghdad traditionist such as Ḥanbal b. Isḥāq to understand the subtleties of distinctions between Basran schools, but there are indications that Burghūth remained in contact with the Muʿtazila, even closer than Najjār.13 He appears to have been influenced by Naẓẓām. He saw a nature at work within living beings and inanimate objects that determined part of the tawallud process in the case of external influences on them.14 The formula he used in this context, bi-ījāb al-ṭabʿ, strongly recalls Naẓẓām’s bi-ījāb al-khilqa.15 In his definition of humans Burghūth spoke not only of ‘parts’ in keeping with Ḍirārite tradition any more, but of akhlāṭ ‘components of mixture’. Unlike the physicians he did not regard these as the humours, but rather as ‘ingredients’ in the sense of Naẓẓām – such as colour, odour, etc.16 It is particularly interesting that he believed creation could never cease to exist altogether.17 If, as may be assumed, he was indeed writing against Khalīl b. Aḥmad’s controversial theological treatise,18 he would have positioned himself on the line drawn by Naẓẓām here, too.19 In a K. al-maqālāt,

9    Faḍl 257, 12ff. > IM 46, 5ff. 10  Ḥanbal b. Isḥāq, Miḥna 51, 9. 11  Ibid. 66, pu. f.; see vol. III 503 above. 12  Ibid. 55, 9ff., and 58, –5; cf. also Dhahabī, Siyar X 554, –5. 13  He, too, was listed among the Muʿtazilites by e.g. Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 28, ult. f. Regarding Burghūth cf. also Juwaynī, Burhān 320, pu. f. 14  Text 54. 15  See vol. III 390 and 411 above; also Gimaret, Théories 15, and my Erkenntnislehre 136. Text 54 is in fact part of the collective account on Najjār in Ashʿarī’s book, and might be interpreted to mean that Burghūth agreed with Najjār in this point, too. However, Baghdādī, to whom Ashʿarī referred, emphasised that he disagreed; this can also be inferred when comparing to Tet 35. 16  Text 56, a; regarding akhlāṭ in Naẓẓām see vol. III 369 above. 17  Text 62, i. 18  Cf. Catalogue of Works no. 7 and the commentary on the refutation. 19  See vol. II 256ff. above. The hypothesis gains in probability as Burghūth appears to have had some connections with Ibāḍite theologians (see p. 195 and 197 below); after all, Khalīl was from Oman (vol. II 253 above).

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used by Ashʿarī among others, he may well have adopted doxographical material from Naẓẓām.20 If we put these parallels and connections into relief, we can play with the idea that he might have been the same as that Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā who came from Sīrāf (where the Basran Muʿtazila was very influential, after all)21 and occasionally occurs bearing the sobriquet al-Naẓẓāmī.22 This hypothesis was indeed proposed,23 but did not meet with agreement, as there are some arguments against it.24 Most importantly his kinship with Naẓẓām is not really as close as it appears prima vista. The doxographers, Ashʿarī first of all, saw Burghūth in the tradition of Najjār25 with good reason. Although he spoke of akhlāṭ, he did not have mudākhala in mind; certainly, he answered the question of how a human could be an organic whole if he was made up out of ‘parts’ each of which fulfilled a different function ( fiʿl) differently.26 And the formula bi-ījāb al-ṭabʿ did not prevent him from embracing, like Najjār, the idea that God works the mutawallidāt. Humans cannot do this; their nature may be affected but cannot itself effect. Like Najjār he regarded human actions as kasb; deepening the contrast between khalq and kasb by avoiding the term fiʿl/fāʿil altogether. The sources look at this from different perspectives. Ashʿarī presumes that Burghūth did not want to use the term fāʿil to denote God (Text 53), while Baghdādī believes that he did not accord this predicate to humans (Farq 197, 5f./209, 11). Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī was of the opinion that only the latter was correct; he noted that Burghūth believed acting and act, effecting and effect ( fiʿl and mafʿūl) to be identical – i.e. to be inseparable ontologically as well as chronologically – and that this could apply to God only (Tabṣirat al-adilla 635, 3f.). However, he regarded Burghūth in this area as Ashʿarī’s forerunner (Ashʿarī did indeed call only God fāʿil, ibid. 596, 8ff., and 652, 17ff.; also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 388), which means that Ashʿarī’s own, different, verdict on Burghūth does carry some weight. However, the reason Burghūth gave for rejecting it according to Text 53 is 20  Cf. Catalogue of Works no. 5. 21  See p. 278f. below. 22  See vol. III 98 above. 23  By W. M. Watt, who even brought the Ibāḍite Muḥammad b. Ḥarb into this, too (JRAS 1943, p. 243, and Free Will 128f. as well as 110f.). 24  Cf. in detail Gimaret in: SI 44/1976/17ff. and earlier; also Madelung, Qāsim 244, and my own deliberations in: Der Islam 44/1968/60f. 25  Text 54, a. Similar also Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Inqādh al-bashar 260, 10 ʿImāra, where Muḥammad b. Ghawth should probably be read as Muḥammad Burghūth. 26  Text 56, b–c.

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questionable: one can ‘create’ only what is god, but ‘do’ also what is bad. It can be refuted by examining Quranic usage (Text 53, b); furthermore it meant one had to ask even more why the word could not at least be applied to humans. This is probably how Abū l-Qāsim al-Anṣārī arrived at the conclusion that Burghūth changed his mind (Gimaret, Ashʿarī 388, n. 24). We do not know whether as a consequence he was still able to rely on Burghūth’s writings. The K. al-istiṭāʿa would have been the most likely (Catalogue of Works no. 1). It must be borne in mind that presumably we do not have the entire list of texts, as they were originally listed in the Fihrist, any more. It is thus possible that he discussed the subject more than once. He might have explored it e.g. in his K. al-Muḍāhāt (no. 3); in this text he probably defended himself against the accusation of being indebted to dualism with his synergist ideas (see vol. V 302 [of the German edition]). Cf. also Watt, Free Will 110f. The agreement with Najjār is obvious also in the question of divine will. Burghūth wrote a book on the subject;27 some points show us with which arguments he enriched the discussion with the Muʿtazilites.28 Beyond this, we have only scraps of his ‘system’. Mānkdīm observed that unlike the Muʿtazilites Burghūth did not believe God’s speech to be a mere attribute of act; however, if he has him say that God was speaking of his essence, this is too positive an expression.29 Burghūth continued to adhere to Najjār’s negative theology.30 While Mānkdīm wonders in the following how this agrees with the khalq al-Qurʾān, he is too much limited by his own categories: as we have seen, Burghūth was an active supporter of the khalq al-Qurʾān during the miḥna.31 Unlike Najjār – and Naẓẓām – he did not believe that God had reasons because of which he acted; at the very least he did not believe this to be provable. God acts appropriately even when we are under the impression that there is no sense nor purpose to it (ʿabathan).32 27  Catalogue of Works no. 6. 28  Text 51–52. It makes us wonder whether more of the arguments in favour of an eternal and essential divine will listed by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār in Mughnī VI 2 175ff. might have originated with Burghūth. 29  Text 50. 30  Malāḥimī found this confirmed in one of Burghūth’s writings (Text 49 A). 31  In the brief note on Burghūth included by Ṣafadī (Wāfī IV 304 no. 1842) this is the only point mentioned. Ibn Taymiyya, to, mentioned it; he also knew precisely that Burghūth was no Muʿtazilite (Tafṣīr sūrat al-ikhlāṣ 58, –6ff.). This was probably why Ibn Baṭṭa already had the idea of having him join the Jahmites (Ibāna 91, 16; thus also Dhahabī, Siyar X 554, –6). 32  Text 55. Regarding ʿabath see vol. III 302 above.

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Burghūth anticipates Ashʿarī’s theory to some extent (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 447ff.). This is also the context of the passage Maq. 567, 7ff., which does not provide a name but incorporates Text 56, a, among others. This tells us that things are the way they are because God created them that way. This and the following are related to the teachings of Ḥafṣ al-Fard (cf. Text XV 49, e). On the other hand Burghūth was said to believe that God, in order to create anything at all, had to create at least two atoms because one of them requires a ‘place’ (makān), which in turn can only be another atom (Text 62, d; cf. Gimaret in: SI 44/1976/13, n. 2 after Nasafī, Tabṣira 45, 3ff.). In this he was following Ṣāliḥ Qubba (see vol. III 460f. above); they were contemporaries, and consequently Burghūth did not know that his pupil Ṣāliḥī would later regard the body as being made up out of a single atom (see p. 157 above). – Regarding more of Burghūth’s theories cf. Text 57 and 57 A (the prophet was an unbeliever before he received his calling and could thus have been punished), 62, f (a human can never know everything that he does not know), and 62, m (a minor does not necessarily have to come to know God once he has reached intellectual maturity). Juwaynī, Burḥān 320, pu., implies that he also held his own views when it came to the uṣūl al-fiqh. 5.2.2.2 Further Theologians of this Circle Burghūth’s surprising connection to Ibn Abī Duwād is confirmed by the parallel case of the poet Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Abī ʿAṭiyya al-ʿAṭawī who wrote laudatory poems about the powerful qāḍī and continued to uphold the latter’s honour in elegies on the occasion of his death, long after he had fallen from favour.1 ʿAṭawī was a Najjārite as well,2 and had proved this in a K. khalq al-afʿāl.3 Like Burghūth he was a member of the civil service and had lived in Basra for a long time, moving to Baghdad and Samarra only during Ibn Abī Duwād’s term in office, i.e. the 220s. Being a mawlā he was grateful for sponsors in high places. He does not seem to have composed any poems in Basra, but then poetry was not the reason why Ibn Abī Duwād esteemed him, but rather 1  Agh. XXIII 123, 5ff.; cf. vol. III 539 above. 2  Marzubānī, Muʿjam 377, 2ff.; Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭab. 395, 5f.; Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 230, 13 > Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān V 285, 2; TB III 137, 18f.; Samʿānī, Ansāb IX 329, 9ff. 3  Catalogue of Works XXXII c, no. 1.

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his skill in religious debates.4 Iskāfī also praised his dialectical ability.5 ʿAṭawī probably defended the khalq al-Qurʾān, which meant that even a Muʿtazilite might overlook the fact that he was actually a ‘Jahmite’. While the difference between the two schools is well documented, it has not been noted by the secondary sources so far, which simply present ʿAṭawī as a Muʿtazilite (cf. GAS 2/518; T. Nagel, Rechtleitung 448f.; Gramlich, Ġazzālīs Lehre von den Stufen der Gottesliebe 421; Muʿaybid in the introduction to his collection of poem fragments in: Mawrid 1/1971, no. 1–2, p. 71ff. = Shuʿarāʾ Baṣriyyūn 7ff.). This is due on the one hand to the fact that in the key passage Agh. XXIII 123, 4f., the pronominal reference is not clear, and on the other that ‘orthodox’ authors such as the Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī and Samʿānī did not see much of a difference between Najjār and the Muʿtazila, and consequently always include the latter in the relevant passages. Bakrī even described ʿAṭawī exclusively as Muʿtazilite (Simṭ al-la‌ʾālī 855, apu.). Only earlier authors who were themselves Muʿtazilites, such as Ibn al-Nadīm, or consulted Muʿtazilite sources, such as Ibn al-Muʿtazz, made sure the boundaries were clear. – Furthermore, his name was transmitted in more than one version. We are adhering to the one given by Marzubānī and K. al-aghānī; Ta‌ʾrīkh Baghdād has (presumably based on Fihrist 230, 16, which, however, also includes the other version) Muḥammad b. ʿAṭiyya. After this also Nagel, loc. cit. Ibn al-Nadīm noted that ʿAṭawī diverged from Najjār in the question of sensual perception.6 In fact he wrote a treatise on the subject;7 it is possible that he was influenced by Burghūth and presumed the influence of a ‘nature’ at work in perceptions.8 As opposed to his other fellow believers he also admitted unconditionally that God was capable of lying; he reached this conclusion a fortiori because according to their and Najjār’s view, God was able to ‘do’ what was unjust.9 He was furthermore said to have embraced the theory that accidents – and presumably all other indescribable entities – should be called unknowing, inanimate and impotent, because they are not knowing, not living, and not powerful. This looks like a logicist conclusion coming from 4  T B III 137, 19, and 138, 2; Agh. XXIII 124, 3ff., in both instances after Mubarrad, who collated a selection of his poems. In general see Bencheikh in EI2 VII 392f. s. n. 5  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭab. 395, 6f. 6  Fihrist 230, 17. 7  Catalogue of Works no. 2. 8  This doctrine was transmitted, albeit anonymously, for the ahl al-ithbāt (Maq. 390, 15f.). 9  Text 59–60; cf. also p. 175f. above.

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negative theology. Negative assertions have no prescriptive effect and can thus be produced ad libitum. Interestingly, this idea had already been attributed to Najjār.10 It would have appeared rather absurd for the reason alone that ‘unknowing’, ‘inanimate’ and ‘impotent’ are expressed by separate verbal roots and were thus positive assertions ( jāhil, mawāt, ʿājiz).11 For correspondences between him and Najjār cf. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal III 22, 7 (the capacity to act exists only at the moment of acting), and Text 60 (God can condemn children to the fires of hell); also Ibn Furāk, Mujarrad 147, 2ff.: the capacity to act is not part of the human as a whole (clear approximation to Muʿammar here; cf. Gimaret in: JA 173/1985/253). See also Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 142, 4 = Qalāʾid 97, 8: one can desire an act of will without it leading to infinite regress. Ibn al-Jarrāḥ noted that like Naẓẓām12 he used the madhhab aṣḥāb al-kalām in his poems.13 He not only granted right of residence to theological language usage and argumentation in his poetry, he also employed metric language as a tool of polemic, rather like Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir. A qaṣīda of his is extant, written against Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, ‘the enemy of Islam within Islam’, and intended to attack the corporeism of his followers. Consequently it used the relevant terminology, starting with the praise of God: ‘Greater is the lord of accidents and bodies than the qualities of accidents and bodies’.14 ʿAṭawī also wrote wine poems, especially during his time in Samarra.15 He could not have got away with this among the ascetically inclined Muʿtazilites and Najjārites in Basra, but at court, custom demanded it. He sensed the discrepancy and lent it poetical expression: while he and his drinking companions knew God (ʿārif billāh), this did not stop them from committing the same sins as ignorant people ( juhhāl) or heretics (ahl al-ḍalāl), or save them from facing the same judgement in the end.16 Whether this contrition was ‘affected’, as Nagel claimed,17 remains to be seen. It is indeed impossible to overlook the arrogance of an elitist intellectual at its roots, but ʿAṭawī was certainly a ‘Murjiʾite’ like Najjār, and thus able to hope – more than a Muʿtazilite – that faith and knowledge alone 10  Text 38, b. 11  Text 58. 12  See vol. III 328 above. 13   Agh. XXIII 124, 1. 14  Qālī, Amālī II 232, 8ff. = Muʿaybid no. 69 (Shuʿarāʾ Baṣriyyūn 50f.). 15   Agh. XXIII 124, 4f. 16  Muʿaybid no. 62. Concerning the opposition jāhil – ʿāqil cf. also no. 65. 17   Rechtleitung 448f.

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would lead him to salvation. The Muʿtazilites preferred to refer to themselves exclusively with the predicate ʿārif billāh; only Iskāfī allowed it to the Najjārites and Jahmites, too.18 The time had not yet come when it would denote mystics. In some cases Burghūth and ʿAṭawī modified Najjār’s concept over the course of an internal debate. A few of these issues were adopted by another theologian of the same ilk, of whose life and identity we know nothing at all, namely Aḥmad b. Salama al-Kūshānī. He appears to have come from central Asia. While he is unlikely to have had any links to the Kushan dynasty – as it had long passed out of existence, and was not familiar to the Arabs – Yāqūt mentioned a city of this name. It was situated within the Toquz Oghuz territory, i.e. in East Turkestan, where this tribal federation had its home.19 He was probably referring to Qōchō, Chin. Gao-ch’ang, in the Turfan Basin in present-day Xinjiang, which was the capital of the Uighur empire at the time,20 or maybe to the Kuchā oasis on the northern route through the Tarim Basin, which was a station on the Silk Road and also part of the Uighur sphere of influence.21 Our theologian, however, 18  Text XXIX 35. 19   Muʿjam al-buldān s. n. The Toquz Oghuz were close kin to the Uighurs, and Islamic sources often regard the two as identical (cf. Barthold, Four Studies 84f.; Grousset, L’Empire des steppes 162f., n. 2/transl. 565f. n. 79; Minorsky in: BSOAS 12/1947–48/285ff.; summarised by F. Sümer in: IA XII 1 420ff.). 20  Cf. A. von Gabain, Das uigurische Königreich von Chotscho 850–1250 (Berlin 1961), later also in: Harvard Ukrainian Studies 3–4/1979–80/258ff., esp. 267. Minorsky vocalises Kawshān instead of Kūshān, presumably in accordance with Gao-ch’ang (loc. cit. 288), although Yāqūt has the reading used here, too. His article Turkistān furthermore refers to Tamīm b. Baḥr al-Muṭṭawiʿī’s travel account which Minorsky discusses in the article mentioned above (BSOAS 12/1947–48/275ff.); Muṭṭawiʿī visited the ‘city of the king of the Toquz Oghuz’ in mid-206/early 821 or slightly earlier (II 24 b, 13ff.; also V 311, 11ff., after Ibn al-Faqīh). 21  Cf. the information in EIran V 462 a and 472 a s. v. Chinese Turkestan. Regarding the oasis’ relevance to cultural history see E. Waldschmidt, Ghandara, Kutscha, Turfan 49ff.; on its history in general also Ch. I. Beckwith, The Tibetan Empire 25, 34, and 50. It was one of the ‘four garrisons’ (ibid. 47). However, there was a place called Kuchen or Guchen northeast of Kuchā (Barthold, 12 Vorlesungen 89, n. 160); these would include the n of the Arabic nisba (which could, however, be explained differently if derived from Kuchā). Regarding all this see the maps in Grousset 162f., and Hulsewé/Loewe, China in Central Asia (Leiden 1979). It should not be overlooked that Ibn Rusta called the Kushites of Africa Kūshāniyyūn as well (Aʿlāq 100, 19). – The variant Kūsānī in Maq. 262, 7 (spelt with s rather than sh) is probably only a misprint.

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probably spent time in Iraq; the discussions with Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī mentioned by Ibn al-Nadīm are likely to have taken place in Basra or Baghdad.22 This would date him to the second half of the third century; he would thus have been younger than those mentioned previously. Ashʿarī met him in person.23 Among the numerous books Ibn al-Nadīm tells us he wrote we once again find a K. khalq al-afʿāl.24 Like Burghūth he was reluctant to use the word fāʿil with reference to humans.25 The disagreement between ʿAṭawī and the rest of the school appears to have led him to reject the expression ‘God does (yafʿalu) that which is unjust’; it suggested too strongly that God was essentially unjust.26 This certainly implied in his view that God did not lie, either; as with Burghūth, we may see this as due to Naẓẓām’s influence.27 – Another Najjārite who was active in Baghdad at the same time was Abū l-ʿAbbās Muḥammad b. ʿImrān al-Ḥalabī. He debated with Khayyāṭ as well as ʿAbbād’s pupil Bardhaʿī; the subjects he chose clearly reveal his way of thinking.28 He also wrote poetry; this is why Marzubānī preserved his name.29 In his youth he had been friends with Buḥturī who seems to have written a poem directing some good-hearted mockery at him.30 He appears to have occupied a high position in the civil service, as he was acquainted with a member of the Banū l-Munajjim, and he was in a position to testify against Abū Sahl al-Nawbakhtī (237/851–311/924), the political leader of the Imāmite Shīʿa.31 He disagreed with Abū Sahl when it came to theology as well; the latter wrote a Radd ʿalā man qāla bil-makhlūq.32 He may have 22   Fihrist 231, pu., although it is true that Ṣāliḥī travelled to Khorasan once (see p. 152 above). 23   Maq. 541, 3, and 549, 4ff. 24   Fihrist 231, pu. f. Unfortunately the entry has been transmitted incomplete; furthermore Ibn al-Nadīm also listed only a selection of titles. 25   Maq. 540, 4ff. This suggested itself in the case of all those who emphasised God’s omnipotence; cf. e.g. Bayhaqī, Shuʿab al-īmān I 210, –8ff. 26  Ibid. 541, 3ff. 27  This is what I conjectured in: Der Islam 44/1968/60; it is not, however, necessarily so. – For Kūshānī’s definition of tark cf. Maq. 262, 6f. 28   I M 86, 1ff., and 90, 16ff. 29   Muʿjam al-shuʿarāʾ 424, 1ff., and Muwashshaḥ 574, 8ff. 30   Dīwān I 268ff. no. 90, where, however, the name is not transmitted entirely clearly. The editor dates the poem to 233, which would be comparatively early for both Buḥturī and Ibn ʿImrān. I am unable to see what he bases the date on. 31   Muʿjam 424, 3ff. Regarding Abū Sahl cf. Massignon, Passion 2I 359ff./I 372f.; Zaryāb in GIE II 178. 32   Fihrist 225, 17.

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been from Kufa where there was a family known under the nisba al-Ḥalabī because of their business association with Aleppo.33 We do not know who the Ibrāhīm al-Najjārī was whom Ashʿarī quotes in one place.34 The same applies to Abū Yūsuf al-Dārimī (?) who spread Najjārite doctrine in Kāshān according to Saksakī.35 The ‘theologians of the Mujbira’ whom Ibn al-Nadīm lists without ever having seen a book by them36 remain mere names to us as well. It is surprising, on the other hand, that neither Ashʿarī nor Ibn al-Nadīm preserved the memory of Abū Zakariyyāʾ Yaḥyā b. Aṣfaḥ. He was refuted by Abū Hāshim,37 thus he had clearly written something, and would presumably have been personally known to Ashʿarī, who had been Abū Hāshim’s fellow student. As the function of the capacity to act had been greatly reduced by being declared contemporaneous with (created) action, he tried to explain the capacity by comparing it with love, hostility etc. that might accompany an action, i.e. as a kind of inner commitment.38 He adduced sura 25:9 to prove that it could not refer to that which one does not do, to the ‘opposite’: fa-lā yastaṭīʿūna sabīlan.39 This was written in a ‘book’ that may have borne the title K. al-istiṭāʿa; Abū Hāshim’s refutation might have been directed against this. However, the Shīʿites, too, found fault with Yaḥyā b. Aṣfaḥ; Ḥasan b. Mūsā al-Nawbakhtī, the author of Firaq al-Shīʿa and a contemporary of Ashʿarī’s, wrote against him on the subject of imāma.40 We do not know what exactly was the point at issue; but Yaḥyā was certainly no friend of ʿAlī. This probably applied to Najjār’s school in general; after all, it originated in Basra. Based on this information we may date him to around the turn of the third/tenth century, although there is an anecdote featuring him as the ‘head of the Mujbira’ who made one of Abū l-Hudhayl’s pupils (assistant? ghulām) drunk and tried

33  Cf. Madelung in: JNES 35/1976/34f.; regarding the Ḥalabīs in Iraq also Bosworth in: BSOAS 57/1994/282. 34   Maq. 390, 12f. 35   Burhān 25, 3f. I am referring to the MS. The printed version has Dārī instead of Dārimī; the word Qāshān is corrupt. 36   Fihrist 230, 4f. 37  Cf. Gimaret in: JA 1976, p. 331, and in Festschrift G. Hourani 38 no. 41, where all the material about him has been collated. 38  Ibn Mattōya, Muḥīṭ II 139, 15ff.; regarding Najjār cf. Text 31, l. 39  Ibid. 164, apu. ff. 40  Najāshī 47, 9 > Āghā Buzurg, Dharīʿa X 237 no. 747.

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to seduce him.41 Of course this is merely fiction, but it appears to presume that he belonged to an earlier generation. Whether Aḥmad b. ʿAmr al-Khaṣṣāf, the well-known author of K. aḥkām al-waqf and K. adab al-qāḍī (d. 261/874; cf. GAS 1/436ff.), was a member of this circle remains to be researched. According to Ibn al-Nadīm, himself a Muʿtazilite, he ‘led the Jahmiyya’ and ‘revived the rule of Ibn Abī Duwād’ (Fihrist 259, 17). This was probably also an expression of the fact that he occupied an important position with the caliph al-Muhtadī (255/869– 256/870); when the caliph was murdered, his house was ransacked (cf. Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 123f.). He does not appear to have written anything about theological issues. Maybe he was simply a Wāqifite? (See p. 251f. below).

41  Ābī, Nathr al-durr VII 281, 3ff.

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Burghūth and Yaḥyā b. Aṣfaḥ were, rather surprisingly, included in a list of Khārijites by Shahrastānī.1 This was probably merely an error,2 but it is true that among the Khārijites the Ibāḍiyya at least moved closer to Najjār’s school during the third century. This development may have had older roots. We have seen that the Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd anticipated a number of Najjār’s ideas.3 While he lived in Kufa, the majority of Ibāḍites was at home in Basra, where Najjār, too, had spent some time. Some questions transmitted from an Ibāḍite environment were already attributed to Abū Shamir;4 on the other hand, Najjār, too, was part of the Basran Murjiʾite tradition. Still, it can only surprise us quite how closely even his model of the theory of actions was reflected in the summary of Ibāḍite theology provided by Ashʿarī.5 We also find ourselves confronting a problem of source criticism. The correspondences are so close down to details and language usage that we must assume that Ashʿarī or one of his sources compared the positions by collating a catalogue. Differences of terminology or intellectual tradition may have become blurred as a consequence, but there can be no fundamental doubt of the similarity, as it goes far beyond this point. Ibāḍite theologians did not only presume, as Najjār did, that God’s will was eternal,6 but they also used Ḍirār’s theory of bodies as a starting point, subsequently turning towards atomism like Najjār.7 In addition they were – like him, and like the Muʿtazilites – bitter enemies to the ‘anthropomorphists’, regarding them as apostates and believing that they might be killed and enslaved, like Abū Bakr had done with the apostatised Muslims in the Ridda.8 During the miḥna people rather liked the sound of this. There was also complete agreement in the question of the khalq al-Qurʾān.9 Sadly Ashʿarī is quite economical when attributing views to particular theologians. The Ibāḍiyya was not centre stage. We learn which line the Basran community followed as a whole, but schools such as within the Muʿtazila are not discernible. As for the passage in which Ashʿarī made the kinship with 1  Milal 103, 4 and 7/253, 5, and 254, 1. 2  The other theologians mentioned in this place are all Murjiʾites. 3  See p. 173 above. 4  Cf. vol. II 205f. above. 5  Text 61. Cf. a there with Text 30, a; c with 24, a, and 30, d; d with 31, a; e with 34, b; f with 30, f; g with 34, a; h with 30, i; l–m with 11, a–b. Also Watt, Free Will 129. 6  Maq. 124, 5ff.; cf. p. 178f. above. 7  Ibid. 109, 5ff. 8  Ibid. 109, 11ff. 9  Ibid. 109, 14. Similarity in the problems discussed is also apparent when comparing Maq. 107, 11f. with Text 21 and 55.

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Najjār clearest, it names three scholars.10 The first one is the most reliably documented; he was a theologian who was less reticent when it came to the general public and the authorities than most of his fellow believers: Abū ʿAlī Yaḥyā b. Kāmil b. Ṭalḥa al-Jaḥdarī. His name is not always transmitted in exactly the same form,11 but we can be certain because his father is known to us. Kāmil b. Ṭalḥa (145/762–231/846 or 232/847) had gained a great following as a traditionist in Basra, not least because his hadith met the emotional needs of his audience. He also lectured for the ascetics in ʿAbbādān. People recalled that in one of his traditions he had advertised the longing for God (al-shawq ilā llāh), the mystic love of God. As a result he found it difficult to hold his own with later experts, but Ibn Ḥanbal esteemed him greatly, and when he came to Baghdad in his old age, people there enjoyed listening to him, too.12 His son was of a different stamp. He does not seem to have been known as a traditionist, and did not have much of an interest in mysticism, particularly in his later years. He was a close friend of Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’s13 and was an assiduous member of the theological discussion circles the caliph al-Wāthiq hosted towards the end of the 220s.14 He was probably welcome there not least because he had joined Bishr b. al-Marīsī in his youth.15 Marīsī as well as Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb were not entirely free from ascetic inclinations,16 which may have favoured the connection. Marīsī also provides the explanation of his proximity to Najjār. The Muʿtazilites envied him his good connections at court; among them it was said that the caliph himself had pointed out the inadequacy of his istiṭāʿa concept.17 He did not become an Ibāḍite until later.18 10  Text 61, i. 11  In one place Ashʿarī writes ibn Abī Kāmil instead of ibn Kāmil (Maq. 540, 10; thus also in the majority of MSS at 120, 8); the Fihrist has Ṭulayḥa instead of Ṭalḥa, and Jaḥdharī instead of Jaḥdarī (233, 14). The Flügel edition has Khudrī instead of Jaḥdarī (182, 14), which was adopted by Kaḥḥāla, Muʿjam XIII 220. 12  Cf. the biography in TB XII 485ff. no. 6959, the material of which was in part adopted by Samʿānī (Ansāb III 207, 1ff.). Also IAH III 2 172 no. 982; ʿUqaylī, Ḍuʿafāʾ IV 9f. no. 1562; Mīzān no. 6928; TT VIII 408f. no. 733. One of his nephews was also a traditionist: Abū Kāmil Fuḍayl b. Ḥusayn b. Ṭalḥa al-Jaḥdarī, d. 237/852 (cf. TT VIII 290f. no. 532). 13  See p. 78 above; also Catalogue of Works no. 3. 14  He also debated with Zurqān there (see p. 136 above). 15   Fihrist 233, 14. 16  See p. 78 above, and p. 653 below. 17  Text 64; according to this he was the prayer leader in the court mosque or the chief mosque. 18   Fihrist 233, 15.

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There was probably not very much in this conversion; essentially, he had to redefine faith and unbelief.19 He probably withdrew from court at this time, too; it may have happened quite naturally under Mutawakkil. It seems that he remained in Baghdad all the same.20 We do not know when he died. We learn of his theological opinions above all from a doxographical fragment of unknown origin, which was preserved by Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī.21 Interestingly he is discussed there together with Burghūth, but the subject matter touched upon is so specific that reconstructing his ideas overall is impossible. He probably demonstrated his individual profile in these very details, while following Najjār in the greater context. He was an atomist22 and, rather old-fashioned for his time, fought the anthropomorphic image of God propagated by the Shīʿite ‘extremists’.23 Besides this his ‘determinism’ was noted:24 he was thought to have believed that the prophet wanted the unbelievers to be unbelievers in order that God might punish them – presumably as a deterrent.25 In reality his ideas were of course more differentiated; he distinguished between kasb and khalq and, rather like Burghūth, attempted to evade the word fiʿl as it could describe human as well as divine ‘work’ in an equivocal way.26 He furthermore rejected the punishment of the grave,27 like Bishr al-Marīsī and Najjār before him. He wrote a work of Maqālāt that would be quoted by Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī;28 this might have been his K. al-tawḥīd wal-radd ʿalā l-ghulāt wa-ṭawāʾif al-shiyaʿ listed by Ibn al-Nadīm.29 Of the other two names, one tells us nothing at all: Idrīs al-Ibāḍī. The second poses several problems:

19  Cf. Madelung, Qāsim 244. 20  Sakūnī counts him among the ‘people from Baghdad’ (ʿUyūn al-munāẓarāt 235, 5, in Text XXXI 43). 21  Text 62. 22  Text 62, e and g. 23  Catalogue of Works no. 1. 24  Thus Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Inqādh al-bashar 260, 10 ʿImāra; the same tendency also in Text 64. 25  Text XXVIII 15, c (if indeed the Ibn Abī Kāmil mentioned there is the same as Yaḥyā b. Kāmil). 26  Text 63; cf. also p. 164. The terms ʿiṣma and khidhlān occur in Text 62, a. He wrote a K. almakhlūq (Catalogue of Works no. 2). 27  Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Rūḥ 71, 10; Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid 129, apu. f. 28   Tabṣirat al-adilla 828, ult. f.; also 162, 19, and 757, 3f. 29  Catalogue of Works no. 1.

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Muḥammad b. Ḥarb al-Ṣayrafī al-Hilālī. Like Yaḥyā b. Kāmil, this theologian was mentioned briefly by Shahrastānī,30 but it seems hardly possible to determine his identity with any certainty. Ashʿarī counts him among the ahl al-ithbāt; the passage in which he does so strongly recalls Burghūth.31 Watt suggested that Muḥammad b. Ḥarb might be identical with Burghūth,32 but this seems untenable as Burghūth’s name was Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā.33 Ibn al-Nadīm may help us here; he reveals that Ibn Ḥarb was a member of the Banū Hilāl.34 And we do, in fact, know a Hilālī of this name: Muḥammad b. Ḥarb b. Qaṭan b. Qabīsa b. al-Mukhāriq, who played an important part in Basra.35 He was not involved in theology, however, but rather in administration and politics. Thus before we can determine whether there was a connection, we will have to look into this person in some more depth. The great-grandfather of this Muḥammad b. Ḥarb al-Hilālī, Qabīsa b. alMukhāriq, had been a companion of the prophet and settled in the city after the wars of conquest.36 His grandfather, Qaṭan b. Qabīsa, had also been an important man in his tribe, the ʿĀmir b. Ṣaʿṣaʿa.37 Muḥammad’s elder brother Muʿāwiya b. Ḥarb, however, may have got himself into trouble during al-Nafs al-zakiyya’s uprising.38 Muḥammad himself presumably started his career in Medina, as captain of the guards (shurṭa) under Jaʿfar b. Sulaymān b. ʿAlī, a nephew of the first two Abbasid caliphs, who was governor there between 160/777 and 166/783.39 Later we find him in the service of the latter’s brother Muḥammad b. Sulaymān40 who had become governor in 160, too, in his case of Basra, and held the office until 165/782; he was reinstated under al-Hādī 30  P. 103, 1/252, 8. The two together also Maq. 120, 7f. 31  Text 65; cf. also Text 54 and the comments on ʿAṭawī on p. 189, n. 8, above. 32   Free Will 128f. 33  See p. 184 above. It is unlikely that there was any link between the Muḥammad b. Ḥarb mentioned in Faḍl 288, 8, and the Ibāḍite discussed here; he was Jubbāʾī’s contemporary. 34   Fihrist 223, –4. 35  The complete name is found in Marzubānī, Muwashshaḥ 216, –4, and Wakīʿ, Akhbār II 161, 11f. (which has incorrect Quṭr instead of Qaṭan throughout). 36  Mubarrad, Kāmil 385, –4ff.; Ibn Ḥazm, Jamhara 273, –4ff.; Ibn ʿAbdalbarr, Istiʿāb 1273 no. 2101. 37  Ibn Durayd, Ishtiqāq 293, 12. Hilāl, the ancestor of his clan, was believed to have been the son of ʿĀmir b. Ṣaʿṣaʿa. 38  See vol. II 377 above. 39  Mubarrad 386, 1f., and Agh. XIX 145, ult.; also vol. II 771 above. Jaʿfar had already administered this province between 146/763 and 149/766 (cf. vol. I 443 and vol. II 765 above); but that would probably have been too early for Muḥammad b. Ḥarb. 40   Agh. XIX 145, 16f.

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(169/785–170/786) and Hārūn al-Rashīd.41 When he died in Rajab 173/Dec. 789, Ibn Ḥarb appears to have kept his post; he certainly continued to lead the police troops under Isḥāq b. ʿĪsā b. ʿAlī, a distant cousin of the other two, who administered the city of Basra towards the end of Hārūn’s caliphate.42 He rose further before the caliph’s death, becoming co-governor with the newly appointed qāḍī ʿAbdallāh b. Sawwār al-ʿAnbarī.43 He probably had to look after the practical side of things. Amīn later appointed him his secretary.44 When Yaḥyā b. Aktham arrived in Basra in Ramadan 202/March 818, he had already returned there to govern the city on behalf of Ma‌ʾmūn’s brother Ṣāliḥ.45 Three years later we once again encounter him as the prefect of police;46 he held this post seven times in all.47 As Mubarrad emphasises, he was a thoroughly educated man.48 He was proficient in the art of expressing himself with pith and brevity. He collected instances of rhetorical subtlety; Jāḥiẓ cites him a number of times in this context.49 He was acquainted with the poet Kulthūm b. ʿAmr al-ʿAttābī.50 He had very clear-cut ideas regarding the ideal demeanour of a chief of police51 and set great store by the ability to immediately assess a situation ( firāsa), i.e. criminological flair.52 However much he thus shows himself as being a member of the literary class, his credibility as an Ibāḍite theologian is in doubt precisely because of his position. He was involved with the Abbasids much more than even Yaḥyā b. Kāmil: maybe the sources are referring to this paradoxical relationship. Mubarrad calls him min aqʿadi l-nās;53 if this is supposed to express that Ibn Ḥarb cultivated Ibāḍite quietism in a particular way, it would explain why he served the rulers in spite of everything.54 He assured Hārūn personally 41  Khalīfa, Ta‌ʾrīkh 671, 2f.; 689, 7; 706, 8; 709, 17f. He had also been governor of Kufa for eight years (ibid. 676, 6). Cf. vol. II 97 and 181f. above. 42  Mubarrad 386, 2ff.; also Khalīfa, Ta‌ʾrīkh 744, 3f. 43  Wakīʿ II 155, apu. f.; regarding ʿAbdallāh b. Sawwār see vol. II 447f. and III 514 above. 44  Ibn al-Nadīm 139, pu. 45  Wakīʿ II 161, 11ff.; regarding Ṣāliḥ also Khalīfa, Ta‌ʾrīkh 771, 2, and Ṭabarī, Index s. n. 46  Wakīʿ II 163, 4f. 47  Mubarrad 386, 1. 48   Kāmil 386, 2. 49   Bayān II 74, 3ff.; 77, 1ff.; 115, 9ff.; 151, 1ff.; 179, 9ff. 50  Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir IV 212, 1ff./2IV 189f. no. 671; regarding him see vol. III 108ff. above. 51  Ibid. III 468, 6ff./2III 40f. no. 94 (also concerning the meaning of the ḥājib and the kātib). Cf. also Bayān II 257, 7ff. 52  Jāḥiẓ, Burṣān 5, 7f. 53   Kāmil 385, –5. 54  However, aqʿad usually denotes someone particularly close to his ancestor genealogically, the direct heir (like quʿdud, cf. Lane, Lexicon 2546 s. v.).

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of his loyalty; he believed the Banū Hilāl to be kin of the Abbasids.55 He probably had much in common with them when it came to politics. Muḥammad b. Sulaymān, who was his superior for a time, was anti-ʿAlid; he fought against al-Nafs al-Zakiyya and later Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī at Fakhkh.56 There are further points arousing our doubts. According to Ibn al-Nadīm the theologian bore the kunya Abū ʿAlī, while the chief of police was called Abū Qabīṣa.57 The theologian is found with the sobriquet al-Ṣayrafī; in the case of a distinguished man such as the chief of police it would be rather surprising to find a money changer (or banker) in his family. After all, he himself is highly unlikely to have been involved in this kind of business, and indeed this nisba is never linked to him. Most importantly the chief of police lived a generation before Ibn Kāmil; if he is thus identical with the theologian he would have anticipated Ibn Kāmil’s ideas in those cases where he shows similarities with Burghūth. In that case one could not even claim without reservations that he was influenced by Najjār, but this is not needed in any case. The three names we mentioned earlier were listed next to one another but quite loosely by Ashʿarī, who appears to have Ibn Kāmil in mind above all in the context of the text in question. As for Ibn Ḥarb, in one place in K. al-Ḥayawān Jāḥiẓ quotes some of his ideas that definitely link him to older Basran theology. It concerns the harmfulness of flies. In Ibn Ḥarb’s view they are tremendously poisonous as even mere contact can cause inflammation, such as when they enter into one’s nose. Under other circumstances this only happens when the harmful agent mixes with the organ directly or is introduced into it, as in the case of a snakebite.58 On the other hand flies are useful as they are food for many other animals.59 Ibn Ḥarb was probably referring to a discussion instigated by the Qadarites in Basra; vermin in the animal kingdom were a problem of theodicy.60 The way in which he approached the issue, however, demonstrates a very scientific mind, recalling Abū l-Ashʿath Maʿmar’s circle, e.g. Abū Shamir’s speculations concerning the unwholesomeness of beans.61 It is interesting that Jāḥiẓ has him use terms such as mudākhala and mulābasa; if these are not simply used to bring the text up to date they, too, 55  Wakīʿ II 151, –5. 56  Khalīfa, Ta‌ʾrīkh 649, 15ff., and 704, 5ff.; cf. vol. II 375 n. 27 above. 57  Wakīʿ, Akhbār II 162, 14; Mubarrad, Muwashshaḥ 216, –4. In the Fihrist the theologian’s name is slightly garbled, and was restored by the editor (233, –4). 58  Text 66, a–f. 59  This may be what is meant by sentence 66, g. The context is not entirely clear. Cf. also GAS 3/359. 60  See vol. II 59f. above. 61  Ibid. 43 and 202f.

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would be confirmation of the link with Naẓẓām’s circle that we could infer from the similarities with Burghūth as well.62 Like Naẓẓām, Ibn Ḥarb explained sensory perception as being a natural reaction on the part of the sensory organ, which God employs.63 His use of the term ṭabīʿa, rather than khilqa which Naẓẓām preferred, recalls Burghūth.64 That the police officer would have adopted or supported these ideas is doubtful, but not impossible in view of either the environment or the chronology. After all, we have seen that since ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd’s time the Ibāḍiyya was fundamentally part of the party of the ahl al-ithbāt. All of which means that we can say reasonably safely that he was identical with the theologian Muḥammad b. Ḥarb. Our deliberations are confirmed by the fact that there was another Ibāḍite active at the Abbasid court in a similar way: Saʿīd (b.) al-ʿAllāf al-Qāriʿ. Hārūn valued him as a Quran reciter because his rendition was particularly melodious.65 Ma‌ʾmūn shared this partiality and had him brought to his army camp in Tarsus in 218/832. Saʿīd was present when the caliph contracted a fatal disease during a halt by a river; Ṭayfūr and following him Ṭabarī preserved his account of the event.66 He was advanced in years by this time, as he also had some stories about al-Hādī, although these were probably not eyewitness accounts.67 He had learnt his trade from a certain Abān, an Ibāḍite like him; this was presumably the Basran traditionist Abān b. Yazīd al-ʿAṭṭār.68 Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī’s heresiographical text names him as Saʿīd al-Muqriʾ, who occupied the opposite position to Yaḥyā b. Kāmil in the question of how an action that leads to different consequences should be evaluated differently.69

62  Text 66, b. The kinship would be closer still if we could attribute the subsequent passage in Jāḥiẓ (Hayawān III 335, 2ff.) to Muḥammad b. Ḥarb as well; however, it might simply be Jāḥiẓ’ own continuation of the idea. Cf. the commentary on Text 66. 63  Text 65. 64  Who used the word ṭabʿ (Text 54; cf. p. 185 above). Regarding the subject cf. also ʿAṭawī on p. 189 above. 65  The so-called qirāʾa bil-alḥān; cf. Talbi in: Arabica 5/1958/186. On this phenomenon in general see K. Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qurʾan (Univ. of Texas Press 1985), p. 32ff. and 156f., and the materials collected by Fierro in: Der Islam 69/1992/212f. 66  Ṭayfūr, K. Baghdād 347, 4ff./190, 12ff. > Ṭabarī III 1134, 12ff. 67  Ṭabarī III 597, 5ff. 68  See vol. II 251f. above. 69  An attempt, that is, at getting to grips with the ambivalence of human action by means of theological terminology; Text 62, b.

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He might be the same as the Ibāḍite Saʿīd b. Hārūn whom Ashʿarī mentions once (Maq. 120, 9). He has nothing at all in common with Saʿīd alHada‌ʾī, who argued with ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd (see vol. I 485 above). – That the qirāʾa bil-alḥān was widespread among the Ibāḍites is confirmed by Saʿīd’s brother practising it as well (see vol. II 252f. above). There was furthermore a certain Ibrāhīm b. Ayyūb who like Saʿīd found favour with Hārūn because of it; he was said to have been prayer leader at court for over ten years until the caliph’s death. However, it was probably limited to Basra or the Iraqi Ibāḍite communities. The Iranian Ibāḍite Maḥmūd b. Naṣr al-Khurāsānī reports that the jurist Wāʾil b. Ayyūb, who came from Ḥaḍramawt and was part of the South Arabian Ibāḍite tradition (regarding him see vol. II 797 above) was horrified when his Basran fellow believers invited Ibrāhīm b. Ayyūb to recited for his and their edification, and reproached them thoroughly (Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ I 11ff., where 270, 3, must be read as Ibrāhīm rather than atharruhum!). We do not know who Abū Bakr b. Barīra’s Ibāḍite son-in-law was, who believed with Najjār that the capacity to act occurs at the same time as the action itself (Jāḥiẓ, Hayawān III 9, –4ff., and 22, 2f.).

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The Argument over the Quran As we have seen the miḥna awakened theology even in circles close to the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth; it was hoped that Muʿtazilites and Jahmites could be beaten at their own game. It is not surprising that this led above all to developing alternatives to the khalq al-Qurʾān; sometimes, indeed, one has the impression that these ‘orthodox’ mutakallimūn had no interest in anything else. This is probably due to the selective attention of our sources. In the case of one thinker of this time, whom Ibn al-Nadīm counted among the Nābita,1 we can still observe how he fitted his theory on the subject into a wider frame: Ibn Kullāb. His draft system exerted a great influence on Ashʿarī, and was consequently relevant for generations to come. Baghdādī recorded his opinions in Uṣūl al-dīn; Ibn Furāk even wrote a book on his theory and compared it with Ashʿarī’s.2 Of course Ashʿarī himself discusses him separately in his Maqālāt,3 but he introduces his summary with the remark that Ibn Kullāb’s followers overall agreed with the opinions of the ahl al-sunna to whom he felt he belonged himself.4 The Muʿtazilites, too, regarded the Kullābiyya as their opponents for a long time, not – or not clearly – distinguishing between them and the school of ‘Ibn Abī Bishr’.5 It is possible that this spotlight left other persons, who made similar attempts but did not find their way into the Ashʿariyya, being overshadowed. We will certainly have to discuss other theologians besides him.

1  Fihrist 230, 7 > Dhahabī, Siyar XI 175, 12. Also, possibly once again after Ibn al-Nadīm, Ibn alNajjār in his Dhayl Ta‌ʾrīkh Baghdād (which consequently contained an entry on Ibn Kullāb); cf. Ṣafadī, Wāfī XVII 492, 4. 2  Cf. Gimaret in: Arabica 32/1985/196. It was probably not the same as the Mujarrad maqālāt al-Ashʿarī edited by Gimaret, as this only mentions Ibn Kullāb occasionally. Ibn Furāk wrote nearly a hundred books and treatises (Ibn ʿAsākir, Tabyīn kadhib al-muftarī 233, 2f.). 3  Maq. 298f. 4  Ibid. 297 7f. 5  Cf. the instances in: Oriens 18–19/1965–6/135f.; Ashʿarī is frequently named Ibn Abī Bishr in sources hostile to him. The Muʿtazilites knew, of course, in which points he diverged from Ibn Kullāb or went beyond his earlier teachings (cf. e.g. Ibn Mattōya, Muḥīṭ I 352, 25ff. Houben/336, –4ff. ʿAzmī).

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Ibn Kullāb

Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad (?) b. Saʿīd Ibn Kullāb al-Qaṭṭān alTamīmī, d. 241/855,1 had trained in Basra like Najjār, and was probably born there.2 The Muʿtazilites reported that their Basran fellow believer ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, but also colleagues from Baghdad such as Abū Ṣāliḥ, a pupil of Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s, and Abū Mujālid debated with him and, of course, refuted him every time.3 It is all the more surprising, then, that not a single Muʿtazilite refutation addresses him. We know nothing at all about his life, either. Bāqillānī claims that Ibn Kullāb never visited Ma‌ʾmūn’s court because he believed the caliph to be a grave sinner,4 but he only says this because in his eyes this attitude was fundamentally wrong. Baghdādī, on the other hand, tells us that Ibn Kullāb defeated the Muʿtazila in Ma‌ʾmūn’s majlis.5 Living in Basra he would not have found it easy in any case to get close to the caliph; furthermore, his activities probably took place during al-Muʿtaṣim’s caliphate, during which Jāḥiẓ reported the emergence of the Nābita.6 He emphasised in this context that the ‘young shoots’ had learnt a number of things from books by Muʿtazilites, and from debating with them.7 Among the circles around Ibn Ḥanbal this would not have won him any friends,8 but as long as Ibn Kullāb lived in Basra he was probably reasonably safe from them even after the miḥna. If, however, he did meet Ibn Mujālid, who died at the end of the sixties,9 he would have had to be in Baghdad at the time. All of this is entirely uncertain.10 The lack of reliable witnesses increases our suspicion that Ibn Kullāb became famous only posthumously; in retrospect, as it were.

1   Thus at least according to the information in İsmail Paşa, Hadiyyat al-ʿārifīn 440, –7. We do not know where he got this information. Subkī assumed ‘shortly after 240’ (Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya II 299, –4). Dhahabī says he did not find a date for his death (Siyar XI 175, 8). 2   Text XXXIII gives him the nisba al-Baṣrī. 3    Fihrist 230, 6f.; Text XXXIII 14 and 31. 4   Ibn ʿAsākir, Tabyīn kadhib al-muftarī 119, –5ff. > Maqqarī, Azhār al-riyāḍ III 79, apu. ff., translated in Oriens, loc. cit. 97f. 5    Uṣūl al-dīn 309, 6f. 6   See vol. III 506 above. 7   Jāḥiẓ, Khalq al-Qurʾān in: Rasāʾil III 288, 1ff., and 300, 2ff.; cf. W. al-Qāḍī in: SI 78/1993/51f. 8   Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān III 291, 6f.; Ibn Taymiyya, Madhhab al-salaf al-qawīm in: Majmūʿa (Cairo 1341–9) 74, 4. 9   See p. 110 above. 10  Abū Mujālid repeated some negative reports of Ibn Kullāb (Text 31). This may have been the reason for assuming him to have been one of Ibn Kullāb’s opponents in debates.

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While the sobriquet al-Qaṭṭān suggests that he was a cotton merchant, this is not as certain as one might like to assume. In fact, he may have been related to the well-known Basran traditionist Yaḥyā b. Saʿīd al-Qaṭṭān alTamīmī (d. 198/814): his nephew, not his brother as Baghdādī claimed (Uṣūl al-dīn 309, 8). ‘Qaṭṭān’ would have become the family name. Besides the similarity of individual components of the name, this supposed kinship has chronology on its side; furthermore Bukhārī preserved a tradition according to which Ibn Kullāb (= ʿAbdallāh b. Saʿīd) had Yaḥyā b. Saʿīd confirm to him that during his time people everywhere already believed in the createdness of human actions (thus Salmān al-Anṣārī, Sharḥ al-irshād 115 a, 5ff., after the K. khalq al-afʿāl, where, however, the passage has apparently not been preserved in the printed version). The hypothesis is based on the assumption that Ibn Kullāb’s full name was ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b. Saʿīd, and not only ʿAbdallāh b. Saʿīd, as the majority of the sources assume. We must gather our own evidence. The tripartite form of the name is found only in Ibn Ḥajar (Lisān al-Mīzān III 290 no. 1228); he, however, has ʿAbdallāh b. Saʿīd b. Muḥammad instead of ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b. Saʿīd. If we take the liberty of inverting the components it is because Ibn al-Nadīm (and also İsmail Paşa, although he is probably dependent on Ibn al-Nadīm) has ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad rather than ʿAbdallāh b. Saʿīd. Ṣafadī includes the biography in two places, once for ʿAbdallāh b. Saʿīd (Wāfī XVII 197f. no. 183), and under ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad (ibid. 492, no. 419); he expresses his surprise at the fact that the two sources he referred to (one of them was Dhahabī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Islām) included such divergent material. As Yaḥyā b. Saʿīd’s grandfather was called Farrūkh, ‘Ibn Kullāb’ would have been a sobriquet born by the theologian only; whether he acquired it because ‘like a fishing-hook (kullāb) he pulled the opponent in the debate over to his side’ as Dhahabī (> Wāfī 198, 3f.) and Subkī put it (Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya II 299f.) remains to be confirmed. I have thus arrived at a different decision from the one I reached in the past (in: Oriens 18–19/1965–6/98f.); it is unlikely that we will ever reach certainty in this issue. Ibn Kullāb may have been part of Najjār’s tradition. He used the concept of kasb11 and denied that the capacity to act could precede the action;12 we find a K. khalq al-afʿāl among his writings.13 In order to evade the accusation of 11  Text 26, e; see also p. 220 below. 12  Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 115, 13ff.; Text 16, h. 13  Catalogue of Works no. 2.

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believing actions to be predetermined (taklīf mā lā yuṭāq) he used the category of thought badal like Najjār; however, the latter divided the capacity to act one is granted at the moment of action into tawfīq and khidhlān from the outset. Ibn Kullāb, on the other hand, adhered to the more Muʿtazilite position of not doing so and consequently found it easier to say that the capacity to act that led to a particular action might in theory have been used to perform a different action.14 This side of his ideas would be barely noted later; Ashʿarī saw his attitude simply as that of the ahl al-sunna wal-ḥadīth.15 The reason why people accepted these ideas from him without commentary, while in the case of Najjār or Burghūth they would be discussed at great length was that he diverged from them quite significantly in another issue, namely the khalq alQurʾān. However, this is not part of the chapter on khalq al-afʿāl but is part of the doctrine of the attributes, at least in the eyes of Ashʿarī and all those who agreed with him. In the eyes of the Muʿtazilites, on the other hand, Ibn Kullāb and his theory of human action disappeared among the multitude of mujbira; consequently they only paid attention to him in the matter of the question of divine speech.16 The relation between divine speech and the Quran was one point which Ibn Kullāb had defined differently. He believed divine speech to be eternal, the word of creation, the fiat, being part of it; and something by means of which things are created, cannot itself be created.17 Thus his starting point was precisely where Abū l-Hudhayl had had to search for a solution: he simply turned the latter’s premises on their head.18 He consequently saw himself compelled to find a new definition for the Quran, as even zealots such as Ibn Ḥanbal would have been reluctant to simply call the Quran eternal at that time.19 This would have been even more difficult in Basra, where the Muʿtazila was evolving the distinction between ḥikāya and maḥkī, reproduction and reproduced

14  Pazdawī 122, ult. ff.; thus also Qalānisī (Cf. Gimaret in: JA 277/1989/255f.). Pazdawī expresses this as a theoretical possibility; consequently I am wondering whether 123, 2f. had not better be read as law kāna makāna hādhā l-fiʿli fiʿlun ākharu lahū. Whether this was really only a theoretical game of ideas is another question; regarding Najjār cf. p. 174f. above. 15   Maq. 298, 12f. 16  Khayyāṭ mentions him under this aspect once in K. al-intiṣār (83, 3). 17  Text 24, a and o. 18  See vol. III 302f. above. This connection confirms in our view that this was the decisive argument in Ibn Kullāb’s mind, and not the consideration that God, unless he had been speaking for all eternity, must be mute or taciturn (thus Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 156, –4f.). The punchline of Text 31 confirms this. 19  See vol. III 498 above. Of course, they would not have distinguished clearly between the Quran and kalām Allāh.

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content before Ibn Kullāb’s very eyes.20 His understanding of the issue was similar: divine speech is the content of what we hear as revelation on earth. It cannot reach our ears directly, precisely because it is eternal; it is not composed of sounds or letters at all.21 The phonetic form accessible to us is only its expression (ʿibāra); this was the term Ibn Kullāb used instead of ḥikāya. Its expressions can vary; the word of God may equally be revealed in Arabic or in Hebrew.22 After all, the Quran and the Torah have the same content; it was merely the circumstances of the revelation that differed. What we hear is recitation (qirāʾa), which is created.23 That which is recited (maqrūʿ), on the other hand, is the content; it is uncreated. Ibn Kullāb appears to have avoided the word qurʾān in this context as it would have rendered his distinction less clear. As a consequence he was able to evade the question of whether the Quran itself is created or uncreated. He demonstrated how one could uphold the position of the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth during the miḥna without finding oneself in trouble with the authorities. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār shows the way in which the Muʿtazila would later argue against this theory (Mughnī VII 95ff.; cf. also Peters, God’s Created Speech 353ff., and Bouman in: Festschrift Obbink 67f.). It was still possible to make a connection with Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir’s ḥikāya theory, as Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla I 301, 3ff., shows. He furthermore described the theory as the view of the ahl al-ḥaqq (I 259, 3ff.); he was aware that the Ḥanafites of Samarqand thought along similar lines (I 282, 3ff.). The Karrāmite Muḥammad b. l-Hayṣam (d. 409/1019) even presumed a direct dependence; presumably in his K. al-maqālāt (ibid. 310, 13ff.; regarding the work cf. my Ungenützte Texte 67). Ibn Taymiyya, on the other hand, pointed out the kinship with the Ashʿarites, but simplified Ibn Kullāb’s position in the process (Risāla Baʿlabakkiyya in: Majmūʿat rasāʾil, Cairo 1328, p. 393, 7ff.). For further Ḥanbalite opinions see p. 685 below. The spirit of Ibn Kullāb is also expressed in several passages of the apocryphal K. al-ḥayda; the alleged author, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Yaḥyā al-Kinānī, was linked to Ibn Kullāb by the biographers (see vol. III 546ff. above). In general cf. Allard, Attributs divins 146ff., and Shabistarī in: GIE IV 519ff.

20  See p. 69f. and vol. III 306 above. 21  Text 24, d; from the Muʿtazilite point of view also Qirqisānī, Anwār 192, 11ff. 22  Ibid., h–k, and p. 23  Text 26, a–b and d; also 27, c.

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Text 24, f and i, equates the qirāʾa and the rasm. This is a term that Ashʿarī already used, according to Zurqān, with reference to Hishām b. al-Ḥakam (Text IV 40, c). It is probably true that, unlike ʿibāra, it was not new. Muḥāsibī, Ibn Kullāb’s contemporary, used it freely without any specific introduction. Here it becomes clear that the term belonged in the context of abrogation theory; rasm was the opposite of ḥukm, the juristic substance (‘verdict’) of a Quranic verse (Fahm al-Qurʾān 398, –5; 402, pu.; 403, 6f.). Rasm is the appearance, the consonant stock, as it were (‘Konsonantenbestand’). Some Muʿtazilites used the word to denote the written form (kitāba) which indicates divine speech in the Quran (Ashʿarī, Maq. 194, 13f.). Abrogation theory would later use the term tilāwa (as in the axiom naskh al-ḥukm dūna l-tilāwa, which Muḥāsibī anticipates 403, 6f.). This shows that ‘consonant stock’ is not entirely suitable; the recitation is, after all, included. Consequently Pretzl translated as ‘Äußeres’ (external appearance; Attributenlehre 28), while I used the word ‘Spur’ (trace, track) in Oriens 18–19/1965–6/103f. Now this seems to me to be not sufficiently distinctive. Like Abū l-Hudhayl, Ibn Kullāb does not distinguish clearly between sounds and letters (see vol. III 306 above); within the framework of his theory, he had no need to. It was also not decisive in the discussion of naskh. It might have been different for the grammarians, but e.g. Sībawayh was not familiar with the term. There are a few details that allow us to discover how well this fitted into the questions arising in the miḥna. The evidence of the fiat, kun, was employed by Shāfiʿī’s pupil Yūsuf b. Yaḥyā al-Buwayṭī, who died in prison during Wāthiq’s caliphate.24 The distinction between qirāʾa and maqrūʾ was a Muʿtazilite one,25 but Ibn Kullāb put his own stamp on it by regarding maqrūʾ, divine speech, not as generated within time but as eternal.26 He used a similar approach in the case of a Quranic passage that had played a part in Ibn Ḥanbal’s trial:27 sura 21:2 or 26:5, which speaks of a ‘new (newly generated) admonition that comes to them from their Lord’ (mā ya‌ʾtīhim min dhikrin min rabbihim muḥdathin). This passage was so valuable to Muʿtazilites and Jahmites because it is the

24  Patton, Miḥna 119f., after Maqrīzī; regarding him see vol. III 517 above. The way in which the argument could be completed may be seen in K. al-ḥayda (p. 36, ult. ff.); Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 106, 15ff., demonstrates that it was still popular later. 25   Maq. 602, 3f. 26  He also described the qirāʾa straightforwardly as created by God; humans merely ‘acquire’ it (Text 26, e). 27  Ṣāliḥ b. Aḥmad, Miḥna 280, –7ff.

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only instance of the word muḥdath in the Quran.28 They interpreted it in accordance with their terminology as ‘having come into existence within time’; and dhikr, the ‘remembrance, reminder, admonition’ to them was simply the Quranic revelation. Ibn Kullāb once again took half a step towards them: the ‘reminder’ came into existence within time, but its content is eternal. Text 24, h, and 26, c. When summarising Ibn Kullāb’s views Ashʿarī shows furthermore that he himself interpreted dhikr differently: not as a reminder sent by God, an admonition, but as a recollection performed by humans, a ‘remembrance’, the subject of which was God himself. This interpretation of dhikr could be justified by Quranic passages such as sura 2:152 and 2:200. We do not know how Ibn Kullāb’s argument was structured in detail. Regarding the discussion cf. also Ashʿarī, Ibāna 34, 16ff. For all its neat suitability for political purposes, when it came to theology the theory was not free from problems. We should like to know how Ibn Kullāb imagined the relation between the Quran and the Torah. The sources tell us nothing, and he probably had only a vague idea of the Old Testament in any case.29 We have slightly more information on another problem, as he had had to admit an exception: Moses had not heard a form of expression of divine speech but had been addressed directly.30 This was made clear in sura 28:30, the Quranic account of the events by the burning bush, and its exegesis in sura 4:164; Moses presumably bore the sobriquet kalīm Allāh even at that time.31 However, as this direct address could be only eternal, one had to wonder how he could have understood it as it would not have been made up of sounds. Ibn Kullāb probably assumed a miracle: the direct transfer of information into the prophet’s mind.31a Mere mortals, on the other hand, understand the contents of a text by hearing its expression; he interpreted a passage in the Quran which presumes that one hears God’s speech (the ‘word of God’) as an abridged description of the event.32 Of course this meant that he rendered the argument of possible allies such as Ibn Ḥanbal useless; he was focussed more on Muʿtazilite opponents. Even Ashʿarī keeps his distance from him in this matter. 28  Cf., however, the parallels with finite verbs in sura 18:70 and 20:113. 29  It is not necessarily the case that Text 24, k, refers to the Torah at all, but Ibn Taymiyya at least interpreted it like that (Minhāj al-sunna I 221, 20ff.). 30  Text 24, q, and 29; cf. also Maq. 587, 4ff. 31  Cf. Ṭabarī’s exegesis of sura 4:164 (3IX 403, –4ff.); also Ṭabrisī II 141, –5f. In further detail p. 689f. below. 31a Cf. also p. 217 below. 32  Sura 9:6 in Text 24, r.

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By pointing out another way in which Ibn Kullāb could have dealt with the unwieldy passage sura 9:6 ‘in accordance with his theory’ (Text 24, s). Cf. Oriens 18–19/1965–6/105f. Ashʿarī, however much he follows Ibn Kullāb in general, does not agree with his theory of divine speech being unformed (see p. 684f. below). Ibn Ḥanbal, on the other hand, was said to have referred to this very passage (Ṭabarī, Ṣarīḥ al-sunna in: REI 36/1968/198, 8f.), as was the Ḥasanid ʿAbdallāh b. Mūsā b. ʿAbdallāh b. Ḥasan (d. 247/861) who believed in the non-createdness of the Quran (cf. Madelung in: Festschrift Löfgren 42). Even a Muʿtazilite like Jubbāʾī saw the passage as describing verbal inspiration (see vol. III 307 above). A last problem, that he had probably not yet noticed, was linked to linguistic analysis. Ibn Kullāb tried to apply his views on divine speech to human speech as well. It was not clear whether he actually meant that it, too, did not consist of sounds but was in fact the pure, imagined content;33 it seems that Abū l-ʿAbbās al-Qalānisī was the first to try and tidy up the confusion towards the end of the century.34 Human speech certainly is merely a not specifically formed speech act (qawl). Its syntactic appearance is added subsequently; of itself it is neither imperative, optative nor question etc., and not even a simple statement. After all an order, a request etc. always have a referent; pure speech, however, does not require this.35 This was clearly devised in accordance with the example of divine speech; God is speaking before the beginning of time, before the recipients of his speech even exists. Using a distinction we learnt from ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, we can say that he has been speaking for all eternity, but not addressing (someone) (mukallim) for all eternity.36 He cannot be made dependent on a referent, a ‘cause’ (ʿilla).37 Of course at this point one might ask to what extent speech was still speech in this context.38 It seems as though Ibn Kullāb did not yet distinguish between grammatical and logical categories; he regarded both as secondarily differentiating phenomena.

33  Thus Text 33, a, and probably also Text 32; different: Text 33, b. 34  This is my conclusion based on Text 33 A; in more detail Gimaret in: JA 277/1989/245 and 250. Text 28 also shows that Qalānisī continued Ibn Kullāb’s ideas. Regarding him in general vol. II 715 above and VI 352 (of the German edition). 35  Text 34 and 24, l–n; also Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad maqālāt al-Ashʿarī 328, 10f. 36  Text 26, d, and 29; cf. p. 27f. above. 37  Text 24, l. Cf. also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 319. 38  The last-named reservation was expressed by e.g. Shahrastānī, Nihāyat al-iqdām 304, 5ff. (cf. Text 24, commentary). It may also be worth reconsidering whether qawl should really be translated as ‘speech act’ under these circumstances; cf. p. 25 above.

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Cf. also W. Kunj in: B. Mojsisch (ed.), Sprachphilosophie in Antike und Mittelalter 351f. The result concerning language theory was that Ibn Kullāb, as opposed to ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān (see p. 25 above) this time, did not equate the word and the thing it denoted, but linked the words to the παθήματα ἐν τῃ̃ ψυχῃ̃, as Aristotle had done (cf. R. Rehm, ibid. 99 and earlier). One cannot hear the speech of either humans or God; what one hears is the acoustically conveyed phonetic framework, that which is spoken (takallum). The reason Ibn Kullāb was said to have given was that speech was an accident; accidents, however, cannot be perceived with the senses (Text 27, b; cf. also p. 217f. below). This presumes that speaking as such was not an accident; we do not know which category he assigned it. It also remains unclear to what extent he transferred this principle onto God (see p. 215 below; in general also p. 684f.). – In a modified form these problems also accompanied Ashʿarite theory, where speech was described in accordance with the concept suggested by Ibn Kullāb as maʿnā qāʾim bil-nafs; all the same, it is not easy to determine whether maʿnā was understood as ‘entity’ or as ‘meaning’. The word nafs was probably chosen because, unlike e.g. qalb, it could be said of God as well (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 201ff.). Ashʿarī himself lists this theory anonymously in his Maqālāt (425, 10f.). These unanswered questions in particular show how interested Ibn Kullāb was in placing his theory within a greater framework, all the more so in the case of the doctrine of the attributes; he wrote a K. al-ṣifāt.39 This expansion was of course prescribed in principle by his theological environment; he showed originality only in the style of his approach. Once again he seems to have been influenced most by Abū l-Hudhayl’s model.40 Like him he inferred the ‘properties’ from the ‘nouns’,41 i.e. he derived the respective nouns from the participles and adjectives mentioned in the Quran: if God is speaking, he possesses speech; if he is knowing, he possesses knowledge, etc.42 And like Abū l-Hudhayl he did not yet distinguish between attributes of essence and attributes of act,43 but 39  Catalogue of Works no. 1. 40  Ashʿarī assumed that Abū l-Hudhayl in his turn was familiar with Ibn Kullāb’s idea (Maq. 177, ult.). 41  Text 5. 42  It was not possible to put this into practice in every case; sometimes there were no respective nouns, and Ibn Kullāb appears to have been reluctant to make them up (e.g. awwaliyya for awwal etc.). Sometimes the ‘name’ was itself a noun, e.g. ‘Lord’ (rabb) or ‘God’ (ilāh). Cf. text 6, a–d and f with commentary. 43  Cf. the catalogue of the attributes 6, d, and Text 7 with commentary; also Shahrastānī, Nihāya, ibid., and Milal 64, 3ff./145, 4ff. (here in general concerning the Ṣifātiyya to which Ibn Kullāb was believed to belong).

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he approached the issue from the other end, as it were. Abū l-Hudhayl understood ‘God possesses knowledge’ to mean that ‘there is an act of knowledge with God, and it is identical with him’.44 Ibn Kullāb, on the other hand, did not presume these central attributes at all but focussed on divine speech: if it has been with God for all eternity, God’s knowledge cannot simply be an act of knowledge reported by the revelation, but must be the eternal perfection of the divine being, a ‘factor’ within God subsisting within his essence (dhāt).45 In this form it cannot be completely identical with God: it is neither like him nor different from him.46 This was the formula Abū l-Hudhayl had applied to the relation between the attributes;47 Ibn Kullāb admitted its validity in this context,48 but also transferred it onto the relation between the attributes and the divine being. This formula did not actually assert anything; consequently qāʾim bil-dhāt would later be the preferred version. For Ibn Kullāb and his followers, on the other hand, it also fulfilled a dialectic function: it provided a connection with Abū l-Hudhayl but at the same time allowed them to distance themselves from him. This was probably why Ibn Kullāb’s explanation of the formula with reference to the relation between the attributes differed from Abū l-Hudhayl’s. The latter only believed the attributes to be different from one another because their objects were different; Ibn Kullāb, on the other hand, accorded them independent existence to the extent that he regarded them as maʿānī. It seems doubtful to me that this choice of words was influenced by Muʿammar, as Daiber assumed (Muʿammar 187). Ibn Kullāb only refers to an ‘entity’, as Hishām b. al-Ḥakam had done before him (see vol. I 419f. above), and with this denotation the word was widely established. Wolfson draws a conclusion with πρα̃γμα in Greek speculations concerning the trinity (in: Harvard Theol. Review 49/1956/3ff.). – The case of ʿaraḍ ‘accident’ is quite different. According to Text 1 Ibn Kullāb employed ʿaraḍ to mean the same as ṣifa and shayʾ; consequently Text 16 refers to God with the words aʿrāḍ azaliyya. Still, Text 1 refers only to ‘bodies’, i.e. presumably to created things, and Text 16 is late and probably not very reliable. Mānkdīm, ShUKh, on the other hand, uses 44  See vol. III 296f. above. 45  Text 2 and 24, e; implicitly also Text 10 and 6, m; cf. Text 6, g–h, as well as 24, a and c; ultimately also Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad 330, 9ff. 46  Text 6, g, and 24, g; in general also Text 4, a. 47  See vol. III 296 above. 48  Text 6, n.

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the phrase maʿānī azaliyya; however, this is not entirely unproblematic either (see n. 55 below). There would be much deliberation later concerning whether Ibn Kullāb presumed a specific number of attributes. Ashʿarī distinguished eight ṣifāt al-dhāt (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 243), but as we have seen Ibn Kullāb does not seem to have used this term at all. Isfarāʾīnī is probably right when he says that Ibn Kullāb did not count the divine attributes (cf. the fragment no. 21 Frank cites in: MIDEO 19/1989/148). While Shahrastānī claimed (Nihāyat al-iqdām 181, 7f.) that Ibn Kullāb assumed a total of 15 attributes, Ibn al-Dāʿī mentioned only ten (Text 16, a, with commentary; Massignon calls them ‘super-attributes’, Passion 2III 148/transl. III 135), and Text 6 mentions all of 30, giving no indication that their number could have been reduced significantly. One might interpret Text 15 to mean that Ibn Kullāb linked irāda and karāhiya, nd Ibn Taymiyya believed to have read somewhere that he thought maḥabba and riḍā were identical (Minhāj al-sunna III 90, 19ff., after one K. al-mūjaz, probably the one by Ashʿarī; cf. Gimaret in: JA 173/1985/229ff.). Baghdādī even thought that he regarded both as mere modalities of divine knowledge (Gimaret, Noms divins 425). According to Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī he placed some attributes ‘behind’ others, i.e. presumably saw the former as being implicit in the latter: eternity ‘behind’ duration (baqāʾ), and mercy, noble-mindedness, delight, and wrath ‘behind’ will (Muḥṣaṣṣal 136, 2ff./2313, –4ff.). Some calculation would be required to determine whether this would allow us to limit the number to 15. Cf. also Allard, Attributs divins 149ff. In the eyes of the Muʿtazilites, Ibn Kullāb’s doctrine of the attributes was a sin against the profession of God’s oneness. They compared assuming eternal entities inherent in God to the Christian doctrine of the trinity, and it suited them just fine that divine speech – which, after all, was Ibn Kullāb’s main focus of interest – seemed to recall the logos. In his debate ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān was said to have pointed out this very point;49 similar also Abū Mujālid.50 Finally 49   Fihrist 230, 6f. He does not mention that the Christians called the logos kalima rather than kalām and that when interpreting it as an attribute, they tended to use the words nuṭq or ḥukma (cf. Abū ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī, Burhān 46, 8ff.; also Wolfson in: Harvard Theol. Review 49/1956/8). The linguistic aspect was probably not as important; the decisive point of comparison was the eternity and essentiality (ibid. 46, –5f.; also Griffith in: OC 64/1980/181ff. concerning Abū Rāʾiṭa). 50  Text 14. This, in addition, intermingles Ibn Kullāb’s theory of the (forms of) expression (ʿibārāt). Jewish theologians also adopted this point of view (cf. Yūsuf al-Bāṣir in Vajda in: Festschrift Scholem 306, and Qirqisānī, Anwār 190ff.). Ma‌ʾmūn had already compared the

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people went as far as claiming that in the Greek quarter on the western bank in Baghdad Ibn Kullāb visited a church to listen to a certain Pethion’s catechesis. The latter boasted that he would have converted the Muslims to Christianity if only Ibn Kullāb had lived a little longer.51 This was only true insofar as the formula of the contemporaneous identity and non-identity was based on Christian conjectures concerning the trinity.52 The frame story, on the other hand, was probably nonsense not least for chronological reasons. Perhaps the Muʿtazilites hoped to deflect attention away from the fact that Abū l-Hudhayl had already used the same formula. When it comes to chronology everything depends on which Pethion the story referred to. There was one well-known bearer of the name, a Nestorian practising as a physician and translator who consequently had access to distinguished Muslim circles. His name was Fathyūn b. Ayyūb al-Dahhār, and he is tangible particularly as the translator of Bible chapters (Job, Ecclesiasticus, Prophets; regarding him see GCAL II 120f.; GAS 3/321; Frank in: Cath. Bibl. Quarterly 21/1959/136ff.). If, however, he was that Rabban Pethion to whom the patriarch Timothy I sent a letter around 167/782 (transl. O. Braun in: OC 2/1902/1ff.; Putman, Timothée 106), he would be far too early for the present context, as he was leader of the school of Bashōsh and unlikely to have lived to see the death of Ibn Kullāb. Braun denies that this was the man referred to – and probably rightly so, as Ibn al-Nadīm praised the translator (Fihrist 26, 11f.), which he was rather less likely to have done in the case of a man of the eighth century. Furthermore the narrator of the anecdote would have avoided too great an anachronism. In fact, the name was not rare. There was also a Pethion who composed an ecclesiastical history (Baumstark, Geschichte der syr. Literatur 214). Saint Pethion, for whom they were all named, was venerated in Iraq; he was a Persian nobleman martyred on 25 Tashrīn I 446. The monastery of Mār Pethyōn was situated in Samarra (Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān II 525 s. v.); Kindī’s pupil Ibn al-Ṭayyib al-Sarakhsī once conducted a debate with Israel of Kaskar there (cf. M. Moosa in: JAOS 92/1972/19ff.; the text is edited in: Majalla Baṭriyarkiyya Damascus 7/1969/189ff. and 244ff.; also discussed by Holmberg, who was not familiar teachings of the Nābita in general to the Christian idea of Jesus (Ṭabarī III 1118, 10f.). There was probably a Jahmite argument at the basis of it all, e.g. the one in Ibn Ḥanbal, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 57f. 51   Fihrist 230, 8ff.; slightly differently Ābī, Nathr al-durr VII 288, 3ff. 52  Cf. Oriens 18–19/1965–6/119.

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with the edition, Israel von Kaskar, Intro. 50ff. and 90ff.). Regarding the location cf. also Fiey, Chrétiens syriaques 33, and Assyrie chrétienne III 52, and Ṣ. A. al-ʿAlī, Baghdād I 1 222 and 345. – Over time the anecdote acquired more and more detail among the Muʿtazilites, claiming that it was for love of his sister that Ibn Kullāb wanted Christianity to be victorious (Ṣafadī, Wāfī XVII 198, 5, after Dhahabī). Ibn Kullāb was prepared for polemic. He took great care not to say that the attributes existed independently besides God, and also avoided saying that they were eternal. One cannot, in fact, call them eternal, as eternity itself is an attribute and one cannot nest attributes within one another.53 This was a principle hardly anyone would have denied; usually it was said of accidents,54 and – in the case of earthly bodies at least – Ibn Kullāb considered properties and accidents to be identical.55 It is thus not the attributes that are eternal, but God is eternal ‘with them’ or ‘in relation to them’ (bihā).56 The easiest way of expressing the relation was, of course, using the verb: lam yazal.57 R. M. Frank discussed the question under a different perspective and without particular reference to Ibn Kullāb in: MIDEO 22/1995/250ff. He pointed out that at the same time Ibn Ḥanbal, too, employed the paraphrase with bi-. ‘Jahmite’ theologians had accused Ibn Ḥanbal of juxtaposing God and his omnipotence for all eternity (anna llāha lam yazal wa-qudratahū, with wāw al-maʿiyya); as a consequence he retreated onto the formula lam yazal Allāhu bi-qudratihī (Al-radd ʿalā l-zanādiqa wal-Jahmiyya 68, apu. ff.). It would later be embraced by the Māturīdites (Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 53, 9ff.); eternity, they said, was not inherent in the attributes but in God’s essence itself (ibid. 34, 13ff.). In Ashʿarī’s view, on the other hand, it was the attributes themselves that were eternal (cf. Fernhout, Canonical Texts 138).

53  Text 6, h, and 25, c. This also applied to other qualifiers such as ‘temporal’, ‘enduring’ etc., of course (Text 11). 54  See vol. I 420 above. 55  Text 1; see p. 212 above. It remains to be seen whether Mānkdīm pointed to the gist of the matter when he suggested that this was why Ibn Kullāb regarded attributes as maʿānī azaliyya rather than maʿānī qadīma (ShUKh 183, 7ff.); he was of course once again using an adjective, albeit one that was not a verbal derivation of a divine attribute. 56  Text 12, b–c, and 24, b; similar 25, b. Also emphasised by Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj al-sunna I 235, –10f. 57  Text 6, e; also 6, a.

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For exegetic as well as factual reasons, the theory did not quite add up at this point, either. Some points led to scholarly dissension. No agreement could be reached, for instance, on whether ‘neither identical nor not identical’ referred to the essential level or the utterance level.58 There were also arguments on the presumed limit to inferring attributes from the names, as there were names that described the divine essence so uniquely or uncharacteristically that the attributes derived from them could not possibly be ‘neither identical nor not identical’. Among these were ‘being’ or ‘something’; God is not being thanks to a separate essence,59 and while he is ‘something with regard to his attributes’,60 he is not something because of a particular, independent ‘factor’. He is thus a being – and in fact ‘something’ means just that – but has no being, and is certainly not being as essence. Conversely, only he is eternal, and consequently one might ask whether he was eternal thanks to a (specific) eternity. Ibn Kullāb appears to have thought so, while not all his pupils agreed with him.61 The case of divinity was similar,62 but circumstances differed with regard to ‘essence’ (dhāt) and ‘self’: these were in fact neither names nor qualities. One might, however, say that God has an essence or a self, but he does not, of course, possess his dhāt li-dhātihī.63 Dhāt should not be interpreted to metaphysically here; it is barely distinct from nafs (cf. vol. V 389 [of the German edition] and p. 26 above). As for the latter, it is not always clear whether he means that God is a nafs or that he possesses a nafs (cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 151ff.). Sulaymān b. Jarīr had claimed that the ‘factor’ thanks to which God is being is itself neither being nor not-being (cf. Text III 14, commentary; also Gimaret, ibid. 133 and 307); maybe Ibn Kullāb was reacting to this. As always, the so-called ṣifāt khabariyya or samʿiyya, which can be understood only through the revelation and which the Muʿtazilites believed required a reinterpretation in order to become accessible to rational understanding, were a crux. These are the face, the hands, the eyes of God. Ibn Kullāb accepted them because they were mentioned in scripture, but he did not go beyond the Quran.

58  Text 6, p. 59  Ibid., m. One reason why this is not possible is found in Maqdisī, Badʿ I 102, apu. ff.; also Frank in: MIDEO 19/1989/187. 60  Text 13. 61  Cf. Text 3, b and 9, and Text 6, o. 62  Text 10. Muḥāsibī defined divinity as perfection (Gedankenwelt 194). 63  Text 6, l.

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He did not speak of God’s foot: the hadith mentioning this64 did not provide enough authority for him. He probably did not waste any consideration on the question of whether God had one eye or two eyes, either. The singular and the dual form are found together in doxographical accounts; what mattered was the Quranic instances – not as an anthropomorphism, but as a property that is, once again, ‘neither identical nor not identical’ with God. Cf. Text 6, i – k, and 8 (singular), and Maq. 522, 6f. (dual). The Quran only uses the singular (sura 20:39) and the plural (sura 11:37 etc.). The ‘hands’ appear in the dual (sura 5:64 and 38:75); Text 8 has the singular all the same. In general cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 323f., and p. 444 below. One of our source texts also mentions the gaze (baṣar) of God among the attributes in the revelation. This is surprising as baṣar already occurs earlier in the same account, as ṣifa of the ‘name’ baṣīr; in that context we translated it as seeing (i.e. vision).65 The explanation for this discrepancy is that ‘gaze’ was interpreted as anthropomorphic; people such as Bishr b. al-Marīsī had attempted to reinterpret it.66 Ibn Kullāb did not do this, but extended its reference: God sees everything, i.e. his gaze, like his essence, relates to everything that exists.67 Conversely, everything that subsists of itself is visible. Consequently God is visible; this was Ibn Kullāb’s explanation of the ruʾya bil-abṣār.68 He averted the Muʿtazilites’ objection that according to sura 6:103 looks (abṣār) do not reach God; ‘reach’ (adraka) must be understood as a technical term meaning ‘perceive’. It is impossible to perceive God, but he can be seen.69 The dogma of the ruʾya bil-abṣār forced Ibn Kullāb to accord the sense of vision a greater range than the other senses. The latter are limited to their individual sectors, while the former comprises everything that exists – including God (Text 28). It is thus possible to see God, but not to smell or taste etc. him, and consequently not to perceive him grosso modo. When it came to the sense of hearing, things became difficult, as the events by the burning bush had to be taken into account (see p. 209 above), and 64  Text XX 15; also p. 446 below. 65  Cf. sentences k and d in Text 6. 66  Text XX 10. 67  Sanūsī, Prolégomènes 185, –4ff. 68  Text 27 A, and 28, a; cf. Maq. 298, 13f. Also p. 157 above. 69  Text 19. According to Muʿtazilite understanding one saw only colours, not bodies or existing things (cf. e.g. Text XXII 172; also p. 463 and 526f. below). Ever since Iskāfī, idrāk had played a dominant part in the concept of God (see p. 93f. above).

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furthermore God will speak to humans on the day of judgment, i.e. make himself heard. Ibn Kullāb explained that one hears not only God’s word, but also God himself. Thus while one does not hear everything that exists in the same way that one can see everything that exists, but one can hear God’s ‘person’ (dhāt; cf. Text 27 A) – which could be understood as: God in his capacity as a being. We saw on p. 211 above that to Ibn Kullāb ‘being’ meant something independently existing: accidents cannot be perceived with the senses (cf. also Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad 333, 12f.; also the passage Daiber, Muʿammar 67). This contradicted not only the Muʿtazilite consensus but also Ashʿarī’s theory (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 91f.). As a result Ashʿarites in particular would later wonder whether Ibn Kullāb had really put it like that (cf. Text 28, b). By rejecting the khalq al-Qurʾān and affirming the visio beatifica Ibn Kullāb had defended the Nābita’s two main bastions. One issue remained, which the rationalists were only too happy to exaggerate: God’s sitting on the throne. Some of Ibn Kullāb’s followers believed the istiwāʾ to be an attribute of essence itself;70 he was known to have defended it against the Jahmites. The latter, we recall, believed that God was everywhere and nowhere,71 ‘neither within the world nor beyond it’, as Ibn Kullāb put it.72 He saw this as equal to the admission that God is not there at all, as existence cannot be without spatial dimensions.73 God is indeed everywhere, but only in that he rules all things;74 in his essence, as a ‘person’, however, he is on high, above the things and on his throne.75 This is what we learn from Quran and hadith,76 but it is also an axiom of natural theology, for even the heathen imagine God in heaven and raise their hands up towards it in prayer.

70  Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal II 123, –5f. 71  See vol. II 564. 72  Text 23, a; cf. also d. It is clear from r that this refers to Jahmites; c describes them as rationalists. 73  Text 23, a and h. 74  Ibid., e. Abū l-Hudhayl agreed. 75  Ibid., f–i; also Text 21, c, and Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj al-sunna I 217, 10ff. Ibn Kullāb appears to have assumed that God touches the throne, as contact and separateness are as fundamental to space as are dimensions (k). This idea probably owes something to Abū lHudhayl again. 76  Ibid., l–o; also b. The relevant Quranic passages are listed by Muḥāsibī in a closely linked passage (Fahm al-Qurʾān 346, 9ff.). The word fawqu/a ‘upon/above’ was drawn from sura 6:18.

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Text 23, p–q. This hardly traditionist argument was noted as being remarkable (Dhahabī, Siyar XI 175, 6f.). The Church Father Lactantius inferred the existence of natural knowledge of God from the upright walk (rectus status) and the gaze directed at the heavens (Wlosok, Laktanz und die philosophische Gnosis 6; an overview of the tradition of this motif is at 8ff.). Considering this argument, which survives in close context with the original,77 we are surprised to find that Ibn Kullāb did not want to tie God to a specific place. This was because in his eyes the sitting on the throne could not be transient; rather, it had been inherent in God since the very beginning. In the very beginning, however, there was no place, and there was no time, and just as God remains outside of time so he remains beyond space.78 This led Abū Isḥāq al-Isfarāʾinī to claim that Ibn Kullāb saw in God’s ‘eternity’ – as opposed to his merely being – the additional element of meaning confirming that God was not in a specific place.79 Within eternity place and time are equally unlimited. In Ibn Kullāb’s view, ‘place’ was apparently not the same as ‘space’. All the other theological issues are neglected by tradition. Atomism does not seem to have interested Ibn Kullāb,80 and he hardly intervened in the argument over the definition of faith that gripped Najjār and the Basran Murjiʾites so firmly. While he, too, kept actions separate from the concept of faith, he merely said that faith consisted in the profession (iqrār) of it, which had to be based in knowledge and inner agreement.81 It was apparently more important to him to emphasise that the act of faith was created,82 as he was a predestinarian; he believed that God would also accompany and delight in those who revealed themselves to be believers at the end of their lives only.83 A human’s actions are collected until death, at which point they are evaluated in accordance with his last action, the ‘end’ (ʿaqība), presumably the confession he

77  It was transmitted by the Ashʿarite Ibn Furāk (d. 406/1015). We do not know where it was originally found; possibly in Ibn Kullāb’s K. al-ṣifāt (Catalogue of Works no. 1). The Radd ʿalā l-Muʿtazila (no. 3) is unlikely, as the opponents are called Jahmites in the passage referred to. 78  Text 20–22. 79  Cf. the fragment in: MIDEO 19/1989/149 no. 22. 80  Ibn Taymiyya, Tafsīr sūrat al-ikhlāṣ 22, –5f., after Ibn Furāk. 81  Text 39. 82  Ashʿarī, Masʾala fī l-īmān in Spitta, Zur Geschichte 138, 14ff.; also Text 16, i. 83  Text 6, b.

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makes on his deathbed.1 The doxographers named this idea muwāfāt; as the last action could also be imagined to be the human’s free decision, the concept is also found in the works of Muʿtazilites such as Ibn Kullāb’s contemporary Hishām al-Fuwaṭī.2 However, Ibn Kullāb left no doubt concerning the framework in which he placed it. Not only faith is created by God, but unbelief as well,3 and not actions only are created, but in fact everything that comes to pass,4 including the mutawallidāt.5 Consequently God even creates what is evil, only one must not say so in so many words,6 and even less must one approve of unbelief just because it was created by God.7 These were rules of language usage of a kind that the Muʿtazilites, too, employed on occasion.8 In fact, there is one remark in Ibn Taymiyya that suggests that Ibn Kullāb did not ultimately rule out human free decision (ikhtiyār) in individual cases. While God guides human fortunes, individual actions are transient events (ḥawādith) and consequently accidents that cannot subsist in his eternal will.9 The ‘choice’ remaining to humans may presumably be regarded as identical with his kasb, the ‘acquisition’, the performance of an action. The human acts as a person, with his entire body, not with one body part only, or with one atom that guides his actions like a ‘soul’. Consequently he also sins as a whole,10 because, we should add, he is responsible only as a whole.

1   Even temporary apostasy has no influence on this; cf. Text 17. Similar ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān (see p. 46 above). 2  See p. 14 above. 3   Text 16, i. 4   Text 16, g, and 36, a. 5   Text 16, k. Among them are also the insights, at least according to the Ismāʿīlite heresiography mentioned above (p. 182). 6   Text 36; also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 379. 7   Thus one of several further qualifications that were probably expressed by Ibn Kullāb himself, but certainly developed in his school (Gimaret 380f.). Ashʿarī was much less squeamish in all these matters. 8   E.g. Murdār (see vol. III 152f. above). 9   Text 18. This text is late, and ikhtiyār, used in the phrase umūr ikhityāriyya, is not linked to one particular subject, but the term was not commonly used with regard to God and may thus be safely assumed to refer to humans. 10  Text 37. The word used for ‘sin’ is ẓulm; Ibn Kullāb defined it as ‘that which one must not do’ (Text 38).

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6.2 Muḥāsibī Ibn Kullāb is regarded as Shāfiʿī’s follower.1 However, he is not documented as a jurist, not even in the context of methodological matters.2 On the other hand it is noticeable that theologians with an interest in his teachings were also listed among Shāfiʿī’s Iraqi followers. One of them was his contemporary Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥārith b. Asad al-ʿAnazī al-Muḥāsibī, a man of Arab origin3 who died 243/857.4 He was indeed well versed in the uṣūl al-fiqh. He would be cited even later in matters of methodology. He believed that once a consensus had been reached one should not go back beyond it; even the ṣaḥāba’s ikhtilāf had only historical significance in such cases.5 He accepted hadiths as the basis of juristic decisions even when they were transmitted by one chain of transmitters only, as long as the chain consisted of competent and honourable persons.6 In both these ideas he is close to Shāfiʿī, but he probably ultimately drew on Basran tradition, as he was born in Basra, just like Ibn Kullāb. A considerable portion of the hadiths and akhbār he adduced in great numbers also came from Basra; he did not mind that some of them originated with Qadarites.7 Shāfiʿī and the innovative view he imported from Egypt were probably mainly the catalyst under whose influence those tendencies that diverged from the Ḥanafite majority joined together to form a whole.8 This is a most complex process. Shāfiʿī had not arrived in Baghdad as a glorious hero; at first people had regarded him as rather exotic.9 The fact that he wrote his Risāla for 1  ʿAbbādī was the author of this classification (Ṭabaqāt al-fuqahāʾ al-Shāfiʿiyya 70, 7f.). Both Asnawī (Ṭabaqāt II 344f. no. 980) and, in more detail but without significant new insights, Subkī (Ṭabaqāt 2II 299f.) rely on him. 2  Ṣafadī gives him the attribute al-faqīh (Wāfī XVII 197, ult.); but this probably does not mean much, either. 3  I infer this from his and his father’s names. Unfortunately no genealogy has been transmitted anywhere. 4  He, too, was listed by ʿAbbādī (Ṭab. 27f.); correspondingly Asnawī I 26f. no. 9, and Subkī II 275ff. (voicing criticism of the classification). 5  Māwardī, Adab al-qāḍī I 383f. no. 1091. Allard noted in BEO 29/1977/11 that the circumstances of this ijmāʿ do not seem to have been quite clearly defined by Muḥāsibī. 6  Ibn Ḥazm, Iḥkām 1I 119, 3ff./2I 107, 3ff.; cf. Turki, Polémiques 100. ʿAbbādī transmits the same theory as Karābīsī’s (Ṭab. 24, 11ff.); Ibn Ḥazm mentions him, too. Regarding him see p. 238ff. below. 7  Cf. Allard in: BEO 29/1977/12. 8  Cf., with regard to Karābīsī, Ibn Abī Ḥātim, Ādāb al-Shāfiʿī 57, 1ff., and 65, 5ff. 9  Cf. Ibn al-Thaljī’s remark p. 253 below.

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a rich pearl merchant10 and by no means at the request of the authorities also shows that he lacked public importance, and may have needed money. His ideas first caught on in Egypt.11 Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Shāfiʿī, at first his most important follower in Iraq, joined the Muʿtazila without second thoughts, or saw no reason why he should have left it.12 Others, however, made use of the legal ‘heresy’ to take a stand against the predominant opinion. It is possible that in this sense Ibn Kullāb was indeed a Shāfiʿite, even without displaying any originality on the field of jurisprudence himself.13 Dhahabī tells us that Ibn Kullāb introduced Muḥāsibī to kalām.14 This is in accordance with the view of history that assumes that there was a Kullābiyya, but it may not quite reflect the facts. As we have seen, Ashʿarī’s Maqālāt illuminate Ibn Kullāb thoroughly, while Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī appears only once, and then as the former’s follower,15 but the divergence in the context of which he appears is quite significant. Furthermore we are much better informed concerning the alleged pupil than about the teacher: one brief text is extant of which the latter is the author, or which may reflect his original closely,16 while a number of Muḥāsibī’s works survive. They are not, however, in the majority concerned with theological issues; if they were, they would probably have had as little chance of survival as Ibn Kullāb’s. ‘Abū ʿAbdallāh’, as he introduces himself in his books, was a different type. While Ashʿarī calls him simply Ḥārith, and Ḥanbalite circles mock him as ‘Ḥārith the short’ (Ḥārith alQaṣīr),17 posterity thinks of him under his sobriquet al-Muḥāsibī because of his preaching muḥāsabat al-nafs, examining oneself, a kind of anticipation of the reckoning in the otherworld (ḥisāb) in which each action will be tested as to its intention, and judged accordingly.18 This is the expression of a jurist’s thinking who has turned inwards in his attempts to master the world; later, Muḥāsibī would be included in the beginnings of Baghdad ‘mysticism’. Hints of this are found with Shāfiʿī, too; some of his extant dicta – rarely taken into account so far – are expressions of 10  See vol. II 89 above. 11  Halm, Ausbreitung 16ff.; in general the article by W. Hallaq in: IJMES 25/1993/587ff. 12  See vol. III 316ff. above. 13  Shāfiʿī’s waṣiyya, edited by F. Kern in: MSOS 13/1910/142, is too conservative even for Ibn Kullāb; it is probably of a later date and presumably Egyptian origin. 14   Siyar XI 174, –. 15   Maq. 546, 15f.; possibly also in a second passage. 16  Text 23; see p. 218 above. 17  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 233, –7. 18  Cf. my monograph Die Gedankenwelt des Ḥārith b. Asad al-Muḥāsibī (Bonn 1961), esp. p. 140ff. In addition to the earlier literature listed there, Hüseyin Aydın, Muhâsbîʾnin tasavvuf felsefesi (Ankara 1976) should also be adduced.

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inward-looking piety.19 However, Muḥāsibī is once again connected with the Basran environment. Local ascetic tradition impressed him; he was influenced above all by Ḥasan al-Baṣrī.20 His understanding of Ḥasan differed from the Qadarites’ or the Muʿtazila’s; in his eyes, Ḥasan was the discoverer of introspection. Nobody had engaged in psychology with such flair before Muḥāsibī. The distinction between aʿmāl al-jawāriḥ and aʿmāl al-qulūb which he found in Abū l-Hudhayl’s theories21 implied to him that the latter, the ‘actions of the heart’, took precedence;22 they were what determined each individual’s salvation. They were the intentional underlying structure that determined the value of external actions. Not even Satan can see into them;23 in his innermost heart, the human is alone with God. Consequently his gravest sins are sins of the mind: eye-service, pride, envy. They come to be because the human is so preoccupied with the ‘world’ and other humans as to forget God. However, it would be too simple to, as the ascetics of ʿAbbādān did, to retire from the world; humans as social beings have a destiny willed by God. One has to overcome these sins by constantly observing and educating oneself.24 Thus Muḥāsibī continued to preach zuhd,25 but his renouncing of the world was an inward process. He considered demonising gainful employment (taḥrīm al-makāsib) to be weakness, and rejected Shaqīq al-Balkhī’s views.26 Owning property is not in itself evil; it all depends on one’s attitude to it. Consequently poverty cannot be viewed objectively: someone will feel poor because he is 19  Cf. Meier in: Oriens 20/1967/96ff.; also p. 103 concerning Shāfiʿī’s connection with Muḥāsibī. It must be borne in mind, however, where and by whom these dicta were collected, namely by Sulamī in Nishapur; they are evidence that Sufi tendencies spread among the Shāfiʿites in that area (cf. Malamud in: IJMES 26/1994/431). 20  Cf. Gedankenwelt 142f., and Index s. n. Ḥasan al-Baṣrī. Massignon’s seeing him as a pupil of ʿAbd al-Wāḥid b. Zayd’s via Muḍar (cf. vol. II 116 above; Passion 2I 596/transl. I 549), requires more evidence. J. Baldick, exaggerating my interpretation, regarded him as ‘neither a Sufi nor a mystic’ (Mystical Islam 34 and 49). – Muḥāsibī found the phrase ḥāsaba nafsahū in a dictum by the caliph ʿUmar (Gedankenwelt 139f.); it was also quoted by Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ (Kalīla wa-Dimna, Beirut 1977, p. 22. ult.). Mālik b. Anas had a follower who bore the nisba al-Muḥāsibī (cf. Ibn Farḥūn, Dībāj 8, 13f.). 21  See vol. III 268 above. 22   Gedankenwelt 89; also ibid. 36 and 39. 23  Ibid. 58. Hishām al-Fuwaṭī believed this, too (see p. 9 above). 24  How one should do this Muḥāsibī showed pithily in his Badʾ man anāba ilā llāh (Catalogue of Works no. 11). His main work on the subject is K. al-riʿāya li-ḥuqūq Allāh (ibid. no. 9). Regarding its contents cf. Gedankenwelt, passim. Regarding Muḥāsibī’s theory of the soul compared the Quran’s see Seidensticker, Altarabisch “Herz” 192ff. 25  Cf. Catalogue of Works no. 15. 26   Gedankenwelt 99ff.; especially also Reinert, Lehre vom tawakkul (cf. the index s. n. Muḥāsibī).

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unable to master his greed for possessions.27 Clearly Muḥāsibī had nothing in common with the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila. He never dressed himself in woollen clothing; external appearances to him were above all a temptation to indulge in pride and hypocrisy.28 Instead of settling in ʿAbbādān he seems to have moved to Baghdad early on; he owned a beautiful house and had a family there.29 He wrote about the love of God;30 but the mysticism he professed in this way remained bourgeois. It seems that this moderate worldliness in particular explains his success, albeit not exclusively: his writing style was vivid, extraordinarily clear, and his language rich in images. He was a born educator, but was also gifted with the long view necessary to avoid becoming entangled in minor issues. Like the quṣṣāṣ of earlier times he spoke of eschatology;31 a theologoumenon that had almost been forgotten in the meantime in the trend to rationalism. To him it was part of the muḥāsaba; envisioning the last judgment became a kind of intellectual call to repentance. His works spread as far as Spain and were particularly popular in Shādhilite circles. Pilgrims went to visit his grave; it has been documented in Baghdad since the sixth/twelfth century, but is not, in fact, authentic. The oldest source is Taqī al-Dīn al-Harawī al-Mawṣilī’s (d. 611/1215) pilgrims’ guide (transl. Sourdel-Thomine 168). Regarding the question of its authenticity cf. M. Jawād and A. Sūsā, Dalīl kharīṭat Baghdād al-mufaṣṣal 314f. Muḥāsibī’s posthumous influence has not been studied in depth; Margaret Smith has collected some material (Al-Muḥāsibī, An Early Mystic of Baghdad 269ff.; especially also, with reference to Ghazzālī, in JRAS 1936, p. 65ff.). In the Maghrib Muḥāsibī has been at home since the early fifth century. Abū Bakr Ibn Khayr (d. 575/1179) shows by means of the riwāyāt listed in his Fahrasa how the Riʿāya and other works made their way to Spain (cf. Gedankenwelt 15, and Der Islam 43/1967/169; also Vizcaino in: Al-Qanṭara 12/1991/442 and 427.) The mystic Abū Madyan (d. 5941197) read the Riʿāya under his teacher Ibn Ḥirzihim (Ibn Qunfudh, Uns al-faqīr 14, 4f.). One of Ruʿaynī’s (d. 666/1268) teachers also knew the book: Ibn Abī ʿAzafa under whom he studied in Ceuta (Ruʿaynī, Barnāmaj 44, 7). Ibn ʿAbbād al-Rondī (d. 792/1390) recommends reading Muḥāsibī’s works (Al-rasāʾil al-ṣughrā 97, 10f.; also 57, 5ff.); Aḥmad Zarrūq (d. 899/1493) 27  Ibid. 106f. The Ebionites, too had internalised their ideal of poverty in this way (Schoeps, Judenchristentum 197f.). 28  He looked at this issue very lucidly in a brief synopsis (cf. Gedankenwelt 43f.). 29  Cf. Sarrāj in Arberry, Lost Pages from the K. al-Lumaʿ, Text 6, 23. 30  Catalogue of Works no. 30. 31  Ibid. no. 27; also Gedankenwelt 138 and 214.

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did so in Cairo (Khushaim, Zarrūq the Ṣūfī 190. Several abridged versions of the Riʿāya were produced in the Maghrib (cf. Catalogue of Works no. 9). A certain Jamīl al-Baṣrī, a Mālikite of whose chronological position we know nothing, was said to have had 400 works of varying sizes by Muḥāsibī in his library (Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb II 466, 5ff.). Ibn Ẓafar al-Ṣaqalī (d. 565/1168) even collected dicta from his childhood (Anbāʾ nujabāʾ alabnāʾ, Cairo n. d., p. 148ff.). Ibn Bashkuwāl (d. 578/1183) wrote a biography (tarjama; Dhahabī, Siyar XXI 141, 11). A certain Abū Muḥammad ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-Tūnisī positively ordered his pupils to read the Riʿāya instead of legal textbooks (Tādhilī, Tashawwuf ilā rijāl al-taṣawwuf 70, 7f.). Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, on the other hand, who had been brought up by Sufis, only started studying jurisprudence when Muḥāsibī appeared to him in a dream and encouraged him to do so (cf. EI2 III 779a). Muḥāsibī retains this last quality to this day: ʿAbd al-Qādir Aḥmad ʿAṭāʾ, the editor of K. alMakāsib (Catalogue of Works no. 7), also received encouragement for his work from Muḥāsibī in a dream (Intro., p. 38). Originally Muḥāsibī’s grave had been accorded everything but veneration. His funeral cortege was said to have consisted of four people only.32 ʿAbbādī even said in his Ṭabaqāt that Muḥāsibī died in Basra.33 In his later years he suffered under Ibn Ḥanbal’s hostility; after the end of the miḥna, he was regarded as a collaborator like Ibn Kullāb. However, while Ibn Kullāb was never mentioned in Ḥanbalite texts, they had set their sights on Muḥāsibī – probably because he lived in Baghdad and was better known there. Ibn Ḥanbal was said to have attacked him as a ‘Jahmite’ not only because of theological heresies34 but also because of his therapeutic approach focussed on the soul; it, too, was considered bidʿa.35 In fact it was probably mainly seen as competition; like Ibn Ḥanbal, Muḥāsibī appealed to the common people. He was not a mere intellectual, but a pious man as well. Once Ibn Ḥanbal had given free rein to his anger, he focussed on this aspect, too: ‘Do not be deceived by his bowed head! He is a bad man. Only those who have tried him, know him. Do not speak to him, and do not ever show him reverence! (What would the outcome be) if we attended everyone’s lectures just because he transmits hadiths from the prophet and is an innovator at the same time? No, no show of reverence, and no favours shall 32   T B VIII 216, 1f. 33   Ṭab. 27, 2; ʿAbbādī lived in eastern Iran. TB VIII 216, 1, however, confirms that Muḥāsibī died in Baghdad. 34  Thus Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 62, ult. ff., and 233, pu. f.; Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs 162, 5ff. 35   T B VIII 215, 9ff.

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be accorded to him!’36 Sometimes there were attempts at discrediting him directly by spreading rumours: on the occasion of a wedding Muḥāsibī was said to have watched the women from above through a railing, and his head got stuck between the rods. When challenged he replied that he had only wanted to imagine the houris in paradise. Ibid. I 68, 9ff.; this was probably an allusion to the worship practice of tawahhum he required: the visualisation of otherworldly events, to which he devoted a separate text (Catalogue of Works no. 26; also Gedankenwelt 137f. and 214). Regarding earlier forms within mysticism see vol. II 113f. above. Just how cautious Muḥāsibī was in these matters was demonstrated by his deep misgivings concerning the practice of meditating on the beauty of a youth in order to understand the beauty of creation (Nawawī, Sharḥ matn al-Arbaʿīn 14 § 5, 4ff./transl. Pouzet 79). Some voices claimed that Muḥāsibī ‘converted away from’ theology under the pressure of this opposition; he was said to have retired to Kufa and taught hadith there.37 It is easy to imagine that he had to ‘go underground’ in Baghdad;38 after all, Mutawakkil had issued an edict in 238/852, namely five years before Muḥāsibī’s death, forbidding kalām.39 Ibn Taymiyya presents events as though Muḥāsibī had dissociated himself from Ibn Kullāb’s theory of the attributes when Ibn Ḥanbal severed his ties with him.40 We might indeed consider that Muḥāsibī reached a turning-point; one or even two autobiographical texts are extant in which he describes how he found the right way.41 Abdallah Laroui tried to assign him a key role: more than anyone else, he says, Muḥāsibī realised that rational theology had failed as the instrument of interpreting human existence.42 This, however, is highly speculative. There is nothing to indicate in the texts cited that Muḥāsibī did indeed take his leave of kalām of all things; we 36  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā I 234, 2ff., in the context of a longer speech. 37  Cf. Smith, Muḥāsibī 15f. after Dhahabī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Islām (Ṭab. XXV, p. 219, –8f.). The source is Ḥusayn b. ʿAbdallāh al-Khiraqī (d. 299/911), who refers to Ibn Ḥanbal’s pupil Marrūdhī. 38  Thus Ibn al-Athīr, Kāmil VII 55, 4/84, 4, which shows its dependence on TB; also Dhahabī, ibid. 209, 11ff. 39  Laoust in: REI 27/1969/73; cf. p. 810f. below. 40   Minhāj al-sunna I 118, 9ff. 41  The first is found in his K. al-naṣāʾiḥ (Catalogue of Works no. 21; cf. Gedankenwelt 2ff.); the second one in K. al-khalwa the authorship of which has not been established quite satisfactorily (Catalogue of Works, end; cf. Gedankenwelt 5f.). 42   Idéologie Arabe 161ff.

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do not know if they describe actual events at all.43 Ibn Taymiyya omits the ‘conversion’ elsewhere.44 It does not really make sense, after all, to date all of Muḥāsibī’s ‘mystical’ texts to the last years of his life after the ‘conversion’ – in that case nothing much would be left for the earlier years. It seems that his approach to the doctrine of the attributes had always differed from Ibn Kullāb’s; he believed that the ṣifāṭ, while different among themselves, were not distinct from God.45 Consequently he disagreed with the ‘neither identical nor not identical’ embraced by Ibn Kullāb and moved closer to Abū l-Hudhayl, as it were.46 The dissension appears to have been fought out using arguments based on linguistic theory in a way not entirely comprehensible to us. Ibn Kullāb regarded the name and that which it denoted as ‘neither identical nor not identical’,47 in Muḥāsibī’s view and based on his position in general, however, they were identical. Ibn Kullāb derived ism ‘name’ (but also ‘noun’) from wasama, as something with which one ‘marks’ a thing and that is attached to the thing from outside; Muḥāsibī rejected this etymology as for him useless and explained ism as being based on the root s-m-w ‘to be high’.48 We are unable to see how this would have helped him. In any case he had thus adopted the opinion of the Basran school of grammarians, while Ibn Kullāb adhered to the position that was – or would be later – linked to Kufa. Thus e.g. Ibn al-Anbārī, Inṣāf 6ff.; Abū l-Baqāʾ al-ʿUkbarī, Masāʾil khilāfiyya fī l-naḥw 58ff. no. 4; Ibn Yaʿīsh, Sharḥ al-mufaṣṣal 26, –4ff.; also Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Zīna II 9ff. It remains to be explored whether this disagreement over grammar goes back further than Ibn Kullāb and Muḥāsibī. We do not know, either, whether Muḥāsibī’s explanation of his etymology was the same used by the Kufans: that the name, the denotation, ‘rises’ above the meaning, i.e. rests on top of it. ʿAbbādī’s explanation sounds as though the ‘highness’ of the name refers immediately to the being of God, to his sublimity; but of course, this could not be said of other 43   Gedankenwelt 4. 44   Madhhab al-salaf (ed. Muḥ Rashīd Riḍā, Cairo 1349), p. 74, 2ff. When he does refer to it later (74, 7ff.) it becomes clear that Muḥāsibī in fact professed precisely the theory linked to Ibn Ḥanbal: namely that God speaks with a real voice (ṣawt); cf. p. 229, n. 50 below. 45  Text 40 and 41, c–d. 46  He probably did not see it like that himself. As we have seen there were trends within Ibn Kullāb’s circle that rejected the claim that God was distinct from his attributes, as well as those who denied that he was identical with them (Text 6, p); maybe he thought beyond this point. 47  Text 4; cf. p. 212 above. 48  ʿAbbādī, Ṭab. 27, 5ff.; ʿAbbādī probably presents this case in a very brief version when he says that Ibn Kullāb regarded ism and musammā as not identical.

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things. It would make sense only if we assume that the discussion was limited to the status of divine ‘names’ only. There is indeed evidence in the context of theology to suggest that this might have been the case (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 347ff., also 311); but the grammarians would be out of the picture altogether in that case. Consequently either Ibn Kullāb and Muḥāsibī discussed the matter in both contexts independently of one another, or ʿAbbādī inferred their views on the etymological question in retrospect. Muḥāsibī was said to have written a treatise on this question in particular (Gimaret 347, after Baghdādī). This is remarkable in that it was Shāfiʿī of all people who was – later? – thought to have polemicised against speculations of this kind: ‘If you hear someone say “The name is either identical to that which it denotes, or not identical with it”, then testify that he is a mutakallim who has no faith’ (Erkenntnislehre 319). The position that ism and musammā are not identical was, of course, linked to the Muʿtazilites, and also to Najjār and his school (Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 206, 1ff., and 207, –4ff.; also 212 no. 247ff.). It corresponded with the doctrine of the attributes they embraced, but once again we do not know to what extent this way of expressing it had been popular in Basra even before Ibn Kullāb. The oldest evidence we have so far is Maqdisī, Badʿ I 99, apu ff. In Baghdad it was Bishr al-Marīsī – who was neither a Muʿtazilite nor a Najjārite but in fact a ‘Jahmite’ – whose deliberations on the names of God were closest to it (see vol. III 198f. above, and p. 480 below). It also has roots in the ‘Jahmite’ theory that the presence of the word ‘God’ (i.e. the name) alone in the Quran is no proof of his eternity (see p. 481 below). Even Bukhārī, however, proposes a similar argument when he rejects the Ḥanbalite doctrine of the noncreatedness of the lafẓ al-Qurʾān (see p. 245 below). For more details on the theological aspect of the problem see Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal V 27ff., and a Nuṣayrian text in which ʿAbdallāh al-Khaṣībī discusses the issue in the context of a didactic dialogue (edited by M. M. Bar-Asher and A. Kofsky in: Le Muséon 108/1995/169ff.). To a grammarian the distinction between ism and musammā was almost self-explanatory, at least as long as they did not have to think of the theological dimension. the first one to express this opinion explicitly may have been Mubarrad (cf. Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla I 324, 9f.). He appears to have been citing Sībawayh, however; Abū ʿUbayd was the first one to speak in favour of the opposite (cf. the quotation in Lisān al-ʿArab XIV 401 b, 9f.). The reference to Sībawayh was, of course, controversial; the text of the Kitāb allowed of more than one interpretation

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(Nasafī, ibid. 324, 1ff.). Abū ʿUbayd’s approach can still be seen in his K. majāz al-Qurʾān; he demonstrated his position using the basmala as an example (or, more precisely, the beginning of sura 1; Majāz I 16, 8). In this way the question is revealed as part of the tafsīr lectures. Ṭabarī, too, alluded to it, although he – at a time when tempers had long raged over the issue – immediately pointed out that he did not want to waste any time on it (Tafsīr 3I 118, apu. ff.; cf. Gimaret 347). Of course a philologist might well agonise over the question of whether bismi llāh conveys the same meaning as billāh. Baṭyalawsī dedicated a separate text to the relationship between names and that which they denote (ed. Elamrani-Jamal in: ZAL 15/1985/80ff.). In general see Versteegh, Greek Elements 154ff., and Meier, Bahāʾi Walad 319f. It is particularly interesting that this divergence corresponds to one in the doctrine of the Quran. Muḥāsibī did not approve of Ibn Kullāb’s distinction between divine speech and its ‘form of expression’; God’s speech, although it is identical with God from the very beginning, consists of letters and sounds.49 This appears more ‘fundamentalist’ than Ibn Kullāb’s model; Ibn Ḥanbal, too, believed that in the Quran recitation one heard God himself speak. Ibn Taymiyya suggested that we might be looking at a later opinion of Muḥāsibī’s here, one that he evolved under the influence of Ibn Ḥanbal’s criticism.50 However, Muḥāsibī was a mystic as well, and it was a matter of course to him that we hear God’s word ‘as if we heard him speak it himself’.51 Furthermore, in the same breath Ashʿarī attributed to him the theory that all those passages in the Quran which speak of humans and their actions, are created;52 Ibn Ḥanbal would most certainly not have agreed with that. It is true that this tradition is not easy to allocate, as Muḥāsibī’s own words make clear that when it came to God’s knowledge and God’s will, of which these Quranic passages speak as well, he was firmly in the camp of Ibn Kullāb – and also Najjār: God has for all eternity willed everything of which he knows that it will be.53 The will does not change when the moment arrives in which 49  Text 41, f–g, and 42, b. 50   Madhhab al-salaf, in: Majmūʿa Cairo 1341ff., p. 74, 7f. It was said among Ḥanbalites that Sarī al-Saqaṭī ordered his pupil Junayd (see p. 313 below) to steer clear of some things in Muḥāsibī’s teachings; he was allegedly referring to the idea that God speaks without making a sound (ṣawt), i.e. Ibn Kullāb’s precise opinion (Ibn al-Najjār al-Ḥanbalī, Sharḥ al-Kawkab al-munīr II 108, 1ff. and earlier; cf. p. 685 below). 51  Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya X 93, 2f.; more details p. 689f. below. 52  Text 41, e. 53   Fahm al-Qurʾān 341, 9ff.

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that which is willed, comes to pass.54 Even though God says in the Quran: ‘When we desire to destroy a city …’ (sura 17:16), it would be wrong to conclude that this act of will came into existence at some point. What it means is that ‘when the time has come at which we have (for all eternity) desired for it to be destroyed …’.55 Similarly assertions such as ‘God will see your actions’ (9:94) or ‘We (God) listen (to everything)’ (sura 26:15) must not be understood to mean that God gains new insights.56 He knows everything that will come to pass, and everything that will not come to pass, but not in such a way that he knows it as not-being before it exists, and then as being once it enters into existence.57 The book which contains these deliberations, Muḥāsibī’s K. fahm al-Qurʾān, was written before 230/845, i.e. during the miḥna.58 At the same time it is the text that tells us the most about his theology. He polemicises like Ibn Kullāb – and with closely related arguments – against the Jahmite idea of the omnipresence of God, for what is within things is also like the things; God, on the other hand, is of his essence ‘on high’ and ‘above’ humans.59 He also defends against the Muʿtazilites the idea that God will forgive the grave sinners among the Muslims – maybe all of them, and certainly some of them. He himself says so in sura 20:82 regarding penitent sinners; as for obdurate ones, we can only hope.60 This hope, just like the fear of punishment, only has meaning if the matter has not yet been decided61 – and then there is always the prophet’s intercession.62 These articles of faith are based on the Quran; Muḥāsibī is not engaging in kalām here. His intention of employing a predominantly exegetic approach becomes clear with the title of the book, but he did have a specific reason as well. The Muʿtazilites and Jahmites had proved the createdness of the Quran, i.e. its temporality, with the argument that there had been shifts during the historical sequence of revelation: in the process of abrogation.63 As we have seen this was 54  Ibid. 343, 2ff. 55  Ibid. 344, 4ff., and earlier. 56  Ibid. 344, –4ff. 57  Ibid. 339, 2ff. 58  This terminus ante quem is due to ʿAbdallāh b. Ṭāhir being mentioned as the amīr of Khurasan (355, 9f.). He died in 230/845). 59  Ibid. 346, 9ff.; esp. 349, 5, and 350, 3. In this place the text becomes more immediate and is follows a qultu – qāla structure (349, 6). Could it be that Muḥāsibī was quoting Ibn Kullāb in this passage? Dhahabī noted the kinship of both scholars in this question (Siyar XVII 175, 6f.). 60  Ibid. 370, 5ff. 61  Ibid. 385, 6ff. 62  Ibid. 390, –5ff.; cf. also Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 254, 13ff. Cf. also Gedankenwelt 124ff. 63  Ibid. 363, –5ff.

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an argument that had been submitted in the discussion against Ibn Ḥanbal; Jāḥiẓ, too, had adopted it.64 Muḥāsibī went into it in some detail,65 and was carried away by the refutation to such an extent that he presented the naskh theory in all its details and with all available Quranic instances.66 At no point before him do we find such a detailed analysis, not even in Shāfiʿī’s works. This was apparently the issue because of which he wrote the book. The structure he used corresponds to some degree to that which we find in later centuries, e.g. in Suyūṭī’s works,67 although it is more detailed and diverges as to the terminology.68 This is apparently very original, and has consequently had some influence on posterity.69 We are mainly concerned with his fundamental argument here. Only a commandment, he says, is abolished by the abrogation, but not the text itself,70 which remains divine speech even afterwards.71 One rule is replaced by another (tabdīl); but God does not change his mind because of it.72 ‘He has willed both from the very first, and when he replaces one with another, this is not because he changes his mind,73 or by means of the abrogation of a commandment (amr), but because he replaces one commanded thing with another’.74 In the last sentence he distinguishes between amr and ma‌ʾmūr bihī, understanding amr as transitive, God’s commanding or ordering that is part of his speech and can consequently not be abolished. It shows us that he did not embrace Ibn Kullāb’s distinction between kalām Allāh on the one hand, and

64  See vol. III 499 and 506 above. 65  Ibid. 332, 4ff. 66  Ibid. 398, 1ff. 67  It is thanks to Burton’s studies that the latter became popular in secondary sources; cf. e.g. Collection of the Qurʾān 46ff. 68  Instead of naskh al-tilāwa dūna l-ḥukm Muḥāsibī has mā rufiʿa rasmuhū min al-kitāb walam yurfaʿ ḥifẓuhū min al-qulūb (398, 9f.), instead of naskh al-ḥukm dūna l-tilāwa, mā rufiʿa ḥukmuhū wa-yabqā rasmuhū (403, 6ff.), and instead of naskh al-ḥukm wal-tilāwa, finally, mā rufiʿa rasmuhū min al-kitāb wa-rufiʿa ḥifẓuhū min al-qulūb wa-ḥukmuhū (404, pu. ff.). By using the term ḥifẓ in addition to ḥukm and rasm (= tilāwa), he can add more subdivisions. 69  Thus e.g. on the Quranic scholar Ibn al-Munādī (d. 336/947; regarding him GAS 1/44; cf. Zarkashī, Burhān II 37, 4ff.), or on Makkī al-Qaysī (Al-īḍāḥ li-nāsikh al-Qurʾān wamansūkhih, ed. Aḥmad Ḥasan Farḥāt, Riyadh 1976, p. 58ff.), but also on some Shīʿite theologians; cf. Modarressi in: SI 77/1993/23f., n. 108. 70   Fahm al-Qurʾān 366, –5ff. 71  Ibid. 367, 7f. and 13ff. 72  Ibid. 361, 5ff. (in 362, 3 read badāʾ or budūw instead of badʾ). 73  This reads budūw instead of badāʾ. 74  Ibid. 360, 7ff.; illustrated by means of the sacrifice of Isaac.

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amr, nahy etc. as merely an expression on the other.75 Even in those days, long before the end of the miḥna, God’s speech consisted of ‘sounds and letters’ in his view. This provides the final refutation of Ibn Taymiyya’s theory of his ‘conversion.76 To back up their theory the Muʿtazilites had also claimed that Quranic verse from which the whole naskh theory took its cue: ‘And for whatever verse We abrogate or cast into oblivion, We bring a better or the like of it (in its stead)’ (sura 2:106). If, they argued, there are better verses and others that are less good, it must be created – but this cannot be said of God’s eternal speech (cf. also Rāzī, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb III 233, 6ff.). This compelled Muḥāsibī to perform a number of intellectual contortions. The substance of the abrogating verse, he said, is only better with regard to humans. In addition, khayr minhā does not necessarily express the comparative here; min may have partitive meaning. In that case God would not bring a ‘better’ Quranic verse, but ‘another (good) one from among them’ (368, 2ff.). The first argument is also found in Ṭabarī (Tafsīr 3II 481ff.; esp. 483, apu. ff.). The second one appears to have been forgotten soon afterwards; it was difficult to use in conjunction with the first one in any case. Muḥāsibī’s emphasising, in another text, namely his K. fahm al-sunan, that the redaction of the Quran was not actually due to ʿUthmān but that the prophet had already ordered it, may be an expression of his fear that he might be committed to the khalq al-Qurʾān otherwise. He introduces his deliberations with the remark that the written Quran was not muḥdath, newly come into existence; even Abū Bakr had it written down copied from the extant fragments. The guarantee that nothing that was not genuine had been included was provided by iʿjāz. And sura 87:6–7 was proof that the prophet had forgotten nothing which God had not made him forget in the course of the abrogation (Zarkashī, Burhān I 238, 3ff.; cf. Catalogue of Works no. 2). If divine speech consists of sounds and letters, this does not prevent these from being created in the form in which we perceive them. In his Tafsīr Sulamī ascribed the view to Muḥāsibī that after creation all letters originally looked like alif and evolved from it (Süleyman Ateş, Sülemî ve tasavvufî tefsiri 118; Nwyia, Exégèse coranique 166; Schimmel, Calligraphy and Islamic Culture 94f.). This is not documented anywhere else. 75  See p. 210 above. 76  Cf. also 364, 6f.; lam yansakh kalāmahū bi-kalāmihī wa-innamā yansakhu ma‌ʾmūran bihī bi-ma‌ʾmūrin bihī.

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Despite being focussed on the Quran Muḥāsibī still accorded reason a central role. In the eyes of posterity he was the first to provide a precise definition of ʿaql. This is surprising, considering how much the Muʿtazila relied on reason. It is true that Abū l-Huhayl preceded him in attempting a definition of its essence,77 but there is no title such as Muḥāsibī’s K. māʾiyyat al-ʿaql78 among the lists of titles composed by Muʿtazilite theologians. To the Muʿtazilites rationality was self-evident; Muḥāsibī, who focussed much more on the Quran, had to defend himself. The fact that some passages of the Quran do not have one single clear interpretation did not lead him to infer, like the Muʿtazilites, that one should reflect on them all the more thoroughly. Like Ibn Kullāb, Muḥāsibī regarded them as God’s secrets;79 and although the search for knowledge was named in a hadith as a commandment ( farīḍa) for every Muslim,80 in the case of all unclear issues he believed this to be binding only ad hoc, not in general.81 As for humans’ fundamental capacity of intellectually mastering the world, however, he took a decisive step, probably based on precisely the apology: reason is a primal talent (gharīza) of humans that cannot be derived further.82 It is thus not a corollary of the spirit (rūḥ), as Naẓẓām would have said,83 and it is not a ‘sensing’ (ḥiss), either, which would place it on the same level as sensual perception, as Abū l-Hudhayl had believed.84 It must not be regarded as mere functioning, as those who understood ʿaql as an infinitive did; rather, all understanding (maʿrifa) flows from it.85 It is the expression of human nature; thanks to it, humans are ranked between angels and animals.86 The term gharīza as such was not original at all. We see it everywhere since the praises of reason had first been sung: in the works of ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd b.

77  See vol. III 271 above. Cf. also Jāḥiẓ’ deliberations in Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa (in: Rasāʾil III 237, apu. ff.). 78  Catalogue of Works no. 3. 79  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 222, 11ff. 80   Conc. IV 10 b. 81  Thus also Karābīsī and Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī; cf. Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 130, 7ff./ transl. Gramlich, Nahrung der Herzen I 421. 82  Concerning the following cf. Gedankenwelt 67ff., and Aydın, Muhâsbîʾnin tasavvuf felsefesi 60ff.; also Abū Zayd, Al-ittijāh al-ʿaqlī 52ff. Besides the definition in K. māʾiyyat al-ʿaql (201, ult. ff. Quwatlī) the one in K. al-qaṣd wal-rujūʿ ilā llāh (p. 135f. Quwatlī) and in Mukhtaṣar al-maʿānī (Catalogue of Works no. 25) should also be taken into account. 83  See vol. III 406 and 412f. above. Muḥāsibī explicitly rejected a similar theory (Māʾiyyat alʿaql 204, 5ff./transl. Gedankenwelt 69). 84  See vol. III 271 above. 85   K. māʾiyyat al-ʿaql 205, 3ff./transl. Gedankenwelt 70f. 86   Gedankenwelt 81ff.; also concerning parallels with Ghazzālī and Pascal.

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Yaḥyā,87 Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ,88 Maysara b. ʿAbdrabbih,89 Jāḥiẓ,90 in the Arabic translation of Themistius’ paraphrase on Aristotle’s De anima;91 it was attributed even to Ibn Ḥanbal.92 This shows why Muḥāsibī’s definition could be accepted by everyone; it spread beyond ideological boundaries. With his beliefs he was part of the Basran ascetic tradition, rather than Muʿtazilite; we have already pointed out the K. al-ʿaql by Dāwūd al-Muḥabbar.93 From Ashʿarī onwards ‘orthodox’ circles, too, felt committed to rational theology, and Muḥāsibī’s definition was just right; people quoted it without even consulting his works.94 It had the advantage of allowing worldly common sense as well as divinely-inspired knowledge; Muḥāsibī called the former fahm ‘experience’, and the latter baṣīra ‘insight’ or ʿaql ʿan Allāh ‘understanding through God’.95 In order to understand the Quran properly, one needs reason,96 and even mysticism becomes rational in this way. The Muʿtazilites never accepted this widening of scope;97 the contrasting concept came from an entirely different side. It was probably not much later that Kindī wrote the Risāla fī māʾiyyat al-ʿaql that shared the title with Muḥāsibī’s work.98 In it Kindī introduced Aristotelian ideas into Islam.99 Thus while Muḥāsibī engaged in theology, he did not get drawn into the intellectual game, least of all into disputations. That would have been contrary to his principles. One has to look after oneself first of all; the danger is 87   Risāla ilā l-kuttāb in Kurd ʿAlī, Umarāʾ al-bayān 78, 1 = Rasāʾil, ed. ʿAbbās 282, ult. 88   Kalīla wa-Dimna (Beirut 1977) 99, pu., in the account of Burzōye’s mission to India. 89   Gedankenwelt 73; regarding him see vol. II 140 above. 90   Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa in: Rasāʾil III 237, apu., in the context of more detailed discussions of the relationship between reason and sensory perception, emotions, historical experiences etc. – Cf. also the remark by Saḥbān Wāʾil in: ʿIqd II 240, 12f. 91  Where the adjective gharīzī corresponds to Gr. σύμφυτος (ed. Lyons, p. 186, 6f., and glossary 280). 92  Abū Yaʿlā, ʿUdda I 85, ult. f.; Ibn Taymiyya, Al-radd ʿalā l-manṭiqiyyīn 94, 11f. 93  See vol. II 138f. above. 94  It has not been possible to confirm all the transmitted versions against his writings (Gedankenwelt 74). 95   K. māʾiyyat al-ʿaql 208, 2ff./transl. Gedankenwelt 74f. 96   Fahm al-Qurʾān 318, 5ff. and earlier, where we find the phrase ʿaqala ʿan Allāh (e.g. 314, 2). 97  The relevant passage in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XI 375ff., where the individual theories are being discussed, does not even mention Muḥāsibī’s position. 98  McCarthy, Taṣānīf 12 no. 22. 99  If, indeed, it is identical with the Risāla fī l-ʿaql edited by Abū Rīda, Rasāʾil I 353ff.; cf. also McCarthy’s translation in: Isl. Studies Karachi 3/1964/119ff., and Jolivet’s in L’intellect selon Kindī 1ff. Kindī also uses the term gharīza (in his Risāla fī l-ḥudūd; cf. Le Muséon 95/1982/212, 2).

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not primarily heresy, but rather one’s own self, the animal soul (nafs) which, if one allowed it to join the dialectical sparring, would affirm only itself when triumphing over an opponent.100 Later it would be thought that Muḥāsibī believed speculative understanding of the divine essence to be downright impossible.101 This is probably true to the extent that he believed revealed ‘knowledge’ to be essential for it.102 Ultimately, however, the difference to the Muʿtazila is not as great as one might have thought. The K. al-ʿaẓama, in which he presents not only a brief summary of the proof of the existence of God e contingentia mundi103 but also an in-depth refutation of dualism based on the cosmological argument, might have been written by a Muʿtazilite.104 The book is not particularly original; the idea that the order of the world could only be explained as the work of one single creator had already been formulated by Naẓẓām105 and quickly became popular. The Zaydite al-Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, who died only three years after Muḥāsibī, tried to refute the trinity in the same way.106 The text is interesting to us for other reasons. Firstly, the Muʿtazilite treatises to which Muḥāsibī was probably referring are not extant. Secondly, however, it shows similarities with a Christian treatise composed around this time. During Mutawakkil’s caliphate Jibrīl b. Nūḥ b. Abī Nūḥ alAnbārī, the grandson of that Abū Nūḥ al-Anbārī who was a translator at the time of the patriarch Timothy (see vol. II 530 above), wrote a K. al-fikr wal-iʿtibār fī l-dalāʾil ʿalā l-khāliq in which he conducts the cosmological argument in a downright pedantic fashion, referring to ‘numerous other books’ that had already been written on the subject. It is extant in the MS Ayasofya 4836, fol. 160a–187b. In the form of an apocryphon this book also entered Islamic literature. We have already pointed to the Shīʿite version earlier (vol. I 531 above); it was presented as K. al-Tawḥīd by Mufaḍḍal b. ʿUmar al-Juʿfī. The Sunni version claimed Jāḥiẓ as its author and was entitled K. al-dalāʾil wal-iʿtibār; the preface explicitly mentions Jibrīl b. Nūḥ’s book as its model. This preface was later separated from the book, and the only printed version of the text is acephalous (ed. Rāghib al-Ṭabbāgh; Aleppo 1346/1928. Now also in translation by M. A. S. ʿAbdel Haleem 100   Gedankenwelt 111. 101  Ibn al-Wazīr, Tarjīḥ asālīb al-Qurʾān 139, 1ff., after Ṭurṭūshī, Radd ʿalā Arisṭāṭālīs. 102  Cf. his K. al-ʿilm (Catalogue of Works no. 24). 103   Gedankenwelt 162. Cf. vol. III 249f. 104  Ibid. 163ff. 105  See vol. III 397f. and 426f. above. 106   Al-radd ʿalā l-Naṣārā, ed. di Matteo in: RSO 9/1921–3/301ff., esp. 308, 11ff.

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entitled Chance or Creation? God’s Design in the Universe; London 1995). As early as 1931 Ḥasan Sandūbī attempted to identify this text (which he only knew in the latter version) with the K. al-tafakkur wal-iʿtibār, the only title Ibn al-Nadīm listed under Muḥāsibī’s name (Fihrist 236, 5f.) – a book that had not been found in the meantime (Adab al-Jāḥiẓ 153). This hypothesis was revived more recently (Aydın, Muhâsbîʾnin tasavvuf felsefesi 30), but it is really at best worth considering under the aspect that in Ibn al-Nadīm’s day Jibrīl b. Nūḥ’s K. al-fikr wal-iʿtibār circulated under Muḥāsibī’s name as well; the K. al-ʿAẓama might have facilitated this attribution. The latter is probably older; it is certainly not dependent on the Christian treatise. The only possible model of Muḥāsibī’s K. alʿAẓama might be Hārūn’s letter to Constantine VI (cf. vol. III 25ff. above) which goes into some detail concerning the order of the world and the cohesion of creations as proofs of the existence of God (Ṣafwat, Jamharat rasāʾil al-ʿArab 255, 7ff.). Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm’s K. al-dalīl (al-kabīr), edited by Abrahamov (Leiden 1990; cf. id., Al-Ḳāsim b. Ibrāhīm’s Argument from Design, in: Oriens 29–30/1986/259ff.), is probably slightly older, but this text, too, appears to have been influenced by a Christian source (cf. Madelung, Qāsim 106ff.; as well as my deliberations in: WO 22/1991/218f.). Jibrīl b. Nūḥ’s train of thought is much later also found in Elias of Nisibis’ Risāla fī ḥudūth al-ʿālam (in: Sbath, Vingt traités 75ff.). – Regarding the interconnections and dependences described here cf. Gedankenwelt 169ff.; Plessner, Turba philosophorum 103ff.; Daiber, Muʿammar 159f.; Aëtius Arabus 15 and 398ff., as well as ZDMG 136/1986/303f., and in: W. Haase/H. Temporini (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, II: Principat vol. 36.7, p. 4975f. Regarding the origin of the cosmological proof of the existence of God in Jibrīl b. Nūḥ’s text cf. H. Davidson, Proofs for Eternity 219ff. The Christian author also lists a number of cosmological doctrines from antiquity at the end, demonstrating the disagreements among Greek philosophers (cf. in detail Aëtius Arabus 398f. after Jāḥiẓ’ text); Daiber presumed the source to have been a Persian intermediary translation of Placita philosophorum that might have been produced by the Persian metropolitan Īshōʿbukht (ANRW, p. 4976; regarding Īshōʿbukht see p. 150f. above). Regarding the literary tradition following on from the K. al-ʿAẓama cf. A. Heinen, Tafakkur and Muslim Science, in: Journal of Turkish Studies 18/1994/103ff. This text is of a later date than Muḥāsibī’s K. fahm al-Qurʾān, as it quotes from the latter (Gedankenwelt 167). At the same time we face

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the problem that the point Muḥāsibī makes in this quotation is not included in the K. fahm al-Qurʾān in the form transmitted to us. – Of Jibrīl b. Nūḥ’s works we also know his response to a Radd ʿalā l-Naṣārā composed by the Manichaean Yazdānbukht (Bīrūnī, Āthār 208, 4f./transl. Sachau 191). Regarding Yazdānbukht see vol. I 493 above.

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Karābīsī and the Problem of the lafẓ al-Qurʾān

The third theologian we must discuss here appears to have been the one closest to Shāfiʿī. Consequently he was best known as a jurist: Abū ʿAlī Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī b. Yazīd al-Karābīsī al-Muhallabī, a client of the Muhallabids who died in 245/859 or 248/862.1 He was one of the main witnesses for Shāfiʿī’s biography in Iraq. Much of what he reported of him he had heard from the great man himself,2 but it seems that he also contributed to the legends that would grow around him.3 Like most of the Iraqi contemporaries he had originally grown up in the Ḥanafite intellectual tradition; but after he met Shāfiʿī, he had come to the true understanding of the uṣūl. Everything he had believed previously now seemed bidʿa to him – at least this is what the Shāfiʿites reported,4 among whom he was consequently quite popular.5 In the furūʿ he also went his own way; Qaffāl al-Shāshī noted a number of his theories in Ḥilyat al-ʿulamāʾ fī maʿrifat madhāhib al-fuqahāʾ.6 All the same, he does not seem to have had a career in public service; he never became qāḍī. In fact this path had probably been closed to him since he had dissociated himself from the Ḥanafites. Furthermore he was a Khārijite, or at least associated with Khārijite circles;7 consequently it would be hard to believe that he, as is sometimes claimed, wrote fatwās on behalf of the government – especially as the source in question dates this to the time before he had met Shāfiʿī, i.e. half a century before his death.8 Due to his connection with the Muhallabids he may well have been moderately biased in favour of the Khārijites. It could be imagined that this was precisely the reason why he turned towards Shāfiʿī’s doctrine that was not yet allied to the state; Ibn al-Dāʿī

1  T B VIII 64, 10, and 67, 4ff. 2  Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya II 121, 2ff.; also Dhahabī, Siyar X 7, ult. ff. 3  Cf. Ḥilya IX 110, apu. ff., where Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī refers to him, as the parallel in Ibn Taymiyya, Tisʿīniyya 205, 16ff. shows. Regarding the story reported there see vol. III 192 above (including further references in n. 31). In general cf. ʿAbbādī, Ṭab. 23, ult. ff., and the sources listed in GAS 1/599f.; briefly also Brockelmann in EI1 II 779 = 2IV 596 s. n. 4  Ibn Abī Ḥātim, Ādāb al-Shāfiʿī 57, 1ff. (with addendum p. 329) and 65, 5ff. 5  T B VIII 66, pu. ff. 6  Cf. e.g. III 86, 8 (concerning the zakāt on commodities), or 200, 10f. (concerning women’s pilgrimage). Unfortunately Yāsīn Aḥmad Ibrāhīm Darādika’s edition (Mecca 1988) lacks a complete index; more instances may well surface. 7  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 98, 15f. 8  T T II 360, –5ff.

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remarks that all the Shāfiʿites from Basra, Oman, Mirbāṭ (on the south Arabian coast between Oman and Ḥaḍramawt) and Isfarāyīn were Khārijites.9 Even so, Karābīsī wrote about the correct way of administering the office of judge; the book was extensive and Ibn Ḥajar had access to a copy.10 One wonders what compelled Karābīsī to write it. Was he a member of a private ‘administration of the law’ in a Khārijite community? Considering our knowledge of the Ibāḍites this might have been possible even in Baghdad.11 Or maybe he was – after the miḥna? – part of the class of the ʿudūl; this would explain why he also made a name for himself on the field of law of testimony12 and diplomatics (shurūṭ).13 He was considered to be a prolific author.14 None of the early sources tell us explicitly what his civilian profession was. It is tempting to infer from his nisba that he was a merchant of white cotton fabrics (karābīs),15 but all this tells us is probably his school affiliation: he had studied kalām under Walīd b. Abān al-Karābīsī in Wāsiṭ.16 From Walīd b. Abān he had learnt to mistrust the khalq al-Qurʾān.17 Yazīd b. Hārūn, from whom he heard hadith in the same city, presumably emphasised this even more strongly.18 It was probably Walīd b. Abān, too, who convinced him that ʿAlī should be counted among the four ‘righteous’ caliphs.19 Being a Khārijite, however, moderate, he would have had to make some concessions. Consequently he did admit that ʿAlī was right in his disagreements with Ṭalḥa and Zubayr as well as with Muʿāwiya, but only because like his teacher he regarded these events as applying the principle of kullu mujtahid muṣīb. ʿAlī’s opponents were right, too; and when it came to Nahrawān he preferred to remain silent.20 The Shīʿites realised which way the wind blew. Ibn al-Dāʿī noted that Karābīsī accused ʿAlī of having delivered incorrect judgments. In addition he believed to be able to read in the Quran that Ḥasan and Ḥusayn could not have the legal status of descendants of the prophet, as ‘Muhammad is not the father of any one of your men, but the Messenger of God, and the Seal of the 9    Tabṣira 98, 17f. 10   Lisān al-Mīzān II 304, pu. ff.; cf. Catalogue of Works no. 4. Is this the same book Asnawī saw and that he tells us Karābīsī ‘transmitted from Shāfiʿī’? (Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya I 30, 4). 11  See p. 195ff. above. 12  Catalogue of Works no. 6; this book, too, was still extant in the eighth century. 13  Ibid. no. 5. Regarding shurūṭ literature see Veselý in GAP III 202ff. 14  Shīrāzī, Ṭab. 102, 8f.; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Intiqāʾ 106, 2ff. 15  Thus e.g. Asnawī, Ṭab. I 30, 2f. 16  See vol. II 497 above. Or was their connection due to shared business interests? 17  See vol. II 496f. above. 18  Regarding him see vol. II 488 above; as Karābīsī’s teacher: TB VIII 64, 4. 19  See vol. II 497 above. 20  Text 45.

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Prophets’ (sura 33:40).21 He allowed a hadith by Abū Hurayra according to which ʿAlī had asked for the hand of the daughter of Abū Jahl, the prophet’s sworn enemy during the prophet’s lifetime, and Muḥammad publicly declared that his daughter Fāṭima (to whom ʿAlī was already married) would never share the same house as the intended second wife. All this was probably included in his K. al-imāma of which Ibn al-Nadīm, himself a Shīʿite, said that Karābīsī had been most harsh on ʿAlī in it.22 Mufīd wrote a refutation of it much later. He also argued with a follower of Karābīsī’s over whether the ahl al-bayt in sura 33:33 were indeed ʿAlī’s family, or only the prophet’s wives.23 He was well versed in the doctrines of the early Khārijites; some of this material appears to have been included in a K. al-maqālāt he composed.24 He also had substantial knowledge of hadith. Like Ibn Ḥanbal he had sufficient insight to be able to write about ‘defects’ (ʿilal) in the transmission, and about jarḥ wal-taʿdīl.25 Scientific isnād criticism was in its very beginnings at the time; according to Ḥājjī Khalīfa, Karābīsī’s K. al-mudallisīn was the first book of its kind.26 However, his implacable criticism lost him some support. People in Ibn Ḥanbal’s circle were horrified that he did not leave even respected men such as Aʿmash (who had been a Shīʿite!) and Sulaymān al-Taymī unscathed.27 The Muʿtazilites rejoiced; Kaʿbī drew on Karābīsī’s K. al-mudallisīn extensively when composing his – equally critical K. qabūl al-akhbār.28 This is where we sense the resentment between the two groups for the first time, but the stumbling block was elsewhere. Ibn Ḥanbal could not have had a fundamental objection against hadith criticism. What he did take amiss was that Karābīsī had abandoned the prophet’s traditions and turned towards ‘those books’.29 This was apparently a reference to kalām,30 for while Karābīsī 21   Tabṣira 98, 18ff.; the Quranic verse actually referred to Muḥammad’s adoptive son Zayd b. Ḥāritha. See also Muḥāsibī, K. fahm al-Qurʾān 408, 7ff. 22   Fihrist 231, 1f.; also Catalogue of Works no. 3 (which refers to the hadith mentioned). 23   Al-fuṣūl al-mukhtāra I 27, ult. ff./29, 6ff.; regarding the question see vol. I 297, n. 51 above and vol. V 155 (of the German edition). 24  Catalogue of Works no. 1; also Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 308, 15f. 25  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 308, 17; cf. Ibn Ḥanbal’s K. al-ʿilal. 26  ḤKh 89, 14f.; also Catalogue of Works no. 2. 27  Cf. Abū Bakr al-Marrūdī’s account mentioned in n. 39 below (also in: Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, Intro. 77, 6ff.). 28  Juynboll, Muslim Tradition 166ff. The same is true of Kaʿbī’s Maqālāt (69, 5, and 79, apu. f.). If Juynboll’s conjecture in JSAI 5/1984/293 is correct, Karābīsī rejected all isolated traditions whose isnād was connected with ʿan only. 29  Fasawī III 392, 13ff. > Khaṭīb Baghdādī, Sharaf aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth 6 no. 6. 30  If this referred to Karābīsī’s K. al-mudallisīn, as Juynboll assumed (Muslim Tradition 168), the Khaṭīb would probably not have included this remark in a book that discussed the nobility of hadith science.

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rejected the khalq al-Qurʾān, he believed the recitation of the holy text to be created.31 This corresponded to Ibn Kullāb’s distinction between qirāʾa and kalām Allāh; it was furthermore a logical consequence of the belief in the khalq al-afʿāl. In order to put this relation into relief more clearly Karābīsī used not only the word qirāʾa but also lafẓ or nuṭq;32 the act of pronunciation has nothing in common with the text which is speech. This more specific definition was helpful indeed, but it was a terminological innovation. Even the Muʿtazilites became involved: Iskāfī, who had debated with him, rejected this usage.33 Ibn Ḥanbal anathematised him;34 the Lafẓiyya, as he and his followers were called, were put on the same level as the Jahmiyya.35 This meant that someone who believes the pronouncing of the Quran to be created is only a step away from declaring the Quran itself to be created. Karābīsī thought this rather a broad inference; but from that time on the climate on both sides had been poisoned.36 He found numerous followers in Mosul;37 after all, there was large Ibāḍite community there.38 Dhahabī claimed that he first made his theory public in 234/849, but this is probably based on the incorrect interpretation of a source, and the date is too late.39 After all, Karābīsī was not the only theologian to think along these lines at the time. In Damascus it was the traditionist Hishām b. ʿAmmār al-Sulamī, Friday preacher in the Umayyad Mosque, who supported the same theory; he died in 245/859, i.e. possibly in the same year as Karābīsī.40 It also spread in Nisibis.41 In Tarsus a certain Aḥmad Sharrāk publicised it; he was an ascetic and a nephew on the mother’s side of the Kufan ʿAbdak whose rejection of any kind of gainful employment had found favour with the Sufis.42 His having originally been a member of Ibn Ḥanbal’s circle proved something 31  Text 44. 32  Regarding nuṭq cf. TB XIII 65, 20. 33  See p. 92 and 95f. above. 34  Khallāl, Musnad 442, 3ff.; Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 109, 3ff.; 120. –5ff.; 124, 3ff. Cf. the remarks in Ibn Ḥanbal’s K. al-sunna (transl. Schacht, Lesebuch 37f.). 35  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā I 47, –8f.;62, apu. f.; 142, 1pu. ff.; 280, 1, and passim. 36   T B VIII 64, 16f., and 65, 5ff.; TT II 360, 5ff. 37  Khallāl, Musnad 549, 8ff.; TB VIII 65, 18ff.; Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 288, 15ff. 38  See vol. II 528ff. above. 39   Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Islām, Tabaqa XXV, p. 84, 11ff. (quoted after the K. al-qiṣaṣ by Ibn Ḥanbal’s pupil Abū Bakr al-Marrūdhī). The crucial passage 85, 5ff., is apparently not included in the chronology 84, 16f., and is legendary in any case; it introduces something new compared to the foregoing. 40  He also had connections with Mosul (see vol. III 513 above). 41  Khallāl, Musnad 560, 1ff., and 573, 14f. 42  Regarding him see vol. I 263 above.

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of an embarrassment; when people in Tarsus began to agitate against him for that reason, he went to ʿAbbādān.43 It is not necessary to infer from this information that Karābīsī’s influence spread like wildfire. The ‘Lafẓiyya’ existed only from an Iraqi – or possibly Baghdad only – perspective as yet. People beyond Ibn Ḥanbal’s circle were probably not yet able to imagine an explicit position against the khalq al-Qurʾān that was not ‘Lafẓite’. Even Ashʿarī describes Ibn Ḥanbal’s position in his Maqālāt – i.e. the position of those who based their extremism on him – as that of ‘certain ahl al-ḥadīth’.44 Karābīsī’s approach, on the other hand, followed only Shāfiʿī, at least according to Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s Kāfī.45 There is an interesting epigraphic document that shows just how ‘orthodox’ people in e.g. Mosul were at this time: a gravestone in the shape of a miḥrāb the anonymous owner of which not only explicitly declares God’s speech as uncreated, but also professes the visio beatifica and adds a blessing not only on the four ‘righteous’ caliphs but on ʿĀʾisha and Muʿāwiya as well. Unfortunately there is no date. Sarre and Herzfeld who discovered the stone in the ʿUmariyya Mosque during their Archäologische Reise im Euphrat – und Tigris-Gebiet dated it to the time between 180/797 and 200/815 due to the script employed (Reise II 283ff.). Consequently the Répertoire chronologique lists the stone s. a. 200 (RCEA I 95 no. 117), although this appears comparatively early in view of the phrase ghayr makhlūq. After these considerations the date was adjusted to 250 in an addendum (RCEA V 189). This may be slightly too late, but if we were looking at a document from the time after 220, the absence of any indication of the lafẓ issue would be interesting.

43  Khallāl, Musnad 541, –5; 544, 9f.; 545, –5; 546, –4ff.; Ibn Baṭṭa, Ibāna MS Cairo, ʿaqāʾid 181, p. 274, 10f., and –8ff. Khallāl also mentions a certain Abū Ḥanīfa in this context (544, apu. ff.). 44   Maq. 602, 9ff.; but cf. p. 243 below. 45  Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Intiqāʿ 106, 10ff.

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6.3.1 The Reaction of the Ḥanbalites and the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth The situation changed when Ibn Ḥanbal became a legend and his followers gained influence far beyond Baghdad. Some of them went so far as to claim in their turn that reciting the Quran was uncreated. They pointed out that according to the Lafẓiyya’s ideas even Gabriel’s uttering the Quran must be regarded as created;1 this appeared to affect the process of revelation itself. Ibn Ḥanbal does not seem to have gone as far as this; he would have responded to one innovation with another, and even in the case of the Quran he, as we have seen, was reluctant to speak of non-createdness. Certainly the moderate minds within his school did not tire of emphasising that he had forbidden only to comment on the subject in general.2 Muḥāsibī probably thought the same when in his Riʿāya he counted the qāʾilūn bil-lafẓ together with other sectarians among the arrogant intellectuals who believe that ‘none besides them on earth was led along the right road’.3 While this might have been an exhortation to reticence and humility, the aggression was already inevitable. Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī (d. 277, 890) recommended ignoring Karābīsī’s books and avoiding his pupils; Lālakāʾī, who reported this,4 included a number of scholarly authorities who considered the lafẓ theory to be ‘unbelief’.5 The traditionist Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ al-Anmāṭī (d. 271/884–5) was accused of ‘championing the teachings (madhhab) of Ḥusayn al-Karābīsī in an exaggerated fashion’.6 Dārimī already thought at the time that Karābīsī ‘fell’ just as quickly as he had grown famous.7 However, it was only a generation later that Abū Bakr b. Abī Dāwūd (d. 316/928), son of the well-known author of the Sunan, accused Ṭabarī of embracing the lafẓ heresy;8 he justified himself in an ʿaqīda in which he referred to Ibn Ḥanbal’s original position.9 Ashʿarī took good care not to use the term;10 1   Khallāl, Musnad 550, 5ff.; cf. also the arguments in Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 89f. 2   Thus already Ṣāliḥ b. Aḥmad, Miḥna 290, 1ff. Dūmī, with clear polemic against divergent accounts (such as Ibn Abī Yaʿlā I 120, apu. ff.); also Khallāl, Musnad 560, 1ff.; Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 89, 8ff.; TB VIII 65, 5ff.; Ibn Taymiyya, Madhhab al-salaf 23, pu. ff., and 123ff. 3   P. 243, ult. ff.; also Gedankenwelt 206, This document confirms our reservations concerning Dhahabī’s late date of Karābīsī’s appearing on the scene; the Riʿāya would then have been written during the last years of Muḥāsibī’s life. 4    Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 180, –4f. 5   Ibid. 349ff. Regarding these lists, which are frequent in Lālakāʾī, see p. 699 below. 6    T T IX 227, 6. We do not know whether this criticism referred to the lafẓ al-Qurʾān. Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī does not mention the question in his entry on Anmāṭī (TB V 358ff. no. 2881), but he was a Shāfiʿite. 7   Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 325, 8f. 8    Mīzān II 435, 4ff. 9    Ṣarīḥ al-sunna, in: REI 36/1968/198, 4ff. 10   Ibāna 34, 8ff./transl. Klein 81.

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like Ṭabarī, he supported the old-fashioned reticence in the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth’s profession of faith he included in his Maqālāt.11 It is known that Ṭabarī’s relationship with the Ḥanbalites was tense. He refused to take anthropomorphisms literally (see vol. II 720 above; also Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam VI 172, 8ff.), and he appears to have mocked his opponents with the name Ḥurqūṣiyya (see vol. III 487 above). Abū Bakr b. Abī Dāwūd tried to incite the authorities against him (Muntaẓam, loc. cit.; translated by Rosenthal, The History of al-Ṭabarī, I, Introduction 59f.). Shortly before his death in Dhū l-Qaʿda 309/March 922 the vizier ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā invited him to a public disputation with the Ḥanbalites in his house, but the latter remained true to their principle not to get involved with kalām and did not attend (Muntaẓam VI 159, 16ff.). His funeral procession was afraid to pass through the streets; he was buried near his house (ibid. 172, 3ff.; also Laoust, Ibn Baṭṭa xxvf. after secondary sources; also in general Rosenthal, loc. cit. 69ff., and Jaʿfariyyān in: Spektrum Iran 4/1991, issue 3/53ff.). Just how deep the dissension was among the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth in this matter became clear when the Ḥanbalites tried to have their views accepted in Iran as well. Abū Bakr b. Abī Dāwūd came from there, but he had moved to Baghdad. The first one to struggle with the new rigorist trend was Bukhārī (d. 256/870). He had studied under Karābīsī, after all,12 but in addition the priorities would have been entirely different in a Ḥanafite environment like Bukhara. In the so-called Fiqh akbar II, presumably composed during this time, the belief in the createdness of the lafẓ was declared to be obligatory.13 This was a great admission indeed for a Ḥanafite author who upheld the tradition of the khalq al-Qurʾān. Bukhārī himself was no Ḥanafite, but he could be certain that scholars in Marv thought just like him. Only the common people saw things differently.14 He discusses the subject in his K. khalq al-afʿāl, but never mentions Karābīsī, and does not leave any doubt, either, that he had no connection with the Jahmiyya.15 He does, however, attack opponents who believe the articulation to be uncreated, and while he usually limits himself to listing one tradition 11   Maq. 292, 9ff. 12  ʿAbbādī, Ṭab. 53, 11f. > Subkī, Ṭab. iI 214, pu.; also Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān II 305, 1. 13  Wensinck, Muslim Creed 189 § 3. 14  Whether through Ḥanbalite propaganda or because they did not recognise the theological problem is impossible to say; cf. Dhahabī, Siyar XII 462, 4ff. 15   Khalq al-afʿāl in: ʿAqāʾid al-salaf 117ff. Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād would later describe him as a Ḥashwī (Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn 268, 5).

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after another, he employs argumentation here: ‘Articulation is distinct from that which you articulate. You may articulate God (talaffaẓta billāh), but God is not your articulation. Similarly, when you say ‘God’ you articulate a property of God, but when you say ‘God’, it is not the property itself. Rather you are describing the owner of the property; you are the person describing, while God is the one described by his own speech …’.16 He did not publicise the term lafẓ; in fact, he discussed the problem using the old pair of opposites qurʾān (= kalām Allāh) and qirāʾa. The recitation (qirāʾa) is created;17 it is an action the human merely performs, ‘acquires’.18 While God has a part in it, this does not mean that we hear God himself speaking. Only Moses had that experience.19 Bukhārī thinks according to structures he might have adopted from Najjār. This might explain the title of his book, Khalq al-afʿāl, as well, as there is not much about the theory of human action in it.20 There may have been a specific reason behind his taking sides so openly. Some years before his death he had travelled to central Iran, visiting Nishapur and Rayy in 250/864. His fame preceded him. He was received with great honours in Nishapur, but due to information received from Baghdad21 the pointed question of an audience member during a lecture led to outrage: Bukhārī stressed that all human actions are created, including the recitation.22 Envy may have played a part, too, as the man who initiated the resistance and who spoiled Bukhārī’s sojourn in the city was a colleague: Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā alDhuhlī (d. Rabīʿ I 258/late 871–early 872), a well-known local traditionist who was a particular expert in Zuhrī’s hadith.23 He was not, however, able to incite all scholars. Muslim returned all the notes he had from Dhuhlī in outrage, and Muslim’s younger friend Aḥmad b. Salama al-Bazzāz (d. Jumādā II 286/June– July 899) did not attend his lectures any more.24 Another theologian in the city was al-Ḥusayn b. al-Faḍl al-Bajalī, a pupil of Ibn Kullāb’s, who would have agreed with Dhuhlī’s Ḥanbalite intransigence even less than Bukhārī.25 Still, in the end Aḥmad b. Salama was the only one who accompanied Bukhārī outside 16  Ibid. 204, –7ff. 17  Ibid. 213, 5, and pu. ff.; also Subkī, Ṭab. II 231, 2f. 18  Ibid. 166, 4. 19  Ibid. 205, 12ff.; see p. 209 above and p. 689 below. 20  The passage 212, –5ff. also belongs in this context to a degree: the Quran is not contained as such within the respective copy (maṣḥaf), but only written down in it. 21  Dhahabī, Siyar XII 455, 10. 22  Ibid. 453, –8ff. 23  Regarding him cf. GAS 1/134f. 24   Siyar 460, 1ff. 25  See vol. II 681f. above.

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the city gates;26 maybe the radicals in Nishapur were experts in intimidation, too. Dhuhlī also ensured that the story became known elsewhere. When Bukhārī arrived in Rayy, Abū Zurʿa and Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī27 sat at his feet, but when they received a letter from Dhuhlī, they stopped transmitting Bukhārī’s hadith.28 Dhuhlī was said to have persecuted him all the way to Bukhara,29 but Bukhārī’s quarrel with the governor there (who was, in fact, a Dhuhlī as well) appears to have had rather more complex causes.30 Besides the in-depth information provided by Dhahabī (Siyar XII 453ff.), Ibn Ḥajar, Hady al-sārī II 203, 12ff., should be consulted; it preserves the account by Ḥākim al-Naysābūrī. The theoretical justification of the ultraorthodox position might be drawn from Abū Muṭīʿ al-Nasafī’s remarks on a certain Wahmiyya: the actions of humans (unlike God’s) have no ‘essence’ (dhāt); only if they did, the Quran (i.e. presumably: the recitation as human action) would be created (Radd ʿalā l-bidaʿ, p. 91, 14f., where laysa must be added before li-kalām al-khalq). Soon afterwards Ibn Qutayba (d. 276/889) would express his opinion no less clearly. He even named Ibn Ḥanbal; he considered the latter’s demand to leave the subject untouched ridiculous. The question can be decided; all that is needed is clarity of thought. The solution he suggested was similar to Bukhārī’s, although his approach was more philological. He saw the starting point of the confusion in a lexicographical remark by Abū ʿUbayd (d. 224/838) who had treated qirāʾa and qurʾān as synonyms in that they were both infinitives of qara‌ʾa. Ibn Ḥanbal’s followers may have relied on this, but it is true only in grammar, and not in theology. Qirāʾa is ambiguous and may refer to the (created) act of reciting as well as the (uncreated) Quran. Ibn Qutayba collected these deliberations in a text that shows in its very title that this is its concern: K. al-ikhtilāf fī l-lafẓ. However, like Bukhārī he first completed a refutation of the Jahmiyya; presumably this had to be done if one did not wish to expose oneself to suspicion.31

26   Siyar 459, apu. f. 27  Regarding them see vol. II 713f. above. 28   I AH III 2 191, 4f. > Siyar 562, 10ff. Ibn Abī Ḥātim’s own notes do not show any enthusiasm, either. 29   Siyar 463, 4ff. 30  Ibid. 463–466, and Samʿānī, Ansāb VI 23, 3ff.; also EI2 I 1296 b s. n. al-Buk�h�ārī. 31  Cf. the editions by Kautharī, Cairo 1349, and Nashshār-Ṭālibī in: ʿAqāʾid al-salaf p. 223ff. Regarding the issue of lafẓ p. 50, 1ff./245, 8ff., and 63, 7ff./248, –9ff., also Lecomte, Ibn

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We do not know if Ibn Qutayba wrote this treatise while he was qāḍī in Dīnawar. What is certain is that the Ḥanbalites never really gained a foothold in Iran, and in eastern Iran least of all. It is easy to imagine that a Ḥanafite like Pazdawī lacked understanding of the non-createdness of the lafẓ.32 The same is true of Makḥūl al-Nasafī; in his eyes the articulation of the Quran was most certainly due to the human.33 And Ghazzālī, who was a Shāfiʿite, also rejected the doctrine of the Ḥanbalites.34 Even in Baghdad they had to lower their expectations in the long term. Ibn ʿAqīl believed it was suicidal to go against the consensus of all scholars with the theory that one could hear God himself speak during the recitation;35 while Ibn Abī Yaʿlā described it as the opinion of ‘some’ whose identity he did not reveal.36 In a fatwā Ibn Taymiyya would later express outrage at the heresy of some people in Gīlān who, having apparently grown up in a Ḥanbalite environment, believed in the non-createdness of the recited word to the extent that human speech, too, might be eternal.37 Karābīsī had thus won a sweeping victory where the substance was concerned, but in the eyes of the ‘orthodox’ view of history, he would remain a heretic.

Qutayba 226ff. The article Ibn Qutayba in GIE IV 447ff. (A. Ādharnūsh) is dependent on Lecomte and does not explore the question. 32   Uṣūl al-dīn 66, 16ff. (the editor’s correction of lafẓī to lafẓiyyan is, of course, nonsense). 33   Radd ʿalā l-bidaʿ 113, 7ff.; on a theological level he was a Karrāmite (Ungenützte Texte 55ff.). 34  Bauer, Dogmatik al-Ghazâlîs 58f. 35   Funūn 91f. no. 115. 36   Muʿtamad 90, pu. According to Ibn Taymiyya, Madhhab al-salaf 126, 9, Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī was among them. 37   Majmūʿat al-rasāʾil wal-masāʾil (Beirut 1403/1983) I 333ff.

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6.3.2 The ‘Undecided Ones’ (wāqifa) Ḥanbalite tradition frequently mentions the so-called ‘undecided ones’ (wāqifa), i.e. those who could not decide whether the Quran was created or uncreated, in the same breath as the Lafẓiyya.1 However, the wāqifa are at the same time those who ‘have stood still’, at the very point that Ibn Ḥanbal had embraced for a long time: that one must not decide in this matter. From a historical point of view one might simply call them doctrinal traditionalists. They did not go beyond the assertion that the Quran was ‘God’s speech’ or ‘God’s word’,2 and when others started talking about the non-createdness of the Quran, they had suddenly become ‘doubters’.3 In Ibn Ḥanbal’s circle waqf was now a precept of piety in the context of the issue of lafẓ only. The doctrinal traditionalists knew, of course, that they could refer to the past.4 They were probably quite numerous. Muḥāsibī had already mentioned them in his Riʿāya,5 and Ibn Saʿd (d. 230/845), who was understandably reticent in the context of the Quran – he had been among the first seven who had given in before Maʿmūn6 – noted two of them: Muṣʿab b. ʿAbdallāh al-Zubayrī (d. 236/851), the author of Jamhara fī nasab Quraysh,7 and Abū Yaʿqūb Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm b. Kāmjār, also known as Isḥāq b. Abī Isrāʾīl (151/768– 245/859?), a member of an ancient pro-Abbasid family from Marv who practised ṭalab al-ʿilm with zeal.8 One of Bukhārī’s teachers was among them, too: ʿAlī b. Ṭibrākh, better known as ʿAlī b. Abī Hāshim.9 The members of the older generation escaped the polemic overall, Ibn Ḥanbal respected Ibn

1  E. g. Ibn Abī Yaʿlā I 172, 9ff.; Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 87f. 2  Abū Dāwūd, Masāʾil al-Imām Aḥmad 270, pu. ff.; Khallāl, Musnad 446, 11ff.; Ibn Abī Yaʿlā I 29, 15. 3  Khallāl, Musnad 451, 7; also 447, 10ff. 4  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 92, 6ff.; also 89, 15ff. 5  P. 244, 1, together with the Lafẓiyya. 6  See vol. III 492f. above. 7  I S VII 2 84, 22f.; regarding him GAS 1/271f., and vol. III 537 above. 8  I S VII 2 91, 17; TB VI 359, 14ff.; TT I 223ff. no. 415. According to Ibn Saʿd he recanted more than once. This may be the context of the report that Muṣʿab al-Zubayrī debated with him on the subject of the Quran (TB VI 361, 6ff.). [M. Muranyi very kindly made a text from the MS Chester Beatty 4475 (fol. 153a–b) accessible to me, in which a certain Abū Yaʿqūb b. Ibrāhīm al-Tamīmī al-Kūfī declares every decisive opinion on the lafẓ al-Qurʾān to be ‘innovation’. However, this man does not appear to be the same as Ibn Abī Isrāʾīl; the riwāya preceding the text leads to Ibn Abī Zayd al-Qayrawānī, seemingly in only two generations.]. 9  Mīzān no. 5961 and 5869; TT VIII 393f. no. 635. Later he would sometimes be reviled directly as Ibn Abī Duwād’s man.

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Abī Isrāʾīl’s hadith treasury, and his son ʿAbdallāh attended his lectures.10 The younger generation, however, was scrutinised much more closely in Baghdad. Yaʿqūb b. Shayba (d. 262/875), respected author of a Musnad,11 apparently had to bury his hopes of the office of judge because Mutawakkil had requested information about him from Ibn Ḥanbal who described him as an innovator and sectarian.12 As he was also a Mālikite, he would not have had much chance of success in Iraq in any case. The Ḥanbalites saw their suspicions confirmed when certain theologians had the idea of employing the Wāqifite position in order to present the khalq al-Qurʾān in a new guise. While they exercised ἐποχή in the question of createdness, for the rest they merely replaced the term makhlūq with another: namely muḥdath which, as we have seen,13 could be justified with reference to the Quran if one interpreted Quranic dhikr, the ‘admonition’ as revelation.14 This group takes us beyond the circle of Ibn Kullāb and Karābīsī for good. They were not Nābita but successors of Bishr b. al-Marīsī, and not Shāfiʿites or Mālikites but Ḥanafites. The most prominent of them was Abū ʿAbdallāh ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Shujāʿ al-Thaljī (181/797–Dhū l-Ḥijja 266/July 880),15 a member of the Banū Thalj descended from an ancient Khorasanian family who had cooperated with the Abbasids during the revolution. He was wealthy and had close links to the Ṭāhirids among whom he lived in Baghdad towards the end of his life.16 He was thus independent enough to devote himself entirely to the religious sciences. He made a name for himself as a jurist in particular; he had studied under Ḥasan b. Ziyād 10   T B VI 360, 1ff., and 356, 15. Ibn Abī Isrāʾīl was nearly a decade and a half older than Ibn Ḥanbal. 11  Regarding him see GAS 1/144. 12   T B XIV 282, 18ff.; cf. also Ibn Abī Yaʿlā I 207, 17. 13  See p. 208 above. 14  Text 46. Cf. also Text 47 and Ibn Mattōya, Tadhkira 430, 5; also Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 291ff. 15  This date seems to be the most reliable (cf. e.g. Tb V 350, ult. f. > Samʿānī, Ansāb III 145, 11ff. > IAW II 61, 9f.; also TB V 352, 2f., and Ibn al-Jazarī, Ṭabaqāt al-qurrāʾ II 153, 5f.). 265 and 264 are also transmitted (TB V 352, 2f., and Ibn al-Jazarī II 153, 5f.). Ibn al-Nadīm is the only one who suggests 256 and 257; he does give the month of Dhū l-Ḥijja (Fihrist 260, 4f.). 16   Fihrist 259, apu. ff., and 260, 5f.; TB V 351, 1ff. Regarding the Banū Thalj cf. Samʿānī, Ansāb III 144, 7f.; the nisba al-Balkhī we find in some sources (e.g. Ibn al-Jazarī II 152, 19, or Ṣafadī, Wāfī III 148, 11) is not, presumably, an indication of his origin but misspelt for al-Thaljī.

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al-Luʾluʾī (d. 204/819)17 and was later regarded as the most eminent authority in Iraq.18 The titles transmitted from him concern question of furūʿ,19 but he is also quoted in questions regarding uṣūl.20 Abū l-Layth al-Samarqandī referred to him as the most important Iraqi in his Nawāzil fī l-furūʿ,21 besides numerous older Iranian scholars; it seems that he maintained ties with his east Iranian home. In the Maghrib he gained influence through his pupil Haytham b. Sulaymān al-Qaysī (d. ca. 275/888), who had met him during an educational journey to the Orient and continued to correspond with him even later, when he became qāḍī of Tunis. Based on this correspondence Qaysī quoted him in his K. adab al-qāḍī wal-qaḍāʾ.22 A voluminous K. taṣḥīḥ al-āthār bore witness to his hadith knowledge.23 He was also an expert in the science of reading the Quran.24 He also collected expert opinions on the subject of the createdness of the Quran, as shown by a quotation preserved by Ashʿarī.25 In his youth he had heard the K. al-maghāzī from Wāqidī (d. 203/823); he appears in its riwāya.26 When Mutawakkil was looking for a successor to Ibn Abī Duwād, he was considered for the post besides Yaḥyā b. Aktham. He was not chosen – allegedly because the caliph once again consulted Ibn Ḥanbal, who was against the ‘Jahmite’. He was seen as the candidate favoured by Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm, the long-serving prefect of the Baghdad police, who was connected to the Ṭāhirids 17  And not under Shaybānī, as Ibn al-Dāʿī claims (Tabṣira 270, ult.), as he died in 189/805. Interestingly Luʾluʾī was a supporter of the khalq al-Qurʾān (see vol. III 474, n. 12 above; regarding him see GAS 1/433). 18   faqīh ahl al-ʿIrāq fī waqtihī; TB V 350, 3f. 19  In detail cf. e.g. the two quotation in Ṭaḥāwī, K. ikhtilāf al-fuqahāʾ (Index s. n.), or his definition of miṣr jāmiʿ (cf. Johansen in: ROMM 32/1981–2/155, n. 15 and 144); regarding tax law cf. the quotation in Qudāma b. Jaʿfar, K. al-kharāj (transl. Ben Shemesh, Taxation in Islam 28). 20  Cf. e.g. Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, Muʿtamad 134, 19ff. (Sarakhsī, Uṣūl I 31, 3f.; regarding the time at which prayer becomes obligatory during the period allocated), and 791, ult. f. (regarding the question of whether a tradition transmitted in isolation can restrict a general Quranic assertion); Sarakhsī, Uṣūl I 256, 7ff. (concerning takhṣīṣ by means of proper names and numbers); Shīrāzī, Tabṣira 106, 1ff. (regarding the application of the plural); Māwardī, Adab al-qāḍī I 340, n. 1 (concerning naskh). Cf. also Powers in: Approaches, ed. Rippin 126. 21  ḤKh 1981. 22  In the earlier sections p. 17f., 20, and 23. 23  Catalogue of Works no. 2. Ibn al-Nadīm calls it kabīr. 24  Ibn al-Jazarī II 152f. no. 3060. 25   Maq. 586, 11–15; partly adopted (anonymously) in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī VII 4, 7f. Ashʿarī included a remark by Zurqān in this section. Is it possible that the latter had already used the text? 26  P. 1, 7 Jones; cf. Intro., p. v.

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and consequently may have been better acquainted with him.27 His friends thought that he had declined the position when offered it by his kinsman as he did not need it for either financial reasons or prestige.28 It is still possible that his ‘Jahmite’ views played a part in this matter. Dārimī is probably not altogether wrong when he says that the theology of compromise embraced by Ibn al-Thaljī only gained ground under Mutawakkil;29 it is unlikely to have influenced the decision of who would become Ibn Abī Duwād’s successor. It seems that in other subjects Ibn al-Thaljī continued to follow Bishr al-Marīsī’s precepts. He wrote a refutation of the anthropomorphists,30 and he rejected the ruʾya bil-abṣār. In both these cases he had set his sights on the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth. This was why he decided to use metaphorical exegesis;31 like Bishr he even applied it to hadiths that Ibn Qutayba had rejected as false at the same time.32 Later he would be accused of having fabricated the scandalous traditions, which he tried to force into giving up some meaning, in order to revile the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth all the more.33 There was less hostility among theologians. The Ashʿarite Ibn Fūrak consulted him extensively (cf. Catalogue of Works no. 2), without distancing himself from his source every time. People in these circles thought as little of anthropomorphism as he. Ibn Fūrak’s K. mushkil al-ḥadīth wa-bayānih probably contained rather more material from him that the explicit quotations show. Ibn Fūrak was clearly following particular sources. In the second half of his book (p. 167ff.) he looks critically at Ibn Khuzayma’s K. al-tawḥīd and later the K. al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt by his pupil Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Isḥāq al-Sibghī (p. 196ff.; also GIE IV 420f.); it is consequently likely that he was no less self-reliant in the first half. 27  Regarding him see vol. III 492 above. 28  Cf. the differing accounts in TB V 351, 14ff., and Fihrist 259, apu. ff. > IAW II 61, 6f. (abridged); also Mīzān no. 7664. Ibn Ḥanbal’s opinion has been transmitted after an allegedly genuine document in Dhahabī, Siyar XI 297, –4f.; regarding his judgment cf. also Ibn Abī Yaʿlā I 207, 16ff. 29   Radd ʿalā Bishr al-Marīsī 108, –5ff./466, –7ff. 30  Catalogue of Works no. 1. 31  Text 47–50; also Dārimī, Radd 156, 5ff./513, 16ff. Regarding the ruʾya hadiths cf. Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 484, 12f. and earlier; also 488, 3ff. Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī mentions a publication of this kind (presumably Catalogue of Works no. 1) in Tabṣirat al-adilla, 132, pu. ff. 32  E.g. the tradition that God created himself from the sweat of a horse (cf. vol. III 196 above and p. 453 below). He thought that this must have referred to the deities of the heathen Meccans (Dārimī 143, apu. ff./501, 6ff.). 33   Mīzān III 578, ult. ff. after Ibn ʿAdī, once again with reference to the sweat hadith; cf. also Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 3, 8ff.

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When it came to determinism he also agreed with Bishr; here, he referred to a version of the hadith of the predetermination in the womb34 that he, and only he, had heard from his teacher Yaḥyā b. Ādam.35 Ibn al-Nadīm’s introducing him as a Muʿtazilite must thus be taken with a pinch of salt;36 Kaʿbī, who was closer to him chronologically, considered him a Kufan, i.e. Ḥanafite, sympathiser.37 His opponents regarded him as the ‘shield of the Jahmiyya’.38 Ibn Fūrak thought he was a follower of Najjār, but this need not mean much, either, as it only referred to the fact that he believed God to be omnipresent.39 In addition this is a point in which he, as with the khalq al-Qurān, differed from Bishr al-Marīsī. He had, as he tells us, discussed the matter with Bishr in his youth and limited the omnipresence to mean that God was at least ‘above’ ( fawqa) his throne.40 That he should be sitting directly on the throne did not fit into his concept. He referred to Ibn ʿAbbās, who had divided the respective verses in sura 20:5–6 differently, and rather than reading ‘the All-compassionate sat himself upon the throne (istawā); to him belongs (lahū) all that is in the heavens and the earth …’ had come to the conclusion that ‘the All-compassionate was on the Throne. Equal to him (istawā lahū) is all that is in the heavens and the earth …’.41 Sitting had thus been philologically removed, and ‘on the throne’ could be interpreted as a kind of floating above the throne without contact which would be a limitation. All this agreement with the ‘Jahmiyya’ explains why it would later be claimed that Ibn al-Thaljī did not convert from the khalq al-Qurʾān until he was on his deathbed (Ibn al-Jazarī II 153, 3f.). However, his wuqūf is widely documented, although there is sometimes no understanding of the subtle distinction between makhlūq and muḥdath (thus Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla I 300, 3ff.). His being buried in his own house was probably not due to any worries, as in the case of Ṭabarī half a century later, that he needed to fear that his funeral would be disrupted by the Ḥanbalites. In fact his house was situated right next door to a mosque in the Ṭāhirid district, and he had ensured that the burial chamber should 34   T B V 350, 7ff. 35  Regarding him see vol. I 284 above. 36   Fihrist 259, –5ff. 37   Maq. 105, 13ff. (where the editor’s heading has been emended incorrectly; cf. IM 128, ult. ff.); also Faḍl 344, –5. 38  Dārimī 193, 8/548, –8. 39   Mushkil al-ḥadīth 60, –4f. 40  Dārimī 77, 7f./435, 1f. 41  Ibid. 83, 9ff./441, 9ff.

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have a barred window on to the street – presumably in order that passersby could say a prayer for him from outside (TB V 351, 1ff.). It is noticeable, however, that Ibn Abī Duwād as well as Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī (of whom more presently) preferred to be interred in their own homes (TB IV 156, 16, and VIII 375, 13). Regarding him cf. also GAS 1/436, and GIE III 194. Being a Ḥanafite, Ibn al-Thaljī did not have much affection for Shāfiʿī; he recalled seeing in his youth how the latter made his entry into Baghdad riding a donkey and dressed like a travelling musician, i.e. in foreign clothing and flamboyant headdress.42 All the more surprising, then, that someone who had the greatest esteem for Shāfiʿī should convert to Ibn al-Thaljī’s theory in the matter of the Quran, or at least use the same terminology. this was Abū Sulaymān Dāwūd b. ʿAlī b. Khalaf al-Iṣfahānī (d. 270/884).43 It is well-known that he would also go his own way in jurisprudence later,44 but he did write a K. al-kāfī fī maqālāt al-Muṭṭalibī (i. e. alShāfiʿī).45 He was certainly no ‘Jahmite’, but what we know about him does not allow us to classify him as a pupil of Ibn Kullāb’s, as later sources sometimes do.46 He does not seem to have any direct links with Karābīsī, either. While Ḥanbalite circles tried to link him to the lafẓ theory,47 we know that he wrote against Karābīsī.48 He certainly believed articulating the Quran to be created,49 but to him this was not a subject for discussion. He was accustomed to different things as he had studied under Abū l-Hudhayl’s pupil Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān alShāfiʿī.50 As a result he had no qualms even when it came to interpreting God’s speech: it may be eternal, but only in the sense that God is capable of it from the very beginning.51 It was realised only during the act of revelation; it is selfevident that subsequent recitation by humans or written copies of the Quran 42   Fihrist 263, 13f. 43  Text 51, g; also Subkī, Ṭab. II 286, 10f. 44  Cf. EI2 II 182f. s. n. 45   Fihrist 272, 18f.; cf. also ʿAbbādī, Ṭab. 58, 11f. 46  E.g. Dhahabī, Siyar XI 174, –5; Ṣafadī, Wāfī XVII 198, 1f. 47  Subkī, Ṭab. II 286, –6f., after Khallāl; also Mīzān no. 2634. 48  Catalogue of Works XXXIII c, refutation a. Like him, he wrote a book about traditionists who held sectarian views, which was used by Kaʿbī (cf. e.g. Maq. 105, pu.: concerning the Qadarites). 49  Cf. also Ibn Taymiyya, Al-tisʿīniyya 59, pu. 50  See vol. III 317f. above. 51  Text 51, a. Is this the formula he defended before Muwarraq ‘when there was the argument over the khalq al-Qurʾān’? (see p. 110, n. 18 above).

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can be nothing other than created. He is said to have found an original explanation here: sura 56:78f. asserts of the eternal Quran, the ‘preserved scripture’, that ‘only the pure may touch it’, while copies on earth are touched by people who are not in a state of ritual purity.52 It is not surprising that this less than delighted the Ḥanbalites. They regarded Dāwūd’s interpretation as dependent on the Muʿtazilite al-Nāshiʾ, with whom he had engaged in controversy,53 and they said that Ibn Ḥanbal himself did not allow him into his house when he came to introduce himself.54 Regarding his biography cf. also Goldziher, Ẓâhiriten 27ff.; briefly vol. II 704f. above. His father was a Ḥanafite (Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 98, 130), his son Muḥammad, the author of the K. al-zahra, was acquainted with the philosopher Kindī (Ṣūlī, Akhbār Abī Tammām 65, 1f.). Regarding the latter cf. the ‘portrait’ in Massignon, Passion 2I 386ff./338ff.; he would later continue the quarrel with al-Nāshīʾ (cf. Catalogue of Works XXXI d, refutation b). His connection with the Muʿtazila was quite close all the same. Nifṭawayh studied under Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī as well as under Nāshīʾ (see p. 164 above). Regarding his discussions with the Muʿtazilite Abū Mujālid see p. 109 above; also Ābī, Nathr al-durr VII 285, pu. f., which has incorrect Abū Mukhālid. Concerning another discussion with Abū Saʿīd al-Bardhaʿī see p. 269 below. Dāwūd showed similarities to Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir in matters relating to the uṣūl al-fiqh (see p. 75 above). On the field of theology the enigmatic Zuhayr al-Atharī may have been dependent on him (see vol. II 830 above). Together with the Ḥanbalites Dāwūd was seen as an uncompromising partisan of Abū Bakr’s. He believed that the prophet himself had appointed the latter his successor explicitly, by means of naṣṣ, and proved it using the order he gave during his last illness, that Abū Bakr should lead the prayer in his stead (cf. Ibn Hishām, Sīra 1008, 12ff.), and the hadith iqtadū bi-lladhayni min baʿdī … Abū Bakr wa ʿUmar (Conc. V 329 b, referring – among others – to Ibn Ḥanbal’s Musnad). Ḥajūrī, who reported this, used the name Bakriyya for this sect (Rawḍat al-akhbār, fol. 98 b, 13f.; regarding the question see vol. II 135f. above). Ḥākim al-Jushamī counted Dāwūd among the mushabbiha (Risāla fī naṣīḥat al-ʿāmma, 52   T B VIII 374, 16ff.; Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ 360f. no. 613. Dhahabī mistakenly attributed this theory to a different Dāwūd b. ʿAlī, namely Dāwūd b. ʿAlī b. ʿAbdallāh b. al-ʿAbbās, Manṣūr’s uncle (Mīzān no. 2633 = II 13, 11f.). 53  Cf. my Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie 128f. Still, the controversy may not have concerned theology at all, but possibly metrics (see p. 165f. above). 54   T B VIII 374, 1ff. and earlier; cf. Goldziher, Ẓâhiriten 51f. There were similar reports about Ibn Rāhōya (Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 103, 11f.).

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fol. 23a), Ibn al-Murtaḍā among the Ḥashwiyya, accordingly (Munya 114, apu. f., together with Karābīsī). Abū l-Qāsim ʿAbd al-Wahhāb b. ʿĪsā b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb b. Abī Ḥaiya, d. Shaʿbān 319/Aug.–Sept. 931, was one of Ibn al-Thaljī’s true pupils. In his youth he had been Jāḥiẓ’ copyist and ‘publisher’.55 He does not seem to have been infected by the latter’s theological ideas, but like Ibn al-Thaljī he practised wuqūf in the question of the khalq al-Qurʾān and rejected the vision of God. In his K. man qāla bil-ʿadl min al-muḥaddithīn, which Malāḥimī would later quote, he collected traditions that might be used on behalf of the latter idea.56 Al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī was rather gentle with him all the same.57 It is true that he had also studied under doctrinal traditionalist scholars such as Isḥāq b. Abī Isrāʾīl,58 and even under victims of the miḥna such as e.g. Ibn Malāj, who had had to agree to divorce his wife because of his distanced attitude to the khalq al-Qurʾān.59 His hadith was universally respected. The last one we must mention is the man against whom Dārimī wrote his Radd ʿalā l-Marīsī al-ʿanīd. The opponent mentioned in the book was certainly not Ibn Abī Ḥaiya as he had met Bishr al-Marīsī in person,60 while Ibn Abī Ḥaiya died a whole century after him. For Dārimī himself, Ibn Abī Ḥaiya was too young as well, as Dārimī died in 280/894,61 and the ‘opponent’ can only have been a contemporary of his. At this time we are not yet able to grasp him more closely. However, we learn in more detail than we have concerning the preceding persons just how he responded to the issue under discussion: Someone who says the Quran is created, is an innovator. Someone who calls it uncreated or says it is he – i.e. God –, is an unbeliever. Whoever says that it is different from God, has hit upon the right thing. If then, after having hit upon the right thing in this way, he (still) claims it is uncreated, he shows that he is stupid.62 If he says that (the Quran) grows out of a 55  Regarding his name Warrāq al-Jāḥiẓ cf. Samʿānī, Ansāb XIII 303, ult. ff. He was not the only one who had worked for Jāḥiẓ (cf. Yāqūt, Irshād VI 75, –4f.). 56   Muʿtamad 487, 6ff., and 488, 3ff., with the complete title; in the latter place also after Ibn al-Thaljī; slightly less clearly also p. 466, –6ff. Cf. also Madelung, Intro. xii. 57   T B XI 28f. no. 5695. 58  See p. 146 above. 59  See vol. III 510, n. 52, above. He also transmitted Wāqidī’s Maghāzī from Ibn al-Thaljī (cf. the riwāya 1, 4f. Jones; also p. 250 above). 60  See vol. III 195f. above. 61  See vol. II 641 above. 62  Literally: ‘Then he is ignorant regarding the theory that (the Quran) is uncreated’.

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body,63 he is an unbeliever. – Speech is something distinct from the speaker, and speaking is different from him who speaks. Recitation (qurʾān), that which is being recited, and the person reciting all denote distinct things.64 The Quran is ‘effected’ (mafʿūl), not ‘made’ (majʿūl), as Bishr al-Marīsī had said, but is not muḥdath and certainly not makhlūq, either.65 Clearly there was a search for the correct term for some time from the midthird century onwards. While Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī and Zuhayr al-Atharī both decided in favour of muḥdath, they were firmly opposed by Abū Muʿādh alThūmanī – in Egypt? – who was determined to use the term ḥadath instead; he did not accept mafʿūl, either, but only fiʿl.66 However, it was the first of these terms that had a future, as muḥdath was largely adopted by the Shīʿite theologians once they had joined forces with the Muʿtazila. It suggested itself to the Zaydites in any case; they had already been striving for agreement in the question during Iskāfī’s day.67 The fact that during the time of the great imams Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq had been against makhlūq68 may have played a part in the case of the Imāmites. The reason given, however, was a different one, and Ibn Mattōya has Ibn al-Thaljī express it:69 in the context of literary works makhlūq may also mean ‘fiction’, ‘invented’, or even ‘imputed’. Muḥammad al-Ṭūsī went into great detail concerning the question, suggesting in the end to use not only muḥdath but also munazzal, in order to avoid all undesired overtones.70 Both words were authorised by the Quran.71 Even Muʿtazilites saw the advantage this provided; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, too, used muḥdath above all. He did not, however, want to reject makhlūq altogether;72 he probably owed this to the tradition of his school. In his view it was not usually correct that makhlūq might refer to

63  Cf. Text 47, b–c. 64  Read minhā instead of minhumā; Dārimī, Radd 205, 15ff./561, 8ff. 65  See vol. III 195 above. 66  Text II 26, c, and 28, a; also vol. II 829 above. 67  See p. 91 above. Regarding the usage of muḥdath in later times cf. Mufarriḥ b. Aḥmad (fifth cent., ed. R. Sayyid and ʿAbd al-Ghānī Maḥmūd ʿAbd al-ʿĀṭī, Beirut 1413/1993), p. 124, pu. ff. 68  See vol. I 441 above. 69  Text XXXIII 46A. 70   Tamhīd al-uṣūl 126, 4ff./Pers. transl. 264, 8ff. 71   Muḥdath by sura 21:2; cf. also Suyūrī, Irshād al-ṭālibīn 219, –6ff., and earlier Ibn Bābōya, Iʿtiqādāt, Pers. transl. 106, 2ff. (where Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 85, translates muḥdith = iḥdāth namāyanda somewhat vaguely as ‘Creator’). 72   Mughnī VII 208ff.

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something ‘contrived’, or fiction, as we should say.73 On the other hand, someone who avoided muḥdath and used makhlūq only would soon be regarded as a loner.74 The extent to which Ibn al-Thaljī’s teachings spread during his lifetime is probably documented by Muḥammad b. Maḥbūb, the son of Maḥbūb b. al-Raḥīl in Oman. He died in 260/874 (see vol. II 797 above), six years before Ibn al-Thaljī, and lived in Iraq before moving to Oman. He refused to commit to the Quran being either created or uncreated, describing it simply as God’s speech and revelation (waḥy). On the other hand he may have accepted the attribute muḥdath (Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ I 150, 1f., and 152, ult.; in more detail 183, 16ff.). In Oman people did not see the difference between muḥdath and makhlūq. Still, many voices warned against excluding someone from the community because of the khalq al-Qurʾān or related doctrine (ibid. 153, –7ff., and 154, –6f.; also 183, 12ff., and 184, 6ff.).

73  Ibid. 213, 3ff.; later (217, 5ff.) also direct criticism of the argument in Text 46A. Also Peters, God’s Created Speech 398f.; in general also p. 44 above. 74  See p. 273 below.

chapter 7

The Expansion of the Muʿtazila during the Third Century The description in the last chapters was limited entirely to Basra and Baghdad. This was the obvious course of action, as the sources increasingly focus on Iraq from the foundation of Baghdad onwards. However, we should like to repeat the geographical overview used as a framework in the first part at least to the extent of showing, using the example of the Muʿtazila, how and under which conditions a school spread throughout the Islamic ecumene. This will allow us to add a few names so far overlooked, and to prepare the scene for the final chapter. We shall take Kaʿbī as our guide; towards the end of the third/ninth century he composed an overview of the most important Muʿtazilite communities in the provinces.1 His account was adopted by Nashwān al-Ḥimyarī2 and Ibn al-Murtaḍā.3 It can be supplemented by further records, especially by Malaṭī (d. 377/987) and Muqaddasī (fl. between 375/985 and 380/990).4

1  Maq. 108ff. 2  Ḥūr 211, 7ff. 3  Not in his Ṭabaqāt but in the Munya, which is as yet only available in MS (cf. Fuʾād Sayyid, note on Kaʿbī 108). The printed version of the Munya does not include the passage. 4  A brief note in Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Awāʾil II 138, 7ff., appears to summarise only the Muʿtazilite accounts of Wāṣil’s messengers (regarding whom vol. II 353ff. above) without adding any new information.

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Iraq and the Jazira

Wāṣil’s attempt at securing a foothold in Kufa through missionaries1 failed, as the dislike of everything Basran proved too strong. Ḍirār b. ʿAmr, who had probably grown up in the city and worked there for some time,2 could not change this, either; furthermore, the pupils he had gathered in Kufa would not have been appreciated by the Muʿtazila in the long term. Kaʿbī does not mention Kufa, but he names Ubulla, not far from Basra and at the time one of the great trading cities on the Persian Gulf that had grown wealthy through sea trade with India.3 Interestingly, ʿAbbādān is found in his list as well; Kaʿbī says that the majority of its inhabitants adhered to the dogma of divine justice.4 This does not necessarily mean that they were Muʿtazilites; after all, ʿAbbādān was where Ḥammād b. Salama was said to have come by his anthropomorphic hadiths.5 The town was by no means a Basran colony only; people from Kufa also settled there.6 Still, it does mean that the ascetics living on the island were not entirely hostile to Muʿtazilite ideas at times. Maybe Kaʿbī referred to the early days when there were still Indian merchants to convert or the pillaging Zuṭṭ (?) to fight in ʿAbbādān;7 he calls the island a thaghr, a border fortification that allowed people to engage in private jihād. The early Muʿtazilite Bashīr al-Raḥḥāl had worn woollen garments,8 and there were certainly enough Qadarites at least among the Basran ascetics.9 During the latter part of the second century the Muʿtazilite ʿAbd al-Karīm b. Hishām lived in ʿAbbādān;10 later, followers of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān and Hishām al-Fuwaṭī moved there.11 However, a report by Jāḥiẓ implies the advance of the predestinarians; for this reason Thumāma even considered pulling down a house he had built there.12 Yāqūt (d. 626/1229)

1   See vol. II 357ff. above. 2   See vol. III 35 above. 3   P. 114, 6; Nashwān has incorrect Ayla. Regarding Ubulla cf. the material collected in Krawulsky, Iran 509; Gaube/Leisten, Kernländer 177; and Wink, Al-Hind. The Making of the Indo-Islamic World I 54. 4   P. 112, 3. 5   See vol. II 430f. above. 6    I S VI 260, 3f. 7   See vol. II 120 above. 8   Ibid. 329. 9  Cf. e.g. ibid. 95f. 10  See vol. II 479 above. 11  Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 238, –7f./transl. Gramlich II 193. Did Makkī meet them there in the fourth century? 12  Vol. III 175 above.

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did not explore the faith affiliations of the ascetics any more,13 but then the Muʿtazila had long been a thing of the past in Iraq by his time.14 Further to the north, in the Mesene (Maysān), beyond the confluence of Tigris and Euphrates, Kaʿbī names the places Qaryat al-Milḥ, in his eyes a ‘large town’,15 as well as ʿAbdasī16 and al-Madhār.17 An important part in Upper Mesopotamia appears to have been played by ʿĀna,18 which was situated on the old caravan route from Iraq to Northern Syria, and at the same time on the border between the ʿIrāq ʿArabī and the Diyār Bakr on an island in the middle of the Euphrates;19 furthermore, in the Diyār Bakr proper, there was Mayyāfāriqīn on the border with Anatolia and Armenia.20 ʿĀna was won over to the Muʿtazila by Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir; earlier it had been the Zaydite Sulaymān b. Jarīr, from nearby Raqqa, who had had the greatest influence there.21 Muqaddasī, too, noted a large number of Muʿtazilites in the city towards the end of the fourth/ tenth century.22 The name of one of Jāḥiẓ’ contemporaries, Abū ʿAffān alRaqqī,23 also points to Raqqa, but we cannot be entirely certain that he came from there. Muʿtazilite theology probably made its way there via the court as well.

13   qawm muqīmūn lil-ʿibāda wal-inqiṭāʿ (Muʿjam al-buldān IV 74a, –4f. s. v. ʿAbbādān). 14  With some exceptions; the teacher of the historian of Baghdad Ibn al-Najjār, a Ḥanafite named Yūsuf b. Ismāʿīl al-Lamghānī (d. 606/1209) lived in Baghdad as a Muʿtazilite and defended the khalq al-Qurʾān (IAW II 224f. no. 704; Ibn Kathīr, Bidāya XIII 53, 10f.). 15  P. 112, 1. The editor tries to show that this place is identical with Dah-i Namak, which was called Qaṣr al-Milḥ in Arabic (n. 291). On the other hand he himself admits that this would take us into the Dāmghān region, far away from the Mesene. Krawulsky consequently writes ‘on the road between Rayy and Nishapur’ (Iran 243). Gaube/Leisten refer to this remark but change Qaṣr al-Milḥ to Qaryat al-Milḥ without comment (p. 134). While the latter form corresponds to the name we used, they, too, have in mind a location in ‘Jibāl/Rayy’. Of course we do not know how well Kaʿbī knew the area. 16  In the Kaskar district (see vol. II 147, n. 41 above, and Gaube/Leisten 10 s. v. ʿAbdas). Regarding Kaskar, an ancient trading point with a significant Christian population near which Ḥajjāj founded the city of Wāsiṭ, see vol. II 487 above. 17  Later the main city of the Mesene, situated between Wāsiṭ and Basra (cf. Krawulsky 493f., and Gaube/Leisten 105). According to Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān V 88 b, 4, the inhabitants were all extreme Shīʿites. 18  P. 108, 2. 19   E I2 I 461; Krawulsky 461f., and Gaube/Leisten 14. 20  P. 111, 3; also Krawulsky 446f. 21  See p. 56 and vol. II 533f. above. 22   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 142, 10f. 23  See p. 135f. above.

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The Arabian Peninsula

Wāṣil’s advance into the Arabian Peninsula had only limited success as well. Medina, where he had sent Ayyūb b. Awthar (?),1 does not appear in Kaʿbī’s account. Wāṣil had probably had hopes of his connections with the Medinan ʿAlids, but in the end the people around Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq went their own way, and the contacts with the Zaydiyya established later by some Muʿtazilites had but little impact on the Hijaz.2 The Qadariyya, on the other hand, which had been widely accepted there at times,3 had disappeared at the end of the second century. When we find a certain Abū Isḥāq al-Makkī in Naẓẓām’s circle,4 it also tells us that he lived in Iraq. A true Meccan, on the other hand, ʿAbd alʿAzīz al-Kinānī, became the hero of an apocryphon directed against the khalq al-Qurʾān – and consequently against the Muʿtazila as well.5 Things look up in Bahrain: this area is mentioned in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s account of Ayyūb b. Awthar6 as well as in Kaʿbī’s list,7 the former adding the phrase ‘and the entire coastline’; ‘Bahrain’ at the time referred to the entire eastern part of the Arabian Peninsula.8 This included Hajar, the capital of the al-Ḥasā oasis, which Kaʿbī mentioned separately.9 Al-Ḥasā itself was developed by the Qarmates;10 it may well have been they who put an end to the Muʿtazilite community there, or absorbed it entirely. Kaʿbī might have known about this; Abū Saʿīd al-Jannābī built up his rule in Bahrain between 281/894 and 300/913. Muqaddasī reported Muʿtazilites in the ‘coastal areas of both holy places with the exception of Oman’;11 we do not know which regions he was referring to specifically. In Yemen, where another of Wāṣil’s envoys had already made an impression,12 Kaʿbī mentions ‘a large town’ named Tīs/Tays, and another named Naysān; the Muʿtazilites there were said to have been followers of Wahb b. Munabbih for

1   See vol. II 354 above. 2   Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm is not really a counter-example. We do not know where he studied, and he was not a true Muʿtazilite in any case (cf. Madelung, Qāsim 96ff.). 3   See vol. II 721ff. and 749ff. above. 4   See vol. III 220 above. 5   Ibid. 504ff. 6    Faḍl 251, 10. 7   P. 114, 4. 8    E I2 I 941f. 9   P. 114, 4. 10   E I2 III 238a. 11   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 96, 5. 12  See vol. II 354f. above.

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many years.13 Nashwān added, presumably out of first-hand knowledge of the place, that they were the descendants of Persian immigrants;14 later they renounced Muʿtazilism. This, he says, happened when the Umayyads assumed power over Yemen. They called the Muʿtazilites Shīʿites because of their positive attitude towards ʿAlī, and had 72 of the abnāʾ Fārs executed.15 This is probably a reflection of events shortly before the end of the Umayyad era, when Marwān II had his general ʿAbd al-Malik b. ʿAṭiyya al-Saʿdī quash the Khārijite rebellion of Ṭālib al-ḥaqq and his envoy Abū Ḥamza on the Arabian Peninsula in 130/747, and take care of some independence movements in Yemen at the same time.16 Kaʿbī’s note would thus have merely historical value as the Muʿtazilite cell existed for a few years only. Similar to Syria17 it started with a Qadarite core.18 It is unlikely that there were changes in doctrine over the short period; the only addition was the solidarity with a new organisation with a universalist approach, and the profession of the amr bil-maʿrūf. This was probably the very thing that made the Umayyad governor suspicious, although the ties to the ʿAlids in Medina would also have been noted. It is unlikely that when al-Hādī ilā l-ḥaqq laid the foundations of Zaydite rule in Yemen that would develop through changing fortunes, he would still have found Muʿtazilite sympathisers there.19 All of which could be asserted more confidently if we knew where Tīs/Tays and Naysān were located, but we have a only a rough idea. In Ṣifat jazīrat alʿArab Hamdānī mentions a mountain named Tays near Ṣanʿāʾ.20 The ‘large town’ might have been situated there; after all, many settlements in Yemen are located on top of mountains. However, Hamdānī’s information concerning the location is rather vague; the Jabal Tays is in fact near present-day Ṭawīla.21

13  P. 111, 1f. 14  The so-called abnāʾ Fārs; cf. vol. II 787 above. 15   Ḥūr 211, pu. ff. 16  Cf. Khalīfa, Ta‌ʾrīkh 595, 15ff., esp. 596, 13ff.; also 619, 12ff.; cf. Ṭabarī II 2012, 15ff. See also vol. II 736f. and 796. 17  See p. 264 below. 18  See vol. II 791f. above. 19  Around this time one of Ibn al-Ikhshīdh’s pupils, a certain Abū Ḥafṣ al-Miṣrī, went to Yemen. He seems to have had the idea, rather like al-Hādī ilā l-ḥaqq, of establishing a power base for his school there, but it seems that he was not able to do so in the long term (Faḍl 332, –6ff.; cf. IM 110, 3f.). 20  Ed. D. H. Müller 125, 11. 21  Cf. the map provided by Glaser in: Petermanns Mitteilungen 32/1886, table I; also Forrer, Südarabien nach al-Hamdānī’s “Beschreibung der arabischen Halbinsel”, p. 71, n. 12; p. 83f., and 191; also Gochenour in: WO 13/1982/86, n. 15.

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Later, too, there would be an independent prince residing there at most times.22 Nowadays it is called Jabal Banī Ḥibsh; there is still a village and a law court.23 Hamdānī was also familiar with a tribe of this name.24 – With Naysān we can do nothing at all for the time being. Maybe progress would be made if we assumed a misspelling. In Majmūʿ buldān al-Yaman Muḥammad Aḥmad al-Ḥajrī lists a region called Naysā near Ḥajja;25 it has in its favour that there would be Ibāḍites in Ḥajja later.26 In the Hijaz – but only there, and not in Yemen – one Baysān27 and one Busyān28 are documented. We cannot even rule out the possibility that Tays and Naysān are simply a doublet.

22  Forrer, loc. cit.; also Halm in: WO 12/1981/117. 23  Ḥusayn ʿAbdallāh al-ʿUmarī et al., Fī ṣifat bilād al-Yaman ʿAbra l-ʿuṣūr 69, n. 1. 24   Ṣifa 112, 22. It could not have been misheard for Taʿizz, as the latter town was founded only in the twelfth century. 25  ʿUmarī, Fī ṣifat bilād al-Yaman 256, apu. 26  See vol. II 797 above. 27  Bakrī, Muʿjam mā staʿjam I 292, 6ff. 28   K. al-manāsik 601, ult. ff., with Ḥamad al-Jāsir’s note on the passage.

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7.3 Syria Ṣafwān al-Anṣārī sang the praises of Wāṣil’s envoys who wanted to seize the rule from their position in the pulpits of Syria.1 There can be hardly any doubt that they and their successors were successful only to some extent. They were able to build on the tradition of the Ghaylāniyya; in this way, Dārayyā, a suburb of Damascus, found its way onto Kaʿbī’s list.2 Kafr Sūsiya and Bayt Lihyā are also situated near Damascus in the Ghūṭa.3 On the territory of present-day Lebanon he mentions Baʿlabakk and presumably al-Barra,4 the place ‘where Cain slew Abel’, as Yāqūt tells us.5 Other names that occur in this context cannot be identified: T-l-ma and al-ʿArabīs (?).6 Sumna7 may refer to a region near Jarash in Jordan rather than to the watering place near Wādī l-qurā on the road from Syria to Medina that Yāqūt lists under this headword as well.8 Other names lead into the Syrian desert: Arak near Palmyra;9 ʿUrḍ further north, on the road from Palmyra to Ruṣāfa;10 Nihyā, a watering place of the Kalb, presumably in the same region, at least if we accept Yāqūt’s location.11 The great majority of the Kalb, we learn, were Muʿtazilites;12 Ibn Abī Duwād’s family came from this area.13 They were Bedouin, settling over the entire region between Ḥimṣ and Raḥbat Mālik b. Ṭawq, Kaʿbī tells us.14 Thus the Muʿtazila held sway

1   Text XII 1, v. 24. 2   P. 109, 2; cf. vol. I 53 and 128 above. 3   P. 109, 2f. 4   P. 109, 1. 5    Muʿjam al-buldān s. v. al-Barra. 6   P. 109, 1. Might the latter name be misspelt for ʿArabsūs which was located near Mopsuestia? (Cf. Yāqūt s. n.). However, the place does not have an article. One might consider it a corrupt form of al-ʿArīsh, but this is in Egypt (cf. Krawulsky 651). 7   P. 108, ult. 8   Cf. Muʿjam s. v. 9   Krawulsky 590. 10  Yāqūt s. v.; Krawulsky 629, and attached map. 11  He did not find a spring there any more (Muʿjam s. v.). All these places are in Kaʿbī 108, ult. – Maybe the preceding Sumna had better be read as al-Sukhna; this place was situated on the same desert road as Arak and ʿUrḍ (cf. Krawulsky 624). However, in that case we once again have the problem that there is an article with the name. 12  Ibid. 108, 5f. 13  See vol. III 523 above. 14  Which had been founded under Ma‌ʾmūn (cf. Krawulsky 618). Still, this does not mean that the Kalb could not have been converted earlier.

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over the entire ‘land of steps’ (bilād al-madārij);15 and over Palmyra as well.16 Muʿtazilite infiltration appears to have followed the caravan route, but in this case it did not affect the urban population but a Bedouin tribe. The affinity probably goes back to the late Umayyad era; the Kalb had supported Yazīd III and identified with the Ghaylāniyya’s programme.17 As a consequence the Muʿtazila was able to build on a Qadarite basis here, too. Ultimately the places named were less important that the expansion of the tribe’s territory; Kaʿbī calls them ‘villages’.18 As late as 249/863 the poet ʿAlī b. al-Jahm may have been murdered by pro-Muʿtazilite Kalb in the region of Aleppo.19 Abū l-Hudhayl’s letter to the Damascenes20 may in fact have been addressed to one of the communities around the city, maybe the one in Dārayyā. During the second quarter of the third century a Muʿtazilite appears to have even lectured in Damascus itself: Qāsim b. Khalīl al-Dimashqī. According to Kaʿbī he had even studied under Abū l-Hudhayl,21 although this has to be taken with a pinch of salt; Mismaʿī, who came from Basra and was probably familiar with circumstances there, introduces him as Hishām alFuwaṭī’s follower.22 We have no means of checking it. It is exclusively thanks to Ibn al-Rēwandī’s polemic that two of the Damascene’s theories were remembered; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār does not mention him any more. He demonstrated dependence on Hishām al-Fuwaṭī in his attempts at saving the companions’ honour by denying their active involvement in the battle of the camel and in the siege of ʿUthmān.23 This puts an end to Ibn ʿAsākir’s claim that he was a

15  I am unable to find evidence for this phrase. I have only come across madārij on the Arabian Peninsula so far (Hamdānī, Ṣifa 120, 17; also K. al-manāsik 447, n. 7), but the entire chapter of Kaʿbī’s text indicates Upper Mesopotamia and the Syrian desert. According to Muḥammad ʿImāra, Al-khilāfa 240, it was a district halfway between Damascus and Aleppo. 16  Kaʿbī 108, 3ff. 17   S I 31/1970/281f.; cf. vol. I 83 above. 18  As the names did not mean anything to him, Nashwān al-Ḥimyarī abridged the text considerably (Ḥūr 211, 11f.: … wa-ghayru dhālika). Regarding the migrations of the Kalb cf. also Rotter, Zweiter Bürgerkrieg 128f. 19  Sourdel in: REI 48/1980/171. 20  Catalogue of Works XXI, no. 12. 21   Maq. 74, 5. He is also mentioned in Kaʿbī’s list of names in Ibn al-Nadīm 220, n., l. 5. 22  Quoted by Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān IV 459 no. 1421, and Dāwūdī, Ṭabaqāt al-mufassirīn II 32 no. 410, after Ibn ʿAsākir (TD, facs. XIV 316, 23ff.). 23  Text XXIV 40, b; also p. 18f. above.

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‘Rāfiḍite’;24 Damascus was probably the only place where such an attitude would have been interpreted as being Shīʿite.25 The books Qāsim b. Khalīl composed, six in number according to the Fihrist, discussed common Muʿtazilite subjects; what is noteworthy in the light of the foregoing is merely that he wrote a K. imāmat Abī Bakr; another title that does not necessarily suggest ‘Rāfiḍite’ tendencies.26 No trace of his Tafsīr survives anywhere.27 Of the two extravagances that drew Ibn al-Rēwandī’s criticism, the one clearly recalls the issue over which Dāwūd al-Muqammiṣ argued with Muḥammad b. Shabīb – and in Damascus, too: that sins in the true sense of the word are the only evil, while everything else we call evil or bad is in actual fact beneficial to humans, such as trials that teach them patience, or pain that shows them the pains of hell.28 This might have early Qadarite roots, and would consequently be compatible with Syria. However, Qāsim also used it to draw an obvious consequence of the concept of aṣlaḥ – that had occurred not only to him and Ibn Shabīb. What distinguished him was presumably the harshness of his approach: he regarded everyone who did not believe in the concept of aṣlaḥ and the consequence drawn from it, as an unbeliever.29 This was aimed at the predestinarians above all, and he was by no means the only one within the Muʿtazila who thought along these lines.30 Jubbāʾī would later say as well that illness was ‘evil’ only in the figurative sense.31 The second theory Ibn al-Rēwandī attacked shows that Qāsim followed through on the distinction between ḥikāya and maḥkī that developed during the discussion with Abū l-Hudhayl. He may not have used the terms yet, but he emphasised that the substance of the Quranic message was independent of the phonetic appearance. The substance is true, while the sounds might be put together in such a way that they form a lie. This lie would then not have been created by God as he creates only the sounds as such, while humans combine them when speaking. This is also how Quranic recitation works; one is by no means pronouncing a text that God has already structured in this form.

24  Cf. n. 22. 25  See vol. I 81 above. 26  Catalogue of Works XXXIV, no. 6. 27  Ibid. no. 1. Also mentioned in Dhahabī, Siyar X 556, 4f. 28  Text XXXIV 1, d–e and g; also p. 147 above. 29  Ibid., a–c, f and h. 30  See p. 70f. and 86 above; also p. 272 and 748 below. 31  Ashʿarī, Maq. 537, 5f.

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This appears to have been the point against which Ibn al-Rēwandī argued; otherwise it is difficult to see what it could have been in this theory that offended him so much. The way in which he summarised it implies that he – and probably a number of other Muʿtazilites besides him – assumed that a true statement does not consist of the identical sounds as an untrue one, but only of similar ones. Furthermore Khayyāṭ did not have enough material on Qāsim to be able to check Ibn al-Rēwandī’s claim (Text 2). Might Qāsim al-Dimashqī – like Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had done, whose pupil he was, after all, said to have been – have polemicised against those who employed the Quran in an ideological way for ‘lying’ in order to refute the Muʿtazilites?

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7.4 Armenia Wāṣil’s messenger to Armenia had been ʿUthmān al-Ṭawīl.1 Kaʿbī reports that in the outlying districts of Bardhaʿa, Armenian Partav – which was, in fact, by that time regarded as part of the province of Arrān – there were ‘innumerable villages’ inhabited by Muʿtazilites. They had probably settled there because the centre of the city, which had already been the main urban centre of the region for some time, was inhabited by Christians. In ʿUthmān al-Ṭawīl’s time the open country and above all the mountainous regions had probably not yet been encompassed by Islam.2 Kaʿbī and his contemporaries noted particularly that a section of the community still adhered to the teachings of Ḍirār b. ʿAmr who had long been excommunicated in Iraq.3 It seems that the Muʿtazilites lived at close quarters with the Shīʿites here; they kept in contact with the authorities in Baghdad in the early third century.4 We do not know to what extent this influenced the bloody troubles which Yaʿqūbī reports. The Muʿtazilites had clashed with the Muslim majority who followed a different doctrine; only Ḥātim, the son of Harthama b. Aʿyān, whom Ma‌ʾmūn sent to Armenia as governor around the turn on the century, was able to restore peace.4a Local school tradition was so strong that a theologian from Bardhaʿa, Abū l-Ḥasan Aḥmad b. ʿUmar b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Bardhaʿī, was able to make a name for himself in Iraq. He arrived in Basra towards the end of 254/868; we know this because he wished to meet Jāḥiẓ who was, however, unable to receive him as he was by that time in the throes of his last

1   See vol. II 356 above. 2   We might speculate whether the Paulician sect abetted Islam. Its members appear to have served in the Umayyad army and fought against the Byzantines (cf. Qudāma b. Jaʿfar, Kharāj in: BGA VI 254, 6ff., where the name is, however, unvocalised, and read differently by de Goeje in his translation, p. 194). They were Armenian doctrinal traditionalists who built on Syrian Christianity and were forced underground as a result of the Hellenisation of the high church; it is unlikely that they had much influence in the cities. They were known for their iconoclastic tendencies; their adoptionism and docetism brought them still closer to Islam. Cf. N. Garsoïan’s monograph The Paulician Heresy, e.g. p. 159, 165f., 175, and 200ff. 3   P. 111, 4f. 4   Jāḥiẓ, K. al-ḥijāb in: Rasāʾil II 48, 3ff. 4a Yaʿqūbī, Taʾrīkh II 563, 8f.; regarding Ḥātim b. Harthama cf. Lewis in: EI2 III 274, briefly discussed by J. Laurent, L’Arménie entre Byzance et l’Islam depuis la conquête arabe jusqu’en 886 (2Lisbon 1980), p. 436 and 484. (P. 291ff. also regarding the Paulicians).

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illness.5 He became a follower of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān6 and would stay in Iraq until his death in 297/910, for over forty years.7 Still, we can assume that his early training took place in his home country. Later he debated with Jubbāʾī and Abū Mujālid;8, 9 Kaʿbī probably knew him as well. He was the one reporting that Abū l-Hudhayl had been ʿUthmān al-Ṭawīl’s pupil; this was probably information he had first heard in Armenia.10 – The case of the Ḥanafite Abū Saʿīd Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Bardhaʿī was similar. He came to Baghdad during the ḥājj and stayed for many years until the Qarmates killed him when he intended to go on the pilgrimage once more in 317/929.11 He, too, was a Muʿtazilite;12 however, his main concern was to stop the influence of the Ẓāhirites in the capital. He had refuted Dāwūd b. ʿAlī (d. 270/844) in person.13 One of his pupils was ʿUbaydallāh b. al-Ḥusayn al-Karkhī (d. 340/952), whose Mukhtaṣar was absorbed into Qudūrī’s work of the same name.14 Abū Saʿīd did not forget his home; he recalled a hadith according to which Persian (Darī) would be spoken in paradise; he inferred that it was consequently permitted to perform the prescribed prayer in this language, too – but none other besides Arabic.15 We must be careful not to confuse him with his namesake Abū l-Ḥasan al-Bardhaʿī. 5  Murtaḍā, Amālī I 199, 4ff., after the account of Bardhaʿī’s pupil Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad b. Shihāb al-Khālidī transmitted by Marzubānī. Jāḥiẓ died in Muḥarram 255/Dec. 868–Jan. 869. 6   See p. 20 above. 7   Regarding the date of his death cf. Fück in: ZDMG 90/1936/310, who does not, however, name his source. Bardhaʿī is mentioned briefly by Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 218, n. l. 4f. 8   Regarding him see p. 109ff. above. 9    T B IV 290 no. 2045; cf. also Faḍl 300, 13f. Concerning a disputation with a Najjārite see p. 192 above. 10  Murtaḍā, Amālī I 178, 14ff.; cf. also vol. III 233 above. For further biographical notes about him see vol. III 229 and vol. II 285 above (concerning Wāṣil). Ṣūlī cites him as an authority (Awrāq, Shuʿarāʾ 3, 15). 11  Regarding him TB IV 99f. no. 1751 > IAW I 66f. no. 104; GAS 1/439. 12   T B 99, 14f. 13  Ibid. 18ff. 14   Fihrist 261, 12ff.; regarding Karkhī cf. GAS 1/444. Karkhī is also the authority for a fundamental methodological decision taken by Abū Saʿīd: the verdict of a companion of the prophet always takes precedence over a conclusion by analogy, even if the former is entirely isolated (Sarakhsī, Uṣūl II 105, –8ff.). 15  Brunschvig in: Mélanges Massé 54f.; on the problem cf. vol. II 553 above. The same question would later be discussed by al-Karkhī’s pupil Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Baṣrī, a Muʿtazilite (cf. EI2, Suppl. 14a).

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Further confusion appears to have been the fault of Muʿtazilite biographical tradition. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār collects material on Abū Saʿīd al-Bardhaʿī under the name of Abū Saʿīd al-Usrūshanī (Faḍl 319, 9–320, 4); above all, his connection with Karkhī is mentioned again here. As Usrūshanī had already been discussed earlier (Faḍl 318, 13–ult.), it is clear that something is wrong here; furthermore there is no biography of Bardhaʿī in the book at all. Whether it was the qāḍī himself who got the two Abū Saʿīd mixed up (after all, he adds a story to the material on Bardhaʿī in which once again the ‘Khorasanians’ play a part; Faḍl 320, 5–10), or whether it was a copyist who wrote the nisbas incorrectly in the second passage, cannot be determined as yet. It is, however, clear that Ḥākim al-Jushamī subsequently conflated the two biographies, adding that Usrūshanī and Bardhaʿī were one and the same person. Ibn al-Murtaḍā later cut the text to two lines, retaining just this particular remark: minhum Abū Saʿīd alUsrūshanī wa-yuqālu lahū Bardhaʿī ayḍan (Ṭab. 101, 6f.). Brunschvig and Sezgin, who were familiar with this last note only, also believed them to be identical. The factual problems this brought with it are considerable: Abū Saʿīd al-Bardhaʿī came from Armenia, while Abū Saʿīd al-Usrūshanī came from Khorasan or Transoxiana; Bardhaʿī spent time in Baghdad, Usrūshanī on the other hand in ʿAskar Mukram and in Basra (more information about him on p. 285 below). A last Muʿtazilite from this region,16 Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh alBardhaʿī was known to Ibn al-Nadīm in person; they met in 340/951.17 He was a jurist, but he also refuted Ibn al-Rēwandī – but he had a particular reason for this: he had ties to the Khārijites (the Ibāḍiyya?), and Ibn al-Rēwandī’s K. al-imāma was not to his liking by any means.18 It is interesting that he also composed a K. al-sunna wal-jamāʿa.19

16  Or was he merely a member of a family settled in Baghdad? The nisba might even indicate that he was a pupil of the preceding Bardhaʿī. 17   Fihrist 295, –10. 18  Cf. Catalogue of Works XXXVb, refutation o. 19   Fihrist 295, –6. Regarding him see also A. Paketčî in GIE 242.

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7.5 Iran Iran proved itself to be particularly receptive to the Muʿtazila; and Iran was where it survived for the longest time, with the exception of Yemen. This emphasis may not have been intended by Wāṣil. One has the impression that he, not least because of his connections with Medina, sent more duʿāt to the west than to the east; only Ḥafṣ b. Sālim is said to have argued with Jahm b. Ṣafwān in Tirmidh,1 and he may well have been sent there for Jahm’s sake rather than because of the place. Kaʿbī, on the other hand, mentions a number of centres. Armenia, at which we looked separately only because of the city of Bardhaʿa, bordered onto Azerbaijan; Bardhaʿa itself is situated in the republic of that name today.2 Kaʿbī, who distinguished between Armenia and Azerbaijan, names the town of Baylaqān in the latter region, situated in Arrān near Darband in the Caucasus. The inhabitants were in part Khārijite, but they all professed the dogma of the justice of God.3 It is possible that we are looking at Ibāḍites of the Qadarite persuasion. Later, Azerbaijan was considered to be virtually free from Muʿtazilites; it was more probable that one would find ‘anthropomorphists’ there – whoever this term may have denoted.4 Further south, in ancient Elam and future Luristan or, as Kaʿbī called it, in the province of Mihrjānqadhaq,5 the mission appears to have followed the road from Wāsiṭ or Baghdad to Hamadan. Ṣaymara was a very important place here; Malaṭī also reported that its inhabitants were all Muʿtazilites.6 It was the home of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, and of Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. ʿUmar al-Ṣaymarī, d. 315/927, who based his theories on ʿAbbād’s, but would later follow Jubbāʾī.7 This may have been in ʿAskar Mukram, as he spent several years there, and Jubbāʾī passed through from time to time as well.8 The grammarian Sīrāfī (d. 368/979) met him in this city. Sīrāfī was still very young at the time; he

1  See vol. II 355f. above. 2  EIran III 779. 3  P. 111, 6f. Regarding the place cf. Yāqūt, Muʿjam s. v.; Laurent (p. 268, n. 4a above) 43 and Index s. v.; EI2 I 1134a; EIran IV 2, and Gaube/Leisten 25. 4  Schwarz, Iran 1233, after Ibn Ḥawqal; also p. 474 and, more generally, 416ff. below. 5  P. 111, 8f.; regarding Mihrjānqadhaq cf. Yāqūt s. v., and Krawulsky 365. 6  Tanbīh 32, 19/40, 12. Regarding the place cf. Gaube/Leisten. 7  Faḍl 308, apu. ff. > IM 96, 12ff.; Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 219, n., l. 23f. 8  See p. 275 below.

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studied kalām under him and became his favourite pupil.9 When Jubbāʾī died in 303/915, Ṣaymarī took over his professorship.10 However, it seems that Jubbāʾī’s son Abū Hāshim made life difficult for him; he moved to Baghdad and was noted for the unbridled invective he habitually directed at the latter.11 Abū Hāshim responded to them in a separate text.12 Ṣaymarī was a follower of the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila;13 regarding the Islamic ecumene as a ‘house of unbelief’, because it contained so many anthropomorphists and predestinarians.14 He probably engaged in critical epistemology in this vein, too, as Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī described him as a ‘heretic (mulḥid) who rode the mare of dialectic and of ignorance’.15 There were more than a few Muʿtazilite Sufis in the Mihrjānqadhaq district at this time; Maqdisī noted their presence.16 However, Ṣaymarī’s approach to Ibn al-Rēwandī, who shared at least some of these tendencies, was critical.17 – We must take care not to confuse him with another Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ṣaymarī whose name was al-Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī and who lived a hundred years later (351/962–Shawwāl 436/April – May 1045).17a He, too, embraced Muʿtazilite ideas, but when he became judge in Madāʾin and later in Karkh – i.e. among Shīʿites – he was not able to express them openly everywhere 9    Fihrist 219, n., l. 25f.; also 68, 14; the latter after an account by Sīrāfī’s son Yūsuf which Qifṭī, Inbāh I 314 quotes verbatim. This leads us to assume that Sīrāfī, too was a Muʿtazilite. We certainly know that the Muʿtazilite Ibn al-Khallāl studied under him (GAS 1/624; concerning the extant Radd ʿalā l-Jabriyya al-Qadariyya in his name see Catalogue of Works XXVIII, no. 3, with n.). Regarding Sīrāfī in general see GAS 9/98ff. 10   Fihrist 219, n., l. 24. 11  Abū Bakr Ibn al-Ikhshīdh adopted this attitude after him (Faḍl 309, 5f.; regarding him see vol. V 449 and Index s. n. [of the German edition]). Abū Rashīd, Al-masāʾil fī l-khilāf 87, ult. f., notes the similarities in their teachings. 12  Cf. Gimaret in: JA 1976, p. 319f. no. 21. On the other hand Ṣaymarī defended Abū Hāshim’s father against Kaʿbī’s attack (Fihrist 219, n., l. 27); there were also quaestiones by him addressed to Jubbāʾī, and which were copied together with the responses (ibid. 26; also Faḍl 309, 2f.). [Cf. also Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 36ff.]. 13  As emphasised by a Yemeni commentator of Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid fī taṣḥīḥ al-ʿaqāʾid (cf. the text in Sayyid in: Al-ijtihād 3/1991, no. 12/232, pu.; where ʿUmar must be read instead of ʿAmr. 14   Faḍl 309, 7f. 15   Imtāʿ II 20, 14; said by someone else, however. Cf. p. 106 above. 16  See p. 338 below. 17  Cf. Catalogue of Works XXXVb, refutation h. 17a  Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam VIII 119, 18ff. This is the author of the Akhbār Abī Ḥanīfa waaṣḥābihī cited a number of times in vols. I and II above. 17b  Ibid. 25, 6f. 17c  Cf. Sourdel in EI2 IV 378b; in more detail Nagel, Festung des Glaubens 55ff. The document with which al-Qādir declared the Fatimid genealogy to be a fabrication as early as 402/1011 was also signed by Ṣaymarī (cf. Glassen, Der mittlere Weg 9f.).

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in the capital; in 417/1026 the chief qāḍī even ordered him to recant.17b Shortly before, in 409/1018, the caliph al-Qādir billāh had issued his famous decree of faith.17c All the same, when shortly before Ṣaymarī’s own death his Muʿtazilite colleague Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, who also lived in Baghdad, passed away, he said the prayer of the dead over his bier.18 Man of letters and polymath Abū l-ʿAnbas Muḥammad b. Isḥāq alṢaymarī was a Muʿtazilite, too. He came from Kufa originally, owing his nisba to the fact that he had been qāḍī in Ṣaymara at the beginning of his career (cf. Pellat in EI2, Suppl. 16f. s. n.; R. Massāḥ in GIE VI 77f.; Ullmann, Natur – und Geheimwissenschaften 325f.). In Nihāwand, the next largest town on the way to Hamadan, a certain ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad al-Abharī held the office of judge at a not clearly stated time. He was the only Muʿtazilite who made sure he did not refer to the Quran as muḥdath or come into being within time.19 Furthermore there were Jahmites there some of whom converted to Ashʿarism around 400/1010.20 Ibn Ḥawqal, who spent some time between 350/961 and 358/969 in Khuzestan/Ahwāz and Fars,21 found numerous Muʿtazilite communities there; he recognised them from their strict view on the eternal punishment of hell.22 Shortly afterwards Muqaddasī confirmed his observation.23 Qadarite beliefs were referred to as ‘the religion of the people from Khuzestan (dīn al-Khūz).24 As late as the end of the century a Muʿtazilite was qāḍī of the province.25 The centre of Muʿtazilite scholarship in the area was at that time the city of ʿAskar Mukram founded during Ḥajjāj’s time.26 Kaʿbī emphasises its flourishing small-scale industry; 100,000 weavers (ḥāʾik) alone were said to have worked

18  Ibn al-Jawzī VIII 126, pu. f.; Abū l-Ḥusayn, too, lived near the Shīʿite quarter in Shūnīziyya (regarding the location cf. Ṣ. A. al-ʿAlī, Baghdād I 2 75). 19  Maqdisī, Badʿ V 142, –4f. It probably means that he continued to use the older term makhlūq (see p. 256 above). 20  Baghdādī, Farq 200, 5ff./212, 9ff. 21  Miquel in EI2 III 787 a. 22   Ṣūrat al-arḍ 254, 21f./transl. 252, and 291, pu. ff./transl, 285. 23   Aḥsān al-taqāsīm 415, 3. 24  Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 1459 no. 2818. 25  ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b. Abī ʿAllān (321/933–409/1018; cf. Ibn Kathīr, Bidāya XII 7, 13ff. > Ziriklī, Aʿlām IV 265); he is also mentioned in Yāqūt, Irshād II 75, 4. Interestingly he wrote a book about muʿjizāt for which he was said to have collected no fewer than a hundred miracles. 26   E I2 I 711 s. v., and EIran 768; further materials in Krawulsky 354f., and Gaube/Leisten 18.

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there, besides other craftsmen.27 One wonders what the intent of this aside was; maybe there were particular connections with the cloth industry in Basra. Theological evidence certainly leads us there. As early as the late second century we find someone in Basra who apparently came from ʿAskar Mukram: ʿAbd al-Karīm b. Rawḥ al-ʿAffānī who studied under Shimmazī, one of ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd’s pupils. His colleague Abū ʿĀmir Ismāʿīl b. Muḥammad al-Anṣārī28 became the teacher of a certain Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl al-ʿAskarī, who may have been his son and came to prominence during the first half of the third century.29 He appears to have been a man of some influence in his home town, as we know that he disregarded an official letter ordering the dismissal of the mayor (ra‌ʾīs).30 Maybe he considered the authorities to be corrupt, as the Sufis believed. Another Muʿtazilite from ʿAskar, Abū Masʿūd ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Yaḥyā al-ʿAskarī, was explicitly described as an ascetic; however, his place in the chronology is not clear.31 It is also well documented in the case of Abū ʿUmar Muḥammad b. ʿUmar b. Saʿīd al-Bāhilī, d. 300/913,32 who had grown up in Basra, but whose family was living in ʿAskar Mukram, and who consequently travelled back and forth between the two cities.33 He knew Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s poems by heart,34 and seems to have thought very highly of Murdār.35 He probably liked the poems not least because he was a missionary for the Muʿtazila wherever he found the opportunity.36 His family was much respected;37 the Bāhila had been settlers of the first

27  P. 112, 4f.; the large number may be due to his including the surrounding countryside between Anwāz and Shūshtar along the eastern arm of the Kārūn. 28  Regarding both see vol. II 478f. above. 29  See vol. II 479 above after Faḍl 270, 7 > IM 71, 14f.; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār includes him in the ṭabaqa of the two Jaʿfar. 30   Faḍl 279, ult. ff. > IM 71, 13ff. 31   Faḍl 285, 9f. > IM 58, 7f. Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī also knew of Muʿtazilite ascetics in this area (cf. Meier, Abū Saʿīd 153, and p. 819 below). 32  See vol. III 143, n. 12, and 543 above. The entire name is found in Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 219, –6, and, based on this, in Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān V 320, apu. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār usually has only ‘Abū ʿUmar al-Bāhilī’ in K. faḍl al-iʿtizāl; the form ‘Saʿīd b. Muḥammad al-Bāhilī’ at the beginning of the biography on p. 310, 1, is wrong, as is ‘Muḥammad b. Abī ʿUmar al-Bāhilī’ on p. 291, 1. 33   Fihrist 219, –6; IM 97, 3. 34  Cf. vol. III 120 above. 35   Faḍl 278, 12ff. 36  Ibid. 310, 3ff.; he was interested in poetry in general (ibid. 310, 2). 37  Ibid. 312, 8.

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hour in Basra and the surrounding countryside.38 He held the office of judge in ʿAskar Mukram;39 it was due to this office as well as his noble descent that he was able to represent the interests of the city at court.40 In Iraq, however, the Bāhila had not joined the side of the authorities during the uprising of the Zanj.41 However, when the latter destroyed Basra in 257/871, Abū ʿUmar was probably not in the city any more; he was certainly living in ʿAskar Mukram when Jubbāʾī visited that city for the first time.42 He knew him of old, but in his current place of residence, school tradition had evolved out of itself.43 People admired the master from Basra, even though he was not a great speaker in discussions44 and was remarkable for his rather monosyllabic style during his inaugural lecture.45 Abū ʿUmar was said to have written down and transmitted all of Jubbāʾī’s works;46 he was probably familiar with some of them from their earlier meetings. It was said that Jubbāʾī also used the opportunity to hear Abū ʿUmar’s works,47 as he had written several texts he presumably read with his students: a K. al-uṣūl al-khamsa later refuted by Māturīdī,48 and a K. iʿjāz alQurʾān which had barely any competition at that time.49 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār met his son in ʿAskar Mukram and attended his lectures.50 There were Shīʿites in the city, too. They were not entirely without influence, as a certain ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Aḥmad b. Jabrōya, a contemporary of Ashʿarī,51 was able to convert a Muʿtazilite named Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh Ibn Mumlak to the precepts of the Imāmiyya, i.e. presumably to convince him that ʿAlī was 38   E I2 I 920f. 39  Or possibly in Basra? Cf. Fihrist 219, –5. 40   Faḍl 310, 7ff. We also come across him in al-Muhtadī’s (r. 255/869–256/870) close circle where he, as he recalls himself, once wished death on the anthropomorphists (ibid. 311, –5ff.; also p. 473 below). 41   E I2 I 921a. 42   Faḍl 289, –5ff. 43  Ibid. 288, 1f. 44  See p. 285 below. 45   Faḍl 289, apu. f. Regarding the event see also ibid. 288, 3ff. 46  Thus according to IM 97, 3f.; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār does not yet include this information. 47   Fihrist 219, –5, where in view of the quotation in Dāwūdī, Ṭabaqāt al-mufassirīn II 217, 8, we should read yaḥḍuru instead of y.ḥ.ḍ.ruhū. 48  Abū Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 359, 5. It is probably identical with the K. al-uṣūl mentioned by Ibn al-Nadīm. The latter’s adding fī l-tawḥīd is probably not part of the title itself but merely an indication of the contents; Abū ʿUmar also wrote a K. al-tawḥīd (Fihrist 219, –4f.). 49   Fihrist, ibid.; cf. p. 679 below. 50   Faḍl 312, 7ff.; he apparently taught in Persian at times (or maybe all the time?). 51  Cf. Maq. 54, 1ff. He is listed among the Shīʿites there, but his teachings are entirely Muʿtazilite. Cf. also Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 116.

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the only one who had had a claim to the caliphate. Ibn Jabrōya had written a K. al-kāmil fī l-imāma. He was a contemporary of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, with whom he had conducted several debates.52 Ibn Mumlak was present at the reception for the city’s theologians held by the governor of ʿAskar Mukram on the occasion of Jubbāʾī’s visit; when he addressed a question to Jubbāʾī, a committed Muʿtazilite, who was presumably already displeased by the conversion, embarrassed him in front of their host.53 All the same, Ibn Mumlak would later have scholarly discussions with Jubbāʾī and wrote a book about them.54 Jubbāʾī tried to mediate between the Muʿtazilites and the Shīʿites; the only fundamental difference between them by this time was political theory.55 Another convert was Ibn Qiba, mentioned in vol. II 715, n. 51 above. He lived in Rayy and was in touch with Abū l-Qāsim al-Balkhī; presumably he was closer to the Baghdad school as a result. Some excerpts of his works are extant, especially in Ibn Bābōya, K. ikmāl al-dīn. Cf. Modarressi, loc. cit. 133ff.; p. 117ff. also concerning his biography. In brief also N. Gudhashta in: GIE IV 446. Jubbāʾī’s son Abū Hāshim also taught in ʿAskar Mukram for a long time, only moving to Baghdad in 314/926 or 311/923 shortly before his death. He remained in touch with his community from there; the responsa they requested for their theological questions were transmitted as a collection entitled (Al-masāʾil) alʿAskariyyāt. We also know of a work by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār with the same title.56 Ibn Ḥawqal was astonished to find even common people in this city – possibly weavers once again – who were well versed in kalām.57 While he seems to imply admiration, Muqaddasī would later sound dismissive: for someone from Jerusalem, kalām was not something to be celebrated. Employing rhymed prose he makes it quite clear to the reader that the theologians had fallen out of favour with the masses.58 Even so, he admits frankly, like Malaṭī only a short time 52  Najāshī 164, 13ff., and 269, apu. ff.; Ardabīlī, Jāmiʿ al-ruwāt I 446 a, and II 144 b. I am adopting Modarressi’s reading Ibn Mumlak, who bases it on the usage among Iranian scholars (ibid.). 53   Faḍl 288, 3ff.; the name must be corrected there. The Muʿtazilite was called Ibn al-Sawaṭī (regarding him cf. Faḍl 312, 4f. > IM 98, 4f.); Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār met him in ʿAskar Mukram as well. 54  Najāshī 270, 2; Ṭūsī, Fihrist 369, 3ff. 55   Faḍl 291, 12ff. 56  Cf. Gimaret in: JA 1976, p. 321ff. no. 24. Similar information comes from the grammarian Abū ʿAlī al-Fārisī (d. 377/987 in Baghdad; cf. GAS 9/108). 57   Ṣūrat al-arḍ 255, 2ff. 58   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 410, 2ff.; cf. also Goldziher in: Der Islam 3/1912/219 = Ges. Schr. V 243.

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before him, that they still defined religious life in the city;59 teaching in the chief mosque every day from the early prayer to mid-morning.60 The theologian in the well-known parody in Hamadānī’s Maqāma Māristāniyya, to whom a fool demonstrates that his theory of free will was entirely unfounded, came from ʿAskar Mukram.61 Even a man so apparently orthodox as Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī (d. shortly after 400/1010) was probably a Muʿtazilite.62 As in Yemen and in Sind we should like to know the Muʿtazilites’ attitude to the Ismāʿīliyya who settled nearby; after all, ʿAbdallāh al-Akbar, the presumed founder of the Ismāʿīliyya, came from ʿAskar Mukram, and the mahdī ʿAbdallāh was born there, too.63 Further cities in Khuzestan mentioned by Kaʿbī64 are to the north of ʿAskar Mukram: Tustar/Shushtar, of which we later hear only that the majority of its population followed the Ḥanafite madhhab;65 Sūs/Shūsh, of which Muqaddasī tells us that the majority were either Ḥanbalites or followers of the Ḥubbiyya, i.e. mystical tendencies;66 and Gondēshāpūr, which Muqaddasī, too, found to be party Muʿtazilite.67 To the south there was Rāmhurmuz, once again with a Muʿtazilite majority recorded by Muqaddasī, and an unidentifiable place named ʾ-w-r-m-y-s that one might interpret, with a bit of creativity, as Dawraq, of which Muqaddasī reports the same as in Rāmhurmuz.68 Jubbāʾī’s pupil Abū Bakr b. Ḥarb69 came from Tustar; in their correspondence Jubbāʾī answered his questions.70 There was a theological library in Rāmhurmuz which differed from the one in Basra only in size; there was someone teaching Muʿtazilite kalām in it at all times.71 Ashʿarī corresponded with a Muʿtazilite from Rāmhurmuz, presumably

59  Ibid. 415, 4f.; Malaṭī, Tanbīḥ 32, 18f./40, 11f. 60  Ibid. 410, 3. 61   Maqāmāt 128, 7. 62  Kanazi, Studies in the Kitāb al-Ṣināʿatayn 14f. 63  Cf. Halm in REI 54/1986/139, and WO 19/1988/104. 64  P. 112, 5f. 65  Cf. Krawulsky 356 concerning the Īlkhānid era. The Shāfiʿite quḍāt mentioned in Halm, Ausbreitung der šāfiʿitischen Rechtsschule 154 appear to have been exceptions; the map TAVO B VIII should be amended accordingly. 66   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 415, 4f.; also vol. II 698 above. Regarding the location cf. Krawulsky 355f., and Gaube/Leisten 169. 67  Ibid. 415, 4; also Gaube/Leisten 67. 68  Ibid.; also Gaube/Leisten 48 and 144. Regarding the locations also Krawulsky 355 and 349; concerning Rāmhurmuz also Minorsky/Bosworth in EI2 VIII 416f. s. v. 69   Faḍl 318, 7f. > IM 101, 3f. 70  Gimaret in: JA 1976, p. 285f. 71  Ibid. 413, 15ff.; also Goldziher in: Der Islam 3/1912/214 (= Ges. Schr. V 238), and Mackensen in: AJS: 51/1934–5/88f.

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Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdallāh b. al-ʿAbbās al-Rāmhurmuzī, another of Jubbāʾī’s pupil,72 and published the results from his point of view under the title Jawābāt al-Rāmhurmuziyyīn.73 Rāmhurmuzī in turn answered questions he received from Tustar; the K. jawābāt al-Tustariyyīn that was the result of these was still accessible to Malāḥimī.74 He gave the judges money in order that they should treat the Muʿtazilites fairly.75 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār thought this praiseworthy; he had lived in a ribāṭ in Rāmhurmuz for some time, and started dictating his mughnī in his esteemed predecessor’s mosque.76 In the border region between Khuzestan and Fars the city Arrajān was mainly Muʿtazilite;77 Nāṣir-i Khosraw would later, towards the end of the fifth/ eleventh century, find a scholar of many interests named Abū Saʿīd al-Baṣrī there.78 In the same province Kaʿbī also named Sīnīz,79 Tawwaz,80 Sīrāf,81 and Jahrum.82 The last-named of these was situated inland, like Arrajān, not far from the border with Shabānkāra; while the first three are ports, or at least not far from the Persian Gulf. Muqaddasī also noted that in the coastal region Muʿtazilites and Shīʿites constituted a large part of the population.83 Of the cities named, Sīrāf was the most important economically. It had been a flourishing trans-shipment centre on the Persian Gulf during the Sasanid era, and experienced a further boost in the third/ninth century when the foundation of Baghdad created a fast-growing inland market. The Indian trade, which had always been its major income, was expanded as far as China in those days.84 72  Regarding him cf. Faḍl 312, –4ff. > IM 98, 6ff.; Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara II 331. 73  Cf. Gimaret in: JA 173/1985/251. 74   Muʿtamad 465, ult., and 486, 9f.; two further quotations, presumably from the same text, ibid. 467, 3, and 471, pu.: they are all concerned with hadiths and akhbār that could be employed to refute the vision of God. 75   Faḍl 317, 7. 76  Ibid. 317, 5f., and 315, –5; in more detail Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 49ff. 77  Kaʿbī 113, 2. Regarding Yaḥyā b. Bishr al-Arrajānī see vol. III 314f. above. Ashʿarī sent responsa here, too (Gimaret, ibid.). Regarding the place cf. Gaube/Leisten 16. 78   Safarnāme 91, apu. f. Schefer/transl. 251. 79  Cf. Gaube/Leisten 164; Krawulsky 214. 80  Gaube/Leisten 174; Krawulsky 217. 81  Gaube/Leisten 164; Krawulsky 215. 82  Gaube/Leisten 58; Krawulsky 173. 83   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 439, 13. 84  Our knowledge here rests above all on D. Whitehouse’s archaeological studies; cf. his reports in: Iran 6/1968ff. (to 10/1972 and 12/1974), and in: World Archeology 14/1983/328ff., and Proceedings Thirty-First Internat. Congr. Tokyo 1983, I 416f.; furthermore R. Hodges and D. Whitehouse, Mohammed, Charlemagne and the Origins of Europe 133ff.; H. Gaube in: Arch. Mitt. Iran 13/1980/149ff.; Ghulāmriḍā Maʿṣūmī, Sīrāf ‘Bandar-i Ṭāhirī’ (Tehran

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Iṣṭakhrī, writing shortly before the middle of the fourth/tenth century, noted that in Sīrāf as well as the rest of the coastal region the majority of the population held Qadarite beliefs, and that this was due to Basran influence. Only few, however, were genuine Muʿtazilites.85 It seems that at the beginning of the century the school there followed the precepts of Ibn al-Ikhshīdh, who opposed Abū Hāshim in Basra,86 for even a generation later we find two theologians in Basra who adhered to this trend, both of whom came from Sīrāf. One of them would later convert to the by that time predominant teachings of Abū Hāshim.87 Interestingly Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār tells us, albeit in the context of what appears to be a legend, that ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd had been an apprentice (ghulām) in Sīrāf in his youth.88 According to Kaʿbī89, all of Jahrum followed the teachings of Abū l-Hudhayl. Iṣṭakhrī, too, noted the Muʿtazilite majority,90 as did Malaṭī around the same time.91 Malaṭī furthermore mentions Iṣṭakhr which was half Muʿtazilite and half Khārijite, with the Muʿtazilites dominating. However, he moved the town, which was completely destroyed during the Seljuk era,92 to Kerman.93 Muqaddasī, too, appears to indicate the presence of Muʿtazilites, but his language remains obscure.94 Towards the end of the fourth/tenth century the Muʿtazilite ʿAlī b. Saʿīd al-Iṣṭakhrī (322/934–404/1013), who appears to have come from there, composed a refutation of the Bāṭinites at the request of the caliph al-Qādir (!).95 In Fars the office of chief qāḍī appears to have been held by Muʿtazilites fairly often. We know of two instances from the fourth/tenth century: ʿUbaydallāh b. Muḥammad b. Abī Burda al-Qaṣrī (from Qaṣr al-zayt, a 1352 SH/1973), and Wink, Al-Hind 55. The sailors of Sīrāf played an important part in the spreading of agricultural crops from India in the Arab world (Watson, Agricultural Innovation 78f.). 85   Masālik 139, 7ff. 86  Regarding him cf. Index s. n.; also Busse, Chalif und Großkönig 440f., and Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 38f. 87   Faḍl 328, –5ff., and 331, –5ff. > IM 107, 14ff. (where the two biographies follow one another immediately; Ḥākim al-Jushamī had probably presented them like this, too). 88   Faḍl 243, 7, in an allegedly autobiographical account by ʿAmr; cf. vol. II 324 above. 89  P. 113, 5. 90   Masālik 139, 9; cf. Schwarz, Iran 150. 91   Tanbīh 32, 19f. (where the name is misspelt)/40, 12f. 92  Krawulsky 168f. 93  Ibid. 32, 20f./40, 13f. 94   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 438, 8. Inferring from this passage that the Muʿtazila had separate baths there, as F. Sayyid has done (cf. Kaʿbī 114, n. 308), would seem fanciful. 95  Kaḥḥāla, Muʿjam al-muʾallifīn VII 99 b.

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quarter of Basra near the port) who wrote not only a rehabilitation of Sībawayh compared to Mubarrad, but also a book on iʿjāz al-Qurʾān (cf. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān IV 357 s. v. Qaṣr al-zayt), and the chief qāḍī under ʿAḍud al-Dawla mentioned by Ibn ʿAsākir, Tabyīn kadhib al-muftarī 118, pu. ff., i.e. presumably Abū Saʿd Saʿīd Bishr b. al-Ḥusayn (d. 380/990). As a jurist he was a Ẓāhirite (Shīrāzī, Ṭabaqāt al-fuqahāʾ 177, ult. ff.; regarding him see also Busse, Chalif und Großkönig 276, and the anecdote in Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara III 227 no 147). Isfahan, which could be reached from Madhār in the Mesene via Tustar, is not mentioned by Kaʿbī at all, even though we know that one of Ḍirār’s pupils, Abū Ghayth al-Iṣfahānī, came from there.96 Muʿtazilites were documented there in Jāḥiẓ’s time, too.97 One generation later Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Zubayrī emerged as a theologian, having adopted Abū l-Hudhayl’s teachings via Yaḥyā b. Bishr al-Arrajānī.98 He was a member of a distinguished family of scholars whose ancestor had immigrated from Basra.99 He was an atomist like Abū l-Hudhayl, defending the latter’s view that the minimum of atoms that can touch and form a body is six against the philosophers. Indeed, he was so skilful that his argument was called al-mukhrisa ‘that shuts the opponents up’.100 In another place we can see clearly that he understood Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s corrections of Abū l-Hudhayl’s system from a critical distance.101 He is said to have written a total of 33 books on individual theological issues,102 in particular refuting Ibn al-Rēwandī’s ‘four books’, his scandalous dialectical exercises to challenge the Muʿtazilites.103 This gives us a certain terminus post quem; Zubayrī should certainly be dated to the second half of the third century. He was a contemporary of Jubbāʾī, but he was unable to match his fame with his Transoxianian colleagues who were in great awe of Iranian scholarship.104 In 96  See vol. III 66 above. 97   Faḍl 276, –6f. 98   Faḍl 298, pu. f. > IM 90, 10f.; cf. vol. III 315 above. 99  Regarding them cf. Samʿānī, Ansāb VI 270, 3ff. Ibn al-Murtaḍā’s assertion that Zubayrī was a descendant of Zubayr b. al-ʿAwwām (Ṭab. 90, 1f.) is his addition to the information of his source and probably incorrect. Different Miquel, Géographie humaine I 195f., n. 2. 100  Ibn Mattōya, Tadhkira 175, 5ff., after Kaʿbī. 101  Text XXIV 5, c–d; cf. p. 9, n. 14 above. 102   Faḍl 297, pu. f. > IM 90, 2. 103  Ibid. 298, 2 > IM 90, 4; cf. p. 354ff. below. 104  Ibid. 290, 8f.

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his home town, however, he was greatly respected by the authorities; it seems that on occasion he delivered the Friday sermon in the governor’s stead. On the other hand there were drawbacks: he was tortured because of misappropriation once.105 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, of whom we know that he studied hadith in Isfahan in 345–6/956–7,106 met Zubayrī’s daughter there who was well advanced in years by that time.107 The well-known Muʿtazilite Quranic exegete Abū Muslim al-Iṣfahānī (254/868–322/934) probably learnt the basics of theology from him, before moving to Baghdad and, we may assume, falling under Kaʿbī’s influence.108 In Isfahan a seal-engraver, whose name was Abū Muslim as well, continued Zubayrī’s tradition. He was a pious man who did not want to have anything to do with the authorities,109 but he was fighting a lost battle: hardly anyone was willing to pray behind him in the chief mosque any more.110 People appreciated his beautiful voice in the tarāwīḥ, but when it came to theology they preferred the traditionist reaction by that time.111 His prospects were better only in the Shīʿa, which remained unimpressed by the onslaught of the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth. Ibn Mumlak, who had already defended ʿAlī’s rights in ʿAskar Mukram, now settled in Isfahan.112 Muḥammad b. ʿAlī b. ʿAbdak al-ʿAbdakī (d. after 360/970?), too, must be mentioned in this context; he had studied under Muḥammad b. Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī (d. 294/909) in his early youth. He continued his studies in ʿAskar Mukram under Abū Hāshim (i.e. before 314/926)113 but returned to Isfahan afterwards.114 He did not stay for long, moving on to Khorasan to study under Kaʿbī, presumably in Balkh. He, too, was a Shīʿite; he ended his life in Gurgān where he was popular with the Zaydites despite being an Imāmite himself.115 Ibn Mumlak, too, came from Gurgān; it is consequently entirely 105   I M 90, 3ff. < Faḍl 297, ult. ff. (where the text is corrupted in part). 106  Cf. Madelung in: EIran I 116 b. 107   Faḍl 298, apu. f. > IM 90, 9f. 108  Regarding him cf. GAS 1.42f., and especially Madelung in: EIran I 340f. Another Quranic commentator from the city, Walīd b. Abān al-Iṣfahānī, was quoted by the Muʿtazilites (cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī IV 212, 9ff. > Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 466, 5ff.), but he was one of the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth (Kaḥḥāla, Muʿjam XIII 169). 109   Faḍl 322, pu. ff., according to which he refused to fashion a signet ring for Mardāwīj (r. 315/927–323/935) and was scolded by his wives because of the business lost. 110  Ibid. 323, 7ff. 111  Concerning this development cf. also vol. II 703ff. above. 112  Najāshī 269, apu. ff. > Ardabīlī, Jāmiʿ al-ruwāt II 144 b, –10. 113  See p. 276 above. 114   Faḍl. 115  Regarding him cf. Ḥasan Anṣārī’s detailed article in GIE IV 198f.; also vol. I 229 above with the secondary sources given. Different dates are reported of his death; the late chronology we have adopted based on al-Ḥākim al-Naysābūrī has been defended by Madelung in:

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possible that his ‘conversion’116 did not really change the situation much at all. He is only one instance out of several that demonstrate how Imāmiyya and Muʿtazila deliberately moved closer to one another, albeit for different reasons. Cf. my remarks in ER X 223f. s. v. Muʿtazila. As regards Baghdad, the family of the Nawbakhtī was particularly important (Madelung in: Le Shîʿisme imâmite 14f.). Kaʿbī, too, had Zaydite sympathies (cf. EIran I 359 b, and 362 a). In ʿAbdakī’s case the fact that the Ismāʿīliyya was becoming dangerous for the Muʿtazilites as well as for the Imāmites may have played a part; he composed a Radd ʿalā l-Ismāʿīliyya (Ṭūsī, Fihrist 368, ult.; cf. Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 396, 12). In the province of Kerman Kaʿbī mentions only the city of Jīruft.117 Muqaddasī adds Shīrgān, where he found the majority of the inhabitants to be Muʿtazilite.118 And that is all Kaʿbī has to say of Iran. He mentions neither Tirmidh, where Wāṣil sent one of his pupils, nor Herat, which was a Muʿtazilite centre according to Malaṭī,119 nor indeed Balkh, where Kaʿbī himself settled after his years of studying in Baghdad. The explanation may be that he wrote for an east Iranian audience and assumed they were familiar with the situation in their own country. However that may be, we must consult other sources to supplement his list of places. There can be no doubt that Khorasan had been part of the Muʿtazilite domain even before Kaʿbī. Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had corresponded with communities there,120 possibly above all with Nishapur, because it was there, in the Ṭāhirid metropolis, that Abū Zufar Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Makkī had brought some of Hishām’s ideas to the people’s notice.121 Abū Zufar may have been the first Muʿtazilite to settle in the city,122 the intellectual climate Der Islam 227/1980/57, n., with good reasons, but if we also believe that he met Dāwūd, he would have had rather a long life. 116  See p. 275f. above. We do not have any assured information on its date and location. 117  P. 114, 1. Cf. Gaube/Leisten 65, and Krawulsky 139; also Barthold, Historical Geography 141. 118   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 464, 8; also Gaube/Leisten 164f. 119   Tanbīh 32, 20/40, 13. Shortly afterwards, however, the Karrāmites and Ḥanbalites advanced here (cf. my Ungenützte Texte zur Karrāmīya, p. 49 and 61 etc.; also vol. II 639). 120  See p. 6 above. 121  Cf. Text XXIV 12, and 40, b. 122  Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 17 > Faḍl 303, ult. > IM 93, 12. Kaʿbī, Maq. 103, 8, as well as Qāḍī ʿAbd alJabbār, Faḍl 283, ult., name him as an authority. He must not be confused with Ḍirār’s pupil of the same name (regarding whom see vol. III 66 above).

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there was not necessarily favourable to the school.123 We also hear of one Muḥammad b. Saʿīd b. Zanjiyya124 or Ibn Zanja,125 who remains entirely in the dark.126 Abū l-Qāsim al-Ḥārith b. ʿAlī al-Warrāq probably lectured for a time in the city as well. School tradition had learnt from the ‘colleagues in Nishapur’ (al-Naysābūriyyūn) that he had emended Jubbāʾī’s K. al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt,127 but he certainly did not spend his entire life there. He met Jubbāʾī in Sūq al-Ahwāz128 in order to conduct debates.129 Later he lived as a bookseller in Baghdad, in Qaṣr Waḍḍāḥ on the western bank.130 This was probably where he composed his numerous polemics: against Ibn al-Rēwandī,131 against Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād,132 and against Muḥammad b. Zakariyyāʾ al-Rāzī;133 they fitted into this environment.134 As for Nishapur, on the other hand, we have only a few glimpses to help us retrace events. Ibn Khuzayma’s circle included a Muʿtazilite in 309/921.135 In the second half of the fourth century the ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād invited a fellow believer from Zūzan, who had also settled 123  See vol. II 678f. above. The Ṭāhirids do not seem to have committed to one particular theological school at any point (see p. 338 below and vol. II 681f. above). The Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Marwazī whom Ṭāhir I asked to meet (Jāḥiẓ, Bukhalāʾ 22, 1) was a theologian, but not necessarily a Muʿtazilite; indeed, we do not even know whether he ever lived in Iran. 124  Thus in Kaʿbī’s list in Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 220, n., l. 7, shortly after a mention of Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Makkī. 125  Thus after Faḍl 304, 1f. > IM 93, 13. 126  Could this refer to Maḥmashad b, Zancha, who would become the ancestor of a wellknown Karrāmite family? (Regarding him cf. my Ungenützte Texte 33f., where I consider a more probable person). It is well-known that the early Karrāmites had ties to the Muʿtazila. Maḥmashad is an Iranian derivation of Muḥammad (cf. Meier, Abū Saʿīd 322, n. 22); Zancha would then be a diminutive form of zan ‘little woman’. 127   Faḍl 303, –5ff.; also Gimaret in: JA 1976, p. 280f. There appears to have been a refutation of this text; İsmail Paşa wrongly attributes it to Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir (vol. V 285 [of the German edition]). 128  Regarding the location cf. Krawulsky 356f. 129  Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 218, 14f. 130  Ibid. 219, 2. Regarding Qaṣr (al-)Waḍḍāḥ cf. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān IV 364f. s. v., and Ṣ. A. al-ʿAlī, Baghdād I1, index s. v. 131  Catalogue of Works XXXV b, refutation a. 132  Cf. vol. V 342 (of the German edition). 133  See p. 356 n. 13 below. 134  See p. 103f. above and p. 384f. below. Ibn al-Nadīm lists further titles (219, 2ff.). Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār especially praised a K. al-mutashābih (Faḍl 303, –5; Ibn al-Nadīm lists it as K. mutashābih al-Qurʾān). 135   T H 724, 8ff.; cf. also Massignon, Passion 2I 217/transl. I 172, and Gimaret in: JA 277/1989/232f., who furthermore takes a parallel in Bayhaqī into account.

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in Nishapur, to join him.136 Abū Rashīd, who came here because he wished to study under the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, also came from Nishapur.136a Maḥmūd of Ghazna deported three Muʿtazilites from the city to Gardēz,137 one of whom had been imam of the chief mosque. More names for the fourth century may be found in Arazi in: Festschrift Baneth 284, n. 36. They are not mentioned in Muʿtazilite ṭabaqāt literature. Regarding the Seljuk era cf. Heemskerk 64, and p. 273, n. 18 above. – Concerning the development of Shīʿite theology in Nishapur see vol. I 455 above, and Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 38f. A contemporary or pupil of Abū Zufar, Ibrāhīm al-Balkhī, takes us further east; Khayyāṭ transmitted from him.138 It was not necessarily the case that the Muʿtazilites found many friends in his home city of Balkh; most of the Ḥanafites who were in charge there followed different intellectual traditions.139 Of course it was the home of Abū l-Qāsim al-Balkhī whom we usually quote as Kaʿbī; he was an administration official and was later employed by the Samanids.140 Before his time, there was also a certain Abū l-Ṭayyib al-Balkhī, a follower of Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb141 and authority named by Khayyāṭ.142 Among Kaʿbī’s own ṭabaqa there was Abū ʿAlī al-Balkhī, who was said to have been the head of a school and written books, but we have no further information about him.143 Another contemporary about whom we know rather more, Abū Zayd al-Balkhī (d. 322/933), on whose behalf Kaʿbī exerted himself, too,144 was a Muʿtazilite as well; he was best known for his K. naẓm al-Qurʾān.145 There was a Muʿtazilite living in the city as late as the early sixth/twelfth century; both Ibn ʿAsākir and 136  Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Sharḥ ʿuyūn al-masāʾil, in: Faḍl 386, –6f. > IM 117, pu. 136a  Cf. Madelung in: EIran I 367. 137  Ibid. 387, 6ff.; I should like to read the misspelt place name in l. 10 as Qardāz = Gardēz. [But cf. Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 224, n. 10.]. 138  Kaʿbī, Maq. 103, 8; Faḍl 283, ult. > IM 77, 12. 139  See vol. II 599ff. above. 140  For more detail about him see EIran I 359ff. and GIE VI 151ff. Regarding the Samanids’ religious politics see vol. II 633ff. above. 141  Kaʿbī, Maq. 74, 15f.; also named in Kaʿbī’s list in Ibn al-Nadīm 220, n., l. 6f. 142  Ibid. 70, 8, and vol. III 142 above. Or is he the same as Ibrāhīm al-Balkhī? 143   Faḍl 321, 1f. > IM 102, 3. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār adds a second nisba to his name; it is, however, so illegible that Ḥākim al-Jushamī and after him Ibn al-Murtaḍā left it out. 144  Cf. EIran I 359f. and 399f.; also GIE V 502ff. 145   E I2 I 1003. In detail Rosenthal in: Fs. Lewis 287ff. Another contemporary who was probably a Muʿtazilite, too, was the poet Shuhayd (?) b. al-Ḥasan al-Balkhī (d. 315/927; cf. EI2 IX 208f.).

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Ibn al-Jawzī studied under him, in spite of their differing religious views: he was Ḥusayn b. Muḥammad b. Khusraw al-Balkhī, a Ḥanafite (d. 522/1128).146 Expansion beyond the Oxus is demonstrated by the three Transoxianians who turned up in ʿAskar Mukram in the last decades of the third century with the intention of having Jubbāʾī teach them the true doctrine.147 The transmitted report knows only their respective kunya and nisba: Abū Saʿīd al-Usrūshanī, Abū l-Faḍl al-Khujandī, and Abū l-Faḍl al-Kishshī. Clearly people remembered the components of the names by which they were addressed and their places of origin; once they had returned home nothing more could be found out about them. The first one came from Usrūshana, the homeland of the Afshīn on the upper reaches of the Zarafshān, the second one from Khujand, the city on the border between the Usrūshana region and the Farghāna valley,148 and the third one from Kish in present-day Uzbekistan.149 They apparently travelled together, breaking their journey first in Balkh to see Kaʿbī, and then in Nishapur to see Zubayrī. It was Jubbāʾī, however, who made the greatest impression on them: Balkhī was too eloquent and Zubayrī too inexpert for their tastes.150 This account was written from the Basrans’ point of view; they had good reason to emphasise that Jubbāʾī, a man of few words, was a much more solid thinker. Iraq appears to have been the stronghold of scholarship, because Abū Saʿīd al-Usrūshanī continued his journey from ʿAskar Mukram to Basra in order to meet Jubbāʾī again;151 even later, Jubbāʾī would repeatedly receive requests from Khorasan.152 Abū Saʿīd wrote to him shortly before his death; Abū Hāshim replied in two series of responsa that would become known as Usrūshaniyyāt.153 Abū Saʿīd had also had Jubbāʾī dictate (all?) his books to him.154 Abū l-Faḍl al-Khujandī had him dictate his K. al-laṭīf/al-luṭf and afterwards guarded it so jealously that Jubbāʾī had to dictate it again in order that his other pupils should also have the text.155 Abū l-Faḍl’s requests arrived 146  For biographical sources about him cf. Ṭabāṭabā in: Turāthunā 7/1412, no. 1, p. 100. 147   Faḍl 291, 1ff. 148  Until recently Leninabad in Tajikistan; cf. EI2 V 45f., and Krawulsky 574. Usrūshana was situated between Khujand(a) and Samarqand. 149  Krawulsky 575f.; not to be confused with Kashsh/Kishsh in Sīstān (ibid. 56). 150   Faḍl 290, 6ff. 151  Ibid. 290, 5f. 152  As instanced by the Jawābāt al-Khurāsāniyyīn that were transmitted from him (Gimaret in: JA 1976, p. 286). 153   Faḍl 318. pu. f.; also Gimaret 306. 154  Ibid. 318, apu. Regarding his being mistaken for Abū Saʿīd al-Bardhaʿī see p. 269f. above. 155  Ibid. 319, 6ff. > IM 101, 11ff. We can infer from this that usually people borrowed books from one another and copied them. We cannot be sure whether an ijāza would be collected in retrospect. In the present case it was possible to compare the two dictated texts: they

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after Usrūshanī’s; they appear to have been addressed to Abū Hāshim directly.156 The same was probably true of Kishshī.157 We do not know what position these widely-travelled adepts held in their home country, but it seems that Kishshī composed an original book on the subject of free will and freedom of action.158 The Muʿtazila was clearly still growing; Abū Hāshim even had a student from Bukhara, a Ḥanafite man of law.159 One generation later in Samarqand, and once again among the Ḥanafites, resistance began to grow; Muḥammad b. Abī Naṣr al-ʿIyāḍī (d. 361/971), the son of a well-known Ḥanafite theologian,160 collected ten questions against the Muʿtazila (Al-masāʾil al-ʿashr al-ʿIyāḍiyya).161 However, this is the very city from which no names of any Muʿtazilites were transmitted. Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd reports that the Muʿtazilites of Transoxiana embraced Abū Ḥafṣ al-Muʿawwad al-Qarmīsīnī’s belief that the angels, like humans, consisted of flesh and blood, and that the reason why we cannot see them is that they are too far away. Qarmīsīnī thus met anthropomorphism, which was common in the region, half-way (ShNB VI 432, 2ff., where the nisba is corrupt; cf. Faḍl 320, 12ff.). Elsewhere, however, this belief, about which he had written a ‘little book’, met with the Muʿtazilites’ criticism (Faḍl 320, –7ff.). He was a treasury official and, for a time, subordinate to Kaʿbī, who, as we know, became the vizier of a Samanid governor (ibid. 320, –4ff.; also EIran I 359 b). He had studied under him as well, but was probably not originally from the region, as the name Qarmīsīn hides Kermānshāhān in the province of Kurdistan, which would later be destroyed by Hulagu (Krawulsky, Iran 371). – Concerning another of were ‘(very) similar to one another’ (Faḍl 319, 8, if the reading taqārabā is correct; IM 101, 14, on the other hand, has tafāwatā ‘they were divergent’). 156  Gimaret 318. 157  Abū Hāshim’s Jawābāt masāʾil Abī l-Faḍl (Gimaret 320) might have been addressed to him, but then Khujandī bore the same kunya. In addition, Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār tells us that he had already addressed masāʾil to Jubbāʾī (Faḍl 319, 2 > IM 101, 8f.). Maybe his case was similar to Usrūshanī’s. 158   Faḍl 319, 2f. > IM 101, 9f. 159  Abū Bakr al-Bukhārī (Faḍl 331, 5ff. > IM 109, 14f.). Abū Hāshim corresponded with him as well (Gimaret 318). Of him we even know, in addition to his kunya and nisba, the nickname: he was called ‘ʿĀʾisha’s camel’ because he adored her so very much. Clearly he was not a Shīʿite. 160  Regarding him see vol. II 634 above. 161  Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla I 357, 17ff. (read jamaʿa instead of jamīʿ in 357, pu.).

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Qarmīsīnī’s theories cf. Abū Rashīd, Al-masāʾil fī l-khilāf 74, –4; also Faḍl 320, 16. There was probably a Muʿtazilite community in Bust, one of the urban centres of Sīstān. It was here that Ṭāhir al-Maqdisī wrote his encyclopaedia Al-badʾ wal-ta‌ʾrīkh on behalf of a high official of the Samanid administration around 355/966. This book displays a clearly Muʿtazilite character not only in its theological material but also in its view of history.162 One or two generations later we meet the theologian Abū l-Qāsim Ismāʿīl b. Aḥmad al-Bustī, who became Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s pupil in Rayy before 389/999, and presumably came from Bust.163 He was a Zaydite; in Sīstān there had occasionally been Shīʿite judges from an early time.164 In Khwārazm, Zamakhsharī’s homeland, the fruits of the Muʿtazilite mission were maturing during the Ma‌ʾmūnid dynasty (from 385/995 onwards). Around 400/1010 the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār wrote his K. faḍl al-iʿtizāl at the request of a high-ranking official at the court in Gurganj. His foreword conveys the impression that the Khwārazm-shāh at the time converted to Muʿtazilism immediately.165 This referred to either ʿAlī b. Ma‌ʾmūn (387/997–399/1009) or Ma‌ʾmūn II (399/1009–407/1017); the title al-malik al-ʿādil had been struck onto coins since 395/1005.166 All the same we must not imagine the development as one-dimensional; the vizier Aḥmad al-Suhaylī, who determined cultural politics at the time, supported people of different calibre, too, such as the philosopher Avicenna.167 The book, which is the best biographical source for the history of the early Muʿtazila that we have, was apparently expected to

162  Regarding the author cf. EI2 VII 762; regarding the work Morony in EIran III 352f. T. Khalidi emphasised the Muʿtazilite character of the view of history (in: JNES 35/1976/1ff., esp. 9ff.). C. Schöck, on the other hand, thought that Maqdisī ‘clearly did not see himself as a Muʿtazilite’ (cf. Adam im Islam 95, n. 533). However, as she refers to his exploration of the doctrine of the attributes in the context, I do not understand on what she bases this claim. 163  Regarding him cf. GAS 1/626, and Madelung in: EIran IV 388f. 164  See vol. II 660f. above. Even so, in the province as a whole they were probably in the minority compared to the Khārijites and also the Murjiʾites. 165   Faḍl 137, ult. ff. 166  The hoard from Kazan to which we owe this knowledge did not include coins minted after 399, and we consequently have no records for Ma‌ʾmūn II (cf. A. K. Markov, O klad kuficheskix monet, St Petersburg 1908, esp. p. 5). I am grateful to L. Ilisch for this information. 167  Who was very young at the time and probably practised mainly as a physician (cf. Gohlman, The Life of Ibn Sīnā 41 and 124).

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provide information on which tradition to pledge oneself to.168 Its success did not, however, endure, for after Ma‌ʾmūn II lost his life in an uprising, Maḥmūd of Ghazna annexed the region in 408/1017,169 and he, as is well known, was not well-disposed to ‘heterodox’ tendencies.170 It seems that it was not until two generations later that another Muʿtazilite arrived from abroad: Abū Muḍar Maḥmūd b. Jarīr al-Ḍabbī al-Iṣfahānī (d. 507/1114). However, he taught mainly grammar and literature; one of his pupils in these subjects was Zamakhsharī (d. 538/1144).171 A renewed flourishing of theology at that time may be inferred from the works of Zamakhsharī’s contemporary (Ibn al-)Malāḥimī (d. 536/1141).172 He belonged to the school of Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī (d. 436/1044) and may well have adopted this preference from Maḥmūd b. Jarīr, as the latter was a physician and would consequently have had an interest in philosophy, like Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī was said to have had.173 Zamakhsharī, on the other hand, having become acquainted with Ḥākim alJushamī’s legacy during his travels, studied theology under Malāḥimī, returning the favour by teaching him the niceties of Quranic exegesis.174 In later years we find the Imāmite Sadīd al-Dīn Maḥmūd b. ʿAlī al-Ḥimmaṣī al-Rāzī’s Munqidh min al-taqlīd,175 and Kāmil fī l-istiqṣāʾ fimā balaghanā min kalām al-qudamāʾ by a certain Taqī al-Dīn about whose origins and nisba (Najrānī or Baḥrānī?) we are not entirely clear.176 Even Ibn Baṭṭūṭa met Muʿtazilites in Khwārazm in the thirties of the eighth/fourteenth century, and found them greatly respected even by the official religious authorities,177 and it is well-known that another Muʿtazilite, a Ḥanafite jurist from Khwārazm, was a member of Timur’s entourage during the campaign to Syria. He enjoyed having ‘orthodox’ scholars 168  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār also responded to inquiries from Khwārazm; they were presumably sent by the Muʿtazilite community there and were published under the title Khwārazmiyyāt (Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Sharḥ ʿuyūn al-masāʾil, in: Faḍl 368, 11). 169  Regarding the details cf. Bosworth in EI2 IV s. v. K̲ h̲wārazm-S̲h̲āhs. 170  Bosworth, The Ghaznavids 53; also p. 284 above, and Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 58f. 171  Yāqūt, Irshād VII 145, 4ff.; cf. Goldziher in: Der Islam 3/1912/220 = Ges. Schr. V 244. 172  Cf. above all his Muʿtamad (M. McDermott and W. Madelung, eds.; London 1991), and Fāʾiq fī l-uṣūl (McDermott and W. Madelung, eds., Beirut). Further works in Muʿtamad, intro. iv. 173  Ibid. v; also p. 726 below. 174  Cf. Madelung’s article in: Actas XII Congreso UEAI Málaga 485ff. 175  1–2; Qom 1412/1991–1414/1993. 176   Muʿtamad, intro. vi f.; also p. 92f. above. More details in Madelung, ibid.; regarding a second-generation pupil of Zamakhsharī cf. Lablī, Fihrist 125f. 177  Cf. Miquel in: BEO 30/1978/77.

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in the conquered regions challenging him to debates; his fluency in Arabic, Persian and Turkish stood him in good stead in these.178 Ibn Khaldūn met him during his audience in Damascus in 803/1401.179

178  Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt al-dhahab VII 50, 1ff. 179  Ibn Khaldūn, Taʿrīf, ult. f., with further information in the footnote. He calls him ʿAbd alJabbār b. Nuʿmān, while Ibn al-ʿImād has ʿAbd al-Jabbār b. ʿAbdallāh.

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7.6 India Sind appears to have been included in the Muʿtazilite mission from the very first;1 Ṣafwān al-Anṣārī, who immortalised it in his qaṣīda, spent some time at the court of the Arab governor in Multan.2 Besides Multan, Kaʿbī mentions al-Manṣūra that would later usually be named as the capital but was founded only under Manṣūr, around the same time as Baghdad.3 Besides them we find, included with Sind, Makrān, which probably refers to the entire coastal area to the west of the delta of the Indus, and Tīz, a port on the sea route to India, which is actually situated in Kerman and west of Makrān.4 The entire area was connected to Iraq only by sea, and the Abbasids reconquered it along this route after the preceding troubles.5 Kaʿbī heard all of Sind described as Muʿtazilite, but was not entirely sure on this count.6 In any case such an assertion would have referred to only a few centres where there were in fact Muslims, administrative towns but also trade hubs where merchants from Iraq had settled. One of Tanūkhī’s stories indicates that the Muʿtazilites were in touch with Khārijite communities; it is well-known that the Ibāḍites had come to Sind from Oman to settle there.7 Later the Ismāʿīlites would probably take on the legacy of the Muʿtazila in some places;8 Muqaddasī did not find any Muʿtazilites in the province.9 It seems to me that MacLean emphasises too strongly the part played by the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth in Sind. This is due to his basing his study too much on the biographical dictionaries (cf. e.g. p. 98ff.). As a result he states the predominance of ‘populism, literalism and textualism’, explaining it with the influence of indigenous Buddhism (107ff.). However, he occasionally places too much reliance on local sources, such as the grave inscriptions in Daybul/Dēbal published by Muh. Abdul Ghafur in: Pakistan Archaeology 3/1966/65ff.; the Pakistani author tends to jump to the interpretation of religious formulae according to the meaning known to him. 1  Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Awāʾil II 138, 9. 2  See vol. II 434f. above. 3  P. 114, 2f.; Krawulsky 576. Regarding the foundation cf. Yaʿqūbī, Buldān 238, 4f./transl. Wiet 10; in general also Wink, Al-Hind 184f. 4  Krawulsky 146; Bosworth in EI2 VI 193a. 5  Kennedy, Abbasid Caliphate 30f. and 51. 6  P. 114, 3. 7  Cf. the summary in MacLean, Religion and Society in Arab Sind 118ff. 8  Cf. S. M. Stern in: IC 23/1949/298ff. = Studies in Early Ismāʿīlism 177ff. Regarding circumstances in general see also Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi 341ff. 9  Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 481, 11.

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7.7 The Maghrib 7.7.1 The Interior and the Far Maghrib The Maghrib, too, was visited by one of Wāṣil’s envoys.1 This is not mere legend, as we can see from the fact that the Muʿtazila is usually called Wāṣiliyya there.2 The mission appears to have been directed at the Berber tribes rather than the Arab members of the administration. It had enduring success here; this, after the Syrian desert, is the second instance of the Muʿtazila succeeding in gaining a foothold in a region with a nomadic population. When the uprising against Manṣūr collapsed in 145 in Iraq, the sons of Bashīr b. Raḥḥāl and their entourage found refuge in the Maghrib.3 A generation later Idrīs b. ʿAbdallāh, the founder of the Idrīsid dynasty, brother of al-Nafs al-zakiyya and thus a Ḥasanid, was received by a shaykh of the Awraba named Abū Layla Isḥāq b. Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd – i.e. a third-generation Muslims – who won him over to the Muʿtazilite cause.4 He may have visited the Maghrib even earlier: if we are to believe Ashʿarī,5 he had been sent there as one of al-Nafs al-zakiyya’s envoys. However, he does not seem to have played an active role in the latter’s uprising; maybe he had not yet returned from his mission. He is also likely to have had ties to the Muʿtazila in the Hijaz. After all, after Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī b. alḤasan’s subsequent ʿAlid revolt had failed, Idrīs had to flee further west from Egypt and was accompanied by a Basran Muʿtazilite who had already taken part in the earlier uprising in his home city. This man, as was only proper in a Muʿtazilite of that generation, was a khaṭīb and consequently extremely useful in all attempts at establishing a power base somewhere: he ‘talked’ (kallama) with the tribes.6 This was at first viewed with disfavour, and the Ibāḍite prince ʿAbd al-Wahhāb b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān (r. 168/784) blocked Idrīs’ way in Jabal Nafūsa. He had to travel through the Rīf mountains where the claims had not yet been staked.7 The Awraba were a tribal federation of the Barānis group among the Berbers; in the first century they had produced Kusayla, ʿUqba b. Nāfiʿ’s great 1  See vol. II 355 above. 2  Thus noted in Kaʿbī 109, 5, and Faḍl 227, 10; confirmed in the Ibāḍite texts and by the geographers. 3  See vol. II 376 above. There was a Shīʿite uprising in the Maghrib in the same year, fomented by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s agents (Talbi, Emirat aghlabide 365, n. 4 and 574ff.). 4  Kaʿbī 110, 2ff., where he is called Isḥāq b. Maḥmūd rather than Isḥāq b. Muḥammad; also 119, pu. f. Cf. Ibn al-Faqīh, Buldān 84, 8ff./transl. Massé 103; Bakrī, Masālik 118, 5ff./transl. 231f.; also EI2 III 1031 b s. n. Idrīs I, and the sources listed by Talbi, Emirat 364, n. 4; furthermore Rebstock, Ibāḍiten im Maġrib 191f., and H. L. Beck, L’image d’Idrīs II 38ff. 5  Maq. 79, 7f. 6  Cf. Aḥmad b. Sahl al-Rāzī, Akhbār Fakhkh 173, 6ff. 7  Ibid. 164, 5ff.; 174, 8ff.; 181, 3ff.

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antagonist.8 It is difficult to say to what extent the community Idrīs I was able to establish was, in fact, Muʿtazilite; but there is no doubt that founding it required active and apparently unreserved support by the Muʿtazilite tribes.9 Ibn Khurradādhbih (d. ca. 300/911) assures us that Idrīs’ grandson Muḥammad b. Idrīs (213/828–221/836) was still ruler of the city; he also emphasises the high moral standard of these Bedouin.10 They settled in the area of the former Tingitana; Volubilis, where Idrīs I died in 177/793 (?) is only a few days’ journey from Tangiers. Kaʿbī mentions another centre of the Wāṣiliyya, the province (kūra) alBayḍāʾ where, he tells us with some reservations, they were said to have been able to mobilise 100,000 armed men.11 This region cannot be delimited exactly, but the description in Muqaddasī shows that it, too, was part of Tingitana.12 Muʿtazilite tribes also spread further east throughout the area of presentday Algeria. We know, for instance, that there were sizeable Wāṣilite groups among the Zanāta Berbers, a tribe whose area began west of Qayrawān. When the Spanish poet and courtier ʿAbbās b. Nāṣiḥ13 embarked on a journey to the ‘Orient’ during ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II’s emirate (206/822–238/852), he was accompanied by, among others, a Zanāta leader named Zayd b. Sinān who was the ‘head of the Wāṣiliyya’. The latter resided in Qaṣr Ibn Sinān, presumably a Berber fortress of the type in use to this day, situated on the road from Qayrawān to Oran.14 Other travel companions were a Ṣufrite and, above all, Yūnus b. al-Yasaʿ of the Barghawāṭa, who would assume the leadership among these shortly afterwards, in 227/842. As a consequence of the ‘Khārijite explosion’ which started in 122/740,15 the Barghawāṭa had been able to establish a 8    E I2 V 517f. Regarding the Banu Awraba see also Zerouki, L’Imamat de Tahart 67; also EI2 1037a s. v. Barānis. They were sedentary; it might consequently be considered whether the name was derived from Lat. urbe(m) subsequently read differently in accordance with the afʿala morpheme. Vallvé points out that the early Spanish historian al-Rāzī uses the same word to refer to the capital of a province, e.g. Jaén (in: Andalus 32/1967/245 = La división territorial de la España musulmana 275f.). 9   Cf. Talbi, Emirat 368f.; also Chick Bouamrane, Le problème de la liberté humaine 313. It should be noted that one of the Idrīsids’ urban foundations was given the name al-Baṣra; it appears to have been granted independent sovereign coinage in 180/796. 10   Masālik 265, 21ff. 11   Maq. 66, ult. ff., and 109. 4f. > Nashwān, Ḥūr 208, 7f., and Faḍl 237, 5 > IM 32, 5. 12   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 57, 7f., and 220, ult. f., in a list of district names which are found in the works of earlier geographers, too, albeit without the component (most interesting to us) al-Bayḍāʾ (cf. e.g. Ibn al-Faqīh 80, 8f.). 13  Regarding him GAS 2/673. 14  In more detail Terés in: Etudes Lévi-Provençal I 348ff. 15  For a general overview see Talbi, Etudes d’histoire ifrīqiyenne 47ff.; regarding Spain cf. Fierro, Heterodoxia 19f.

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stable realm on the Atlantic coast between Salé and Ṣafī, which entered its ‘nationalist’ phase under Yūnus. He was more forthright than his predecessors in re-introducing native Berber ideas which served there, at the extreme western edge of the Islamic ecumene, to emphasise one’s identity. It seems that originally they, too, had been Ṣufrites;16 Yūnus, on the other hand, had studied kalām and dialectic under a certain ʿAbdallāh al-Muʿtazilī according to Ibn Khaldūn.17 Terés conjectured that this remarkable group of travellers demonstrates the attempt by Cordoba to forge an alliance against the Idrīsids and the Aghlabids in the Maghrib.18 Interestingly Kaʿbī notes that in al-Bayḍāʾ, too, there were tribes who had joined the Ṣufriya; they also embraced the doctrine of ‘justice’ (al-ʿadl) and were consequently close to the Muʿtazila; closer, certainly, than the predestinarian Ibāḍiyya.19 The ‘Khārijite explosion’ had encompassed the Tingitana as well; a certain Maysara of the Banū Maṭghara had appeared on the scene in this area in 122/740 (cf. Colin in: EI2 VI 815; Abun-Nasr, History of the Maghrib 39ff.; also Kh. Y. Blankinship, The End of the Jihād State, Albany 1994, p. 203ff.). The father of Ṣāliḥ b. Ṭarīf, whom the Barghawāṭa would later regard as their ‘prophet’, had joined him. This uprising is labelled ‘Ṣufrite’, which probably refers less to the affiliation with a particular ‘sect’ and more to the original Khārijite stratum in the Maghrib where it was not superseded by the Ibāḍite mission. From the point of view of etymology – and disregarding later explanations – the term only tells us that the Khārijites were yellow in the face due to their nocturnal prayers (ṣufr al-wujūh; cf. Levi Della Vida in EI1 IV 539b; also Lewinstein in: SI 76/1992/94ff.) Kaʿbī does not mention the Maṭghara among his Ṣufrites of al-Bayḍāʾ, speaking of Maʿrūriyya instead. The form appears to be corrupt, but it might refer to the Maghrāwa tribe, a sub-group of the Zanāta who had ruled in Tlemcen and agreed to become Idrīs II’s subjects in 173/789 (Rebstock 192; Talbi, Etudes 55ff.; Zerouki, Imamat 90 and 92). The Zanāta were nomads who rode not only camels but also horses (cf. L. Golvin, 16  Cf. M. Talbi’s groundbreaking study Hérésie, acculturation et nationalisme des berbères Barġawāṭa, inL Actes du premier congrès d’études des cultures méditerranéennes d’influence arabo-berbère (Algiers 1973), p. 217ff. = Etudes d’histoire ifrīqiyenne 81ff.; briefly summarised in Rebstock, Ibāḍiten im Maġrib 43f. (which also lists older secondary sources). See also de la Veronne in: EI2 VIII 985 s. v. Ṣāliḥ b. Ṭarīf. 17  This teacher’s identity remains, as is hardly surprising, uncertain (cf. Talbi, ibid. 223, n. 64/93, n. 2). 18  Loc. cit. 350ff. 19  P. 109, 5f.

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Le Maghreb central à l’époque Ziride 33; Hallm, Das Reich des Mahdi 241); regarding the area they occupied cf. Zerouki 53ff., 75ff., and 120ff. The Barghawāṭa, too, included Zanāta among others, but in this case it was a confederation that was not ethnically homogeneous. Talbi’s using the slightly anachronistic term ‘nationalism’ with reference to them really describes a striving for independence legitimised by the religious categories hinted at above: the claim to a new prophecy including laws and a new, Berber, Quran (cf. EI2 I 1044). Previously they had been satisfied with revering another prophet who, while he had not been named in the Quran did have the merit of not having been sent to the settled population: Khālid b. Sinān al-ʿAbsī who had appeared among the Makhzūm on the Arabian Peninsula and extinguished a burning oil well because it threatened to become a fire sanctuary (Kindī, Quḍāt Miṣr 305, 6ff. with n.; ʿUmar b. Shabba, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Madīna II 420ff.; Masʿūdī, Murūj I 131, 4ff. = I 75 § 131 Pellat; in general Maṭwī, Faḍāʾil Ifrīqiya 20f.). Iraqi theologians believed this to be a pious legend and denied on principle that the Bedouins had produced a prophet (Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān IV 476, 2ff.; also Pellat in EI2 IV 928). Ibn ʿArabī, however, accorded this Khālid his own entry directly before Muḥammad in Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam. In the region ruled by the Rustamids, i.e. the area around Tāhart, it is quite well documented that the Ṣufrites coexisted more peacefully with the Muʿtazilites than the Ibāḍites did. Under the imamate of ʿAbd al-Wahhāb – the same one who had felt threatened by Idrīs b. ʿAbdallāh – there was some armed conflict with the Wāṣilites, probably during the years between 188/803 and 196/812. The Muʿtazilites were Zanāta here, too; unlike the sedentary Ibāḍites, they were nomads. Maybe they had been won over to the interests of the Idrīsids at that time, a generation before ʿAbbās b. Nāṣiḥ’s journey; this was the time when Idrīs II founded Fās as his new capital (192/808). To us it is particularly interesting that the battle was preceded by a theological contest; the Wāṣiliyya was better armed for such a case as it counted a khaṭīb with experience in kalām among its members.20 There are reports of theological discussions later, too, under the Rustamid imām Abū l-Yaqẓān Muḥammad b. Aflaḥ (d. 281/894); they took place by the Nahr Mīna, not far from Tāhart, in an apparently tolerant and equitable atmosphere. Once again it was the Muʿtazilites who took the

20  Might this have been the same Basran who already accompanied Idrīs I? Cf. in detail Rebstock 189ff.; more generally also Halm, Reich des Mahdi 46.

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initiative; they asked the questions and addressed a specific person.21 Yāqūt noted that around 200/815 the Wāṣiliyya in the area around Tāhart was subordinate to the Rustamids; they were about 30,000 in number, all of whom lived in tents.22 At the time that the Fāṭimids were conquering Tāhart with the support of the Kutāma, i.e. in 296/909, the Muʿtazilite tribes together with the Ṣufrites formed an opposition party in the city; they called the Ibāḍite imams ‘Persians’ because of their foreign origin.23 The alliance between Wāṣilites and Ṣufrites suggested itself in Tāhart. Both felt slighted by the ruling Ibāḍites; both were linked by their fundamentally ‘Qadarite’ attitude. However, we are not looking at a permanent war with the Rustamids, as the tribal interests, above all the essential cooperation in the caravan trade, were more relevant than the religious differences. The Ṣufrites’ centre was in Sijilmāsa, where the Miḍrārids remained for over 160 years. An Ibāḍite minority was also living there, just as there were some Ṣufrites in Tāhart; quite possibly fear of mutual reprisals would have ensured the peace was kept.24 Basically, however, it can be said that wherever the Ṣufriyya was able to gain ground, the opposition against the Ibāḍiyya would later find particularly fertile soil;25 the old rivalry that had already existed during the Berber mission26 seems to be expressed here, too. And it applies not to the Wāṣiliyya only but also to the Nukkār.27 They even had their own imamate independently of Tāhart for a time.28 With Abū Yazīd, ‘the man riding a donkey’ who nearly broke the power of the Fāṭimids, they step into the bright light of history]; elsewhere they are mainly documented in the Tunisian Jarīd, e.g. the Tozeur oasis.29 21  Ibn al-Ṣaghīr, Chronik 44, –4ff./transl. 108f.; also Chikh Bekri in: AIEO Alger 15/1957/91; Ḥabīb al-Janḥānī in: Revue Tunisienne de Sciences Sociales 1975/12, Arab. section, p. 43; Bouamrane, Liberté 311. In general Ṣāliḥ Bājiyya, Al-Ibāḍiyya bil-Jarīd 42ff, and ʿAbd alʿAzīz al-Majdūb, Al-ṣirāʿ al-madhhabī bi-Ifrīqiyya 92ff. 22   Muʿjam al-buldān II 8 b s. v. Tāhart. The name of the Rustamid imam is incorrect; the chronology is assured by the Aghlabid ʿAbdallāh I (197/812–201/817) named in the same context/ Cf. also Strothmann in: Ephemerides Orientales 31/1927/7. 23  Cf. Abū Zakariyāʾ, transl. Revue Africaine 104/1960/343. Concerning the capture of Tāhart see Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi 123f. 24  Rebstock 201ff.; also Zerouki 106ff. 25  Zerouki in particular emphasised this. 26  See vol. II 734f. above. regarding ʿIkrima. For a general overview of the relations between Ṣufriyya and Ibāḍiyya see Lewinstein in: SI 76/1992/75ff.; however, this study is predominantly theoretical. 27  Regarding them see vol. II 229 and 243 above. 28  Lewicki in EI2 III 659 b. 29  Halm in: WO 15/1984/149 and 181f.; regarding the Jarīd cf. Lewicki in EI2 VI 840 s. v. Maṭmāṭa.

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The circumstances in the Tāhart region are illuminated to some degree by the Ibāḍite sources. We know considerably less about the western region to which Kaʿbī refers, although it seems that this was where the heartland of the Maghrib Muʿtazila was situated. The Rustamids may simply have used their imamate to provide a boundary against the ‘Wāṣilite’ tribes approaching from the west. Ibn Khurradādhbih claimed that the Muʿtazilite ‘zone’ began after Tāhart and then went on for 24 days’ journey.30 One of its centres was a – presumably fortified – town the name of which may be read as Ayzarj, and which Lewicki would like to locate west of Tlemcen, not far from the presentday Algerian – Moroccan border.31 Ibn Ḥawqal, who travelled in North Africa in the years from 336/947–340/951, gained the impression that the two tribal federations of the Zanāta and the Mazāta were mainly Muʿtazilite.32 Previously at least the Mazāta had been inclined towards Khārijite ideas, possibly first Ṣufrite and then Ibāḍite.33 Circumstances would not be settled later, either. Ibn Ḥazm (d. 456/1064) claims that all Berber tribes of North Africa professed Muʿtazilism, with the exception of the Banū Birzāl and the Banū Wāsīn who were Ibāḍites, and the Banū Maghrāwa and the Banū Ifren who had joined the ahl al-sunna.34 The Maghrāwa, as we have seen,35 had originally been followers of the Shīʿite – Muʿtazilite Idrīsids. The Ifren had at first embraced the Ṣufriyya and then become Nukkār,36 while the Birzāl were in fact Ibāḍites, but Nukkār as well. They emigrated to Spain during the second half of the fourth century, i.e. a generation before Ibn Ḥazm, and were able to establish their independence for some time in Carmona later.37 Outsiders found it difficult even then to make sense of the constantly changing constellations; in one place Bakrī directly equates the Wāṣiliyya and the Ibāḍiyya.38

30   Masālik 265, pu. ff.; cf. also, slightly more general, Aḥmad b. Sahl al-Rāzī, Akhbār Fakhkh 181, apu. 31  In EI2 VI 841 b; cf. Ibn al-Faqīh 80, 4f./transl. Massé 98. Zerouki, on the other hand, has eastern Algeria in mind, namely the region of Ikjan; and he reads the name differently as Ayzdaraj (Imamat de Tahart 146 and 153). However, he is not always entirely reliable when it comes to details; he does not include any new sources – or an independent local tradition – either. 32   Ṣūrat al-arḍ 96, 9ff./transl. Kramers-Wiet, Configuration de la terre 94; also 103, 1ff/101. 33  Cf. Lewicki in EI2 VI 945 a. They were nomads relying on camels (Halm, Reich des Mahdi 100). 34   Jamhara 498, 15ff. 35  See p. 293 above. 36  Zerouki 60ff. and 77ff.; Lewicki in EI2 III 1040. Abū Yazīd was one of them. 37  Cf. Le Tourneau in: EI2 I 1238 s. n.; they also supported Abū Yazīd. 38   Masālik 72, 6.

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The question remains of how Ibn Ḥazm classified those Berbers who supported the Fāṭimids and furnished, here as in Egypt, significant contingents of their army. Could the Ismāʿīlites have become the Muʿtazilites’ successors, like they did in Sind? Certainly not everywhere. We know that some ‘Wāṣilite’ tribes expanded their pasture into the Mzāb, which may have been a consequence of Fāṭimid pressure. The Ibāḍites, too, had to leave their established centres around Tāhart and retire to Wargla;39 they may have pushed the Wāṣilites before them. Later, they would have to follow them to the Mzāb where they, as people recall to this day, ‘converted’ the Muʿtazilites.40

39  Cf. J. Lethellieux, Ouargla cite saharienne, des origines au début du XXe siècle, p. 21ff. 40  Illuminating these connections would go beyond the scope of the present work, and in fact all these events are shrouded in obscurity to a degree; cf. so far the references in ZDMG 126/1976/58, n. 59. Regarding the work of the Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Bakr alFirisṭāʾī mentioned cf. Farḥāṭ al-Jaʿbīrī, Niẓām al-ʿazzāba ʿinda l-Ibāḍiyya al-Wahbiyya 40; his Sīrat al-ḥalqa was translated into French by Claude Grossmann in a Paris Thèse IIIe cycle (Aperçu sur l’histoire des Ibāḍites du Mzab en Algérie).

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7.7.2 Tripolitania and Tunisia Along the Mediterranean coast, things looked different. The Arab influence was much stronger here; armies marched through, the governors had their residence here, and besides the overland route there was always the sea.1 Theology constantly received new impulses through the connection with the Islamic heartlands, in particular Iraq. The Wāṣiliyya did not survive here, but the Muʿtazila of later generations and Bishr al-Marīsī’s school succeeded in putting down roots here, especially during the miḥna.2 Ruling dynasties such as the Aghlabids attracted historians; in a city like Qayrawān, scholars described the intellectual life from their point of view. Even so, our information is sparser and more legendary than in Iraq. The Khārijites precede the Muʿtazilites chronologically more distinctly here than in the areas discussed so far. The first Ṣufrite uprising broke out in Gabes in 124/742, led by ʿUkāsa b. Ayyūb al-Fazārī al-Qaysī, an officer and administration official who had come to the Maghrib in 116/734 with the Syrian army.3 The uprising was coordinated with other revolts which could be stopped outside Qayrawān only, and found imitators over the following years.4 Shortly before the end of the Umayyad era the Ibāḍites succeeded in establishing their first imamate in Tripolis, supported by the power of the Hawwāra. It was of limited duration, for even before the Abbasid revolution created a total vacuum, the governor ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Ḥabīb was able to take control of the situation. He benefited from quarrels among the Berbers during which the imām as well as his closest confidant lost their lives. A reconstruction of events seems well-nigh impossible. The tradition preserved by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam and Raqīq al-Qayrawānī diverges from that in the Ibāḍite sources even to the names of the two victims; in addition, the traditions disagree among themselves. The Ibāḍite authors are visibly trying to clear the two leaders of all guilt; this was the only way in which one could still demonstrate loyalty (walāya) to them or, at least, abstain from judging them.5 This strategy was apparently thought up, or at least encouraged, by the authorities of the community in Basra who had been asked for advice. It was successful because it allowed people to say that no-one observed the death of the two; it was assumed that they had killed 1  Which, however, was dangerous. Concerning the part played by the Byzantine fleet at the time cf. E. Eickhoff, Seekrieg und Seepolitik zwischen Islam und Abendland, passim. 2  See vol. III 519f. above. 3  Cf. Rebstock, Ibāḍiten 21f. 4  Ibid. 45ff.; cf. also earlier 34ff. 5  Ibid. 18ff., but mingling the individual accounts as well as the secondary sources so far. W. Schwartz’ analysis of the sources, on the other hand, is enlightening (Anfänge der Ibāḍiten 121ff.).

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another without the cause of their quarrel ever having become known. This was the way in which the case was studied as a theological problem in the east.6 7.7.2.1 Qayrawān The most detailed information we have concerns the metropolis of the Maghrib, Qayrawān. Even so, the material is not sufficient to provide a clear picture.1 We have pointed out elsewhere that the Aghlabids entrusted the higher office of judge to the ‘Muʿtazilites’,2 but we are left with the impression that the Maghribi sources used the term loosely. Usually it refers to Kufans, Ḥanafites, who may well have been ‘Jahmites’. The shibboleth for the orthodox authors was usually the khalq al-Qurʾān; however, this was in fact characteristic of both groups. A sure decision becomes possible only once Qadarite tendencies are mentioned. In his Ṭabaqāt ʿulamāʾ Ifrīqiya Khushanī furthermore notes a worrying readiness to debates or dialectical discussion (munāẓara, jadal, kalām). Consequently long stretches of his text read like a chronique scandaleuse. The first qāḍī considered to be a Muʿtazilite3 took office under the founder of the Aghlabid dynasty Ibrāhīm I, a Khorasanian officer in the Abbasid army to whom Hārūn al-Rashīd had awarded the province in 184/800. The qāḍī, Abū Muḥriz Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Kinānī with the telling sobriquet al-ʿIrāqī,4 furthermore had Ḥanafite training. There was amusement when he was embarrassed over his Qadarite attitude during a lecture.5 At the beginning of the third century we meet another ‘Iraqi’, a man named Hishām who also combined an interest in iʿtizāl with a Kufan education.6 Even so, the tradition was not exclusively imported. The Muʿtazilites also claimed Abū Muḥriz’ teacher 6 See vol. III 62f. above. – Regarding the question of whether the Warfajūma tribe, who were able to take possession of the city of Qayrawān after ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Ḥabīb’s death (139/757), followed the Ṣufrite denomination cf. Rebstock 78 and Schwartz 140ff.; both authors answer in the negative. 1  For a first overview cf. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-Majdhūb, Al-ṣirāʿ al-madhhabī bi-Ifrīqiya (Tunis 1395/1975), and ʿAbd al-Majīd Ben Ḥamda, Al-madāris al-kalāmiyya bi-Ifrīqiya ilā ẓuhūr alAshʿariyya (Tunis 1406/1986). 2  See vol. III 519f. above. 3  Thus after Abū l-ʿArab, Ṭabaqāt ʿulamāʾ Ifrīqiya 167, 1f. 4  Regarding him cf. the information in Talbi, Tarājim aghlabiyya 504, Index s. n., and Emirat, Index s. n.; also Majdhūb, Al-ṣirāʿ al-madhhabī 95f. 5  Mālikī, Riyāḍ al-nufūs 159, 11ff./2I 236, 7ff. 6  Abū l-ʿArab, Ṭabaqāt 129, 13ff.; regarding him also Khushanī, Ṭabaqāt ʿulamāʾ Ifrīqiya 246f. no. 86 ʿAṭṭār. Regarding the disagreement between Mālikites and Ḥanafites in Qayrawān cf. in general Majdhūb, Al-ṣirāʿ al-madhhabī 56ff.

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as one of them: Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdallāh b. Farrūkh al-Khurāsānī who had been born into an Iranian family in Spain in 115/733.7 His legal training may have contributed to his image, too; during an early journey to the east he had met Abū Ḥanīfa.8 Consequently he thought nothing of drinking nabīdh;9 he also seems to have learnt the ‘method of the ahl al-naẓar wal-istidlāl’, i.e. presumably the conclusion by analogy, in Iraq.10 He had also attended Mālik b. Anas’ lectures, who had died a generation after Abū Ḥanīfa,11 and later Mālikite tradition did everything possible to cover up his ‘Muʿtazilite’ past. Our earliest source, Abū l-ʿArab (d. 333/955–5), recalls that he was accused of certain Qadarite tendencies;12 later biographers, Mālikī (d. after 453/1061) and Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ (d. 544/1149), record only the arguments against this suspicion that Abū l-ʿArab had already cited. They may have been right, as Ibn Farrūkh could not have learnt Qadarite ideas from Abū Ḥanīfa. He is said to have defended the punishment of the grave;13 not something one would have expected of a Muʿtazilite at that time, either.14 In the end it was feasible to present him as a straightforward opponent of the Muʿtazila. He was said to have refused one of them, a certain Ibn Ṣakhr, the honour of saying the prayer of the dead.15 Later it would even be claimed that he cursed them point-blank.16 Of Buhlūl b. Rashīd, another of Mālik’s pupils, it was said that he refused to shake hands with Muʿtazilites – surely because he feared to become unclean as a consequence.17 They were anathema to Saḥnūn (d. 240/854) in particular; when he took up the office of judge in 234/849, he forbade the Muʿtazilites, Ṣufrites and Ibāḍites to give lectures in the great mosque.18 This was a reaction to the miḥna; the Muʿtazila had tem7    Riyāḍ al-nufūs 120, 15/I 186, 4. 8   Ibid. 116, 13ff./I 181, 1ff. 9   Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb al-madārik I 346, –6ff. = Talbi, Tarājim 50, 1ff. 10  Mālikī, Riyāḍ 113, –6ff./I 177, 2f. 11  Ibid. 115, 6ff./I 179, 7ff. 12   Ṭabaqāt 107, 8 > TT V 356, –4ff. 13  Ibid. 173, 12ff. 14  Regarding him cf. also Talbi in: Revue Tunisienne de Sciences Sociales 12/1975/67, and Emirat, Index s. n. Eastern sources have no information on his theological beliefs; Bukhārī III 1 169 no. 537; IAH II 2 137 no. 639; ʿUqaylī, Ḍuʿafāʾ II 289 no. 860; Mīzān no. 4507. In general Ziriklī IV 252, and Kaḥḥāla VI 152. 15  Abū l-ʿArab 107, pu. ff. > Mālikī, Riyāḍ 121, 4ff./I 186, 14ff. > Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ 346, 3ff. (= Talbi, Tarājim 49, 3ff.). This would have been before 190/806, as the story mentions the qāḍī Ibn Ghānim who died during that year (regarding him cf. Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ 316ff. = Talbi 8ff. no. 1). 16  Thus not before Mālikī 120, apu. ff./I 186, 8ff. > 345, pu. ff. (Talbi 48, pu. ff.). 17  Abū l-ʿArab 167, 8f.; cf. also vol. II 268 above. 18  Talbi in: Revue Tun. Sc. Soc. 12/1975/46f., and RO 43/1984/152f., also in EI2 VIII 639 a and 843ff. Regarding Saḥnūn’s controversial-theological profile cf. Majdhūb, Al-ṣirāʿ almadhhabī 66ff. and 144. In general GAS 1/468ff.

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porarily held great power during its latter stages, and Saḥnūn had suffered persecution.19 One of his opponents, this one a theologian and not merely an immigrant jurist, is known to us by name: Sulaymān b. Ḥafṣ b. Abī ʿUṣfūr al-Farrāʾ, d. 269/882–3. He was said to have been the son of a Manichaean. He certainly came from a local family; his father’s name is also given as Urbān b. Martīnih. Clearly the latter had converted to Islam, but the assertion that he was a Manichaean may have been a fiction thought up in order to make his son the descendant of a zindiq. After all, the two names were borne by popes20 and might thus just as easily have been Christian.21 The son went on the customary educational journey to the east; he was said to have attended lectures by Bishr al-Marīsī as well as Abū l-Hudhayl.22 He was known not to believe in the ruʾya bil-abṣār and was said to have been punished for this by Asad b. alFurāt – who had, of course, died in 213/828.23 His career does not seem to have been entirely straightforward; the Ibāḍites, too, claimed him as one of their own.24 Several books by him were known: a K. khalq al-Qurʾān and a text on the signs of prophethood (aʿlām al-nubuwwa), furthermore a K. mushkil al-Qurʾān, in which he allegedly depended on the Basran grammarian Quṭrub’s work of the same title.25 The latter may have been Naẓẓām’s pupil;26 presumably Sulaymān al-Farrāʾ studied under him as well. His influence was by no means broken after the miḥna, as we hear that one of Saḥnūn’s pupils, named Saʿīd b. Muḥammad Ibn al-Ḥaddād, who did not die until Rajab 302/Feb. 915, challenged him to a dispute on the non-locatedness of God.27 This was thanks to the Aghlabids; they did not follow Mutawakkil’s 19  See vol. III 519; Talbi in EI2 VIII 844b. 20  Both before this time: Urban I, pope from 222–230, and Martin I, 649–655. 21  Cf. Talbi in: Revue Tun. Sc. Soc. 50ff., and in RO 154ff. (now also briefly in: Gervers/Bikhazi, Conversion and Continuity 334f.), who believes in the Manichaean background. It has to be borne in mind that opponents regarded Qadarite doctrine as hidden dualism (see vol. II 60 above). 22   RO 155. This visit would have been during Ma‌ʾmūn’s caliphate; Bishr al-Marīsī died in 219/833 at the latest (see vol. II 60 above). 23  Ibid. 152. He, too, had studied in Iraq but was said to have avoided Bishr al-Marīsī’s lectures (Riyāḍ 182, 3ff./I 264, apu. f.). Marīsī was probably still irrelevant at that time. Regarding him see vol. II 814f. above. 24  Shammākhī 262, 4f.; after him Cuperly, Introduction 64. 25  Khushanī, Ṭabaqāt ʿulamāʾ Ifrīqiya 286 no. 131. 26  See vol. II 100f. and III 324 above. 27  Khushanī 257, 9ff.; cf. also Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ in Talbi, Tarājim 357, –5f. Regarding Ibn al-Ḥaddād in general cf. Ben Ḥamda, Al-madāris al-kalāmiyya 43f., and Index s. n.; on p. 309ff. an excerpt from his K. al-istiwāʾ, a work on the very subject the dispute focussed on.

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policy. Ibn al-Ḥaddād was consequently in a difficult position at court. He had to defend himself before Ibrāhīm II (r. 261/875–289/902) against the suspicion that being a Mālikite he could not be friendly towards ʿAlī; Khushanī reports in detail how he wriggled out of the accusation and praised the imāmat al-mafḍūl in cautious terms.28 The ‘Iraqis’ with their Kufan tradition found it rather less difficult to meet the ruler’s expectations. Still, they were not all-powerful under Ibrāhīm II any more. In 267/881 he appointed the Mālikite ʿAbdallāh b. Aḥmad Ibn Ṭālib as qāḍī, a pupil of Saḥnūn who had held the office for two years already under Muḥammad II, between 257/871 and 259/873.29 He could afford to have an Iraqi named Ibrāhīm alFazārī executed for heresy. Ibrāhīm had embraced Ibn ʿUlayya’s teachings, and was thus probably a Muʿtazilite.30 He had also written poetry, which could have been the cause of the accusation that was his undoing, namely that he mocked God and the prophets. His throat was cut, his body was displayed publicly and burnt afterwards.31 The judge was no luckier in the long run; he made an unguarded remark that was not to the liking of the ruler’s black elite troops and was trampled to death by them in 275/888–9.32 His successor was a Ḥanafite, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdūn, who was immediately suspected of supporting the khalq al-Qurʾān.33 The Muʿtazilites appear to have been connected with the upper middle class. One of them was an apothecary,34 another even a physician,35 a third one was a furrier36 – like Sulaymān al-Farrāʾ. Some made a name for themselves as poets.37 Khushanī had observed with his own eyes that they could be very pious.38 Their legal opinions were, of course, regarded as alien; Khushanī uses the word tasharraqa ‘to orientalise’ in this context.39 But he also mentions that until his time many people attended the sermons of one of Ibn ʿAbdūn’s 28  Ibid. 260, 7ff.; cf. also GAS 1/601. 29  Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb II 194, –4ff.; also Khushanī 306 no. 194, but without dates. Cf. Talbi, Emirat, Index s. n. Ibn Ṭālib. 30  Khushanī 287 no 144. Regarding Ibn Ulayya, a pupil of Aṣamm, see vol. II 473ff. above. 31  Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ II 198, 10ff. Khushanī does not include this tradition, but he reports that Fazārī was predicted to have a violent end (287, ult.). 32  Khushanī 297 no. 163; Talbi, Emirat 285. 33  Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ II 253, 5ff. Regarding him also Khushanī 307 no. 195, and Talbi, Emirat 312. 34  Khushanī 289 no. 138, and 291 no. 142. 35  Ibid. 288 no. 135. Strictly speaking all this tells us about him is that he embraced the khalq al-Qurʾān. 36  Ibid. 289 no. 137. 37  Thus the physician mentioned; also Ibrāhīm al-Fazārī. 38  Ibid. 253 no. 105. 39  Ibid. 291ff., regarding the use of this term cf. also Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi 221.

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pupils, Abū Isḥāq al-ʿAmshāʾ, on the khalq al-Qurʾān in Qayrawān.40 Another ‘Iraqi’ exported the theory to Barqa when he became qāḍī there.41 When Ibn alḤaddād published a treatise polemicizing against this trend, he immediately had a response directed at him; one of his pupils who came to his aid was harassed with criminal proceedings and ultimately handed over to the executioner’s sword in a favourable moment at the beginning of the Fāṭimid era.42 At the end of the third century things had come to a head. When Ibrāhīm II set out on a campaign to Sicily shortly before his death,43 he appointed the Ḥanafite Muḥammad al-Ṣaddīnī qāḍī, who, as was customary, was a believer in the khalq al-Qurʾān.44 He is said to have taken this decision out of consideration for his son and successor ʿAbdallāh II (r. 289/902–290/903),45 who would indeed distinguish himself with a policy that had not been heard of since Ma‌ʾmūn’s and Wāthiq’s days: he affirmed the khalq al-Qurʾān in an edict and had the text read in the pulpit.46 Ṣaddīnī was appointed chief qāḍī; the people saw him as the personification of the ruler’s policies. Serious unrest appears to have been the result. ʿAbdallāh II was murdered by his son who assumed the rule in 290/903 as Ziyādatallāh III. He revoked the edict; Ṣaddīnī was removed from office.47 Six years later Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Shīʿī came to power. The Ismāʿīlites, who were ultimately part of Iraqi tradition, too, got along better with the Ḥanafites and Muʿtazilites than with the Mālikites. Abū l-ʿAbbās, the brother of the mahdī ʿAbdallāh, had even trained as a Ḥanafite jurist and believed in the khalq al-Qurʾān.48 Khushanī, who died in 361/972, also met supporters of the khalq al-Qurʾān in Qayrawān,49 these must have survived into the Fāṭimid era. When Abū Yazīd’s troops sacked the city with fire and sword in Ṣafar 333/October 944, the dignitaries chose a Muʿtazilite named Ibrāhīm b. al-Ghashmāʾ as their head to be the one to go to Raqqāda and obtain an amān.50 Perhaps they

40  Ibid. 288 no. 134. Khushanī explains the use of the strange feminine form as being due to the fact that al-ʿAmshāʾ had two bleary eyes. 41  Ibid. 290 no. 140. 42  Ibid. 289 no. 136, and 281f. no. 120. 43  Cf. Talbi, Emirat 519ff. 44  Khushanī 251f. no. 101, and 308 no. 190. The nisba is misread in both places (cf. Talbi, Tarājim 474 s. n.). 45  Ibid. 308, –5f. 46  Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ in Talbi, Tarājim 244, 10ff.; transl. Talbi, Emirat 541. 47  Talbi, Tarājim 344, 6ff.; also Qāḍī Nuʿmān, Iftitāḥ al-daʿwa 146, pu. ff. 48  Qāḍī Nuʿmān, ibid. 49  Cf. e.g. 290 no. 139; also p. 302 above. 50  Halm in: WO 15/1984/158.

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thought that a Muʿtazilite stood the best chance of awakening fellow-feeling in a Nukkārite. While there was clearly no boycott of the Muʿtazila in the decades following the miḥna, it did increasingly find itself as the target of a literary offensive as, indeed, did other ‘sects’. Saḥnūn’s son Muḥammad51 wrote several such works: a K. al-ḥujja ʿalā l-Qadariyya, a K. al-radd ʿalā ahl al-bidaʿ, and a K. al-īmān wal-radd ʿalā ahl al-shirk. Two of these treatises were rediscovered by M. Talbi some time ago: Aḥmad b. Yazīd al-Qurashī al-Muʿallim’s (d. 284/897) Kitāb fīhi aḥādīth fī l-sunna wal-nahy ʿan al-bidʿa, and Yaḥyā b. ʿAwn’s (d. 298/911) K. alḥujja.52 These were aimed at the Murjiʾa as well as the Muʿtazila; the Ḥanafite competition would have been members of either the one or the other. Yaḥyā b. ʿUmar al-Kinānī (d. 289/902),53 another of Saḥnūn’s pupils, wrote a Radd ʿalā l-Murjiʾa.54 The Murjiʾa had already put down roots in Qayrawān with Yaḥyā b. Sallām; he was born in Kufa and had attended ʿUmar b. Dharr’s lectures there (Abū l-ʿArab 112, ult. f.; regarding ʿUmar b. Dharr see vol. I 177ff. above). The Egyptian Mālikite ʿAbdallāh b. Wahb (d. 197/812; regarding him see p. 59 and vol. II 771 above) was so outraged by his false prayer book that he had his hadith deleted (Mālikī, Riyāḍ 125, 8ff./I 191, –5ff.). This does not appear to have had any adverse effect on his standing in Qayrawān; people were put at ease by his having stated that he had never been connected with the irjāʾ (Abū l-ʿArab 112, 1ff.). Fragments of his tafsīr are extant; it was influential even as late as the literature of the Moriscos (cf. I. Cerrahoğlu’s study Yaḥyā ibn Sallām ve Tefsirdeki Metodu, Ankara 1970; also id., Tefsir Tarihi I 240ff.; GAS 1/39; Talbi in: Akten VII. Kongreß UEAI Göttingen 350; H. Sammoud in: IBLA 33/1970/227ff.; Muranyi, Materialien zur mālikitischen Rechtsliteratur 10, n. 14; Vernet in: Fs. Gabrieli 843). It has been pointed out recently that a great portion of the work was absorbed into Ibn Abī Zamanīn’s (d. 399/1009) Mukhtaṣar (Hermosilla in: Al-Qanṭara 12/1991/271f.; thus alrealy GAS 1/47f.); Hūd b. Muḥkam (Muḥakkam?) al-Hawwārī’s Tafsīr relies on it without naming Yaḥyā b. Sallām personally (cf. the edition by Balḥājj b. Saʿīd Sarīfī, 1–4, Beirut 1990; also vol. II 734 above and Muranyi in: Wild, The Qurʾan as Text 228). His grandson Yaḥyā b. Muḥammad’s (d. 280/893) composing a K. al-taṣārīf 51  Regarding him GAS 1/472f.; also ʿAlī Rafīʿī in: GIE 666f. 52  Cf. Talbi in: Revue Tun. Sc. Soc. 12/1975/47ff. and 66ff., and RO 43/1984/153ff. 53  Regarding him GAS 1/475. 54  Talbi, Tarājim 263, 9.

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the objective of which was very close to Muqātil b. Sulaymān’s K. al-wujūh wal-naẓāʾir (cf. vol. II 589ff. above) indicates that he, too, used his grandfather’s material; it is remarkable that when explaining the word īmān ‘faith’ he does not include any reference to the actions (ed. Hind Shalabī, Tunis 1989, esp. p. 108ff.). Around the middle of the third century the focus of the discussion shifted onto the issue of istithnāʾ. It had been imported from the east, where it had by that time been more or less concluded (see vol. I 258ff. above), but due to the quarrel between Muḥammad b. Saḥnūn and his contemporary Ibn ʿAbdūs (202/817–260/876) it acquired new topicality within the Mālikite school. Ibn Saḥnūn, who rejected the istithnāʾ, demanding a clear and confident dogma instead, found himself suspected of being a Murjiʾite; Ibn ʿAbdūs, on the other hand, who accepted it, and his followers were denounced as Shukūkiyya ‘sceptics’ (Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb II 115f. and 123f.; also Talbi in: Akten VII. Kongreß 259ff., and the miracle story in Gramlich, Wunder 408). In order to defend his teacher Ibn Saḥnūn, Yaḥyā b. ʿUmar al-Kinānī wrote against this last-named group as well (Talbi Tarājim 263, 8; also Muranyi, Materialien 67, n. 130; a detailed presentation of the problem may be found in Majdhūb, Al-ṣirāʿ almadhhabī 155ff.). – Concerning religious life in Qayrawān in general see al-Maṭwī, Sīrat al-Qayrawān 53ff.

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7.7.3 Excursus. The Muʿtazila in Spain Dialectical theology never really found its home in Spain.1 This is in fact surprising, as there were just as many opportunities for debate here as in Iraq.1a In Egypt, too, where the majority of Spanish scholars spent their time of overseas study, the intellectual climate was no different; the Mālikites disapproved of the ‘Iraqi’ delight in disputes, unless it was limited to legal questions.2 Consequently ‘Muʿtazila’ and ‘Qadarite’ were terms of abuse to devalue outsiders; there are hardly any instances in which we know precisely what they denoted. The first one of whom it was said that he ‘had read the books of the Muʿtazila’, was a traditionist and jurist from Cordoba named ʿAbd al-Aʿlā b. Wahb (d. 261/874) who was a client of the Quraysh. One of his enemies, and finally also ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II (r. 206/822–238/852), accused him of zandaqa; he had come to public attention with his belief that the soul (rūḥ) is mortal.3 This brought him into close proximity to Abū l-Hudhayl (and took him away from Naẓẓām), but we do not know whether he ever made it as far as Iraq and actually met one of them, and it is not easy to understand why his ideas would have been seen as outrageous in Spain. The idea of the ‘capacity to act’ (istiṭāʿa) spread with Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s Tafsīr, presumably in ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd’s recension;4 as a result we do know that the intermediaries believed in the freedom of human action, but not whether they combined this with theological systematics, like the Muʿtazilites did.5 The ‘school’ of Jāḥiẓ that Asín-Palacios tried to uncover in Spain was, at least as far as theological influence is concerned, a 1   Turki, Polémiques 60f. and earlier; Urvoy, Ulémas 119, and table p. 38. The most pleasing presentation of circumstances is that by Lévi-Provençal, Histoire de l’Espagne musulmane III 470ff. 1a For the later years cf. Th. E. Burman, Religious Polemic and the Intellectual History of the Mozzarabs, c. 1050–1200. Leiden 1994. 2   Cf. Ḥumaydī, Jadhwat al-muqtabis 101, 12ff.; Ḍabbī, Bughyat al-multamis 145, 16ff./156 a, 7ff.; Makki, Ensayo sobre las aportaciones orientales 225ff. 3   Regarding him cf. Khushanī, Akhbār al-fuqahāʾ wal-muḥaddithīn 263, ult. f.; Ibn al-Faraḍī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-ʿulamāʾ bil-Andalus I 323ff. no. 837; Ḥumaydī, Jadhwa 271 no. 654; Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb II 138, –4f.; also Asín-Palacios, Ibn Masarra in: Obras escogidas I 180/transl. 151f., and Makki, Ensayo 217; also Fierro, Heterodoxía 49ff., and in: RSO 66/1992/18. 4   See vol. II 340 above. 5   The first of them, Khalīl al-Ghafla, was said to have admitted in conversation with the well-known traditionist Baqī b. Makhlad that he furthermore interpreted the scale and the bridge figuratively (ibid.; cf. Fierro 93). This was not a typically Muʿtazilite belief, either; simple Qadarites believed it, too (see vol. II 82 above and p. 625 below). Furthermore, Baqī, too, was put on trial for ‘innovation’ and ‘heresy’ (Fierro 80ff.). – The second intermediary known to us, Ibn al-Samīna, was above all a physician and astronomer (cf. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, Ṭabaqāt II 39, 10ff. after Ibn Ṣaʿīd al-Andalusī, Ṭabaqāt al-umam 65, 12ff., where the name must be corrected).

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phantom.6 The notorious Ibn Masarra (d. 319/931) is depicted as a Muʿtazilite, but he was mainly an ascetic who employed the doctrine of free will and the eternal punishment of hell7 to lend more conviction to his puritanism. His surviving writings do not give any indication of this; they are predominantly neoPlatonic, and the mysticism of letters found in one of them is linked to Sahl al-Tustarī by the author himself. The two treatises, a Risālat khawāṣṣ al-ḥurūf and a Risālat al-iʿtibār, have been edited by Muḥammad Kamāl Ibrāhīm Jaʿfar in: Maj. Kulliyat alTarbiya 3–4/1972–74/27ff., and once again in his book Min qaḍāya al-fikr al-islāmī (Cairo 1398/1978, p. 311ff. and 346ff.). E. Tornero summarised them in: Al-Qanṭara 14/1993/47ff. At the same time several authors explored the issue itself independently of one another – and not always in agreement, in: S. Kh. Jayyusi (ed.), The Legacy of Muslim Spain (HO): Fierro (p. 906, n. 28), Urvoy (p. 855f.), and above all C. Addas (p. 912ff.). The latter points out correctly that not only Ibn Masarra himself but also his father before him travelled to the east; it is reported of the latter only that he had contacts with Muʿtazilite circles in Basra (but cf. p. 321f. below). When he died in 286/899, his son was around 15 years old and thus not yet at an age when he would have been an independent theologian. He, too, travelled to Iraq, but perhaps he was more interested in Sahl al-Tustarī’s ideas. Tustarī had died in 283/896. The persecution of Ibn Masarra’s followers under ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III took place long after his death; the relevant edicts are dated 340/952, 345/956, and 346/957. Events show some similarities with the miḥna; here, too, it was a strong ruler who, being the first bearer of the title amīr al-muʾminīn in Spain, actively exerted an influence on religious matters (cf. in detail Fierro, Heterodoxía 132ff.). The legend created by Asín-Palacios, that Ibn Masarra adopted pseudo-Empedoclean ideas, has been refuted by S. M. Stern (in: Actas IV Congresso UEAI Coimbra 325ff.; cf. also Urvoy in: MUSJ 50/1984/708ff., and Rudolph, Pseudo-Ammonios 131f.). Sadly, Stern’s article was published posthumously and is consequently of lamentably laconic brevity. Based on an incidental – and misunderstood – remark here, E. Tornero attempted to link Ibn Masarra to Abū l-Hudhayl and his school, where these pseudo-Empedoclean ideas were allegedly explored (in: Al-Qanṭara 6  See p. 133f. above. 7  Concerning these points cf. Ibn Ḥayyān, Muqtabas V 33, 2; Khushanī, Akhbār al-fuqahāʾ walmuḥaddithīn 178, 5f.

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6/1985/505f.; followed by Fierro, Heterodoxía 116ff.); this is pure speculation ignorant of circumstances in Iraq. No such tendency has been discovered in Abū l-Hudhayl’s ideas. At the time that Ibn Masarra visited Iraq, post 286/899, his ‘school’ can only refer to Jubbāʾī. He lived in ʿAskar Mukram for the majority of the time; it is doubtful whether Ibn Masarra travelled all that way. Furthermore there are no pseudo-Empedoclean traits in his theories, either. Scholarship finds it difficult to free itself from phantoms. The Arabs in Spain probably had a vague idea at best of what the Muʿtazila really was;8 Ibn Rushd claimed that no Muʿtazilite book ever made it to Spain.9 Followers of Shāfiʿī, too, risked being labelled Muʿtazilites by the Mālikites; in the east they might have been regarded as Kullābites. The two cases known to us are comparatively late; in fact, much appears shifted by a few generations in Spain in this area. The first of these Shāfiʿī experts, Aḥmad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb b. Yūnus, known as Ibn Ṣallā-Allāh and employed in Ḥakam II’s famous library, died in 369/979.10 The second one, Muḥammad b. Aḥmad b. Ibrāhīm b. Abī Burda, fell victim to the purges under the regent Ibn Abī ʿĀmir al-Manṣūr. He had to flee the country and went to Tāhart where one of his daughters was living and where at that time the Rustamids still ruled; he died there in the same year, 373/983, at over seventy years of age.11 During the time we are exploring, the second and third centuries, two descendants of Ḥudayr, a kind of vizier under Ḥakam I (180/769–206/822) who had secured a high rank in the administration for his family,12 were Muʿtazilites in the stricter sense of the term. The first one, Mūsā b. Muḥammad, a greatgreat-grandson born in 256/769, made a name for himself under ʿAbd alRaḥmān III as prime minister (ḥājib akbar) from 309/921 until his death in 320/932. The fact that he was able to rise to this office shows just how little the ruler, who persecuted Ibn Masarra’s followers, was offended by Muʿtazilite ideas. Mūsā’s brother Aḥmad b. Muḥammad, who was a year older, held the position of ṣāḥib al-maẓālim, but was still able to defend his theological ideas

8   Thus already Goldziher, Ibn Toumert 68; Addas in: Legacy of Muslim Spain 913. 9    Manāhij al-adilla 149, apu. f./transl. Alonso, Teología de Averroes 227. 10  Ibn al-Faraḍī I 59f. no. 154, where 399 must be corrected to read 369. 11  Ibid. II 116, 9ff.; also Fierro, Heterodoxía 165. Regarding Ibn Abī ʿĀmir ‘Almansor’s’ politics cf. Makki, Ensayo 221f. – ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III’s son ʿAbdallāh and the historian Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. ʿAbdalbarr, who were both executed on the caliph’s orders, were Shāfiʿites, although we do not know whether this played a part in their sentence (cf. Fierro 127). 12  Regarding the Banū Ḥudayr cf. Lévi-Provençal, L’Espagne musulmane au Xe siècle 101.

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even in writing.13 Ibn Ḥazm noted that he accorded God the attribute ʿaqīl in the correspondence he maintained with the qāḍī Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-Ballūṭī.14 Not even Jubbāʾī had done this, although he, too, habitually accepted names of God beyond the Quran as long as they did not contradict reason.15 This Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-Ballūṭī was also believed to be a Muʿtazilite, as we learn once again from Ibn Ḥazm,16 who would have had some detailed knowledge about him because they were both Ẓāhirites.17 He was personally acquainted with one of Ballūṭī’s sons, Abū l-ʿĀṣī Ḥakam b. Mundhir, who was regarded as the head of the school in Spain at the time of the caliph al-Ḥakam (r. 350/961–366/976). Ibn Ḥazm esteemed him greatly; Abū l-ʿĀṣī was a pious man and not only a theologian and jurist but also a poet. He lived to a very high old age; he died only in 420/1029 in Medinaceli. His brother ʿAbd al-Malik, on the other hand, he, too, a Muʿtazilite, was crucified in 368/978 at the beginning of al-Manṣūr’s regency; not, however, for theological but for political reasons.18 There is some information about further brothers and the family as a whole in Makki, Ensayo 224f., and Fierro, Heterodoxia 155. However, this takes us to a period well beyond the chronological framework of this study. Furthermore, we do not find any concrete elucidation of what was regarded as Muʿtazilite in this context, and to which school in Iraq the people in question felt loyalty. Around the year 400, ascetics who presumed that God would carry out his ‘threat’ to Muslims were called ʿAdliya; they, too, were not considered orthodox (cf. Ibn Bashkuwāl, Ṣila I 126, no., l. –11ff.). It may be rewarding in this semi-obscurity to pursue the question of to what degree Ibn Ḥazm himself was influenced by the Muʿtazila. This angle has not been taken into account so far, because the Ẓāhirites were always believed to be radically ‘orthodox’. However, considering all we know about Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī (see p. 253ff. above), this was not necessarily the case. In his Fiṣal Ibn Ḥazm directs criticism against the Ashʿarites at least as forcefully as against the Muʿtazilites, and in his exploration of the philosopher al-Kindī he applies a most independent approach to the theologoumena furnished by tradition (cf. Daiber 13  Regarding both these cf. the information in Makki, Ensayo 223f., and Fierro, Heterodoxía 112. 14   Fiṣal IV 202, ult. ff. 15  Cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 275f.; concerning the issue also p. 484 below. 16   Ṭawq al-ḥamāma 45, 14/157, –4 ʿAbbās. 17  Regarding him cf. Nubāhī, Ta‌ʾrīkh quḍāt al-Andalus 66ff.; Goldziher, Ẓâhiriten 114; LéviProvençal, Histoire III 138ff. and 479; Fierro 140ff.; Pellat in EI2 VII 569f. 18  Ibn Ḥazm, ibid. 45, 8ff./157, 10ff. Regarding ʿAbd al-Malik also Fierro 166.

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in: Der Islam 63/1986/284ff.). It must of course be borne in mind that the religious climate changed radically under al-Manṣūr; Ḥakam II’s famous library was purged of all heretic works. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, who lived before this change of direction – he died in 328/940 – was called a Muʿtazilite by the Shīʿite Ibn Ṭāwūs (Kohlberg, A Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work 194).

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7.8 Summary It is not easy to evaluate Kaʿbī’s list. He does not mention Qayrawān; he is familiar only with the Wāṣiliyya. Here as in the case of Yemen he appears to be considering events in the early period. As regards Iran and perhaps also Syria, it may be different; in those regions he mentions communities still in existence at his time. Where these are concerned the Egyptian scholar Muḥammad ʿImāra first noticed how they were situated along the trade routes.1 The Muʿtazila’s Basran origins were thus not without consequences; Basra was the starting point for trade with India and also had ties to South Arabia via Oman. It is certainly no coincidence that many of the settlements mentioned in Iran were situated on the Persian Gulf, and that the Syrian towns were found on the caravan routes. Ahwāz and Fārs were furthermore dependent on Basra not only economically but also politically in the Umayyad era. Consequently the origins of the communities there may also go back to the second/eighth century. It would be rash to base conclusions regarding their subsequent decline on this discovery, as we have far too little information on the individual centres; after all, in me distant places the Muʿtazilites survived as late as the Timurid era.2 They also engaged in missionary work for some time to come, Khwārazm providing the best example.3 In Iraq its decline may have been linked to the disappearance of the class of urban artisans on which it had rested in the past, and which retained its enjoyment of dialectical intellectual games in ʿAskar Mukram.4 The invasion of the Zanj certainly brought much change in Basra. Baghdad was a cosmos in itself, but here, too, the dynamic within the population, the contrast between ‘Shīʿites’ and ‘Sunnites’, the emergence of vigilante groups with religious aspirations, had more influence on the development in the long run than life at court. In addition there is the autonomy of ideas, the subtlety into which they can unfold when intellectuals are left to indulge their urge to talk, the frustration ideas engender in those who cannot join in the discussion – or are not allowed to, and the inherent aporiai that suddenly come to light. This is what we shall explore in conclusion.

1  Cf. his article in the Libyan journal Al-Shūrā 2/1975, issue 4, p. 75ff.; in part reiterated in the book Al-khilāfa wa-nashʾat al-aḥzāb al-Islāmiyya (Beirut 1977), p. 240ff., which includes a map p. 273. His remarks frequently require verification in the details. 2  See p. 288 above; also my article Muʿtazila in ER X 224 after Madelung in: Actas IV Congresso UEAI Coimbra 116. 3  See p. 287f. above. 4  Thus T. Khalidi, Classical Arab Islam 86.

chapter 8

The Crisis The anti-intellectualist resentment that hit the Muʿtazila came not only from the outside, from the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth, but emerged in its own ranks among the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila, too.1 The development reached its climax when Ibn alRēwandī appeared on the scene. He joined these circles in Baghdad, but as he came from a foreign local tradition, in him Iranian – Muʿtazilite ideas that had first come out of Iraq reflected back onto their origins. The result appears to have been that the Sufi core almost ceased to exist. It had, however, been isolated at least in Iraq even during Ibn al-Rēwandī’s lifetime. By joining Ibn Kullāb, Muḥāsibī had shown the way; from the middle of the third/ninth century onwards, the Muʿtazila was not relevant to the development of Baghdad mysticism any more.

1  P. 106f. above.

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The Crisis

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Baghdad Mysticism Goes its Own Way: Junayd and His Contemporaries

Non-Muʿtazilite Sufism had existed in Baghdad for some time. We have presented the example of Bishr al-Ḥāfī;1 Ibn Ḥanbal had great respect for him.2 However, ‘the barefoot one’3 had come from among the undeserving poor,4 while now the bourgeoisie went the same way. Muḥāsibī’s pupil Junayd (d. 298/ 911) was the son of a merchant who had dealt in bottles or crystal (qawārīr); he himself was said to have traded in raw silk.5 He appears to have grown up in the house of his uncle Sarī al-Saqaṭī (d. 253/867) and listened to religious conversations on topics of the mystic ‘scene’ from a tender age.6 He studied Islamic law, not with the Ḥanafites but in Shāfiʿī’s school like Muḥāsibī; his teacher was one Abū Thawr (d. 240/854).7 At only twenty years of age, presumably shortly before his teacher’s death, he had completed his education to such a degree that he was able to pronounce legal expert opinions in the latter’s name.8 Later, too, he would take care to ‘interweave’ his mystic ideas with hadith,9 which, however, he did not quote in his own writings. He believed much more firmly than Muḥāsibī that mystical ideas were autonomous. His style was involved and idiosyncratic; he reported experiences that had not so far been put into words. It was said that Ibn Kullāb was unable to follow his deliberations even after a number of repetitions, but that even so – or possibly for that reason – he recognised Junayd’s superiority.10 This is chronologically improbable and psychologically untenable,11 but it demonstrates how the ‘mutation’ in Shāfiʿī’s school would later be judged in mystic circles. 1   See vol. III 113ff. 2   Cf. the quotation from Ibn Ḥanbal’s K. al-waraʿ in Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb II 278, 6f./transl. Gramlich III 659f. 3   Regarding the meaning of the sobriquet cf. Jarra in: Der Islam 71/1994/191ff. 4   This is probably also true of his older contemporary Maʿrūf al-Karkhī (d. 200/815). Ibn alJawzī later collected his Manāqib – with limited success (ed. Ṣādiq Muḥammad al-Jumaylī iN: Mawrid 9/1980, issue 4, p. 609ff.); cf. also GAS 1/637, and EI2 VI 613f. 5    T B VII 241, 15f.; the family came from Nihāwand in Iran. 6   Ibid. 244, 20ff.; as the nisba says, he had been a seller of cheap homewares, but had changed career in a kind of midlife crisis at the suggestion of Maʿrūf al-Karkhī. He was friends with Bishr al-Ḥāfī. Regarding him cf. Tawfīq Ben ʿĀmir, Al-Sarī al-Saqaṭī wa-nashʾat al-madras al-Baghdādiyya fī l-taṣawwuf, in: Ḥawliyyāt Tūnis 16/1978/187ff., and B. Reinert in: EI2 IX 56ff. 7   Regarding him cf. GAS 1/491, and Schacht in EI2 I 155. 8    T B VII 242, 15ff. 9   Ibid. 243, 10f. 10  Qushayrī, Risāla 181, 15f./transl. Gramlich 537f. 11  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 309, 14f., calls Junayd Ibn Kullāb’s pupil.

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Like Muḥāsibī, Junayd explored the fundamental mystic theory that humans are able to anticipate in this life events of the afterlife,12 but while the former regarded soul-searching as a first realisation of the judgment, Junayd had in mind the ‘un-becoming’, the total disintegration ( fanāʾ) before the divine presence. People had always spoken of the vision of God, but they had paid no heed to the idea that it might overwhelm a human to the point of his self disintegrating. This was because it had primarily been the reward of the warrior for the faith; the Moses pericope in sura 7:143, in which its shattering effect becomes clear, would have been adduced by those who were fundamentally sceptical towards this idea.13 But Junayd recalled the passage to the attention of the mystics;14 pleasurable anticipation, he intended to say, was difficult to separate from apprehension here. In the otherworld, however, this tension would be resolved, as it presupposes consciousness, and consciousness exists only as an earthly intermediate stage.15 ‘Intermediate’ is taken quite literally, as the souls are created long before the bodies, but at the time they are not aware of themselves. They subsist in God and form the primeval covenant (mīthāq) mentioned in sura 7:172. Once they have passed through the world they return, through death, to the ‘original life’ (al-ḥayāt al-aṣliyya).16 In the earthly existence, humans can experience this only in their un-becoming; then they only feel (wajada) that they were ‘felt’ by God before the beginning of time. Their appearance (rasm)17 drops away from them, obliterated by the quality (ṣifa) of God. Consequently fanāʾ is not only anticipation but also return to preexistence; the ʿārifūn are they who recognise God and to whom he reveals himself in the primal eternity. There is barely any space for human will in this process. A mystic uses it at best in order to prevent his consciousness reawakening; in his extinguished state, on the other hand, he experiences the arbitrariness and limitless power of God.18 It was impossible to express this using Muʿtazilite categories.

12  Cf. vol. II 113f. above. 13  And above all as a proof of the impossibility (see p. 462 below), but also in a more insightful fashion (see vol. III 53f. above). 14  Maybe following Muḥāsibī (cf. Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya X 106, –8f.); also the translation in Deladrière (see n. 26 below), p. 53, and n. 18. 15  Concerning the following cf. in detail Reinert in: Vorträge XXII. DOT Tübingen, ZDMG Suppl. VI, p. 190ff.; the respective texts are found in Deladrière 150ff. (cf. esp. 156f.). 16  Cf. the text from Baqlī in Massignon, Passion 2I 118/transl. 77. 17  Cf. Ibn Kullāb’s usage p. 208 above. 18  Reinert 189.

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This does not rule out that Junayd’s model could be expressed only thanks to Muʿtazilite development of ideas: Naẓẓām’s giving the soul its independence, and maybe also Shaḥḥām’s maʿdūm theory (see p. 54ff. above). Cf. the impressive and linguistically striking translation of Junayd’s K. alfanāʾ, produced by B. Reinert in Gramlich, Islamische Mystik 17ff.; concerning the above esp. p. 21. An entirely different interpretation of fanāʾ is found in ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlī’s text ibid. 139: one must un-become before the creatures to such an extent that one does not follow one’s profession any more. The ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila could have agreed to this, too. It has been suggested that Dhū l-Nūn’s influence is apparent here.19 When he came to Baghdad during the later phase of the miḥna, around 241/855,20 Junayd was at a most impressionable age, but it is not certain that they met at all, as he was busy making a name for himself as a jurist.21 He may have heard of his ideas indirectly, as there were others around him who were interested in them: besides his teacher Sarī al-Saqaṭī, there were Abū Saʿīd al-Kharrāz (d. 286/899?), or Abū Ḥamza Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm (d. 269/883 or 289/902), and Abū l-Ḥasan al-Nūrī (d. 295/907). Some of Kharrāz’ smaller writings are extant,22 there are fragments of a collection of stories by Abū Ḥamza in which he narrated about the Sufis’ encounters with beautiful youths,23 and we also have a K. maqāmāt al-qulūb by Nūrī in which he adduces numerous dry parables and images to sketch a psychology of recognising God based on the four names of the heart included in the Quran: ṣadr, qalb, fuʾād, and lubb.24 The

19  Thus Reinert, ibid. 192. 20  See vol. II 815 above. 21  The episode TB XIV 209, 3ff., might lead to the conclusion that as a young man he attended Yaḥyā b. Muʿādh al-Rāzī’s lectures when the latter came to Baghdad. Regarding him see vol. II 715 above; Junayd addressed a letter to him (ed. Abdel-Kader 2, 4ff.; together with another fragment translated in Deladrière 141f., and in Gramlich, Islamische Mystik 22f.). 22  Ed. Qāsim al-Sāmarrāʾī, Baghdad 1387/1867; also K. al-ṣidq, ed. Arberry (London 1937). Cf. the sample translations from the Sāmarrāʾī edition in Gramlich 13ff. In general GAS 1/646, and Madelung in EI2 IV 1083; also Baldick, Mystical Islam 40ff. 23  Cf. Ritter, Meer der Seele 460ff.; regarding his writings cf. Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 237, –4ff. He is an important source for the Maṣāriʿ al-ʿushshāq by the Ḥanbalite al-Sarrāj (d. 500/1106; cf. Bell in: JAOS 99/1979/242). In the index Ritter notes the biographical sources (p. 674); the most important one of these is TB I 390ff. no. 364. He was a mawlā of ʿĪsā b. Abān (TB I 390, 17; regarding him see vol. III 65 above). Cf. also M. Ṣādiqī in GIE V 375ff. 24  Ed. Nwiya in: MUSJ 44/1968/129ff.; in general cf. GAS 1/650. Some passages are translated in Gramlich, 15ff.; regarding the lexical aspect of the psychological terms employed cf. Seidensticker, Altarabisch “Herz” passim.

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analysis of these texts has barely started.25 However, it is worth noting just how many voices mysticism had acquired within one generation. Junayd was in fact reacting to what others had written, or what had been written about them; he maintained a lively correspondence26 and wrote a critical commentary on Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī’s theopathic statements (shaṭḥiyyāt).27 This generation’s productivity and sophistication did not, of course, come out of nowhere. We must bear in mind that many mystics did not write anything at all and still exerted great influence. Nothing much is extant of which Sarī al-Saqaṭī is the author, but all the same he may have been the one who first put the experience of ecstasy (wajd) into words, i.e. Junayd’s ‘being felt’ (cf. Reinert in EI2 IX 58f.). When in a state of ecstasy after a samāʿ session, Abū l-Ḥasan al-Nūrī was said to have run through a reed bank and injured his legs so severely that he contracted an inflammation and died of it (Sarrāj, Lumaʿ 210, 17ff., and 290, 11ff./transl. Gramlich 323f. and 418; regarding parallels and variants see Adab al-mulūk, transl. Gramlich 71f.). Junayd clearly made no secret of his mystic inclinations; but he did not publish any legal works at all. He provided a ‘heresiographer’ with information on Sufism.28 However, without attuning oneself and undergoing a spiritual introduction people might have misunderstood his ideas; he was concerned

25  In particular Nwyia, Exégèse coranique et langue mystique (Beirut 1970); esp. 231ff. concerning Kharrāz (including a translation of his K. al-ṣifāt, p. 256ff.), and p. 316ff. regarding Nūrī. Concerning the latter also Massignon’s sketch in Passion 2I 120ff./transl. I 79ff. Regarding hagiographical tradition cf. also E. Dermenghen, Vie des saints musulmans 247ff., and Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums I 381ff. 26  Together with his other extant writings it was edited and translated from a corrupt MS by A. H. Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality, and Writings of al-Junayd, London 1962; R. Deladrière’s translation Junayd, Enseignement spiritual (Paris 1983) relies on this. Süleyman Ateş furnished a Turkish translation, once again together with an edition (Cüneyd-i Bağdâdî. Hayatı, eserleri ve mektupları. Istanbul 1970). S. M. Stern discovered a fragment of his correspondence with Nūrī in the Cairo genizah (cf. Goitein in SI 3/1955/76, and Studies in Islamic History and Institutions 281; cf. Deladrière 205, n. 10); a further letter to a certain Abū Bakr al-Kisāʾī al-Dīnawārī (d. 280/893) is included in Sarrāj, Lumaʿ 239, 7ff./transl. Gramlich 360f. In general cf. Massignon, Passion 2I 116ff./I 75ff.; Molé, Les mystiques musulmans 61ff.; Baldick, Mystical Islam 44ff.; GAS 1/647ff. 27  Sarrāj, Lumaʿ 380ff.; also GAS 1/649 no 17. 28  Translated in Gramlich 23f. The man’s name is mentioned, ʿAbdallāh b. Saʿīd al-Jazāʾirī, but we do not know who he was. Even calling him a ‘heresiographer’, a kind of nosy journalist, that is, is mere conjecture.

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on learning that one of his epistles had been opened in transit.29 He did not teach in the mosque but only in private houses; he was believed to have asked his pupils to bury his writings after his death.30 This led Massignon to assume that he employed cryptic language in order to pre-empt his opponents’ suspicions.31 And indeed, when Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Ghālib al-Bāhilī, known as Ghulām Khalīl, (d. 275/888)32 tried to incite the authorities against the mystics, he was able to keep a safe distance by posing as a jurist. Abū l-Ḥasan al-Nūrī and Abū Ḥamza, on the other hand, and maybe Kharrāz as well, escaped by the skin of their teeth.33 Around 75 people had been included in the blacklist of the muḥtasib and were hunted by his henchmen. Most were able to hide, others were betrayed by the population and were sent to prison for a while.34 Nūrī fled to Raqqa;35 Kharrāz went to Mecca for eleven years.36 Junayd may have been left in peace because he had not taken part in the dhikr or samāʿ events – which had presumably taken place. Or the authorities were lenient in his case because he was rich; compared to him the others seem like church mice.37 Ghulām Khalīl was not all that different from them, either: Ibn al-Nadīm has him in the same chapter as Abū Ḥamza, and among his books he names a K. inqiṭāʿ ilā llāh.38 It appears that what troubled the zealot was the fact that women attended the Sufi seances as well; one of them was said to have incited him out of jealousy 29  Sarrāj 239, 8ff./transl. Deladrière 69; after him Arberry in: EI2 II 600, and Abdel-Kader 35f. 30  Gramlich, Derwischorden Persiens II 145, n. 823. 31   Essai 2304f. As regards the secondary tradition it must be borne in mind that it large parts of if went via Iran; it is likely that much was omitted or weakened in the course of it. 32  Regarding him GAS 1/511. 33  Sarrāj, Lumaʿ (in the piece missing in Nicholson; cf. Arberry, Lost Pages from the K. allumaʿ 5, 3ff./transl. Gramlich, Streiflichter 548), and Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya X 250, –8ff. > Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs 167, 3ff. Kharrāz was persecuted because of his K. al-sirr (Sarrāj, Lost Pages 8, 24ff./transl. Gramlich 554), but it is not quite sure whether it happened in this same context, as Meier, Abū Saʿīd 230, assumes. 34  Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 284, apu. ff. This text is the only concrete information on the persecution we have to date. Other reports are of a more legendary nature; nearly all of them are found in Sufi texts and are repetitive (cf. the information in Gramlich, Ghazzālī’s Lehre von den Stufen zur Gottesliebe 719; Dermenghem, Vies 255f.; [more detailed Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums (1–2, Wiesbaden 1995–96), I 383ff., and Ch. Melchert in: SI 83/1996/65ff.]). 35  Ibid. 36  Cf. Madelung in EI2 IV 1083. 37  Regarding the difference in status between Junayd and Nūrī cf. the story reported by Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ, transl. Gramlich, Stufen der Gottesliebe 453f. If Kharrāz’ laqab is a reliable indication, he was a cobbler, and the anecdote in Sarrāj, Lost Pages 6, 22ff./transl. Gramlich 551, tells us that Abū Ḥamza was not wealthy, either. 38   Fihrist 237, 18f.

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to start the proceedings.39 Mistrust of the Sufis’ effusive use of language was at the back of this; Nūrī was said to have used the word ʿishq to describe his loving relationship with God.40 While there is nothing along these lines to be found in his K. maqāmāt al-qulūb,41 Kharrāz describes the ecstasy (wajd) of someone who has been close to God,42 and it is unlikely that Abū Ḥamza’s enthusiasm for beautiful youths met with universal approval. Ghulām Khalīl called a companion of the prophet to witness that ‘may God curse him who kisses a youth. Should he embrace him, he shall be whipped with fiery scourges, and if he has his way with him, he will go to hell’.43 In his K. sharḥ al-sunna, the only extant one of his books, he continues in the same vein: ‘Beware of the company of those who call for longing and love, and who have assignations with women’. He was a fundamentalist who referred to the ṣaḥāba in all things; they, he believed, had fulfilled all the requirements of Islam. One should not go beyond the Quran; consequently one may speak of God only the terms he himself employed in the Scripture. Pondering the how and why is harmful. Massignon edited the passage in Recueil 213f., and Schacht translated it in Religionsgeschichtliches Lesebuch 40. The text has not been edited as a whole. It is preserved in a Damascus MS (cf. GAS 1/511), but has not been given any attention since Massignon. It is a kind of ʿaqīda; it recalls Ibn al-Mājashūn (see vol. II 776ff. aobve) as well as Ibn Ḥanbal. The latter is even quoted, as are Mālik b. Anas, Sufyān al-Thawrī, Ḥasan b. Ṣāliḥ b. Ḥayy, and ʿAbdallāh b. Mubārak. The opponents are usually brushed off as ‘Jahmites’; as is Hishām al-Fuwaṭī (fol. 8 b, 8). The term sunna is used not only in the title but dominates the work, the ‘Sunnite’ (ṣāḥib sunna) being the one who will be saved, God willing (!) (fol. 12 b, –4). The conservatism of this attitude is unmistakeable. Ghulām Khalīl came from Basra, and he embodies a type of old Basran asceticism. It is a long way from 39  Sarrāj, Pages 8, 15ff./transl. Gramlich 554. The anecdote in Ibn ʿAsākir, TD VII 112, apu. ff., mentions that Kharrāz had a female pupil; he wore a veil over his face during lessons with her. 40  Ibid. 5, 6ff./transl. Gramlich 549f. > Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs 167, 15f.; also Nwiya, Exégèse 317. 41  In his account in Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 284, 8ff., Ibn al-Aʿrābī uses the term maḥabba instead, but this is due to the fact that he was a mystic himself and a member of a generation who had realised just how much the ʿishq theory had failed in Ḥallāj’s case; he died in 341/952. Regarding the usage of maḥabba and ʿishq in early Khorasanian mysticism cf. Pūrjawādī in: Spektrum Iran 4/1991, issue 4/37f. 42   Rasāʾil 23, 9ff./transl. Nwiya, Exégèse 259f.; he speaks of shawq instead of ʿishq (ibid. 43, 6ff.). 43   Mīzān no. 557 + I 142, 6f.; regarding the isnād cf. ibid. no. 6018.

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him to the language employed by Junayd. When the latter said at the beginning of his fragment ‘On the divine nature’ that ‘God (al-ḥaqq) retired with them (i.e. his trusted companions, the mystics) and his divine nature (al-ulūhiyya) was stripped off ( jurridat) for them’, it probably sounded to an outsider rather as though God showed himself naked to his companions.44 Ghulām Khalīl regarded someone who believed that he could see God while still living on earth as an unbeliever.45 It was particularly important that the people of Baghdad believed the loving relationship between God and humans to be reciprocal. This step had been taken in Basra as well, in ʿAbd al-Wāḥid b. Zayd’s circle,46 but it was controversial even there, and it acquired an entirely different dimension in Baghdad. Ghulām Khalīl is said to have pointed out excesses among the Sufis in Basra.47 Maybe the alarm had been sounded by Muḥāsibī’s leaving the city in order to teach in Baghdad; after all he, too, for all his sobriety, devoted some thought to the concept of love.48 The name Muḥāsibī does not occur in the K. sharḥ al-sunna, but Ghulām Khalīl had no scruples using hadith in an entirely unprofessional manner to awaken religious emotions;49 consequently the experts all gave him bad marks.50 He appears to have introduced himself as a popular preacher in Baghdad; one of his books is entitled K. al-mawāʿiẓ.51 He probably gained access at court like Manṣūr b. ʿAmmār52 before him;53 Muwaffaq’s mother sponsored him.54 When he died, the bāzārīs in Baghdad closed their shops.55 However, when Junayd passed away two decades later, he, too, was mourned by thousands of people, and his grave was visited for weeks afterwards.56 Despite his esotericism he had retained his connection with the 44  Abdel-Kader, Al-Junayd, Arab, text 44, 4f. I am grateful to B. Reinert for this idea. The question is, of course, to which degree tajrīd would have been interpreted purely terminologically at the time; Abdel-Kader translates it entirely differently (ibid., Engl. text 164). Reinert regards the fragment as the oldest document of Junaydite theology composed during Sarī al-Saqaṭī’s lifetime. 45   Sharḥ al-sunna, fol. 5 a, 9f. 46  See vol. II 113f. above. 47  Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 284, –7f. 48  See p. 224 above. 49  Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam V 2 95, pu. f. 50  Cf. the biography in TB V 78ff. no. 2465; Dhahabī, loc. cit., and Siyar XIII 242ff. no. 136; Ibn Ḥibbān, Majrūḥīn I 150, apu. ff. Slightly more positive IAH I 1 no. 142. 51   Fihrist 237, 19. 52  Regarding him see vol. III 110ff. above. 53  Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs 167, 4f.; also Massignon, Passion 2I 121/I 80. 54  Dhahabī, Siyar XIII 284, –4. 55   T B V 80, 4f. 56   T B IX 248, 18ff. The grave was next to his uncle Sarī al-Saqaṭī’s and is in the same place to this day (Massignon, Mission en Mésopotamie II 105f., and Deladrière 203f., n. 4; also Ṣ. A.

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people; it was pointed out that he used a rosary, which only common people did in those days.57 He had used only allusions for a long time when speaking of the love of God;58 it became the centre of his ideas only later.59 Even the Muʿtazilite Abū l-Qāsim al-Kaʿbī was said to have expressed his respect for him.60 In the end the people of Baghdad found Ghulām Khalīl’s hate campaign so embarrassing that al-Khaṭīb [al-Baghdādī] does not mention it with even a single word in any of the relevant biographies.61 Since Massignon we have become accustomed to regarding Ghulām Khalīl as a Ḥanbalite (Recueil 212; after which e.g. Nwiya, Exégèse 317; also Madelung in EI2 IV 1083b). This is not altogether incorrect; his style and manner of argument are almost identical to Ibn Ḥanbal’s. He quotes the latter, saying that someone who believed the pronouncing (lafẓ) of the Quran to be created, was an ‘innovator’ (fol. 10 b, 2ff.; cf. also p. 241 above). It does seem, however, that he never attended Ibn Ḥanbal’s lectures; of course, given his Basran origin, this is not surprising. Ibn Abī Yaʿlā does not devote a separate biography to him in Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila. Abū Ḥamza, on the other hand, did study under Ibn Ḥanbal (TB I 390, 14 and 19f.). Ibn Ḥanbal was not yet the head of a school in the later sense at that time, but simply the representative of Islam faithful to the Sunna; people referred to him like they referred to ʿAbdallāh b. al-Mubārak or Sufyān al-Thawrī (cf. the list of names fol. 16 a, 7ff.). Massignon appears to have had second thoughts later, as he lists Ghulām Khalīl together with the Basran Sufis in the second edition of his Passion (e.g. I 62/transl. I 22; as opposed to I 120ff./80f., where we still read ‘Ḥanbalite’); he regards him as a Basran conservative in the same sense as we did above. It is more than doubtful that Jāḥiẓ mentioned Ghulām Khalīl in K. al-ḥayawān, as Goldziher assumed (in: Der Islam 9/1919/154, after Ḥayawān IV 114, 5ff., which has only Aḥmad b. Ghālib); after all, the K. al-ḥayawān was written before 232/846. It does seem, however, that the Basran ascetic Maysara b. ʿAbdrabbih transmitted from him (Mīzān no. 8958 = IV 231, 13; regarding al-ʿAlī, Baghdād I 2 116). Subsequently there was a ribāṭ for Sufis near the cemetery (ʿAlī, ibid. 115). 57   T B IX 245, 6f. 58  By attributing his ideas to Muḥāsibī; e.g. in his K. dawāʾal-arwāḥ (ed. Arberry in: JRAS 1937, p. 219ff.; also Abdel-Kader 60, and the translation in Deladrière 51ff.). 59  Reinert in: Vorträge XXII. DOT 193. 60   T B VII 243, 17/transl. Deladrière 14f. He was, after all, a generation younger. 61  In the context of Abū Ḥamza he says directly that ‘until his death the people respected him greatly’ (TB I 393, 21).

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him see vol. II 139f. above); this would link him to those circles in which the intellect (ʿaql) was regarded as being particularly important. By transmitting a hadith with which people usually proved Abū Bakr’s precedence (iqtadū bi-Abī Bakr, in Mīzān, loc. cit.; also vol. II 135f. and p. 254 above), he moved closer to the Basran Bakriyya. This would tell us at the same time that he had no links with the Shīʿa; he had spoken out against it in his Sharḥ al-sunna (fol. 18 b, –6ff.). This was to be expected in a Basran. It is remarkable only because Najāshī, too, is familiar with one Ghulām Khalīl who bears the same name and even the same kunya: Abū ʿAbdallāh Aḥmad b. Muḥammad, albeit with a different nisba al-Āmulī (70, 7ff.). In Aʿyān al-Shīʿa, Muḥsin al-Amīn treated the two as one and the same person (IX 303ff. no. 1630), simply transferring all the information Ta‌ʾrīkh Baghdād has on Ghulām Khalīl onto the Shīʿite. Kohlberg adopted this hypothesis without comment (A Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work 155). Kaḥḥāla, separates the two persons (II 113 and II 143), but even so adopts the documented date of the Basran’s death, 275/888, for the Shīʿite as well. Kohlberg has the two nisbas al-Ṭabarī and al-Khalīlī; it seems they are mentioned by Ibn Ṭāwūs, on whom he relies. The latter also affirms a statement made by Najāshī, according to which the Shīʿite wrote a K. faḍāʾil amīr al-muʾminīn (i.e. ʿAlī’s) which included a detailed version of the Ghadīr Khumm tradition. This clashes with the abovementioned hadith concerning Abū Bakr. While alḤurr al-ʿĀmilī believes that the author of this book was in fact a Sunnite, the question of the different nisbas remains. The Basran was a respected Arab; his genealogy is cited in full – albeit with a few divergences – in both the Fihrist and in Ta‌ʾrīkh Baghdād. Najāshī and Ibn Ṭāwūs, on the other hand, have someone in mind who lived in Ṭabaristān, or came from there. Furthermore the two titles of books Najāshī mentions in addition do not correspond to those listed by Ibn al-Nadīm; they seem to indicate a jurist rather than an ascetic. We will probably have to keep the two men separate. This result is not altogether irrelevant to the question of what the sobriquet Ghulām Khalīl means. For a Sufi ‘servant of Abraham’ would be a good name, but one would expect Ghulām al-Khalīl in that case. As the article is missing, Khalīl may well refer to a scholar whose ‘assistant’ the man in question was. In that case, however, it is doubly striking that the name would have been given to two men. (The Ḥanbalite Ghulām (al-)Khallāl does not belong here either; regarding him cf. GAS 1/514). Might this have been a name given to someone following the ideas of Khalīl b. Aḥmad? Still, neither of the two authors wrote on the subject of grammar.

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The Ghulām Khalīl discussed here, who gained such great influence in Baghdad, had apparently been very respected in Basra already, as his body was taken back to his home city after his death, where a qubba was built over his grave (TB V 80, 6). Visitors from Spain attended his lectures, among them the father of Ibn Masarra (Ibn al-Faraḍī, Ta‌ʾrīkh I 255, ult. f.; regarding him cf. Fierro, Heterodoxía 112). According to Ibn al-Jawzī Nūrī and his friends were accused of zandaqa (Talbīs 167, 4). However, the source to which he refers (Sarrāj, Lumaʿ, in: Pages 5, 4f./transl. Gramlich 549) shows that Ghulām Khalīl was the only one who had exaggeratedly called Nūrī a heretic; it had no bearing on the lawsuit. Furthermore the qāḍī in charge, Ismāʿīl b. Isḥāq al-Azdī al-Jahḍamī was a Mālikite and had studied under the Muʿtazilite Aḥmad al-Muʿadhdhal (TB VI 285, 19; Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb II 176, apu. ff.; cf. p. 59 above). Among the people mentioned, Kharrāz was closest to Junayd. He, too, emphasised the significance of the primordial covenant;62 the soul is merely captive in its earthly body.63 However, he described un-becoming in a more excessive fashion than Junayd, incurring the latter’s criticism. While Junayd saw a holy sobriety (ṣakhw) at work even at the stage of deepest extinguishment, which allowed a human to remain human and convey his experiences to others,64 Kharrāz was closer to Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī who had abdicated control of himself in his shaṭḥiyyāt. Ecstasy, he believed, led to the mystic not knowing who he was any more, and to his not even being able to pronounce the word ‘God’ in the end.65 God’s qualities are transferred onto him.66 Theology was merely a ‘curtain’ for those who were not filled with God’s light.67 This means that the question of whether Kharrāz might have had a Najjārite background loses its importance. Based on his writings it suggests itself, as he embraced predestination (cf. Rasāʾil 41, 3ff., and 44, 1ff.) and at the same time rejected tashbīh (ibid. 39, 2). Among the terms he focussed on in his K. al-ḥaqāʾiq were tawfīq and ʿiṣma, which were most relevant in Najjār’s theory of action (ibid. 48, 6ff.; also Nwyia, Exégèse 278f., and p. 172 above). Najjār refused to speak of seeing God with one’s 62   Rasāʾil 40, 3ff. 63  Ibid. 41, 9. 64  Cf. Abdel-Kader 83f. and 88f. 65   Rasāʾil 26, 5ff. 66  Ibid. 30, 13ff., a thought with import for the future. Cf. Madelung in EI2 IV 1083, and Massignon, Essai 2306. 67  Ibid. 24, 4f.

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eyes (see p. 181 above), and Kharrāz thought as well that a curtain separated God even from those closest to him (al-awliyāʾ; Rasāʾil 22, apu. ff./ transl. Nwyia, Exégèse 258). It is probably deliberate that he speaks of God looking at the awliyāʾ, rather than of them looking at him. Even so, God then leads ‘the strong ones among those who recognised (him)’ behind the curtain where he has them sit on a ‘good seat’ (Rasāʾil 23, –6ff.; cf. sura 54:55). In a similar sense it was transmitted – not until later (Bākharzī; cf. Gramlich, Isl. Mystik 230f.) – how Sarī al-Saqaṭī fell into a trance during a lecture and went on a journey to heaven, where he stood before God in the seventh heaven but heard only his voice coming from behind a curtain. Interestingly God is named the ‘tightly gathered one’ here (mutakāthif) in accordance with the ‘theology of the solid body’ which we shall explore in more detail below (p. 409ff.). The report is traced back to Junayd. It must be borne in mind that mysticism had not died out in Basra, either, but that it was dominated by a foreigner there, an Iranian, Sahl al-Tustarī, who apparently came to the city in 263/877 as a refugee, and stayed for twenty years until his death. He did not mind the Qadarite tradition he found there at all. He was a determinist,68 and he did not believe in the eternal punishment of hell for Muslims,69 although he did not deny humans’ responsibility.70 Besides, he was a supporter of the non-createdness of the Quran71 and did not even balk at using the word qadīm.72 His mystic thinking was dominated by the practice of dhikr. God recalls himself to the notice of the mystic’s heart; dhikr is an anamnesis in that it repeats the primordial covenant. In these circumstances God manifests himself as light that falls into the human’s heart. And the very first one to attract this light like a crystal and received it into his heart, was Muḥammad. This happened to him before the beginning of time, but during his earthly existence he transmitted this light to humans through the Quran. Consequently Muḥammad is not only the prophet but also the primordial 68  Cf. K. al-muʿāraḍa wal-radd ʿalā ahl al-firaq wa-ahl al-daʿāwā fī l-aḥwāl, ed. and transl. by Cihad Tunç (PhD Bonn 1970), in which sayings by Tustarī are collected; § 17, Arab. text 7, 4f. (the German translation p. 73 is wrong). Also p. 17, 5 § 68. Regarding the text cf. Böwering, Mystical Vision 12ff. 69  Ibid. p. 8 § 23. 70  Cf. Tustarī’s Tafsīr (Cairo 1329/1911), p. 1, –5ff.: although everything has already been noted on the ‘preserved tablet’, God did not constrain humans to sin or to obedience. Regarding the work cf. Böwering 11 and 100ff. 71   Muʿāraḍa § 63, also 13 and 17 (p. 7, 6f.); also Tafsīr 2, 7ff. 72   Muʿāraḍa § 13.

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human, created as a pillar of light. A mystic within whose heart the light shines will have been anticipated by the prophet; he thus ‘lives in the actualisation of the primordial past and in the anticipation of the ultimate future’. This is the conclusion of the monograph we have on this thinker;73 it is a source we can recommend for further information.74 We are looking at mysticism that forgoes the concept of love; instead we find letter mysticism that recalls the Kabbala.75 The Spaniards visiting Ghulām Khalīl learnt about these ideas; as we have seen,76 Ibn Masarra referred to Sahl al-Tustarī in his Risālat khawāṣṣ al-ḥurūf. When Tustarī died in 283/869, a number of his pupils moved to Baghdad. Some joined Junayd, while others settled with the Ḥanbalites by the Bāb Muḥawwal.77 Those who remained were absorbed by the Mālikites; they would later form the core of the Sālimiyya.78

73  Böwering, The Mystical Vision of Existence in Classical Islam 230. 74  Cf. also the summary in EI2 VIII 840f. s. n. Sahl al-Tustarī. 75   Risālat al-ḥurūf, ed. Muḥammad Kamāl Ibrāhīm Jaʿfar, Min al-turath al-ṣūfī I (Cairo 1974), p. 366ff. The authenticity is difficult to prove as yet (Böwering 17f.). 76  P. 307 above. 77  Böwering 82ff.; also in EI2 VIII 840. Regarding the Bāb Muḥawwal cf. Ṣ. A. al-ʿAlī, Baghdād I 2 19ff., and Index s. n. 78  Regarding in see Massignon/Radtke in EI2 VIII 993f. Muḥammad b. Sālim had been Tustarī’s pupil for many years; his son Aḥmad may have been the one to compile the K. al-Muʿāraḍa (Böwering 13).

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The Self-Destruction of the Dialectical Method

Over time Junayd would become the ancestor of moderate mysticism; orthodoxy embraced him. A man close to the Muʿtazilite Sufis, on the other hand, was excluded from the Muʿtazila for this very connection: Ibn al-Rēwandī. He was regarded as Islam’s arch-heretic from then on. He had furthermore made himself unpopular by wielding kalām with a certain frivolity. He employed arguments other people preferred to keep quiet, and his remarks on the issue of theodicy touched upon the sensitive area of social criticism. How he said it made all the difference; what he said was not, in fact, always new. His predecessors were not only the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila we have pointed out above, but also a man of an entirely different stamp: Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq.

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8.2.1 Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq Ibn al-Rēwandī not only learnt and adopted much from this Abū ʿĪsā b. Hārūn b. Muḥammad al-Warrāq,1 he also had thorough discussions with him, some of which were quite heated. They concerned the image of the prophet and the doctrine of iʿjāz, but also the meaning of bloody sacrifices. Abū ʿĪsā was a rationalist; he appears to have believed that all commandments can be deduced by means of reason.2 The prophet played an inferior part; above all there was no reason any more why he should have needed to prove himself by means of miracles.3 In fact, Abū ʿĪsā’s enlightened world view does not seem to have included a place for miracles. He also doubted the customary Muʿtazilite image of God: if God is good, he has no need to punish.4 In his words this was much more than merely a Ḥanafite – Murjiʾite protest against the eternal fires of hell; it concerned the principle of punishment per se: punishment must have a meaning, but such a meaning cannot be discovered in relation to God. For the time being we can conclude only that Abū ʿĪsā derived pleasure from experimenting with such ideas; possibly he was the first who did.5 Whether he identified with them, and to what extent, is difficult to say. His detractors committed him to these ideas, but he himself was much more cautious. Some of what he presented he expressed through a ‘stranger from the east’; the book to which he entrusted these thoughts bore this very title: K. al-gharīb al-mashriqī.6 The stranger probably came from India; it was expected of the ‘Brahmins’ that they embraced a rational religion and believed prophecy to be superfluous.7 This could also be seen as the motive for their abhorrence of bloody sacrifices; it was known that Hindus practised ahiṃsa.8 The subterfuge did not profit him much; suspicion ran wild all the more. In Iraq people believed Abū ʿĪsā to be a Manichaean; Manichaeism, too, prohibited the consumption of meat.9 The Muʿtazilites disowned him because he ‘composed books for the Manichaeans’ and ‘believed in two eternal 1  Intiṣār 73, 11; Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 216, 9. 2  Text XXXV 52, a and 50, a. Cf. also p. 360f. below. 3  See p. 371 below; cf. esp. Text 71. 4  Text 1. 5  See vol. I 530 above. 6  Text 1, e; for more information cf. Catalogue of Works XXXV a, no. 17. 7  For more details see p. 361 and 386 below. 8  Abū ʿĪsā wrote an ‘elegy on the animals to be slaughtered’; according to the Fihrist this book was identical with the K. al-gharīb al-mashriqī (Catalogue of Works no. 16–17). Two passages quoted by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Mughnī XIII 460, 3–6 and 12f.) show that the book did indeed have the tendency suggested, although the qāḍī avoids – possibly deliberately – naming the author (459, 3f.). 9  Cf. the texts in Böhlig, Gnosis 189 and 202f.; also Widengren, Mani und der Manichäismus 98.

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principles’;10 they probably also boycotted his lectures. Even Ibn al-Rēwandī, though closer to him than anyone else, adopted this condemnation;11 apparently going so far as to spread the rumour that Abū ʿĪsā nurtured a secret loathing of ʿAlī because the latter shed so much blood.12 Jubbāʾī, who did not usually want to have anything to do with Ibn al-Rēwandī, adopted this willingly.13 Only the Sharīf al-Murtaḍā who, being a Shīʿite himself, had some things in common with Abū ʿĪsā, saw the campaign in a rather different light: in his great doxographical work, the K. al-maqālāt, Abū ʿĪsā described the dualists’ world view in so much detail and so objectively that his detractors believed him to be a sympathiser.14 And in fact even modern research has been known to assume that only a ‘Manichaean with roots in Islam’ could have used the words Abū ʿĪsā employed.15 Still, while the scientific rationalism practised by Manichaeans in the Islamic world at the time16 may have inspired feelings of kinship in him, in his heart he never wavered. Dualism was not for him; he attacked the Zoroastrians.17 Furthermore, the K. al-maqālāt covers many subjects besides dualist systems,18 and even where he concentrated on the latter, he did not avoid polemic by any means.19 Shahrastānī believed that he had converted from Mazdaism to Islam,20 but this is not correct, either: his grandfather was already called Muḥammad, like Abū ʿĪsā himself. There were several more experts on Manichaeism in Iran at that time: Īrānshahrī, for instance, or Abū Bakr al-Rāzī. The former never became known in Iraq, and was consequently not attacked there, either. Rāzī, on the other hand, acquired the same reputation as Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq (cf. Meier in: Oriens 33/1992/2 and 6; also p. 374 below). 10   Intiṣār 108, 2f., and 110, 5f.; cf. also Ḥākim al-Jushamī in: Faḍl 392, 1f. 11  Text 77, d, and 83, b; cf. also Text XXIII 26, h. 12   Intiṣār 111, ult. ff. 13  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XX 1 38, 11ff. 14   Al-shāfī fī l-imāma 13, 16ff.; cf. also Qummī, Al-kunā wal-alqāb III 242, pu. ff. 15  Colpe in: ZDMG 109/1959/90; S. Stroumsa in: JSAI 6/1985/230, n. 5, with further arguments. In agreement with Murtaḍā, on the other hand, Abel, Livre pour la refutation xviiiff.; against Stroumsa more recently D. Thomas, Anti-Christian polemic 21. Stroumsa points to Manichaeism with regard to the ‘stranger from the east’, too, but there is nothing apposite in the passage cited (G. Stroumsa, Another Seed, Leiden 1984, p. 145ff.). 16  See vol. I 497 above. 17  Catalogue of Works no. 5. 18  Cf. the references in Catalogue of Works no. 7. Links with later depictions of Manichaeism, especially with regard to the relevant chapter in the Fihrist, have been studied in greatest detail by Colpe, Manichäismus, passim (esp. the summary on p. 204ff.). 19  Catalogue of Works no. 6. 20   Milal 18, 14f./619, 9f.

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Abū ʿĪsā practised polemic in other contexts as well: against the Jews, and against the Christians.21 He published three different versions of his Radd ʿalā l-Naṣārā, from the epitome to the extensive compendium, in the same way as Ibn Rushd would later publish his commentaries on Aristotle.22 As in his exploration of Manichaeism his knowledge of the subjects was outstanding; Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī (d. 363/974), who wrote a refutation of the book a century later, treats him with respect and is ready to concede that he was right in several points. Thanks to this refutation the two major parts of Abū ʿĪsā’s work are known to us in their entirety; the section on the incarnation23 and that on the trinity.24 The description is detailed and shows impressive conceptual insight; Ibn ʿAdī was certainly looking at the ‘great’ version. Abū ʿĪsā discusses each of the three churches, the Nestorians, the Jacobites, the Melkites in separate chapters; at the end he adduces arguments that apply to all of them. In a postscript he says that he hopes to address smaller groups such as the Julianists, Sabellians, Maronites etc.25 – he had probably heard of their doctrines from catalogues of sects as compiled by Qaḥṭabī26 or Nāshiʾ.27 He did not carry out this plan, but 21  Catalogue of Works no 1–4. 22  It has not been sufficiently researched how this custom developed, but Abū ʿĪsā was probably not the first to employ it. His Shīʿite contemporary Faḍl b. Shādhān (d. 260/874) wrote his K. al-farāʾiḍ three times: kabīr, awsaṭ and saghīr (Najāshī 217, 11f.). Al-Nāshiʾ alakbar’s title K. al-awsaṭ probably points to the same thing (cf. my Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie 23f.). Ṭaḥāwī (d. 321/933) dictated his Shurūṭ in three versions; once again kabīr, awsaṭ and saghīr (cf. Wakin, Function of Documents 24f.). The K. al-kharāj written by a Christian ministry official existed in a detailed version of 1,000 folio, a medium version in 210, and a small one in ca. 100 folio (Yāqūt, Irshād II 238, apu. ff.). It is necessary to look carefully at each one: Ṭabarānī’s Muʿjam appears to have existed in three versions as well, but each of them different as to the contents (cf. GAS 1/196). This is presumably linked to teaching practice; the teacher could vary his lectures in accordance with necessities and capacity (cf. Tritton, Materials on Muslim Education 69). One’s own growing experience also played a part: Ibn Rushd first wrote the epitomes, then the medium commentaries (talkhīṣ), and the great ones at the end (Urvoy, Ibn Rushd 36ff.). 23  Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq/ Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī, De l’incarnation, ed. and transl. by E. Platti, Leuven 1987 (CSCO 490–491); brief summary of the arguments proposed in the text in: Quaderni di Studi Arabi 5–6/1987–8/661ff. 24   Anti-Christian polemic in early Islam. Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq’s ‘Against the Trinity’, ed. and transl. by D. Thomas, Cambridge 1992. This study supersedes A. Abel’s dissertation Le livre pour la refutation des trois sects chrétiennes de Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq (Brussels 1949), which had been the most consulted source so far. In his introduction Thomas also explores Abū ʿĪsā’s life and his relationship to Ibn al-Rēwandī. 25  Platti 209, 4ff. (Text)/177 (transl.). 26  See vol. III 480 above. 27   Awsaṭ 77, ult. ff.; cf. intro. 71ff.

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the time between his attack and Ibn ʿAdī’s defence proves how influential his work remained despite the defamation directed at him in the meantime. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār drew on it in the fifth volume of Mughnī, and his contemporary and opponent Bāqillānī (d. 403/1013) clearly referred to it in the chapter of his Tamhīd dedicated to refuting the Christians.28 What is noticeable is how little attention Abū ʿĪsā devoted to internal Muʿtazilite issues – not a single one of the books listed by Ibn al-Nadīm and Najāshī, of which there are seventeen in total, discusses such a subject. He may have questioned the customary argument from contingency in his K. al-ḥadath, like Ibn al-Rēwandī would after him.29 However, Abū Sahl al-Nawbakhtī’s (d. 311/924) conclusion that Abū ʿĪsā believed in the ‘eternal duration of bodies’ and consequently of the world, requires further evidence.30 Maybe he, like Khayyāṭ after him, expanded the theory of potentiality with the idea that things were bodies even before coming into existence.31 He believed that coming into being was mainly a process of movement; a substratum (maḥall) gains momentum and consequently enters into existence. Unfortunately we do not learn more about this idea.32 It is consequently not easy to determine his personal position. A remark by Māturīdī, which probably goes back to Kaʿbī, suggests that he believed in a capacity to act before the action itself, in accordance with Muʿtazilite doctrine.33 In his refutation of the Christians he describes synergism as supported by Ḍirār or Najjār as determinism (ijbār).34 He has been linked to eastern Ḥanafite tradition according to which the capacity occurs at the same time as the action and could be used merely to perform the opposite, but this probably places

28  Thus Abel in: Etudes Lévi-Provençal I 9f.; in more detail Thoma 42ff. Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī chose Abū ʿĪsā’s text deliberately; after all, he tells us himself that he had copied innumerable books by mutakallimūn (Qifṭī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-ḥukamāʾ 361, 16). Of course this also proves that Abū ʿĪsā was not regarded as a dualist or a Manichaean; his arguments and his position are those of Islamic – and in particular Muʿtazilite – theology (Thomas 63ff.; briefly also Platti in: S. Kh. Samir/J. S. Nielsen (eds.), Christian Arabic Apologetics during the Abbasid Period 174). 29  See p. 376f. below. 30  Catalogue of Works no. 10. 31  See p. 27f. and 55 above; regarding Khayyāṭ cf. EI2 IV 1163a. 32  Ibn Mattōya, Tadhkira 448, –7 (if al-Warrāq there does indeed refer to Abū ʿĪsā). The statement occurs in the context of the discussion of whether ‘state of being’ (kawn) is possible without movement. 33  Text 2. 34  P. 113, 15f., and 175, 14f./transl. 98 and 149.

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him too close to Ibn al-Rēwandī.35 He believed, that prophets could sin, too; he does not speak of ʿiṣma with regard to them.36 One place emphasises a similarity between him and Iskāfī.37 In his commentary on Juwaynī’s Irshād Salmān al-Anṣārī quotes one of his theories with approval.38 Tawḥīdī believed him to be one of the most intelligent theologians’, but probably merely because he recognised the limits of theology.39 There is no doubt whatsoever regarding the fact that Abū ʿĪsā was a Shīʿite. It was known that he had written books for the Shīʿa.40 Extant titles confirm this. He composed a K. al-imāma that was available in a short and a long version like his refutation of the Christians.41 In his K. al-Saqīfa he appears to have given a detailed historical depiction – the book was 200 sheets thick – of how ʿAlī lost his power in the coup in the Saqīfat Banī Sāʿida; Abū Bakr having led the prayer during the prophet’s last illness was not a proof of legitimation he recognised.42 One of his pupils, who was a member of the circle around the tenth and eleventh imāms in Samarra, composed – presumably under his direction – a refutation of Jāḥiẓ’ K. al-ʿUthmāniyya.43 Using the example of sura 98 (which he calls Sūrat lam yakun after its initial words, rather than the customary al-Bayyina), he delved into the question of whether the Quran as redacted by the Sunnites was complete; this sura was believed to have contained negative information on some noble Quraysh and to have been as long as the Sūrat al-baqara originally.44 Besides summaries of foreign religions his K. almaqālāt may have consisted of only one further section, on Shīʿite differences

35  Ibn Mattōya, Muḥīṭ II 106, –6ff.; cf. Text 23, and p. 347 below. 36  It might be inferred from Text 2; polemically distorted by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 128, 5ff. (cf. also p. 389 below). 37  Text XXIX 25. 38  Text 20, commentary. 39  Text 1. He uses the same predicate to refer to Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥaḍrī (see p. 105 above); in both these cases presumably because he himself was also inclined to be a sceptic. 40  Ashʿarī, Maq. 64, 1f.; also Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj al-sunna III 207, 15f. 41  Catalogue of Works no. 12–13. 42  Ibid. no. 14. Cf. also p. 255 above. 43  Ibid. no. 15, and Catalogue of Works XXX, refutation d; also recorded by Masʿūdī, Murūj VI 57, 9f./IV 77 § 2282 Pellat. Masʿūdī regards Abū ʿĪsā as the author. Might the Shīʿites have denied his authorship because over time his reputation suffered among them as well? His pupil also wrote a K. tawlīdāt Banī Umayya fī l-ḥadīth (Najāshī 84, pu. f.)? 44  The greater context of the question becomes clear in Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 221, 5ff.; cf. also Modarressi in SI 77/1993/27.

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of doctrine; no trace of chapters dealing with the Murjiʾa etc. has so far been found.45 The Muʿtazilites, and especially the Basrans among them, noted with particular displeasure that he supported the naṣṣ jalī, i.e. what he had presumably written in his K. al-Saqīfa. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār regarded him as a successor to Hishām b. al-Ḥakam,46 although it is unlikely that he adopted the latter’s theories in their entirety.47 He was more likely to have been close to the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila; this was the environment in which he met Ibn al-Rēwandī.48 The Imāmiyya was at a critical point at the time; he may have lived to see the death of the eleventh imām. It is unlikely that he joined extreme groups around Isḥāq al-Aḥmar49 or Ibn Nuṣayr;50 he was not a gnostic or a deifier. Still, we do not actually know his precise position.51 He lived in Baghdad, as a bookseller or publisher (warrāq).52 According to Masʿūdī he died there in 247/861, in a suburb named Ramla on the west bank of the Tigris.53 However, this date is probably too early, as the K. al-maqālāt was completed only some time after 250/864; possibly even after 271/884.54 A debate in which Ashʿarī tells us he took part together with several other respected theologians including Ibn al-Rēwandī, must also be dated to the second half of the third century.55 Brockelmann concluded that the correct date was 297/909,56 but he may well be relying exclusively on Massignon57 whose

45  Catalogue of Works no. 8. Abū ʿĪsā also quoted defamatory verses against the Banū Taym who had fought against ʿAlī in the battle of the camel (Mufīd, Al-fuṣūl al-mukhtāra I 52, 16ff./55, –9ff.). 46   Tathbīt 225, –5; 528, ult. f.; 551, 13ff. Cf. vol. I 444 above. 47  He includes a doxographical account of one of his pupils (Baghdādī, Farq 49, 7ff./67, 2f.). 48   Intiṣār 73, 11; cf. p. 102f. above. 49  Regarding him cf. Halm in: Der Islam 55/1978/245ff. 50  This is the Nuṣayrians’ eponymous hero, about whom not much else is known (ibid. 254). 51  Ibn al-Nadīm, a Shīʿite himself, does not go into Abū ʿĪsā’s Shīʿite connections; he only mentions ‘mental confusion’ (takhlīṭ; Fihrist 216, 8f.). In another place he lists him directly among the zanādiqa (401, –9). 52  Regarding the warrāqūn in Baghdad cf. Massignon, Passion 2I 667f./transl. I 626f.; also Endreß in GAP II 450f. In general also vol. II 107, n. 31 above. 53   Murūj VII 236, pu. f./V 23, 10f.; also Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān V 412, 8f. Regarding al-Ramla cf. Ṣ. A. al-ʿAlī, Baghdād I 2 91f. 54  Regarding the circumstances cf. Madelung in: Der Islam 43/1967/47f., and Festschrift Spuler 210. 55  Text XXXI 34; cf. p. 152 above. 56   G AL S 1/341. 57   Recueil 182.

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statement is entirely unfounded, even though he affirms it in a note. The latest discussion of the subject by D. Thomas leaves the question open.58 In order to advance we will have ask the question once again, this time in the context of the last theologian to be discussed here.

58   Anti-Christian polemic 18, although earlier he repeats Madelung’s arguments in favour of a date after 247/861. In another place (p. 11 and 17) he plays with the idea that Jāḥiẓ’ two epistles Fī dhamm al-Warrāq and Fī madḥ al-Warrāq might have been written about Abū ʿĪsā and thus support an earlier date of his death; this is clearly a mistake. Ibn al-Nadīm has al-warrāqīn in both these titles (Fihrist 211. –4); Pellat, too, adopts the title in this form (in: Arabica 31/1985/162 no. 235f.). Only later tradition has the misleading singular form. The text refers to the profession; Ibn al-Nadīm also has texts Fī dhamm and Fī madḥ alkuttab. It is furthermore unlikely that Jāḥiẓ would have played with praise and criticism in the way he does if he had been referring to an individual, least of all Abū ʿĪsā: a Radd would have more than sufficed in his case. – Cf. in general the article by W. M. Watt in EIran I 325f., by A. S. Furat in IA XIII 302ff. (s. v. Verrâk), and ʿA. Zaryāb in GIE VI 82ff.; also Muḥsin al-Amīn, Aʿyān al-Shīʿa XLVII 10, and D. Urvoy, Les penseurs libres dans l’Islam classique 102ff.

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Ibn al-Rēwandī As Masʿūdī transmits a similarly early date of the death of Abū l-Ḥusayn Aḥmad b. Yaḥyā b. [Muḥammad b.] Isḥāq al-Rēwandī,1

which renders the situation even more difficult. In fact, his case is even more complex. Masʿūdī has 245; Ibn Khallikān follows him.2 Ibn al-Jawzī, who included a detailed biography of Ibn al-Rēwandī in his Muntaẓam and referred to old sources, including Muʿtazilite ones, lists his death under the year 298 instead;3 this date, too, was adopted by several later authors.4 There are some other dates: 243,5 250,6 293,7 301.8 The specific figures are not particularly relevant; they merely show that people relied on speculation. It is noticeable once again that we are looking at an early and a late date; the two are four decades apart. When Nyberg edited K. al-intiṣār in 1925, he decided in favour of a late date around 300;9 Kraus responded with a plea in favour of Masʿūdī’s date.10 The essential arguments were all presented at the time, although none of them was entirely cogent. Kraus corrected himself in an appendix.11 All the same, Vajda12 as well as Aʿsam13 decided in favour of the earlier date. We will have to look at the situation in some depth. Other difficulties surface as well. His age is just as uncertain as the dates. Ibn ʿAqīl counted Ibn al-Rēwandī with Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ and Naẓẓām among the brilliant young men who died at the age of 36; we have already pointed 1   Regarding the name cf. Masʿūdī, ibid., and Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam VI 99, 9f.; the insertion following the father’s name is found only in the vulgate text of the Fihrist (WZKM 4/1890/223, 12f.). 2    I 94, 8. Thus also İsmail Paşa, Īḍāḥ al-maknūn II 199, –5. 3    V I 99ff. 4   Ṣafadī, Wāfī VIII 238, 20f.; Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm III 175, 5ff.; Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān I 324, 2. Ibn Kathīr includes both dates, but prefers Ibn al-Jawzī’s (Bidāya XI 113, –6f.). ʿAbbāsī refers to Ibn al-Najjār for the year 298, i.e. his Dhayl Ta‌ʾrīkh Baghdād (Maʿāhid altanṣīṣ I 158, pu.); he had been Ibn al-Jawzī’s pupil. 5   Yāfīʿī, Mirʾāt al-janān II 144, 10f.; Muḥsin al-Amīn, Aʿyān al-Shīʿa X 222, 9f. after an anonymous Risāla on the dates of scholars’ deaths. 6   IKh I 94, 9f., after a certain K. al-bustān. The editor conjectures that this might be Abū Ḥāmid al-Isfarāyīnī’s (d. 406/1016) K. al-bustān fī l-nawādir wal-gharāʾib. 7   Abū l-Fidāʾ, Mukhtaṣar II 294, pu. ff.; İsmail Paşa, Hadiyyat al-ʿārifīn 55, 10. 8   Thus ḤKh 1274, 15f., in a gloss; 1423 s. t. K. al-zīna and 1450 s. t. K. al-qaḍīb. 9   Intro. p. xxxiiff. 10  In: RSO 14/1934/372ff. 11  Ibid. 379. 12  In EI2 III 905, with new evidence (see below). 13   Ta‌ʾrīkh 9 and 29, without discussing the question in detail.

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out that this construction is untenable.14 The figure 36 was read as 86 by Ibn Taghrībirdī, who decided in favour of the later date.15 Overall, the biographers appear to have presumed that Ibn al-Rēwandī was born around 210.16 Ibn ʿAqīl noted besides that Ibn al-Rēwandī was crucified on the orders of ‘some ruler’.17 However, there appears to have been some wishful thinking involved; he misread ṭalabahū as ṣalabahū in Jubbāʾī’s account of how the authorities ‘searched for’ Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq and Ibn al-Rēwandī.18 Ibn al-Rēwandī’s background is not very clear, either. Ibn al-Nadīm reported that he came from Marvarrūdh.19 The town of Rēvand, on the other hand, which gave him his nisba, was located in the Isfahan region by later authors.20 However, it seems that they simply copied this from Yāqūt.21 There was also a Rēvand district near Nishapur,22 which would fit better. Ibn al-Rēwandī’s Khorasanian roots are confirmed by Kaʿbī’s mentioning him in his Maḥāsin Khurāsān.23 Of course Khorasan was big; the distance between Marvarrūdh on the road from Marv to Herat and Balkh on the one hand and a district near Nishapur on the other was about ten days’ journey. Might the family have moved from Rēvand to Marvarrūdh?24 After all, this theologian is usually called Ibn al-Rēwandī; it would have been his father or another ancestor who was first named after Rēvand. The reading Rēvand/Rēwandī (with ē) is supported by the variations in the Arabic written versions. The majhūl vowel may be inferred from the transmitted variants Rāwandī, Rīwandī/Raywandī, and Rawandī (cf. F. Meier in: Oriens 27–28/1981/101 with a wealth of further instances; parallels from the inventory of Aramaic place-names in Wild, Libanesische

14  See vol. II 28f. and III 326 above. 15   Nujūm III 177, 1f.; he was probably working from Ibn al-Jawzī, where the Ibn ʿAqīl quotation (VI 105, 5) does not agree with the late date of his death. In addition there is a MS version of Muntaẓam which includes the variant 66 for 36 (adopted into the text by Ritter in: Der Islam 19/1931/19, 13). 16  Kraus, ibid. 375. 17   Muntaẓam VI 105, 3f. 18  Ibid. 102, 3f. The story of the crucifixion was adopted by Ṣafadī (Wāfī VIII 238, 21) and Ibn Taghrībirdī (Nujūm III 177, 1). 19   Fihrist 216, 14; regarding the location of Marvarrūdh cf. Krawulsky, Iran 101. 20  Thus IKh I 94, pu., and Yāfīʿī, Mirʾāt al-janān II 144, 15f. 21   Muʿjam al-buldān III 19f. s. v. Rāwand. 22  Ibid. III 115f. s. v. Rīwand; Krawulsky, Iran 105; also Schippmann, Feuerheiligtümer 26ff. 23  Ibn al-Nadīm 218, 14. 24  Thus already Houtsma 230.

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Ortsnamen 460. Another example in Muʿtazilite circles is the theologian Ibn al-Ikhshēdh, who also occurs as Ibn al-Ikhshīdh and Ibn al-Ikhshādh. Ibn al-Rēwandī appears to have had relatives in Baghdad; Khayyāṭ knows of a brother and an uncle, who were both Muʿtazilites.25 He was still young when he arrived in the capital; it does not surprise us that he made use of the instruction offered by the Muʿtazilites there.26 All the same, he had already undergone an education; Ibn al-Nadīm, an Iraqi, notes that he was superior to his peers in discrimination and theological accomplishment.27 One wonders whether he had already made a name for himself in his home country, as it is remarkable how positively he is presented by eastern authors: Māturīdī,28 Pazdawī,29 Ṣābūnī,30 Salmān al-Anṣārī.31 Nāṣir-i Khosraw recorded without criticism one of the arguments with which he caused outrage in Iraq.32 Members of the Karrāmiyya were ‘obsessed with’ his books;33 in Marvarrūdh this school would later maintain a khānqāh.34 His works, as Abū Ḥayyān alTawḥīdī recorded, were found in the library of the Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād in Rayy.35 More than fifty titles have been transmitted; Masʿūdī speaks of 114 works he was said to have composed.36 Around forty of these were completed before he ‘dropped out’ – at least according to a remark by Ibn al-Nadīm quoted by Ibn Ḥajar, but not found in the Fihrist.37 It is possible that Ibn Ḥajar was merely summarising; he only needed to add together the titles listed by Ibn alNadīm in order to arrive at this number.38 Still, we will have to look into the question of how this extraordinary productivity would have been distributed over the author’s life. The extant fragments certainly leave no doubt that he was part of the Ḥanafite – Murjiʾite tradition of the east. 25   Intiṣār 108, 8 = Text XXIII 26, 1. 26  Ibid. 10, 12f. 27   Fihrist 216, 15. 28  Cf. e.g. Text 11; esp. p. 359 below. 29  Text 20. 30  Text 23. 31  Cf. the commentary in Text 20. 32  Text 42. 33  Thus according to a remark by Ḥākim al-Jushamī (cf. my Ungenützte Texte 26f.). Further details p. 389f. below. 34   Ungenützte Texte 30. 35   Akhlāq al-wazīrayn 182, ult. f. 36   Murūj VII 237, 4f./V 23, 15; adopted in IKh I 94, 4f., and similar in Yāfīʿī, Mirʾāt al-janān II 144, 10f. 37   qabla l-insilākh; Lisān al-Mīzān I 342, 12ff. 38  The term insilākh also occurs in the extant text (216, 16).

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Tawḥīdī, who was thoroughly familiar with Ibn al-Rēwandī’s heretic image,39 praises him once because of his faultless Arabic.40 There was a particular reason for this: Ibn al-Rēwandī was not only a theologian but also a grammarian. He had studied under Mubarrad and transmitted the latter’s most important work, the Muqtaḍab.41 When elucidating the term muḥāl ‘contradictory in itself, impossible to think’, he used examples he knew from Sībawayh.42 One might even conjecture that he came to Iraq in order to study grammar, as there was a record that had him visit Ibn al-Aʿrābī and present him with a question concerning a peculiar Quranic metaphor.43 He could only have done this in his youth; Ibn al-Aʿrābī died in 231/846. On the other hand the story is suspicious as the question is formulated in such a way as to foreshadow the future doubter. The Mubarrad tradition, on the other hand, is an important piece of chronological evidence, and it moved Kraus to change his mind. Mubarrad was at best ten years older than Ibn al-Rēwandī; he was born in 210.44 And if the Cairene editor of the Muqtaḍab, Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Khāliq ʿUḍayma, is correct in assuming that Mubarrad did not begin writing it down until 270,45 the argument over the date of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s death would have been resolved. Unfortunately it is not so easy after all. Mubarrad studied grammar above all while he was in Basra; after 246/860, when he lived in Samarra and Baghdad, he turned his attention to adab. This was expected of him; he joined the Ṭāhirids’ circle there.46 Thus the Muqtaḍab may well be an early work; it is certainly earlier than the Kāmil in which it is frequently quoted.47 We must also bear in mind that the K. al-Intiṣār in which Khayyāṭ attacked Ibn al-Rēwandī was written shortly after 269;48 at that time Ibn al-Rēwandī was certainly not 39   Imtāʿ II 20, 14. 40   Baṣāʾir I 217, 1ff./2I 181, 5ff. 41  Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzhat al-alibbāʾ 226, pu. ff.; adopted by Yāqūt, Irshād VII 143, 14ff. Cf. also the traditionin Ṣafadī, Wāfī VIII 237, 15ff. 42  See p. 346f. below. 43  Badīʿ al-Zamān al-Hamadhānī, Rasāʾil (Istanbul 1298/1181), p. 8, 5ff.; reprinted in Aʿsam, Ta‌ʾrīkh 90. 44  Regarding him GAS 9/78ff., and Sellheim in EI2 VII 279ff. 45  Cairo 1385/1965, vol. I 72. 46  Qifṭī, Inbāh III 247, 7ff. 47   G AS 9/78f.; in more detail J. Danecki, Literatura i Kultura w imperium kalifów. Studium twórczości adabowej al-Mubarrada (Warsaw 1982), p. 64. The paths along which ʿUḍayma reaches his late date are rather labyrinthine. Aḥmad Ḥasanayn al-Qaranī and ʿA. Farghalī ʿAlī date the Muqtaḍab to shortly after 247, i.e. during the early Baghdad years (AlMubarrad, Cairo 1971, p. 200). 48  Thus Madelung in: Le Shîʿisme imâmite 14.

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in Baghdad any more. Khayyāṭ clearly assumes that his opponent is dead.49 Furthermore Ibn al-Rēwandī’s connection with the grammarians was not always entirely harmonious. He wrote a treatise against them, apparently criticising that they were only interested in current language usage rather than abiding by rational criteria.50 This might have been directed against the Kufan school, but a Basran, Ibn Durustawayh, who had also been Mubarrad’s pupil, refuted Ibn al-Rēwandī’s attack.51 We must thus look more closely at his time in Baghdad. 8.2.2.1 The Conflict with the Baghdad Muʿtazila So far, what is clear is only that there was a serious conflict which Ibn alRēwandī, being the foreigner, ultimately lost. Its causes have been obscured by polemic. Khayyāṭ presented events as though Ibn al-Rēwandī had joined the ascetics known as ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila,1 and that this was how Abū Ḥafṣ alḤaddād and Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq became his teachers.2 Ibn al-Nadīm adopted this image; according to him Ibn al-Rēwandī ‘heard’ from ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham alṢūfī and al-Warrāq.3 This is probably not pure fiction; Ibn al-Rēwandī wrote about the corruption of the Islamic world and about the resultant demand for a prohibition of gainful activity.4 We do not, however, know, in what sense he meant this. His reference to the ‘ascetics among the inhabitants of Baghdad these days’ sound as though he was distancing himself from them,5 and his relationship with Warrāq at least was everything but friendly.6 In another passage Khayyāṭ modified the image slightly. ‘Towards the end of his partnership with the Muʿtazila’, he says, Ibn al-Rēwandī began to declare material possessions to be prohibited. Some young people followed his lead in 49   Intiṣār 67, –5. Khayyāṭ suppresses Ibn al-Rēwandī’s remark on Thumāma’s legal broadmindedness concerning homosexuality (see vol. III 183f. above). He accuses Ibn alRēwandī of having been a homosexual himself and been admonished for it several times; God then let him die and handed him over to the punishments of hell. Astonishingly, this passage has not been adduced in the discussion as yet, although it is noted in the index of Nyberg’s edition (p. 235). 50  This is how to interpret the abovementioned remark by Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir i 217, 1ff./2I 181 5ff. 51  Catalogue of Works no. 51 and refutation n. Regarding Ibn Durustawayh cf. GAS 8/106 and 9/96ff., Vadet in EI2 III 758, and M. ʿA. Lisānī Fashārakī in GIE III 493ff. 1   Text XVIII 21, f; also p. 102f. above. 2    Intiṣār 73, 10f. 3    Fihrist 216, 5 and 9. 4   Catalogue of Works no. 21. 5   Text XVIII 21, a–d. 6   See p. 327 above and p. 359ff. below; al-Sharīf al-Murtaḍā calls it straightforward hostility (Shāfī 13, 17).

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this, and as a consequence the Muʿtazila cut its ties with him. His resentment at being excluded led to him joining the Shīʿa, ‘as he found no other sect within the community of the faithful that would have accepted him’.7 Still, this version, too, leaves room for doubt. Ibn al-Nadīm makes no mention of this conversion to Shīʿism; it seems to have been an issue for non-Shīʿites only. The circle of Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād and Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq, into which Ibn al-Rēwandī was then placed, already had the reputation of being Shīʿite – and, indeed, Rāfiḍite.8 As for Ibn al-Rēwandī’s ‘criticism of capitalism’, he actually distanced himself from the ascetics after the rift in his K. faḍīḥat al-Muʿtazila that marks this very event;9 consequently it becomes less likely that this should have been the cause of the rift. And finally: could it not be possible that he had brought Shīʿite ideas with him from Khorasan? While he wrote his K. al-imāma in Baghdad,10 he had already devoted intensive study to the teachings of Hishām b. al-Ḥakam.11 He did not regard him without criticism by any means,12 but the regard he did have for him might have been inculcated in him in Iran as well as in Baghdad. He could also have become familiar with the taḥrīm al-makāsib in Iran. Shaqīq al-Balkhī had preached it,13 and the Karrāmites embraced it; in those days they were ascetics to a man.14 In Iran it even had Muʿtazilite supporters; we learn of a group in the Mihrjānqadhaq district in the Ṣaymara region.15 In order to adjust Khayyāṭ’s point of view we probably ought to take the political situation in Baghdad into account. During Mutawakkil’s caliphate it was not advisable any more to declare oneself a Shīʿite. This was an inconvenient moment for the Baghdad Muʿtazila. Not only did it lose power at the time, but there was a growing trend within its own ranks that moved it away from its previous – not particularly outrageous – Zaydite position and ever closer towards the ‘Rāfiḍites’. Jāḥiẓ appears to have understood this as encouragement to be well-behaved; his K. faḍīlat al-Muʿtazila includes a considerable amount of polemic against the extreme Shīʿa, above all against Hishām b. al-Ḥakam.16 Ibn al-Rēwandī came from a different world; Mutawakkil’s religious policy had no influence in the Ṭāhirid lands.17 If his books on Hishām b. al-Ḥakam or on 7    Intiṣār 77, 8ff.; regarding his exclusion cf. also ibid. 11, 12ff., and 76, pu. ff. 8   See p. 103 and 330 above. 9    Intiṣār 11, 14ff. 10  Catalogue of Works no. 22. 11  Ibid. no. 10–12. He apparently adopted Hishām’s explanation of why the earth floats in space (Text 7). 12  Ibid. no. 12; also Intiṣār 91, ult., and Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla I 279, 15f. 13  See vol. II 614 above. 14  Ibid. 610. 15  Maqdisī, Badʿ V 143, 9ff.; also p. 272 above. 16  See p. 111 above and note 12 here. 17  Cf. Bosworth in: Cambridge History of Iran IV 106.

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the khalq al-Qurʾān were composed there, they were unlikely to have caused any offence. The K. khalq al-Qurʾān furthermore appears to have become exemplary for later generations – maybe because nobody in Iraq approached the subject any more.18 He expressed his disgust at the Muʿtazila’s generalising judgments of the Shīʿa;19 in his view, Jāḥiẓ had adapted to the power structure far too much, which is why he responded to the latter’s K. faḍīlat al-Muʿtazila with a K. faḍīḥat al-Muʿtazila of his own.20 If Jāḥiẓ was still alive at the time, he had presumably retired to Basra; no reaction of his is known. In Baghdad, on the other hand, those who felt attacked by Ibn al-Rēwandī linked him to the ascetic faction within which the Rāfiḍite tendencies had spread most widely; indeed, he might have felt affinity with these tendencies in particular. It is impossible to say whether it was indeed the majority that excluded him. The only more important Muʿtazilite theologian who could have led a successful opposition against him was Abū Mujālid.21 Ibn al-Rēwandī accused him of all people of supporting the taḥrīm al-makāsib; Khayyāṭ quickly passes over the passage.22 True opposition came from the younger generation: Khayyāṭ, who had met him,23 in Baghdad, and Jubbāʾī in Basra and ʿAskar Mukram. Jubbāʾī, who may well never have met him in person,24 and who certainly was not familiar with the situation in Baghdad, took care of the circulation of a sinister legend: the authorities were said to have searched for Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq and Ibn al-Rēwandī; they found Abū ʿĪsā who then died in prison, but Ibn alRēwandī fled to the Jew Ben Levi and wrote the K. al-dāmigh for him. Shortly afterwards he died.25 This does not agree with the dates of death recorded by Masʿūdī, as it would mean that he died two years before Abū ʿĪsā. It does not agree with Khayyāṭ’s narrative either, as according to him Ibn al-Rēwandī, ‘when he was fearing for his life and (the authorities) were searching for him’, wrote a K. al-tawḥīd ‘in the hope of gaining favour with the Muslims’.26 Khayyāṭ’s version was soon forgotten, while the legend featuring the Jew continued to spread. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār believed that during the time he 18  Catalogue of Works no. 19. 19   Intiṣār 12, pu. ff. 20  The actual criticism of Jāḥiẓ’ book began only in the second half (cf. Intiṣār 77, pu. ff.). 21  Regarding him see p. 109f. above. 22   Intiṣār 77, 11f. 23  Ibid. 76, pu. f. 24  The story according to which Jubbāʾī met Ibn al-Rēwandī ‘on the bridge of Baghdad’ is clearly apocryphal, and in fact documented rather late (in Ṣafadī, Wāfī VIII 238, 9ff., and ʿAbbāsī, Maʿāhid I 157, ult. ff.). 25  Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam VI 102, 3ff. > Ṣafadī, Wāfī VIII 238, 14ff. 26   Intiṣār 19, 4f. = Text XXI 91, n. Does this have anything to do with the discussion of tawḥīd Kindī was said to have had with him? (regarding the question cf. Catalogue of Works, refutation a).

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spent with Ben Levi Ibn al-Rēwandī claimed that the prophet had not had disagreed with the pagans during his Meccan period and that this had changed only once he had come to Medina and found followers there.27 In the Fihrist the Jew’s name is given as Abū ʿĪsā (sic!) al-Ahwāzī; and Ibn al-Rēwandī is said to have written the bulk of his heretical books for him.28 While this might lead us to conclude that he fled to Khuzestan,29 Ibn al-Murtaḍā, on the other hand, reports his flight to the Jews of Kufa.30 According to ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Tanūkhī (d. 342/953),31 Ibn al-Rēwandī’s father had been a Jew who converted to Islam, while Ibn al-Rēwandī himself taught the Jews to assert that Muḥammad said there would not be a prophet after him.32 This became entwined with the information about a clearly apocryphal K. al-baṣīra Ibn alRēwandī was said to have written against Islam and for which he was paid 400 dirhams by the Jews of Samarra; once he had received the money he was alleged to have raised the price by a further 200 so he would not refute it later.33 This tradition goes back to Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b. Abī Aḥmad al-Ṭabarī (d. 335/946),34 a contemporary of Tanūkhī’s. Although this Ṭabarī is a generation older than Ibn al-Nadīm, the latter does not know anything of a K. al-baṣīra. The argument the Jews were said to have learnt from Ibn al-Rēwandī according to Tanūkhī was linked to him more precisely from the middle of the fifth/eleventh century onwards, e.g. by Abū Isḥāq al-Shīrāzī (d. 476/1083) or Juwaynī (d. 478/1085). As may be imagined, it concerned the question of the abrogation. Moses, as we know, proclaimed that the Torah would be valid until the end of time. This could not be revoked, as he would lose his authority as a prophet in that case.35 It had been known ever since Naẓẓām that this referred 27  Text 91. The name is given as Levi only (but cf. 407, 9). Could this be an allusion to the fact that during the Meccan period the ‘satanic verses’ were still part of the Quran? 28  216, –7f. Could the fact that Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq is mentioned frequently have played a part here (see p. 359 below)? 29  Thus Massignon, Passion 2I 192/transl. I 148. There were indeed larger Jewish communities in this region. 30   I M 92, 12ff. 31  Regarding him cf. GAL S 1/353, n. 1. 32  Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam VI 99, 11ff. > Ṣafadī, Wāfī VIII 232, 17ff. 33  Ṣafadī 233, 2ff.; also Catalogue of Works no. 56 and Text 97, d. 34  Regarding him cf. GAS 1/496f. 35  Text 96–97. In his detailed exploration Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Mughnī XVI 97ff.) does not yet mention Ibn al-Rēwandī, referring only to ‘certain persons who mingle with the mutakallimūn (110, pu.), and probably had Jews in mind. Regarding the issue in general see H. Lazarus-Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds 37ff.; especially for Spain cf. N. Roth in: Proc. Amer. Acad. Jewish Research 54/1987/214ff. and 227ff.

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to the commandment to keep the Sabbath, but not a single Muslim source cites the relevant passage from the Pentateuch (Ex. 31:12ff.) in full. While the demand for more concrete evidence increased, the references to the Torah in later texts are at best sparse summaries.36 Muslims simply did not know the OT, and they had no interest in consulting it. The decisive verse (Ex. 31:17) was commemorated in Jewish liturgy; that is probably the reason why it was spoken about. The Muslims were able to counter it dialectically: if such a thing was indeed contained in the Torah, surely the scribes in Medina would have had recourse to it in debates with the prophet. As, however, there was no mention of it in the Sīra, Ibn al-Rēwandī had to have invented the whole thing.37 Of course the only thing this proves is that the part played by Ibn al-Rēwandī in this tradition was invented. The Jews hardly needed his help. The debate over the abrogation was nothing new to them; Marcion had already tried to dispose of the Old Testament in this way.38 Naẓẓām appears to have been familiar in nuce with the argument Ibn al-Rēwandī was said to have contributed.39 The reference to Ex. 21:12ff., never quite grasped by the Muslims, is spelt out in Saʿadyā and Qirqisānī; both Jewish scholars – the Rabbanite as well as the Karaite – drew the conclusion that with an abrogation God would deprive his prophet of his authority. Regarding Saʿadyā cf. cap. III 7 of his K. al-amānāt wal-iʿtiqādāt (p. 128, 3ff.), where he cites seven Islamic arguments for the abrogation. The sixth one concentrates on the commandment to keep the Sabbath: it became binding only through Jewish law, and can consequently return to being optional as it was before (131, 5ff.). Regarding Qirqisānī cf. Brunschvig in: Homenaje Millás-Vallicrosa I 237ff. = Etudes d’Islamologie I 275ff. While it must be borne in mind that both these authors are of a later date than Ibn al-Rēwandī, the tradition of which they are part is most certainly older. For the counter-argument Saʿadyā furnishes (128, pi. ff.) he directly cites (Iraqi?) predecessors. He was staying in Baghdad from 310/922 onwards. [Regarding the issue see also Adang, Muslim Writers on Judaism 192ff.] 36  Thus Yāfīʿī or Abū l-Fidāʾ (quoted in vol. III 429 above); most clearly Jamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Qazwīnī, Mufīd al-ʿulūm (Cairo 1323/1906) 78, 4f.; Goldziher already pointed out the last-named passage in: Gedenkbuch zur Erinnerung an David Kaufmann 101f. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s focusses on ta‌ʾbīd, i.e. the fact that Moses had declared his law to be binding ‘forever’ (abadan; Mughnī XV 116, 4ff., and 122, 18); the source is le-ʿōlām in Ex. 31:17. 37  Text 97, e; also Qazwīnī, loc. cit. 38  Cf. my Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie 64. 39  Text XXII 223, m.

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Still, Muslim tradition, however tendentious, may have seen something true here. Muslims may not have come across theologically structured resistance from the Jewish side before Qirqisānī and Saʿadyā; as long as they thought in Messianic terms, it was much easier to deal with them. One might furthermore imagine that while Ibn al-Rēwandī did not supply the Jews with the argument, he may well have confronted the Muslims with it in order to remind them that Muḥammad’s prophethood was not as self-evident as they assumed. Only hesitant steps had been taken so far towards exploring the tension between abrogation on the one hand and the equivalence of all prophets on the other;40 Moses’ prophethood had long been believed to have been proven, and the supporting arguments were left to the Jews.41 For the rest, the Iranian Ḥanafite heresiographical tradition preserves the information that the ‘Rēwandiyya’ believed abrogation before a commandment had been implemented to be a change of mind on the part of God (badāʾ), and thus unthinkable.42 This also belonged in the context of an internal Islamic discussion. It had always been said that abrogation could not refer to historical statements but only to commandments.43 Now a further restriction was added: to commandments only if they had been executed. This did not really mean anything to the Jews; however, Bāqillānī had rejected this very standpoint in his debate with the Jews,44 and the summary of Jewish doctrine in Nāshiʾ’s K. al-awsaṭ shows that the Jews were prepared for this distinction, albeit from the opposite angle: badāʾ and consequently abrogation may be possible as long as God has only pronounced a commandment, but once it has been adopted by humans, there is no alternative any more. This is my understanding of the rather cryptically phrased sentence in Awsaṭ 75, 13. The discussion would have reached considerable sophistication at that point. Text 98, on the other hand, cuts across it: according to this source the Rēwandiyya was believed to have equated abrogation and badāʾ with no further differentiation. Here, too, the point at issue is not primarily the truth of the revelation but the fact that one may act in accordance with any one of them, be it revealed earlier or later. The Jew 40  Ḍirār for one had emphasised this point (see vol. III 55 above). 41  Cf. Qirqisānī’s remark vol. III 289 above. – The passage in which Ibn al-Rēwandī argued along these lines might have been the K. al-farīd (Catalogue of Works no. 42). The Ashʿarite al-Mutawallī still presents this train of thought without referring to Ibn alRēwandī (Mughnī 53, 13ff. Bernand). 42  Text 99. 43  See vol. I 40f. above. 44   Tamhīd 186, 16ff.

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Samawʾal al-Maghribī (d. ca. 570/1175) would later say that the commandment to keep the Sabbath had been applied only temporarily because it had not existed before Moses at the times of Adam, Noah or Abraham (Ifhām al-Yahūd 10, 3ff.). Being a convert he borrowed an argument from the Muslims that, as we have seen, had already noted by Saʿadyā. It was particularly convincing for someone who believed tacitly that Islam had always existed, as fiṭra. – Stroumsa’s view on this question differs: JSAI 6/1985/232ff.; cf. Abrahamov in: WO 18/1987/72ff. 8.2.2.2 Ibn al-Rēwandī as a Theologian The ‘sinister legend’ led us on an unexpected path from the biography to the discussion surrounding Ibn al-Rēwandī’s teachings, and this example already shows that here, too, it is not always possible to gain a clear picture. However, there is a greater wealth of information than one might assume at first glance. Ibn al-Rēwandī was a ‘Murjiʾite’, predisposed by his Iranian origins, but with numerous fellow believers in the proximity of the Iraqi Muʿtazila. When it came to controversial issues, however, he attacked the Muʿtazila head-on, writing a K. al-radd ʿalā l-Muʿtazila fī l-waʿīd wasl manzila bayna l-manzilatayn.1 The book does not appear to have exercised anyone seriously; there is no indication that it was written after the rift. It does, however, show that Ibn al-Rēwandī saw limits to his relationship with the Muʿtazila from the very first, and it probably explains why Ashʿarī never seems to have regarded him as a heretic. Ashʿarī quotes him, as well as other theologians, in his Maqālāt, and occasionally came to his defence against his Muʿtazilite opponents (cf. Catalogue of Works, refutations l 4–5). On the other hand, this could be turned against him; it would be said that only two men had been Muʿtazilites first and then become heretics: Ibn al-Rēwandī and Ashʿarī (cf. BEO 23/1970/159, 12f). Unlike ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān or Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir, Ibn al-Rēwandī could not bring himself to assume that that the necessity of reward in the otherworld for actions on earth could be explained rationally.2 It is consistent, then, that he justified the limit of the punishment of hell for Muslims with a Quranic verse: namely that even ‘a good deed of the weight of a grain of dust’ would be

1  Catalogue of Works no. 17. 2  Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār I 78, 6f. = Qalāʾid 121, 10; also p. 39 and 63.

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rewarded.3 This placed him, as the heresiographers noted, in the tradition of Bishr al Marīsī; even the gravest sinner will do some good through his faith. If he followed Bishr’s lead further and equated ‘believing’ with ‘believing (something) to be true’, it would seem that the philological approach in this definition appealed to him, too. For he went on to explain kufr ‘unbelief’ above all linguistically, based on its etymology: it meant ‘rejection and denial’ as well as – based on form II of the verb – ‘covering and veiling’. It did not, however, mean anything beyond this; thus someone who did not reject and deny or cover and veil (the truth?) could not be a kāfir.4 He might have learnt this style of reasoning from Mubarrad, but he was fundamentally saying what Ṣāliḥī and, a generation later, Ashʿarī said, too.5 It was probably written down in his K. alasmāʾ wal-aḥkām, a book, Ibn al-Nadīm points out, written in the days ‘before he had taken leave of his senses’.6 ‘Murjiʾite’, finally, was his interest in distinguishing between generic and specific statements in the Quran.7 He dedicated his K. al-khāṣṣ wal-ʿāmm to this matter.8 He had reservations as to whether it was possible to infer from a plural alone, without further clarification, that the application of the statement was generic;9 this was, of course, the Muʿtazilite approach to the waʿīd verses. Once again he added his personal touch to the discussion by linking a factual and a numerical criterion for the first time. Everything that applies to two or more people is generic, while if one person is mentioned by name, the statement becomes specific. It is possible that two or more persons in a larger group might be named or addressed by name; such a construction would be generic and specific at the same time. Only if all the people involved are named will it be purely generic.10 This was quite plausible. ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān had defined the numerical criterion in the same way.11 The question remains of whether Ibn 3   Sura 99:7; also Text XX 27. He thus seems to have believed that actions will be balanced against one another. 4   Text XX 29, a–d. 5   Abū Isḥāq al-Isfarāʾinī (cf. MIDEO 19/1989/175, 9) and later Ījī (Mawāqif VIII 323, 1ff.) emphasised this. Regarding Ṣāliḥī cf. Text XXXI 44, a, and p. 153f. above; his views were rather more complex in reality. Nāshiʾ belongs in this context, too (see p. 18 above). 6   Catalogue of Works no. 18. J. Berque emphasised in his translation of the Quran (Le Coran 15) that the root k-f-r originally meant ‘to hide, to obscure’ (sc. a truth, but also a good deed). – Bayāḍī, Ishārāt al-marām 220, 8f., notes a further similarity to Bishr al Marīsī. 7   Cf. p. 143 above and p. 720 below. 8   Catalogue of Works no. 25. 9   Juwaynī, Burhān 320, 6ff., together with Burghūth. 10  Text 28. 11  Text XXV 101, b. Much thought has been devoted to the question of whether two things may be regarded as plural even though they are expressed by a dual form (cf. Versteegh in: ZAL 25/1993/302ff.).

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al-Rēwandī continued to benefit his Murjiʾite intention with this theory, as the waʿīd verses, which were expressed in the plural, were generic. Perhaps the knot may be undone by Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī’s remark that he believed that while they did refer to each individual, God would not implement them in the end, after all.12 Of course this was true in the same way of commandments and prohibitions; whether one must obey a command expressed in the Quran or whether it was meant as a recommendation can only be determined when one has relevant evidence; i.e. when the imperative has been qualified by the context.13 Furthermore, one can speak of a commandment only if something is actually commanded; the nawāfil do not belong in this category.14 In the context of these deliberation Ibn al-Rēwandī demonstrates an aptitude for epistemological questions that was by no means a matter of course at his time. He defined precisely what he meant by ‘evidence’, or by ‘cause’,15 and he made it quite clear that there might be sentences containing a positive as well as a negative statement.16 He accepted hadiths as auctoritas, like Bishr al Marīsī had done;17 he accused the Muʿtazilites of not having an interest in this source of knowledge.18 It is consequently not astonishing to find that he wrote treatises defending the tawātur as well as the khabar al-wāḥid.19 He also tried to specify the conditions of ijmāʿ more clearly.20 His greatest success, it seems, was his K. adab al-jadal,21 in which he made a subject respectable that had hardly, or not at all, come to the theologians’ attention.22 Kaʿbī immediately pounced upon an issue discussed in it, and criticised him, while Ashʿarī found numerous arguments in his defence.23 It is not quite certain how extensively Ibn al-Rēwandī explored the subject. Gimaret pointed out that the later controversy between Kaʿbī and Ashʿarī allows us to infer the discussion of only one – and one very specific – problem.24 12   Tabṣirat al-adilla 781, 12ff. 13  Text 32. 14  Text 27. 15  Text 31 and 33; also Catalogue of Works no. 29. 16  Text 30; for a related thought see p. 23f. above. 17  Cf. Text 21 A, d. Regarding Bishr al Marīsī see vol. III 196f. above. 18   Faḍl 194, 17f., after Jubbāʾī. The accusation was not entirely applicable any more by that time (see p. 65, also 48, above). 19  Catalogue of Works no. 26–27. Further details p. 376f. below. 20  Catalogue of Works no. 28; cf. p. 376 below. Cf. also Intiṣār 96, 7f. 21  Ibid. no. 30. 22  One possible exception is Ḍirār’s K. ādāb al-mutakallimūn (Catalogue of Works XV, no. 51, and vol. III 39 above). 23  Catalogue of Works, refutation i 1 and l 5. 24  In: Arabica 32/1985/204, with reference to Text 34.

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In that case Ibn al-Rēwandī would not have been much of a trailblazer after all. However, Gimaret is probably too cautious. I pointed out a long time ago that Qirqisānī presumably used the book extensively, and that it is possible that even Ibn ʿAqīl referred to it in his so far inedited K. al-wāḍiḥ; it certainly seems, if we interpret a slightly garbled note in his K. al-funūn correctly, that he was familiar with it.25 In his Princeton PhD thesis Larry B. Miller tried to delimit the passages adopted by Qirqisānī; if he is right, Ibn al-Rēwandī’s text would indeed have had fundamental significance.26 In that case it would not be quite so surprising that Fārābī should have commented on it.27 Being an Aristotelian he abhorred the theologians’ dialectic; he thus would have chosen the representative – in the east, at least – theorist of their method as the butt of his criticism.28 The K. adab al-jadal may have been the source of the definition of muḥāl which Ashʿarī recorded of Ibn al-Rēwandī.29 This would give us a further indication of the character of the text, as he once again explains muḥāl starting with its etymology, as a statement that ‘is transformed in such a way (uḥīla) that it does not meet the aspect under which it was applicable’, citing two examples Sībawayh had given before him: ‘I have come to see you tomorrow’, and ‘I shall come to see you yesterday’.30 He is concerned with explicit contradictions that occur in a statement when an element is added. The criterion is a formal one; Sībawayh called implicit improbabilities in the content, as expressed e.g. in the sentence ‘I drank all of the sea’, kadhīb. These sentences are formally correct, mustaqīm;31 they must thus be called mustaqīm kadhīb. A true sentence, on the other hand, would be mustaqīb ḥasan. There is furthermore the combination muḥāl kadhīb, which would include sentences such as

25   R EI 44/1976/31f. 26   Islamic Disputation Theory. A Study of the Development of Dialectic in Islam from the Tenth through Fourteenth Centuries (PhD Princeton 1984), ch. 1 (esp. p. 21 and 32 of the typewritten MS). 27  Concerning the issue cf. refutation m. 28  Regarding this and a further possible relationship between Ibn al-Rēwandī and Fārābī cf. my essay in: Hamdard Islamicus 3/1980, issue 4/p. 3ff.; briefly also Miller, Al-Fârâbî’s Dispute about the Adab al-Jadal, in: Acts of the Internat. Symp. on Ibn Turk, Khwârezmî, Fârâbî (Ankara 1990), p. 185ff. [The question posed by Gimaret would be answered if it should turn out that the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār wrote a comment on the K. adab al-jadal (cf. Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 54f.).]. 29  Text 29. 30   Kitāb, ed. Muḥammad al-Ḥusayn al-Aʿlāmī (2Beirut 1387/1967) I 15, pu. ff./transl. Jahn I 1 § 6, 31  Rundgren regarded this as a correspondence to Greek ὀρθός (Acta Soc. Ling. Upsaliensis II 5/1976/130f.).

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‘I shall drink all of the sea yesterday’.32 Ibn al-Rēwandī probably adopted this structure: his teacher Mubarrad had continued Sībawayh’s tradition in Basra.33 It also occurs in Abū ʿAlī al-Fārisī’s (d. 377/987) brief treatise Aqsām al-akhbār (Mawrid 7/1978, issue 3/202, 20f.) in rather more detail but using the same examples; slightly differently in Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī (d. after 400/1010), K. al-ṣināʿatayn (p. 70, 3ff.). The former wrote Taʿlīqāt on Sībawayh’s Kitāb (GAS 9/107 VII). Ashʿarī not only transmitted Ibn alRēwandī’s definition, but also adopted it (Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad maqālāt al-Ashʿarī 265, 14f.). On the other hand, the middle Akhfash (d. 215/830) already tried to define muḥāl differently (Kitāb Sībawayh, transl. Jahn I 2 24, n. 1–2 on § 6). Regarding Akhfash cf. GAS 9/68f., concerning the definitions also Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Furūq 40, 5ff., and my essay in: MUSJ 49/1975–6/680ff. Ibn al-Rēwandī also decided along ‘Murjiʾite’ lines in a last point: he believed that the capacity to act was given by God at the moment of the action itself.34 However, this is also the point at which he differs from Bishr al-Marīsī and from Ashʿarī: he thought that this capacity also allowed the agent to perform the opposite action.35 This position was traced back directly to Abū Ḥanīfa;36 it found particular favour in the east,37 and it is possible that people became more aware of it again due to the contrast with Najjār’s more restrictive model.38 Ibn al-Rēwandī in all probability defended it in his K. al-istiṭāʿa,39 where he may have used the explanation orthodox circles40 would later cite frequently: actions acquire ethical or religious relevance only in relation to a set of values. Touching one’s forehead to the ground is ambivalent per se, but through faith or reason one knows that if one does it before an idol, it is a sin, whereas

32  There was a controversy between Jahn and Prätorius over this passage (cf. M. Hartmann in: ZA 11/1896/74ff.). Cf. M. G. Carter in: JAOS 93/1973/147f.; Endreß in: Sprachphilosophie in Antike und Mittelalter 265f. (cf. also W. Kühn ibid. 335ff.); Hasnaoui in: Aristote aujourd’hui 224f. 33  He was, however, quite critical of him (cf. the material in GAS 9/80). 34  Ḥajūrī, Rawḍat al-akhbār, fol. 144 b; 14ff. Ḥajūrī’s claim that Ibn al-Rēwandī adopted this opinion only after being excluded is probably a Muʿtazilite interpretation. 35  Text 23, a–e, and 24; regarding Bishr and Ashʿarī cf. Text XX 25. 36  Text 23, c. 37  See vol. II 603 above concerning the Fiqh al-absaṭ (p. 43, 5ff.). 38  See p. 174 above. 39  Catalogue of Works no. 16. 40  Text 23, d; concerning the names cf. the commentary.

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done before God, it is a work of obedience.41 One may thus do something that is prohibited or execute a commandment by performing one and the same action; consequently the capacity to act must apply to both as well. Jubbāʾī held a similar opinion.42 The opponents, however, found it too Muʿtazilite; they twisted Abū Ḥanīfa’s words to read: ‘If someone worshipped this sandal and moved closer to God in this way, I would not have any concerns’.43 In contrast to the Muʿtazila, the capacity to act was not ‘tied to an object’ (Text 24) as it came into existence at the same time as the action. At that point one cannot not act (Abū Rashīd, Al-masāʾil fī l-khilāf 284, pu. ff.). If one assumed with the Muʿtazilites that the capacity to act existed already, it was much more freely available. Cf. the controversy reported by Mānkdīm, ShUKh 398, 1ff., above all the ‘Murjiʾite’ arguments (that might be expressed in accordance with Ibn al-Rēwandī’s beliefs) ibid. 398, 13f.; 398, pu., and 399, –5f. (the last-named also, anonymously, in Nāshiʾ, Awsaṭ 95 § 83). The capacity to act is situated in the heart, for the heart is what makes a human, human ‘insofar as he has been endowed with free will, and has received commandments and prohibitions’.44 This sounds like Muʿammar’s doctrine of the human atom,45 and it would be interpreted thus later.46 It is true that Ibn al-Rēwandī studied Muʿammar in some depth;47 in fact, he was among the last people of whom this could be said. He also debated with one of his followers.48 His own teachings, however, had passed through Naẓẓām.49 He was not an atomist and consequently did not believe in the human atom. Instead, he adopted Naẓẓām’s idea of the spirit of life (rūḥ); thus if we wanted to compare him to someone at all, Uswārī or Hishām al-Fuwaṭī would be closest to him.50 41  Ibid., f–i; slightly divergent Text XX 29, e. The example may have been suggested by sura 41:37. 42  Gimaret, Théories de l’acte humain 20. 43  Fasawī II 784, 5ff. > TB XIII 372, 7ff. 44  Text 13, a and d; 16, a. 45  See vol. III 90f. above. 46  Text 19; cf. also Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Dhakhīra 114, 11ff. 47  Catalogue of Works no 3. 48   Faḍl 267, 2f.; cf. also vol. III 99 above. 49  Cf. Text 3, and perhaps also 4. In Text 5 he goes back to the old example of the ant (see vol. III 339ff. above), taking it a step further in order to refute Abū l-Hudhayl. He does not show great skill in these arguments. Cf. also Dhanani, Physical Theory 189f. 50  See p. 7f. and vol. III 455f. above. Muḥammad al-Ṭūsī pointed out the kinship with Hishām al-Fuwaṭī (Iqtiṣād 66, pu.).

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More than both these, however, he pondered the question of how the flowing of the spirit of life could be reconciled with a specific and fixed location of the capacity to act. His K. al-insān was dedicated to these deliberations.51 The concept of rūḥ is needed for practical reasons. The ‘human’ in the heart cannot be held responsible for everything. Pain, for instance, is felt all over the body, and everyone knows that the heart does not always suffer as a consequence.52 The ‘human’ is thus only expression of free will and decision-making; ruling the rest of the body from a seat in the heart.53 Sensory perception, on the other hand, occurs in the individual organs thanks to ‘elements of the living spirit’ contained in them.54 We may safely assume that such an ‘element’ was also found in the heart,55 but the latter is distinguished in a particular way; it is presumably also the home of the sensus communis in which separate local sensations are brought together into the unit of the ‘person’.56 In the case of speech Ibn al-Rēwandī imagined this along similar lines: it is devised in the heart, and what the human utters conveys this, being thus ‘speech’ in the figurative sense only.57 We should like to know more about what happens in death, according to Ibn al-Rēwandī. It is certain that the spirit of life – or rather: the ‘elements of the living spirit’ – leave the body at that moment (Text 21 A and 22); but does the ‘human’ remain? In other words, did Ibn al-Rēwandī – like Naẓẓām – believe the soul to be immortal? One is tempted to assume it, as he believed that the senses of a dead person would still be working as according to reliable hadith he would hear the elegy. Consequently a dead person must be capable of knowledge in two ways: he must know that he is hearing it, and he must know that he is dead (Text 21 A, c–d). This is why Ibn al-Rēwandī accepted the interrogation in the grave – and maybe even the punishment of the grave; in fact, the entire train of thought may well have started here (Text 21, c, and 21 A, commentary). Its early stages were already visible in Najjār’s ideas, who had defined 51  Catalogue of Works no. 15. 52  Text 14. Ibn al-Rēwandī appears to respond to an argument brought against Uswārī or Hishām al-Fuwaṭī, possibly also against Muʿammar. 53  Text 13, b; possibly also 15. 54  Text 13, c, and 16, b. 55  Text 17. An explanation may perhaps be found in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XI 333, 8f. 56  It might be inferred from Text 13, c, that Ibn al-Rēwandī like Naẓẓām assumed the existence of a separate sense of pain besides the other five senses. 57  Text 20. Ibn Kullāb believed this, too (see p. 210 above); regarding the similarities cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 205.

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death as ‘powerlessness’ which renders all action impossible – action understood, presumably, as acting with one’s extremities – (Text XXXII 38). Ibn al-Rēwandī adopted this using a different terminology that recalled Naẓẓām: death is the ‘universal detraction’ (āfa)’ that leads to the loss of the capacity to act and of free decision, but not – or not immediately – to the loss of knowledge (Text 21, b). Furthermore death and life do not rule each other out directly; only certain signs of life end at the moment of death (Text 21, a–b). – Concerning all this cf. the slightly unclear criticism by Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm b. Nawbakht (in Ḥillī, Anwār al-malakūt 150, 1ff.; regarding the work cf. vol. III 54 above). Ibn al-Rēwandī also wrote a K. al-idrāk (Catalogue of Works no. 9). The spirit of life is accidental in character;58 it is not physical as Naẓẓām imagined it. Ibn al-Rēwandī attacked those who ‘denied actions and accidents’,59 but this did not necessarily refer to Naẓẓām, as Ibn al-Rēwandī was not actually an ‘accidentalist’. He believed in the ‘nature’ of things: they function of themselves, rather like Muʿammar had postulated.60 Humans, too, are composed in a similar way; if they do not react purely ‘naturally’, this is due to the fact that they possess a will.61 This clearly recalls Jāḥiẓ; in fact, Ibn al-Rēwandī counted him among the aṣḥāb al-maʿārif.62 Being consistent he rejected the tawallud theory;63 it was probably too ‘atomist’ for his liking. His own idea of the dynamics between external influence and internal reaction was demonstrated by a text that had probably originally had a juristic intention: if someone is killed, death and pain are not simply ‘generated’ by the murderer and manifested on the victim. Sometimes dying takes time, the spirit of life does not leave immediately but struggles against the ‘counterforce’ (ḍidd) conveyed by the murder weapon. This shows us that death takes place in a natural way, albeit provoked by the murderer who stimulates the spirit of life to leave the body. This is the only sense in which someone may be called a murderer, and the case is unmistakeable only if death is instantaneous.64 58  Text 18, a. The sentence 18, b, is presumably phrased too closely in accordance with Ḍirār b. ʿAmr (see vol. III 41 above). 59  Catalogue of Works no. 2; cf. also no. 1. 60  Text XXI 92, a, and XXII 185, m; also Intiṣār 46, 1f., and 70, 11. He wrote a K. al-ṭabāʾiʿ (Catalogue of Works no. 45). 61  Text XXI 141, r. 62   Intiṣār 72, 17f. He wrote a K. al-maʿrifa (Catalogue of Works no. 49, cf. p. 352 below). 63  Text 22, p–r; also XXI 141, p. 64  Text 22; translated in context by E. Gräf in: J. Schwardtländer (ed.), Der Mensch und sein Tod (Göttingen 1976), p. 140f.

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Kaʿbī thought, similarly, that someone who was murdered was not merely dead in the normal sense, as death is effected by God, murder, on the other hand, by another human (Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla II 686, 7f.). Presumably he, like Ibn al-Rēwandī, based his ideas on Naẓẓām (cf. Text XXII 158); Ashʿarī would do so, too (Gimaret, Doctrine 130). Cf. also Text XVII 23, h, with the commentary. Abū Rashīd would later say that Ibn al-Rēwandī hid behind Baghdad doctrine.65 It has become clear that this was rather too generalised, although it is certainly apposite in one point: Ibn al-Rēwandī did not accept the concept of potentiality the Basrans developed during his lifetime. He wrote a K. lā shayʾ illā mawjūd:66 things are not before their existence.67 This was directed at ʿAbbād and Shaḥḥām,68 while agreeing – including in its systematic context – with the teachings of Ṣāliḥī, his (younger?) contemporary in Baghdad.69 For of course Ibn al-Rēwandī knew where the problem lay: God, he said, knew things before their existence all the same, just as they were subject to his omnipotence and his will before. There is no reason why they could not be put in relation to something else: as something known, etc. After all, wine is forbidden even before it has been pressed. Before their existence things cannot be that which they are of themselves; body, substance, created etc.70 Consequently they cannot be a substrate within the act of creation; conveying-into-existence (takwīn) is not an accident but a hypostasis.71 Apart from this the information we find on Ibn al-Rēwandī’s concept of God is sparse. Ibn Furāk thought he had studied Ibn Kullāb’s theory of the attributes in particular, but he gained this impression by working from Ashʿarī’s refutation.72 Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, on the other hand, pointed out that in his K. ʿilal Hishām (b. al-Ḥakam) pulled the ground from under the Muʿtazilite doctrine of the attributes.73 Khayyāṭ accused Ibn al-Rēwandī of believing in proofs 65   Masāʾil fī l-khilāf 284, pu. ff., where the editors are probably right in assuming that this refers to him. 66  Catalogue of Works no. 8. 67  Text 8, b, and 9, h. 68  See p. 27f. and 54f. above. 69  Regarding Ṣāliḥī see Text XXXI 31–31. Interestingly he is mentioned together with Ibn alRēwandī in the disputatio recorded by Ashʿarī (Text XXXI 43). The passage Maq. 572, 6ff., allows us to infer that Ibn al-Rēwandī was in general familiar with Ṣāliḥī’s ideas, even though Ashʿarī does not know where he fits in. 70  Text 8–9. 71  Text 10, and XVII 34. 72  Cf. Gimaret in: JA 273/1985/245, after Ibn Furāk, Mujarrad 12, 15f. 73   Tabṣirat al-adilla I 219, 15f.; cf. Catalogue of Works no. 10.

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of divine grace, like Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir,74 and of holding the same opinion of the Quran as Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir.75 Neither of these would have been out of the ordinary in Baghdad, but it is not quite true. Ibn Mubashshir believed the Quran to be an accident; it was for this very reason that he decided to advance his own theory.76 Ibn al-Rēwandī, on the other hand, avoided the term; he regarded the Quran as a maʿnā or an ʿayn only, i.e. something individually independent that is neither a body nor an accident.77 He supported Naẓẓām in the discussion the latter had started on the question of the difference between the description of Abraham as ‘friend of God’ and Jesus as ‘son of God’,78 but left him when he insisted that God could do wrong and lie. Here he decided in favour of Hishām al-Fuwaṭī or the people of Baghdad: it would be ‘absurd’ to ask, does God actually do so.79 We do not know what Ibn al-Rēwandī wrote on the subjects of primary and secondary creation, or on existence and passing,80 but we do have a summary of what his K. al-khāṭir contained.81 He appears to have moved closer to Jāḥiẓ here, like him employing the dawāʿī model: the thought impulse is composed of ‘motivations’ inspired into the human by God. Their function is to counteract Satan’s whisperings, or the desires of one’s own ego; they are a balancing force. If the soul decides in favour of a good action, they are not required.82 This kind of thought impulse, Ibn al-Rēwandī emphasised in his K. al-maʿrifa, does not have a linguistic form;83 it is really only a thought. Considering Ibn al-Rēwandī’s presuppositions this suggested itself; he also defined speech as kalām al-nafs, ὁ ἐν τῃ̃ ψυχῃ̃ λόγος, as Aristotle would have said.84 As we have seen, his K. al-imāma caused quite a stir. In Khorasan, no-one could think of anything to advance against it.85 Khayyāṭ was said to have written a refutation, but no trace of it survives.86 Later Muʿtazilite tradition is 74   Intiṣār 53, 1f. 75  Ibid. 63, pu. f. 76  See p. 70 above. 77  Text 12. Intiṣār 48, 3, confirms that he, like all Muʿtazilites, believed the doctrine of the uncreatedness of the Quran to be primitive. 78  Text 11. 79   Intiṣār 24, 9f., and 53, 9ff.; also 28, 7f. 80  Catalogue of Works no. 6–7. 81  Ibid. no. 50. 82  Text 25. 83  Cf. Borisov in: Sovjetskoje Vostokovjedenije 4/1947/81f. 84  See p. 349 above. Whether this conformed to his theory of the Quran, as it did in the case of Ibn Kullāb, remains to be seen. 85   Faḍl 320, 5ff. 86  It is not very well documented (cf. Catalogue of Works, refutation b 2).

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dominated by Jubbāʾī’s refutation;87 the view of the original is thus considerably obscured. Above all people disliked that Ibn al-Rēwandī embraced the theory of the naṣṣ jalī. Some thought that no-one before him had ever professed this openly,88 but in all probability he adopted it from Hishām b. al-Ḥakam with whose ideas he was very familiar.89 As we have seen, Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq also followed this line.90 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār emphasised this continuity,91 as did Sharīf al-Murtaḍā.92 However, in a different passage the latter also suggests that Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq and Ibn al-Rēwandī were the first to put this straightforward – at least in theory – matter into words.93 It does indeed seem as though Ibn al-Rēwandī furnished new evidence at the very least. Of course most of the interest was directed at his explanation of the case of ʿAlī: it was the most controversial. He referred to sura 4:59: ‘O believers, obey God, and obey the Messenger and those in authority among you (ulī l-amr).’ In his view the ulū l-amr were the imāms, and another factor may well have been that ʿAlī was deliberately called amīr al-muʾminīn. Not even the sharīf al-Murtaḍā thought much of this proof;94 after all, it was clear that in reality others were ‘in authority’, and recognised as such. Presumably the exegesis was conclusive only if one embraced the fasād al-dār. For the rest, there were hadiths: ‘ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib is my successor (khalīfa) over you after my death’ or ‘great him with the command of the faithful (i.e. with the title amīr al-muʾminīn)’.95 People like Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār regarded all this as apocryphal stuff, but Ibn al-Rēwandī, as we have seen, was really rather partial to hadith.96 Like Hishām b. al-Ḥakam Ibn al-Rēwandī appears to have assumed the sinlessness of the imāms; after all, the ulū l-amr are named in the same breath as God and the prophets.97 According to Shīʿite tradition he even wrote about the 87  Ibid., c 1. In the generation following Jubbāʾī, another Muʿtazilite polemicised against this text; he was a Khārijite (ibid., o). Whether Māturīdī’s Radd k. al-imāma li-baʿḍ al-Rawāfiḍ was directed at Ibn al-Rēwandī, as M. M. Rahman, Māturīdī’s Ta‌ʾwīlāt 47, assumes, cannot yet be determined. 88  Muwaffaq, Iḥāṭa, fol. 60a, 3ff. 89  See p. 338 above. 90  See p. 331 above. 91   Tathbīt 222, 3ff., and 224, 3ff.; also 528, ult. ff. and earlier. 92   Dhakhīra 364, 3ff.; although instead of Hishām b. al-Ḥakam he mentions the Basran Ibn Mītham, of whom nothing relevant to the subject appears to have been transmitted elsewhere (see vol. II 482ff. above). 93   Shāfī 98, 18ff. 94  Ibid. 131, 13ff. 95  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 222, 3ff. 96  See p. 345 above. 97   Shāfī, ibid.

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miracles (muʿjizāt!) of the imāms.98 This did not prevent him from criticising Ḥasan b. ʿAlī for having been bought by Muʿāwiya; the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila, whose attitude to any striving for possessions was critical, were particularly sensitive at this point.99 The imām is not always and in every situation the model, but only when he acts ex cathedra, as it were.100 He is infallible in any case when he appoints a successor, and as this is a public act, no-one can defy it with a clear conscience; whoever followed Abū Bakr was thus deliberately defying the prophet’s orders. Once again Ibn al-Rēwandī adopted the conspiracy theory that had already been suggested by Hishām b. al-Ḥakam. Text 35. Cf. vol. I 444 above. Some Shīʿites drew the conclusion that the appointment of a successor would have been immediately comprehensible (ḍarūrī), and that no deliberation was necessary to understand it. Ibn alRēwandī, however, does not seem to have seen it like this (Murtaḍā, Shāfī 104, 13ff.; also Muḥammad al-Ṭūsī, Tamhīd 379, 8ff./Pers. transl. 842, 16ff.). Zaydite authors did not, of course, find him convincing. Al-Manṣūr billāh thought he served certain Abbasids with the theory that rule (imāma) could be inherited (Shāfī IV 85, 17f.). He may have read this in Ḥākim alJushamī who reported that Ibn al-Rēwandī and Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq wrote that only one person could be the imām and also free from sin, because Ma‌ʾmūn demanded it to prevent everyone staging an uprising (Safīna, MS Ambrosiana C 32, fol. 180 b, 4ff.). However, the same author tells us in a different place that Ibn al-Rēwandī’s books helped the Twelver Shīʿites survive (Al-risāla fī naṣīḥat al-ʿāmma, fol. 21 b, 12ff.). Maybe he was hinting at the death of the eleventh imām in 260/873. Still, we should assume that Ibn al-Rēwandī as well as Abū ʿĪsā had written his K. al-imāma before this time. 8.2.2.3 The ‘Execrable Books’ While the K. al-imāma may have paved the way for the rift with certain sections of the Muʿtazila, it probably did not cause it. The quarrel came to a head only when Ibn al-Rēwandī wrote his K. faḍīḥat al-Muʿtazila; the K. al-imāma was already in circulation. There can be no doubt that he wrote the Faḍīḥat 98  Catalogue of Works no. 54. In his refutation of the K. al-imāma Jubbāʾī discussed the relative significance of the prophet’s miracles compared to the Quran (Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XVI 152, 11ff., and 414, 12ff.). 99   Intiṣār 76, pu. ff. and earlier; cf. p. 102ff. above. 100  Cf. the argument in Text 36.

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al-Muʿtazila as a Shīʿite – or during his Shīʿite ‘phase’;1 he shows understanding for typically Shīʿite theologoumena such as the badāʾ2 or the rajʿa,3 and tries to mitigate the accusation of corporealism.4 In the introduction to his well-known refutation Khayyāṭ mentions other writings of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s besides the K. al-imāma causing a scandal.5 In fact they were observed much more closely by the immediately following generations; several authors developed the ambition of refuting them en bloc. Consequently these were the texts to which Ibn al-Rēwandī’s image was linked; which is understandable as their content was more revolutionary than anything we have looked at so far. Even so it is astonishing that after Khayyāṭ nobody felt challenged by the K. faḍīḥat al-Muʿtazila, while he cites refutation upon refutation.6 And a closer look reveals that several questions remain unanswered overall. Khayyāṭ mentions four titles altogether, without, however, claiming that this is the complete list: a K. al-tāj, in which Ibn al-Rēwandī supported the eternal duration of the world and denied the usual proof of the existence of God e contingentia mundi; a K. al-taʿdīl wal-tajwīr, in which he denied the theodicy; a K. al-zumurrud, in which Ibn al-Rēwandī attacked prophethood and highlighted contradictions in the Quran, and finally the K. al-imāma.7 The title K. al-taʿdīl wal-tajwīr, which paraphrases the question using the usual Muʿtazilite terminology, probably hides a book usually known as K. ʿabath al-ḥikma or K. naʿt al-ḥikma.8 The four texts were probably chosen in accordance with the criterion that they touched on all the core issues of Islamic theology of the time. Surprisingly, one book that would frequently be mentioned later is missing: the K. al-dāmigh. In this text Ibn al-Rēwandī highlights internal contradictions within the Quran;9 according to Khayyāṭ’s version, on the other hand, this subject was covered by the K. al-zumurrud. Our next witness, Jubbāʾī, presents a similar picture. He, too, links Quran criticism to the K. al-zumurrud, and only mentions the K. al-tāj besides (without explicitly citing the title), and one other book which Ibn al-Rēwandī 1  Intiṣār 78, 13ff. 2  Ibid. 95, 9ff. 3  Ibid. 95, pu. ff. 4  Ibid. 104, apu. ff. 5  Ibid. 11, –4f. 6  Cf. the information on no. 37–44. Up to seven refutations of one single title (no. 37) have been transmitted, although not all of them with the same degree of authority. 7  Intiṣār 11, –4ff.; also the translations in Text 37, 87. 43, and 35. 8  Catalogue of Works no. 39, also concerning the issue of the correct reading. Further information p. 382 below. 9  Text 88–92.

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composed ‘on behalf of the Jews and Christians against the Muslims’ and in which he ‘found arguments for them with which they could invalidate Muḥammad’s claim to prophethood’10 – presumably a first reference to the K. al-baṣīra.11 Around the same time Abū Bakr al-Zubayrī from Isfahan refuted Ibn al-Rēwandī’s ‘four books’.12 Clearly, a fixed corpus was known by that time; presumably the K. al-tāj, the K. ʿabath al-ḥikma, the K. al-zumurrud, and the K. al-dāmigh, as these were the works which Jubbāʾī’s contemporary Ḥārith al-Warrāq refuted as well;13 furthermore they are together in a list Ibn al-Nadīm adopted from Kaʿbī and which enumerates the ‘execrable books’ (alkutub al-malʿūna).14 They are not alone of the list; clearly Kaʿbī was striving for completeness, and they are followed by four more titles: the K. qaḍīb aldhahab, which proved the temporality of God’s foreknowledge; the K. al-farīd ‘on criticism of the prophet’; the K. al-marjān ‘on the disagreement among the followers of Islam’; and the K. al-luʾluʾa ‘on the finiteness of movements’.15 These, too, would be the subject of refutations at times, but we know much less about them. It is noticeable that the K. al-baṣīra is missing, but there are other instances of Kaʿbī leaving titles out. Ibn al-Nadīm preserved a second list of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s works, which contained mostly his ‘orthodox’ writings. However, it also includes two titles which Ibn al-Nadīm tells us date from Ibn al-Rēwandī’s ‘dissolute days’ (ayyām fasādihī). They are not documented anywhere else and appear to have been linked to each other: a K. al-ḥajar alaḥmar and a K. al-ḥajar al-aswad.16 We also learn that Ibn al-Rēwandī amused himself by refuting three of these books himself: the K. al-zumurrud, the K. al-marjān and the K. al-dāmigh, with the last of these attempts remaining unfinished.17 This really makes us wonder what his attitude really was towards these works on the basis of which he was judged later. Were they actually by him at all? Both these questions were asked soon after his death. Jubbāʾī thought that Ibn al-Rēwandī’s aim was to spread scepticism (tashkīk) with his publications; or that maybe he wrote them in order to become famous. What he clearly did

10  Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam VI 101, 9ff. 11  See p. 340 above. 12  Catalogue of Works, refutation g. Regarding him see p. 280f. above. 13  Ibid., d, and p. 283 above. Interestingly Muḥammad b. Zakariyyāʾ al-Rāzī was one of his subjects, too (Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir 2IV 27f. no. 28). 14  Further details in the Catalogue of Works following no. 36. 15  Catalogue of Works no. 41–44 with further details. 16  Ibid., no. 32–33. 17  Ibid., no. 34–36.

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not do was take them seriously.18 This became an oft-repeated evaluation.19 Shīʿites, too, who were not ill-disposed towards him merely modified it: like Jāḥiẓ, he put himself in other people’s position, Sharīf al-Murtaḍā tells us,20 and Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Kātib, another Shīʿite and the author of K. al-burhān fī wujūh al-bayān,21 thought he applied his dialectic abilities badly.22 From there it was only a small step to the legend that he converted before his death and confessed to having done all this out of anger at having been ‘cut’ by his fellow believers in Baghdad.23 Compared to the account given by Khayyāṭ, cause and effect have been swapped here.24 As for the books themselves we should bear in mind that Qāḍī ʿAbd alJabbār also claimed with regard to older members of Baghdad ascetic groups, such as Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād, for instance, or Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥaḍrī, that they had circulated books of heretic content, questioning God’s sovereignty (rubūbiyya) and Muḥammad’s prophecy. These texts, he says, were circulated anonymously, but widely read. The example he gives is Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq’s K. al-gharīb almashriqī;25 Ḥasan b. Mūsā al-Nawbakhtī does indeed appear to have seen the hand of the ahl al-taʿjīz at work here, people who believed God was too weak to enforce justice and order.26 In another place the qāḍī makes a similar remark about the K. al-tāj: a few booksellers got together and just for fun wrote down a particularly heretical theory that none of them believed; Ibn al-Rēwandī then adopted this treatise and published it under the title K. al-tāj.27 He similarly described the K. al-dāmigh as a joint composition by a group of conspirators of whom Ibn al-Rēwandī was one.28 Nawbakhtī’s remark means that we should not see this as the qāḍī’s idée fixe; one of his contemporaries, too, the Zaydite imām al-Muʾayyad billāh (d. 411/1020) expressed doubt of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s authorship in the case of the K. al-dāmigh.29 It is true that some of the examples 18  Murtaḍā, Shāfī 12, 12ff.; a rough outline also in Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs 108, apu. f., after Tanūkhī. 19  Thus Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XX 1 38, 9f. 20   Shāfī 13, 3ff.; adopted in summary by Ibn Shahrāshūb, Maʿālim al-ʿulamāʾ 131 no. 976, and Amīn, Aʿyān al-Shīʿa X 224, 17ff. 21  Cf. the use of ʿāmma vs. Shīʿa there p. 231, apu. The book was written after 335/946; for a long time it was known as K. naqd al-nathr by Qudāma b. Jaʿfar. 22   Burhān 235, 2ff. 23  Thus Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 216, –8f. 24  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār pointed this out already (Faḍl 299, 6f. > IM 92, 8f.). 25   Tathbīt 374, 4ff.; cf. p. 103 above with further references. 26  Cf. Catalogue of Works XXXV a, no. 17. 27  Text 38, b–c. 28  Text 91, d–f. 29   Ithbāt nubuwwat al-nabī 37, 7ff.

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it cites come from older traditions.30 ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī had already referred to, albeit in very general terms, books in which religions are rejected based on rational arguments.31 The K. al-jārūf, which demonstrated how arguments can neutralise each other, circulated under the name of Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥaḍrī as well as that of Jābir b. Ḥayyān. And it fell to Ibn al-Rēwandī to be the one to refute those who took part in this tortuous dialectical game.32 Accordingly, a remark by Ibn al-Jawzī acquires double significance: that Abū ʿĪsā and Ibn al-Rēwandī accused each other of having composed the K. al-zumurrud.33 As in the K. algharīb al-mashriqī, some arguments are presented by the Brahmins in this text.34 The titles of the works corresponded closely. They named precious stones (zumurrud, marjān, luʾluʾa, probably also farīd ‘very precious stone, accent pearl in a necklace’,35 then al-ḥajar al-aḥmar and al-ḥajar al-aswad; the crown tāj is joined by the golden sceptre qaḍīb al-dhahab. The K. ʿabath/naʿt al-ḥikma is the only one that does not fit in. In the case of the K. al-zumurrud we know the reason why Ibn al-Rēwandī chose this title: according to a widely held belief, a snake’s eyes would pop out if one showed an emerald to it.36 This would mean that the K. al-zumurrud, too, occupied a different position. However, the explanation – if indeed it originated with Ibn al-Rēwandī; it is documented only with Ibn ʿAqīl (d. 513/1119) – is not found in this book but in another of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s works;37 one is tempted to think of his own refutation of the K. al-zumurrud. The explanation appears to be a secondary one anyway; other authors chose the title K. al-zumurrud as well.38 In order to gain more clarity it is advisable to look into the contents of the books discussed. Here, too, we learn by far the most about the K. al-zumurrud.

30  See p. 378f. below. 31   Burhān 27, –5. 32  Cf. Catalogue of Works XVIII f, no. 1. 33  Text 45. 34  See p. 385f. below. It seems fair to agree with D. Thomas’ conjecture in Anti-Christian polemic 29, that the arguments Ibn al-Rēwandī presented in K. al-zumurrud originally came from the K. al-gharīb al-mashriqī. 35  Concerning the difficulty of the reading cf. Catalogue of Works no. 42. 36  Text 47, with further references. 37  Ibid., commentary. 38  Cf. e.g. Ṭūsī, Fihrist 308, 4, concerning a book of clearly juristic content, or Ibn al-Nadīm 422, 11, among the writings of Jābir b. Ḥayyān. The title Qaḍīb al-dhahab is not unique, either (see Ibn Ṣaʿīd al-Andalusī, Ṭabaqāt al-umam 19, 6, for a book by the Babylonian Hermes), and neither is, of course, K. al-tāj.

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8.2.2.3.1 The K. al-zumurrud More than three quarters of a century ago Paul Kraus discovered a text by an unnamed dāʿī in the so far only partially edited Majālis by the Ismāʿīlite dāʿī alMuʾayyad fī l-dīn al-Shīrāzī (d. ca. 470/1078).1 The unnamed, earlier dāʿī refuted Ibn al-Rēwandī’s K. al-zumurrud; in an amazingly densely documented essay, Kraus edited the relevant part of the work (majlis 417–422) and explored the passages referring to Ibn al-Rēwandī in great detail.2 Until then the subjects of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s works had been known only thanks to a few remarks in biographical texts. The new material, however, seemed to allow Kraus to lay out the structure of the book.3 However, his concept was called into question with the discovery of further Ibn al-Rēwandī quotations found in Māturīdī’s Tawḥīd and in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s K. tathbīt dalāʾil al-nubuwwa. The correspond closely to what we have learnt from Muʾayyad fī l-dīn, but they are arranged differently. Consequently it cannot be claimed any more that the unknown Ismāʿīlite’s refutation followed the structure of the original.3a On the other hand neither Māturīdī nor the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār affirm that they are quoting the K. al-zumurrud. Furthermore they name Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq as Ibn al-Rēwandī’s opponent; he has the negative arguments and Ibn al-Rēwandī refutes them. There is no reference to ‘Brahmins’; only Muʾayyad mentions them.4 He, too, knew that the book included the arguments of both sides,5 but Kraus’ inference that ‘the defenders of prophecy appeared in a less than favourable light here’6 is not really tenable. It would seem that in reality Ibn al-Rēwandī actually defended prophecy. After the K. al-tawḥīd appeared I gave a lecture pointing out the connection between the sources mentioned (printed in: Abhath 27/1978–79/5ff.). In JAOS 114/1994/163ff. S. Stroumsa adopted the conclusions overall, but she still maintains that Ibn al-Rēwandī was a heretic, and Abū ʿĪsā a Manichaean (p. 177; see also p. 327, n. 15 above). In my opinion she agrees 1   The edition by Ḥātim Ḥamīd al-Dīn (Bombay 1395/1975ff.) contains only the first two hundred of the total of 800 majālis. 2    Beiträge zur islamischen Ketzergeschichte, in: RSO 14/1934/93ff/ and 335ff.; Ar. translation in ʿA. Badawī, Min ta‌ʾrīkh al-ilḥād fī l-Islām (Cairo 1945), p. 75ff. 3   P. 120. 3a The intention of the refutation has more recently been discussed, albeit without essential new insights, by D. de Smet in: Vermeulen/de Smet (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras, Leuven 1995, p. 85ff. (Al-Muʾayyad fî d-dîn aš-Šîrâzî et la polémique ismaélienne contre les ‘Brahmanes’ d’Ibn ar-Rêwandî). 4   Text 46, b. 5   Ibid., c–e. 6   P. 121.

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too much with the tendency of the Iraqi sources and is unable to bridge the contrast with other documents about Ibn al-Rēwandī (cf. Texts 3–34). The same conventional picture is reproduced in her contribution to Patlagean/Le Bolluec, Les retours aux écritures 269ff., where she discusses Ibn al-Rēwandī together with Rhazes (Ecritures alternatives? Tradition et autorité chz les libre-penseurs en Islam medieval). It should not be overlooked that the material studied only ever contains statements on other statements, never statements on reality; ‘being faithful to the sources’ alone does not get us any further. In the following we shall document this in more detail, looking at the individual topics discussed in the book. The structure does not claim to follow the original; rather, it is aligned with the internal logic of the argumentation. It does, however, take the sequence in the available sources into account wherever possible.7 8.2.2.3.1.1

A: The Compatibility of the Revelation with Reason

The more the Muʿtazila became accustomed to the concept of natural religion, the more insistent became the question of where its boundaries lay. Our text carries rationalism to the extreme: He who ‘flies on the wings of reason to the furthest horizons of knowledge’1 does not require a prophet. Everything that goes beyond the understanding of reason ‘contradicts’ it; one does thus not have to accept it. Those things that agree with reason, on the other hand, are mere affirmation; this does not justify the investment of a prophetic mission. This is what, according to Muʾayyad, the ‘Brahmins’ said in the K. al-zumurrud; he declares it to be a literal quotation.2 Māturīdī makes similar claims concerning Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq,3 although he – if we understand the text correctly – expresses the negative side of the dilemma more harshly: if a prophet commands something that ‘contradicts’ reason, it can only claim validity if the laws of reason are changed. Abū ʿĪsā appears to have demonstrated this using the example of the sacrificial animals: if Islam allows these sacrifices based on the Quran, this comes at the cost of abolishing the general command

6 The sections in Māturīdī’s text are decidedly difficult to understand; the text was certainly corrupted in places. In Maj. Kull. Ādāb Baghdād, ʿAbd al-Amīr Aʿsam reprinted the MS in facsimile and re-edited the text in an improved form. 1  Thus after a presumed quotation from the introduction (Text 48, b). 2  Text 49. 3  Text 50, a.

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of reason that no-one innocent may be killed.4 We have seen that this was a question already debated in Naẓẓām’s circle.5 Jāḥiẓ reports that some Muslims rejected hunting as being too bloodthirsty; certain Sufis agreed with Christians and zanādiqa – presumably the Manichaeans – that no blood must be spilled at all.6 The Christians presumably found their way into this image only because they rejected ritual slaughter (cf. ʿAlī b. Rabbān, K. al-dīn wal-dawla 130, 3f. = 2196, 1f./transl. Mingana 153; also vol. V 173 [of the German edition]). Jāḥiẓ reminds them that this was different in the Old Testament, and also that they while they avoided eating meat on fast-days, they still permitted the consumption of fish; in fact, they ate so much fish that Muslims preferred to buy fish from them on Thursdays, because it was cheaper than on Fridays (Ḥayawān IV 431, 5ff.). The Manichaeans were thus a rather better example. However, they, too, he emphasises, shrank only from killing living beings possessed of light elements; they had no qualms when it came to snakes and scorpions (ibid. 428, –7ff.). We have seen that Ibn al-Rēwandī used this as a reason to brand Abū ʿĪsā a Manichaean, too.7 He himself, once again according to Māturīdī, expressed criticism: compared to the command of reason, the Quranic commandment had specifying function; the law simply selects certain situations that will be judged negative or positive in comparison with others.8 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār would employ a similar argument,9 but attributing the theory he criticised to the ‘Brahmins’ once again.10 Ibn al-Rēwandī added a second explanation: the law may prescribe things that appear cumbersome or unmotivated in themselves, but there is a higher aim, namely the salvation in the afterlife one acquires in this way, that gives them their purpose.11 This also applies to the sacrificial beasts.12 Muʾayyad, or rather his source, omits this refutation; the problem of the sacrifices is also left unmentioned. Instead, he includes 4   Text 52, a–b; cf. p. 326, n. 8 above. 5   See vol. III 441f. above. 6    Ḥayawān IV 427, pu. ff. 7   See p. 327 above. 8   Text 50, b–e, and 52, b. 9    Mughnī XV 110, 5ff. 10  Ibid. 109, 8ff. 11  Text 50, f–g. 12  Text 52, b. ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd had already expressed himself along these lines, if, that is, the relevant text (X 60) is correctly attributed to him.

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different examples: Why should one pray precisely five times a day? What is it that distinguishes al-Ṣafā and Marwā before other places on the pilgrimage?13 This recalls thoughts expressed by Ibn al-Rēwandī’s contemporary Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī;14 Kindī’s apocryphal apology also covered the topic.15 Because of their fundamental relevance these ideas were explored again and again later; they are the source of the ‘Brahmins’ profile in Islamic tradition. We shall not go into the later influence in detail;16 Kraus collected a wealth of material.17 Except for Māturīdī’s version Ibn al-Rēwandī does not appear anywhere in his true guise. However, it seems that Jubbāʾī already relied on him for his Naqḍ al-zumurrud;18 one might even venture the hypothesis that Fārābī presented his solution of the issue at one point in Iḥṣāʾ al-ʿulūm.19 However, he not only reacted, he also tried to define the role of a prophet, and in an apparently most original fashion. Indeed, this is the second important subject we need to explore. 8.2.2.3.1.2

B: The Necessity of Prophecy. The Prophet as a ‘Culture Hero’

Māturīdī mentions briefly that Ibn al-Rēwandī proved prophecy ‘by means of foods and poisons’. This would be mysterious if Māturīdī had not himself previously explained in some detail how he saw the matter; he appears to have adopted Ibn al-Rēwandī’s theory. Reason urges humans to distinguish between harmful and beneficial, between ‘foods’ and ‘poisons’,1 but they are not able to decide this on their own as they would in all probability perish trying. Usually they learn from others, like one learns a trade or how one trains animals, but the chain of instruction must come to an end: at its beginning is the first teacher who has received his knowledge from God: the prophet.2 The 13  Text 51. 14  Cf. F. Meier in: Asiatische Studien 11/1957–8/148 and 150f.; further material for comparison in Kraus 112, n. 7. Cf. also the dialogue in Sulamī’s Tafsīr in Gramlich, Islamische Mystik 77ff. 15  Where the Brahmins are mentioned once again, but merely in comparison only rather than as the authors of the argument (Muir, Apology 92f., and Tartar, Dialogue 214f.). 16  Cf. the commentary on Text 51; also p. 385f. below. 17  P. 341ff.; esp. p. 345f. concerning Shahrastānī, and 347, n. 2, concerning Ibn al-Jawzī; both authors attempted to systematise the tradition. G. Hourani supplements their efforts with material from the works of Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār in Islamic Rationalism 133ff. Cf. also Ibn ʿAqīl, Funūn § 6, and Tawḥīdī, Hawāmil 310 no. 147; in Christian scholasticism Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologica I 2, quaestio 99, art. 2, ad 2. 18  This would be the easiest explanation of the correspondences between the Māturīdī text and Mughnī. 19  Cf. my deliberations in: Hamdard Islamicus 3/1980, issue 4/p. 8ff. 1   Regarding the wording cf. p. 104 and 11, n. 26, above. 2   Text 53 with commentary.

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same proof would later be used in Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa. In his eyes the prophet are the founders of the sciences: Idrīs/Hermes Trismegistus is the father of astronomy; by learning the names of things Adam also found out their natures and thus knows everything about remedies.3 Of course one might try remedies by tasting them, but then they grow in widely distant regions, and physicians’ opinions do not agree.4 This is Abū Ḥātim polemicising against his namesake, the physician Abū Bakr al-Rāzī who had flatly denied that the prophets had medical knowledge like Galen, or knew the laws of astronomy like Ptolemy.5 Of course Rāzī was aware that, unlike him, Muslim theologians were convinced that the prophets could distinguish between ‘poisons’ and ‘foods’;6 clearly he was familiar with Ibn al-Rēwandī’s theory. Maybe he regarded it as a veiled justification of the ṭibb al-nabawī. The theory did not find unanimous approval among the Muʿtazilites, either. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār rejected it (Mughnī XV 99. 17ff.), regarding it as the view of theologians under Shīʿite influence, not just Ibn al-Rēwandī’s but also Abū Ḥafṣ al-Ḥaddād and Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq (ibid. XX 1 35, 16ff., and 37, 15ff.). Presumably Jubbāʾī did not agree with Ibn al-Rēwandī in this matter either (he is mentioned Mughnī XV 102, 1ff.). Outside the Muʿtazila, on the other hand, people were much more open to the idea; the internal quarrel with the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila was of no account here. Cf. e.g. Bāqillānī (Tamhīd 126, 19ff.), Mutawallī (Mughnī 50, 3f.), Ṣābūnī (Bidāya 85, apu. ff.), Bīrūnī (Fihrist kutub al-Rāzī 18, 6ff.), and Ibn Ḥazm (Fiṣal I 72, 1ff.). There are antique parallels, too; the Epicureans considered the origin of culture and language (Jürß, Griechische Atomisten 413ff. and 433). Van den Bergh pointed this out (Tahafut al-Tahafut II 82f. and 125.2); more generally cf. Traede in RAC V 1194ff. In the same way the first Iranian kings, Gayōmarth and in particular Jamshēd, were regarded as culture heroes (cf. the miniature in the Houghton Shāhnāma, ed. Dickson/Welsh II no. 11.; also the text on no. 7). Is it a coincidence that poisons and remedies that Ibn al-Rēwandī and Māturīdī emphasised as representative were also the particular preserve of the shamans of Central Asia? It seems that this was another point where Ibn al-Rēwandī debated with Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq, for if we look into Muʾayyad concerning this issue, we find that 3  Aʿlām 278, 7ff., and 280, 5ff. 4  Ibid. 303, 2ff. 5  Ibid. 273ff. = Orientalia 5/1936/372, 2ff. 6  Ibid. 293, 3f.

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he does not link the arguments used in this context with the ‘Brahmins’, but with a ‘denier of prophecy’ who was said to have been Ibn al-Rēwandī’s source.7 Like Rāzī later, this unnamed rationalist believed that humans had figured out on their own how to build observatories and study the course of the stars.8 He was also the author of the mocking question of whether the prophets also invented musical instruments?9 After all, musical instruments were the work of the devil in the eyes of the pious; it is well known that Iskāfī took great care not to describe them as in any way created by God.10 In the eyes of the ‘denier’ – who we presume was Abū ʿĪsā – the chain of instruction was never-ending; among the birds, he said, there was never one who invented warbling. This was the point to which Ibn al-Rēwandī linked his argument: the analogy does not work. Animals possess an instinct, they act ‘out of their nature’. Humans, on the other hand, are different.11 The comparison with warbling shows on which phenomenon the discussion was increasingly focussing: on language. This was an obvious development; language had been the affirmatory miracle of the first prophet. God had ‘taught Adam all the names’; the angels did not know the relations between things and had to learn these from Adam.12 There were Shīʿites in Nishapur who believed that the prophet spoke all the languages.13 Abū ʿĪsā, on the other hand, asserted that language was something purely human that children had learnt from their parents since the beginning of time. Ibn al-Rēwandī’s pointing out to him that in that case he would presume the eternal duration of the world – or, more precisely, the eternal existence of humanity – was probably mere polemic.14 It certainly does not touch the heart of the matter; rather, it was about language theory. It is important to bear in mind where the Muslim theologians stood in their deliberations on this issue. Bernard Weiss observed

7   Text 54, a; also 55, a. 8   Text 57. 9   Text 56. 10  See p. 96 above. 11  Text 54, b–e. Bīrūnī regards this as the view of the believers in the revelation compared to the Dahriyya (Risālat al-Bīrūnī fī fihrist kutub al-Rāzī 21, 1ff. Kraus = 18, 6ff. Muḥaqqiq/ transl. Strohmaier, In den Gärten der Wissenschaft 35f.). 12  Sura 2:31ff.; cf. e.g. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mutashābih al-Qurʾān I 81, 7ff. 13  Kashshī, Rijāl 452, –4ff. Wondrous language skills were also reported of Zoroaster (Qusṭā b. Lūqā in his response to Ibn al-Munajjim, K. al-burhān § 60ff.). 14  Text 54, b–c (I am assuming that c reflects an idea of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s that was already expressed at the end of d. It seems that c is primarily a remark by the Ismāʿīlite author of the refutation). Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī employed the same arguments (Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 285, 11ff.).

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that they were hardly influenced by Greek sources at all.15 The contrast φύσει: θέςει16 did not yet exist for them at the time. Abū Hāshim would be the first to claim that language developed through convention (muwāḍaʿa, iṣṭilāḥ).17 Abū ʿĪsā was familiar only with ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān’s approach: language represents things.18 This means it is generated φύσει; Abū ʿĪsā may have thought along similar lines when he cited the warbling of the birds in comparison. Ibn al-Rēwandī, however, embraced what Weiss called the ‘revelationist theory’; Weiss himself had found it documented only a generation later with Jubbāʾī and Kaʿbī, and then Ashʿarī.19 This explains why Abū ʿĪsā, now preparing an in-depth response to Ibn al-Rēwandī, does not hark back to the theory of language as convention. It would have been very useful to him, but he was simply not yet familiar with it. Instead, he uses two terms familiar to him as well as his opponent at the time: ilhām and tawqīf. They are not synonymous, as he places them within a dilemma. How can the prophet teach his community the language, if they do not understand the language?20 Either the community must possess ilhām, like the prophet – but then he is superfluous; or he conveys language by means of tawqīf, but in the case of someone possessed of intelligence, it is not possible to imagine this.21 Kraus essentially clarified the difference between the two terms:22 tawqīf is ‘(supernatural) instruction’, while ilhām is ‘talent’. Tawqīf means that the prophet taught his pupils every single word; ilhām, that the faculty to speak has been granted them by God. Abū ʿĪsā clearly prefers the latter – certainly insofar as people had always been able to speak. The detour via tawqīf was too cumbersome for him. Ibn al-Rēwandī’s opinion is one already present in Plato’s Kratylos: if words agree with things, this is because a legislator (! νομοθέτης) was active as name-giver or word-shaper (ὀνοματουργός).

15   Z DMG 124/1974/35. 16  For material cf. Kraus, Jābir II 256, n. 3, and Versteegh, Greek Elements 162ff. 17  Weiss 36 and 38ff. This point of view was adopted, as was to be expected (see p. 363 above), by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Mughnī V 174ff.; Peters, God’s Created Speech 386f.). 18  See p. 25f. above. 19  Weiss 36. For more details cf. Weiss, Language in Orthodox Muslim Thought (PhD Princeton, 1966, [not printed]); also Czapkiewicz, The Views of the Medieval Arab Philologists on Language (Cracow 1988). 20  Text 55, b. This sentence, as, indeed, the entire passage, is by no means unambiguous; cf. the commentary and especially the parallel in Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī. Also Suyūṭī, Muzhir I 18, 13ff.; and Loucel in: Arabica 11/1964/158, 164, 176f. 21  Text 55, c–d; concerning d cf. the commentary. 22   R SO 14/1934/128f.

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Crat. 389 A, 1ff. Ibn al-Rēwandī probably had no inkling of this connection. If he had followed antique tradition on purpose, we should have expected an indication somewhere that Aristotle, whose oeuvre was, after all, much more widely known than Plato’s, supported the muwāḍaʿa theory. Plato’s view lived on in Proclus’ commentary on Kratylos (cf. de Smet, La Quiétude de l’Intellect 73). Concerning the Arabic terms discussed cf. Loucel in: Arabica 11/1964/174f.; he translates tawqīf as ‘fixation révélée’ (ibid. 10/1963/254). Also Arnaldez, Grammaire et théologie chez Ibn Ḥazm 37ff.; Endreß in: Sprachphilosophie in Antike und Mittelalter 186f. (who translates tawqīf as ‘Festsetzung’); Gimaret, Noms divins 37f. (who emphasises correctly that ‘fixation’ and ‘Festsetzung’ are wrong). The term is documented for the first time with Ibn al-Rēwandī (the instance in Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, K. aldalīl al-kabīr 78, 9f., cannot be included as the text is probably not genuine). Later it dominates Ibn Fāris’ (d. 395/1005) theory of language (cf. Ṣāḥibī, Beirut 1382/1963, p. 33. 7ff.; transl. in: Oriens 16/1963/136 and RO 43/1984/71f.; cf. Mehiri, Ibn Jinnī 93). Still, Jubbāʾī had already described his standpoint in similar terms, subsequently incurring Qāḍī ʿAbd alJabbār’s criticism (Mughnī XV 105, 11ff.; in more detail Frank, Beings 29f., n. 10). Ashʿarī, who originally followed Abū Hāshim, later turned towards Jubbāʾī (Weiss, Language 21f.). Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, too, agreed with Ibn alRēwandī in this point (Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 290, 2ff.). His namesake Rhazes, on the other hand, used the term ilhām in the sense described above: prophecy is superfluous because by means of ilhām God can show all humans where harm and benefit lie (ibid. 3, 11ff., and 282, 1ff.). This term is older (Jāḥiẓ uses it meaning ‘instinct’, see p. 123 above), but we do not know when it was applied directly to the power of language for the first time. Abū Ḥātim rejected the concept (184, 13ff.); we can thus assume that Abū ʿĪsā, like Rhazes after him, supported it. The supporters of tawqīf did not necessarily believe humans to be mere vessels of the revelation, either. Much would depend on how the asmāʾ in sura 2:31 were interpreted: as a pars pro toto for ‘language’ in general, or as ‘nouns’ as opposed to verbs etc., or even as ‘proper nouns’ only (cf. Czapkiewicz 26ff.). The generalists believed that the ‘grammar of Sībawayh’, i.e. the structure of language as a whole, was referred to here (Kister in: IOS 13/1993/140). Ghazzālī, emphasising the part the prophets played in the education of humanity – albeit with reference to medicine and astrology rather than language – in his Munqidh, seems to use tawqīf and ilhām indiscriminately; apparently the terminological issue had lost

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its relevance for him (eds. Ṣalībā/ʿAyyād 109, 1ff., where, furthermore, the editors misread tawqīf as tawfīq). 8.2.2.3.1.3

C: How to Prove Prophecy. The Credibility of the Prophets

8.2.2.3.1.3.1

a) Proof in Scripture

Naẓẓām had proved Muḥammad’s claim to prophethood by means of the latter’s supernatural foreknowledge; ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān had studied the reliability of the miracle stories. This was the starting point for the K. al-zumurrud. Muʾayyad tells us that the ‘heretic’ (mulḥid) rejected the suitability as proof of the very Quranic verses Naẓẓām had cited in support of his theory.1 This heretic, as two detailed parallels in Mātūridī and Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār show, was not Ibn al-Rēwandī but in fact Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq.2 We may assume that the latter went through the verses one by one, but the greatest interest was evoked by his exploration of sura 62:6f./2:94f., where the prophet ironically suggests to the Jews that if they wanted to prove the truth of their claims they should wish for death. Ibn al-Rēwandī saw this as a parallel to the mubāhala, with which he was familiar due to his Shīʿite background. Muḥammad, he believed, showed in both cases that he foresaw that his opponents would not accept his challenge; in addition he prophesies that if they did, they would die on the spot.3 Consequently the verses are proof of his ʿilm bil-ghayb. Abū ʿĪsā, on the other hand, saw them merely as proof of his daring.4 Ibn al-Rēwandī’s position was based on Naẓẓām’s.5 Previously the two Quranic statements had been seen as calls to an ordeal; a prophesy had not been considered. What was important was that the Jews should realise just how right Muḥammad was, and consequently keep quiet.6 This is Abū ʿĪsā’s 1  Majlis 420 in RSO 14/1934/103, 17ff. = Aʿsam, Ta‌ʾrīkh 130, 3ff. = frg. no. 10, transl. in Kraus 113f.; regarding Naẓẓām see vol. III 445 above. 2  The ‘opponent’ in Muʾayyad probably refers to Ibn al-Rēwandī; Kraus speculated concerning his identity, ibid. 114, n. 1. 3  Text 59, a–d; also 70, i. The argument was probably familiar to Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 411, 2ff.; similar also Bāqillānī, Nukāt al-intiṣār 243, 4ff. 4  Cf. Text 61 with Text 58, both of which replace Abū ʿĪsā with Ibn al-Rēwandī. The outline of the argumentation reconstructed in the following has also been discussed, divided according to source, by S. Stroumsa in: JAOS 114/1994/168ff. 5  Cf. in detail, but without specific indication, Text 70. 6  Cf. e.g. Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3II 361f., where this interpretation is traced back to Ibn ʿAbbās in several ways (esp. no. 1570); also Ibn Isḥāq, Sīra 374, 8ff. (where 374, 14f., the same tradition no. 1570 is still anonymous). Similar Ṭūsī, Tibyān I 357. The development of the exegesis awaits more in-depth study.

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understanding as well; he thinks their behaviour could be explained by the fact that Moses prophesied the coming of Muḥammad.7 This was not actually a ‘heretic’ argument at all; Abū ʿĪsā recognised Muḥammad’s prophethood – albeit from a different perspective. However, he was not prepared to admit this: when Ibn al-Rēwandī tried to commit him to this view, he apparently went on to compare the prophets’ predictions to those made by stargazers.8 This had annoyed Jāḥiẓ in the past,9 and Ibn al-Rēwandī was annoyed, too: he reminded Abū ʿĪsā of the astronomers’ high error rate.10 Furthermore, he continued, in that case the Jews’ reaction was hardly explicable, for they would not have been scared off by a fallible stargazer. Everything would have turned out differently; the Jews, trusting in their superiority, would have wished for death, and then, realising that Muḥammad’s prophecy did indeed come true, their fellow believers would have converted and become Muslims.11 The element of magic meant a lot to him. Abū ʿĪsā, on the other hand, saw only dialectic at work. Consequently he thought events through differently. If the Jews had accepted Muḥammad’s challenge, nothing at all would have happened, but Muḥammad, clever as he was, would have wriggled out of it by saying that their death wish was not serious and that in their innermost hearts they were still attached to life.12 Ibn al-Rēwandī’s response was: the Jews were not stupid either; why should they then not have said that they were indeed ready for death, even to their innermost hearts.13 We do not know how long they continued sparring in this way. If we believe Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Abū ʿĪsā next had the prophet cite Gabriel, who revealed to him the most secret ideas of his enemies, and Ibn al-Rēwandī would have found another rejoinder for the Jews.14 However, something else was more important: this train of thought, Ibn al-Rēwandī realised, could not be transferred onto the mubāhala and was thus ultimately fruitless.15 On the other hand Abū ʿĪsā regarded the mubāhala as merely a duel of insults, referring to the fact that the Quranic verse that mentioned it appeared to be 7   Text 60, a, and 59, g. 8   Text 60, b – c; also 59, g. The similarity with 59, e, shows that the anonymous speaker in 60, b, is identical with Ibn al-Rēwandī. 9   See p. 129 above. 10  Text 63, with reference to a different case. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār took this argument further (Text 60, d–i with the commentary). Khayyāṭ did not let this stop him from accusing Ibn al-Rēwandī of having believed in astrology himself (Intiṣār 77, –5f.). 11  Text 59, n. 12  Text 59, f, and 60, k. Thus also Qirqisānī, Anwār 299, 12ff. 13  Text 59, i. 14  Text 60, k–p with commentary. 15  Text 59, h.

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pointing to an ordeal only in the context within which tradition subsequently placed it.16 These ramifications of the discussion may have obscured the greater context. Still, Ibn al-Rēwandī did not forget to point out that the Jews had accepted Muḥammad’s challenge in another place, when they defended Khaybar even though a revelation (in sura 48:27f.) had prophesied his victory. On that occasion they had indeed put their lives on the line. Clearly even though Moses had predicted the coming of Muḥammad,17 this had not stopped them resisting altogether. Abū ʿĪsā’s argument was thus invalid.18 It seems that he responded by emphasising the phrase ‘God willing’ that accompanied the prophesy in sura 48:27: ‘this is mere conjecture, not an apodictic assertion of something (God) is willing to come to pass’.19 In any case Abū ʿĪsā, like Ibn al-Rēwandī, could profit from the fact that the behaviour of the Jews in the Quran and the prophet’s attitude towards them could not always be fitted into the respective dogmatic concept. As the coming of Muḥammadhad been prophesied to them in the Torah, it seemed logical that the prophet advised the pagan Meccans to consult the Jews as the experts who had received an admonition in the past (ahl al-dhikr). Ibn al-Rēwandī appears to have presumed this,20 but the Christians and the Jews themselves employed it in their polemic during his time.21 The discrepancy may have the reason why Abū ʿĪsā felt encouraged to ask how one could refer to their authority and mistrust them at one and the same time.22 In addition, according to universal consensus and the information of the Quran (e.g. sura 12:3), Muḥammad himself had not learnt from them; that was precisely why he was regarded as illiterate (ummī). While our texts do not use the word ummī, Abū ʿĪsā once again provides counter-evidence: even if the prophet never read a holy scripture, as sura 29:48 tells us, this did not rule out 16  Text 62. For literature on the mubāhala see vol. I 297, n. 50 above. 17  Text 70, g–h allows us to infer that Ibn al-Rēwandī, too, assumed this. 18  Text 59, k–l with commentary. The dialectical context of the passage is by no means clear. Cf. Text 70, e. 19  Thus Muʾayyad, although the referent is entirely obscure here. Furthermore the MS has fa-inna instead of bi-anna; in that case it would be a remark by the dāʿī (RSO 14/1934/103, 22f. = Aʿsam 130, 10). 20  If Text 64, d–e, goes back to him, but probably in any case. That the ahl al-dhikr were Jewish and Christian scholars had been assumed by exegetes since Mujāhid (Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 2XIV 108, –5ff.). Ibn Isḥāq, as would later be noted with astonishment, called the Jews and Christians ahl al-ʿilm al-awwal (or al-uwal?; Maqrīzī, Muqaffā V 305, 7f.). 21  Qirqisānī, Anwār 292, ult. Concerning the Christians cf. Jāḥiẓ, Radd ʿalā l-Naṣārā in: Rasāʾil III 305, apu. ff. 22  Text 64, a.

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that he might have heard it recited and remembered it accordingly.23 Also: if he was a prophet only because he was familiar with the revelations written on ‘earlier sheets’ (al-ṣuḥuf al-ūlā), then the Jews, who were the authors of the ‘earlier sheets’, would have had to have been prophets one and all.24 Ibn al-Rēwandī retorted: even if he only learnt the texts by heart, they would ultimately go back to a book, via the teacher’s recitation or the liturgy25 – in other words, Abū ʿĪsā’s interpretation of the Quranic verse was too narrow. Furthermore, if Muḥammad had indeed studied with the Jews, this would not have gone unnoticed, and above all they themselves would have pointed to it in their polemic later.26 After all, it was not easy to understand that a cultural hero had to learn himself as well. Concerning the context cf. also Bāqillānī, Iʿjāz al-Qurʾān 34, –6ff., and Nukat al-intiṣār 291, apu. ff. To this day the theory that Muḥammad studied with the Jews of Mecca is occasionally embraced (cf. Hanna Zakarias [pseudonym of Gabriel Théry], L’Islam, entreprise juive. De Moïse à Mohammed, 1–2; Paris, 1955). The Jews themselves were basically uncomfortable with this idea; the Jewish polemic Ibn Ḥazm refers to (al-Radd ʿalā Ibn al-Naghrīlla 60, 4ff.; cf. p. 381 below) regards the Quranic passages merely as proof that Muḥammad had doubts concerning the revelation. – The fact that the discussion between Abū ʿĪsā and Ibn al-Rēwandī in the extant form does not employ the term ummī acquires greater importance when we consider that both theologians were Shīʿites, as among these there were more than a few who believed that the prophet was able to write and spoke all languages (Ashʿarī, Maq. 50, 6f.). Reading and writing were, as Shaykh Mufīd would later say, simply part of a human’s perfection (Awāʾil al-maqālāt 111, –4ff.). On the Sunni side Jāḥiẓ emphasised that in the case of the iʿjāz it was possible to abandon the hypothesis of illiteracy (Bayān IV 32, 5ff.). ʿAlī b. Rabbān, on the other hand, devotes an entire chapter to it a generation later, not without emphasising that it had not been discussed by anyone previously (K. al-dīn wal-dawla 44ff. = 98ff./transl. Mingana 50ff.). More detail on p. 680f. below.

23  Text 65, a. 24  Text 66; cf. sura 20:133 and 87:18. 25  Text 65, b with commentary. 26  Ibid., c–d; similar Text 70, d.

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b) The Inimitability of the Quran

The explanation Ibn al-Rēwandī gave of the pagan Arabs’ inability to produce something equal to the Quran was based on the wondrous composition, i.e. linguistic style of the Quran.1 This goes back to an idea evolved by Jāḥiẓ in particular,2 although he did not quite agree with the latter; there are reports of criticism,3 and the ṣarfa theory was apparently not enough for him. However, he did take exception to the fundamental doubts expressed by Abū ʿĪsā – which reflected the scepticism Iranians had always felt concerning this dogma, and would be quoted or refuted until much later. The most memorable remark was that the pre-Islamic ḥakam Aktham b. Ṣayfī expressed himself more pithily and more stylistically beautifully than the Quran.4 This was polemic along the lines of Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ.5 Even so, Abū ʿĪsā also argued with flexibility and adopted Ibn al-Rēwandī’s approach: why should not Muḥammad simply have been the most eloquent of the Arabs? After all, people have different talents – but that would not make him a prophet.6 Quite possibly his opponents had other abilities; but because of his martial actions he never gave them the chance to develop them in peace.7 And finally: what should the non-Arabs say to whom his message was also addressed? They would not have been receptive to the rhetorical splendour of his words.8 The dialectic between the rhetorical challenge and the martial activities was pointed out early on, but with differing emphasis. Abū l-Hudhayl thought that it should have been easier for the Quraysh to refute Muḥammad on the field of iʿjāz than to take up arms against him; by doing the latter, they showed that they were not capable of the former (Text XXI 180). On the other hand, Jāḥiẓ emphasised in the passage mentioned above (p. 370) that the prophet had no time or opportunity to distinguish himself rhetorically, and that consequently one could not use the lack of evidence to infer his illiteracy. The structure of the argument 1  70, a–c, but without a direct reference (cf. the commentary). 2  See p. 128 above. 3  It cannot be defined more clearly, and may not belong in this context at all (cf. Catalogue of Works no. 47). 4  Text 69 with the references in the commentary. J. Reiske already wrote about Aktham (De Aktamo philosopho arabico; Leipzig 1759). As the argument includes a reference to sūrat alkawthar it tells us that the iʿjāz theory had already been evolved (see p. 678f. below). 5  See vol. II 39f. above. 6  Text 67, a–b and e; 68 a. Similar Qirqisānī, Anwār 298, 15ff. According to Muwaffaq, Iḥāṭa, fol. 14a, 8ff., this argument was also found in the K. al-farīd. 7  Text 67, c–d and f. 8  Text 68, b.

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as presented by Abū ʿĪsā, on the other hand, may be the one to which the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār refers when he said that Abū ʿĪsā, Ibn al-Rēwandī and their fellow believers attacked the Quraysh and the Arabs in general because of their stupidity (Tathbīt 51, 1ff.). Nasafī’s report is more detailed, probably following Māturīdī, but he adds that Abū ʿĪsā proposed the argument after he had left the ‘Qadariyya’, i.e. the Muʿtazila, and converted to dualism (Tabṣirat al-adilla I 512, 3f.). He probably simply inferred this – incorrectly – from the context. 8.2.2.3.1.3.3

c) Accounts of Miracles

Abū ʿĪsā compared the prophets to astrologers where predictions were concerned, and to mountebanks when it came to miracles. Who guarantees us that they did not simply employ a force of nature that was unknown to their audience? If we did not know that a magnet works in an entirely natural way, we would believe it to be magic, too.1 The prophets merely discovered other talismans of a similar kind.2 Who would deny that this does not also happen to other humans at times?3 Rāzī adopted the argument: if Moses was able to perform his miracle of the brazen serpent it was because he knew the nature of things better than his contemporaries. The theologians were perturbed: Can something that is at first inexplicable to humans but later becomes familiar to them be regarded as a miracle at all? Abū Hāshim said, no; but Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Baṣrī, Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s teacher, said, yes.4 After all, Thales was intending to attribute a soul to the magnet because of its attraction;5 none among the Muslims would ever have come up with this idea. Once again the subject itself had already been touched on by Jāḥiẓ. He had pointed out that in the age of magic Moses beat the magicians at their own art.6 However, this was not a suitable explanation any more. What was needed was a criterion to distinguish miracles from magic. Ibn al-Rēwandī tried a kind of ‘sceptic’s refutation’: someone who, like Abū ʿĪsā, denies the distinction 1  Text 71; a reflection also in Text 43, b, and later in Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 478, 14ff. Regarding magnetite in general cf. A. Dietrich in EI2 V 1166ff. s. v. Mag̲ h̲nāṭīs. 2  Text 72. 3  Text 73. 4  Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl, MS Brit. Mus. 8613, fol. 16 a–b. Concerning Rāzī cf. also Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 192, 11ff.; Ibn Ḥazm criticised the Biblical account of Moses for blurring the boundaries between him and the magicians (Radd ʿalā Ibn al-Naghrīlla 67 no. 39f.). 5  Aristotle, De anima I 2. 405a, 19ff./Ar. transl. 11, 6ff. Badawī. 6  See p. 129 above.

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would end in total perplexity, as not only would he not recognise a prophet but he would also be unable to unmask the mountebank.7 One must be ready to admit that certain facts will be recognised, inductively or intuitively, as being correct. No-one, for instance, doubts that all humans are mortal; expecting an exception based on some hidden natural law would be absurd. Abū ʿĪsā retorted: dying itself is a natural law according to universal consensus; consequently the comparison does not work. Thus Text 75. The answers Māturīdī inserts (after b and c; not translated here) may well refer to Ibn al-Rēwandī. Concerning the course of the discussion cf. the parallels named in the commentary on Text 75, and especially Qirqisānī, Anwār 576, 19ff. and 579, 6ff./transl. Vajda in: REI 106/1941–45/90ff.; the fact that the witch of Endor is mentioned in the last-named passage shows that the argumentation had been reformulated in accordance with Jewish ideas in the meantime. In Text 85 the situation is covered with the term makhārīq, which requires closer scrutiny, I have assumed that in this context it means ‘interruptions in the normal natural course of things’. This is based on the terminological meaning of the verb kharaqa, known above all in the phrase kharq al-ʿāda used to define the miracle (see p. 712f. below). It is not quite clear which singular should be assigned to the word; there are no instances of makhrūq so far, and mikhrāq, while forming the plural makhārīq, means ‘wooden sword’ or ‘a knotted handkerchief with which the children play war games’ (Lane, Lexicon 729 c; Rosenthal, Gambling 16). M. Ullmann pointed out to me that one might consider mikhrāq in the adjectival sense of ‘violently piercing, penetrating, breaching’. All the same it seems advisable to look at it as a plurale tantum. The plural form acquired furthermore, presumably under the impression of the discussion around the proof of the truth of prophecy, the meaning ‘prestidigitation, sleight of hand’ early on. Instances may be found in K. al-intiṣār (Text 43, b), and in Jāḥiẓ (Ḥayawān IV 378, pu.; V 352, 9; VI 201, 9); even earlier in Musāwir al-Warrāq’s verses (mid-second/-eighth century) in Sharīf alMurtaḍā, Amālī I 134, pu. f. The corresponding singular would have been makhraqa, which must be read as a maṣdar mīmī and corresponded to the plural form makhraqāt (Dozy, Suppl. I 366 a). Finally a denominative four-radical verb emerged makhraqa (cf. Text 78, and Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 27, 14, and Bāqillānī, Bayān 98, ult.; Dozy, Suppl. II 580 a, notes only other meanings). Text 85 probably dates from Bāqillānī’s 7  Text 74 with commentary.

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time, too (see p. 360 above); if I am assuming that the meaning was still scintillating (cf. the commentary), it would be comparatively late. One of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s contemporaries, Kindī’s pupil Aḥmad alSarakhsī (d. 286/899), appears to have written about makhārīq as well; his book was in a similar vein as the K. al-zumurrud (cf. Rosenthal, Sarakhsī 36 after Bīrūnī; translation ibid. p. 51). Later, a K. makhārīq al-anbiyāʾ would be known as one of the kutub al-zandaqa (Kiyā al-Harrāsī, Uṣūl aldīn, fol. 228 b, pu.); it was traced back to Rāzī (Bīrūnī, Fihrist kutub al-Rāzī 17 no. 174, and Maqdisī, Badʿ III 110, 5ff.; also Mohaghegh, Faylasūf-i Rayy 17 no. 174, and Meier in: Oriens 33/1992/40. The Qarmates and Ismāʿīlites were suspected of exploiting the issue; the apocryphal K. al-balāgh alakbar includes examples of the ‘sleight of hand’ performed by Jesus and by Moses (Baghdādī, Farq 281, 2ff./297, 3ff.; also Madelung in: Der Islam 34/1959/69ff.; Stern, Studies in Early Ismāʿīlism 69 and 80; Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi 232; and already Massignon in: RHR 82/1920/74ff. = Opera minora I 82ff.). The Qarmate Abū Ṭāhir al-Jannabī was quoted with the dictum of the three impostors (dajjālūn) which has Muḥammad join Moses and Jesus (Dhahabī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Islām, Ṭab. XXXIV, p. 15, 11f.), and which was quoted as a saying by Emperor Frederick II with the reference de tribus impostoribus in the Occident, where it was joined by a book of the same title that would play an important part during the Enlightenment. While it has been attributed to numerous Renaissance thinkers, it is reliably documented only from between 1538 and 1562. The ideas it expresses sometimes touch on those of the K. al-zumurrud and the K. ʿAbath alḥikma. However, its primary contention is, too, that someone who founds a new religion will always be suspected of being an impostor; i.e. it once more deals with the problem of reliable authentication (cf. W. Gericke’s edition, Das Buch “De tribus impostoribus”; Berlin 1982, esp. p. 14ff. concerning the Arabic transmission. Also F. Niewöhner, Veritas sive Varietas. Lessings Toleranzparabel und das Buch Von den drei Betrügern 145ff. [esp. 189] and 353ff.; F. Meier in: Oriens 32/1990/10f.). The objective is never atheism, but theism without revelation at most. The parable of the thieves as told by Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥaḍrī (Text XVIII 24) sounds similar. While he had originally intended it more narrowly (see p. 107 above), it may well have been interpreted in this sense later. We must be prepared for a number of distortions due to polemic; we should not assume that those who railed against the books had actually read them themselves. If – and it seems likely – the quotations Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī included in his Aʿlām al-nubuwwa (and which Kraus collected in his Rhaziana) were part of the contents of the K. makhārīq

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al-anbiyāʾ, this work did not primarily present the prophets as impostors or mountebanks, but criticised obscurantism and the theologians’ farfetched theories (see p. 107 above). In fact, this is more probable in the case of a philosopher like Rāzī who certainly suffered some attacks from theologians over time. This was the basic criticism. There was more to be said when one looked at the details, but the way in which the subject had so far been discussed by theologians forced a distinction. There were some few miracles alluded to in the Quran, while others were only reported in tradition, recorded by Ibn Isḥāq. Detailed information is provided only concerning the former here. It seems that Abū ʿĪsā tried to interpret the prophet’s nocturnal journey in a rationalist way;8 the alleged help of the angels at Badr inferred from sura 8:12 led him to a comment as sarcastic as Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ’s earlier one.9 The only source we have confirming that the other miracle stories from the K. al-zumurrud were mentioned is a list by Muʾayyad.10 It seems that Ibn al-Rēwandī was not as engaged in championing these as he was in the earlier ones.11 The problem was a different one: it was linked to their reliable authentication. 8.2.2.3.1.4

d) The Difficulties of Authenticating Transmission

Ibn al-Rēwandī discussed the issue of agreement and transmission separately in several texts.1 Consequently we must consider whether the remaining fragments were indeed part of the K. al-zumurrud at all. As before, a comparison between Māturīdī and Muʾayyad helps clarify the situation.2 Abū ʿĪsā pointed out that all the miracle stories travelled along one or two chains of

8   Text 78 with commentary; cf. p. 663f. below. 9   Text 76 after Muʾayyad, and 77, a, after Māturīdī. The parallel in Māturīdī shows that it was Abū ʿĪsā who proposed this argument. Regarding Ibn al-Rēwandī’s response cf. 77, d; the sentences c–d, which might also go back to him, have a parallel in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 407, 5ff. Regarding Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ and the anti-Islamic treatise ascribed to him see vol. II 35 above; concerning the issue as such cf. Juynboll in: Ohio Journal Rel. Stud. 2/1974/85ff. A remark in an account about the battle of Qādisiyya presumes that in the beginning military intervention by angels was unthinkable (Ṭabarī I 2314, 15f.). 10   R SO 14/1934/104, 1f. (Aʿsam 130, 13f.): frg. 11 in Kraus, transl. 114f. The miracle stories play a significant part in Christian polemic, e.g. in the Apology of al-Kindī (Tartar, Dialogue 161ff.). 11  Text 85, if this reflects Ibn al-Rēwandī’s views. 1   Catalogue of Works no. 26–28. 2   Cf. Text 81, a, with 84, b; 83 with 84, a.

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transmitters,3 a ‘tiny group’ (shirdhima qalīla)4 of traditionists, as they are referred to elsewhere.5 This was, of course, grist to the mills of the non-Muslims; in the same vein Qirqisānī emphasised that these stories were recorded by Ibn Isḥāq only, and were consequently not mutawātir.6 Rāzī, too, mentions this.7 Ibn al-Rēwandī, as we have seen, appears to have exercised discretion; there is a boundary beyond which it is impossible to confirm his reliability.8 All the same, he expressed himself as positively as the situation permitted. The miracle stories are, as accounts, confirmed indirectly even by the opponents when they vented their mockery on them. Furthermore the criterion is not the number of witnesses, but the conviction they carried.9 Abū ʿĪsā even said of the Quran that it was transmitted in isolation.10 He probably meant that at first only a few companions of the prophet possessed certain fragments of it. Qirqisānī expressed a similar view of the iʿjāz: barely ten people were able to grasp the rhetorical subtleties.11 Of course Ibn alRēwandī contradicted him: nowhere is the transmission denser than in the case of the holy scripture.12 Abū ʿĪsā had tried to show even dense transmission (tawātur) to be unreliable, for among a group of listeners only some will be close enough to hear everything correctly; all the others are too far away to be trustworthy witnesses.13 Ibn al-Rēwandī considered this to be sophistry;14 the alternative would have been that one could not even believe historical reports or accounts of distant lands.15 He used the same kind of argument when Abū ʿĪsā rejected the consensus as a means of proof: if one wants to recognise tradition at all – and not even Abū ʿĪsā would go so far as to reject all tradition – one cannot do without the consensus of those whom one believes to be 3   Text 81, a. 4   Cf. sura 26:54. 5   Text 84, b; cf. the commentary. 6    Anwār 300, 13ff. 7   Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 191, 10f. 8   Muʾayyad’s or his source’s comment on Text 83 suggests that the examples given were the stories of Uhbān b. Aws and the wolf (cf. p. 48 above) and the praise of pebbles (cf. Kraus, frg. 8 in RSO 14/1934/113). 9   Text 81, b–c. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī even placed Ibn al-Rēwandī in the vicinity of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān: in order to achieve tawātur there always must be one maʿṣūm among the witnesses (Maḥṣūl II 1 382, ult.; cf. p. 49 above). 10  Text 79, a. 11   Anwār 299, 5f. 12  Text 79, b–c. 13  Text 79, d; also 80, which says the same of eye witnesses to events, i.e. miracle reports. Shīrāzī, Tabṣira 291, 3, tells us that the ‘Brahmins’ denied the tawātur. 14  Text 79, e–f. 15  Text 82.

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bearers of truth.16 He had to emphasise the element of faith contained in every consensus, because Abū ʿĪsā used the time-honoured strategy17 of pointing to the Jews and Christians who did not arrive at the truth with their consensus regarding Christ’s death on the cross.18 8.2.2.3.2 The K. al-tāj We know much less about the other books, but we are able to see the place they held within contemporary debate. The K. al-tāj was directed against the classic proof of the existence of God of the ‘four premises’ drawn up by Abū l-Hudhayl.1 One cannot, Ibn al-Rēwandī said, draw conclusions regarding the transience of bodies based on the transience of the accidents.2 Prima vista it is much more probable that bodies are eternal; no-one has experienced a time when they were not.3 This was not as revolutionary as it sounded; it corresponded to the accusations against Jāḥiẓ.4 Ibn al-Rēwandī even unearthed it in the theories of Muʿammar and Naẓẓām.5 He made every effort to connect with his Muʿtazilite colleagues. If they claimed in the contet of their aṣlaḥ theory that God could have created innumerable other worlds that are the same as this one in every respect, Ibn al-Rēwandī twisted it into the statement that if there really was complete similarity, this world had to be just as uncreated as those.6 He delighted in enlarging on criticism of the believers in potentiality – who were still in the minority at the time: if that which is not is ‘something’, then it would have to be eternal as well.7 As we have seen,8 he was not one of them, but he came up with enough reasons to show that the same conclusion could be drawn from his own position. He went through all the wordings, but in the end always arrived at the same: from nothing, nothing comes. Thus that which is, would have to have always been there.9 16  Text 83, b–c. Ibn al-Rēwandī counts himself as one of the ahl al-ḥaqq. 17  See vol. III 417f. above and p. 723 below. 18  Text 83, a, and 84, a. 1   See vol. III 250 above. 2   Text 41; also 37, b–c. Also Mānkdīm, ShUKh 113, 10ff. 3   Text 39; this was the beginning of the book. 4   See p. 125 above. 5    Intiṣār 21, 10ff. (= Text XXII 25). 6   Text 42. Nāṣir-i Khosraw reports this slightly sophistic argument without any criticism. The ‘Ḥashwites’, against whom he tells us it was directed, were probably non-Ismāʿīlites in general in his view, including the Muʿtazilites. 7   Text 40, d; cf. p. 55 and 159 above. 8   See p. 351f. above. 9   Text 40, a–c and e–h.

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This earned him the reputation, not only in Khayyāṭ’s eyes, of believing in the eternal duration of the world.10 Still, we must be cautious: in another passage, where it suits his dialectical context, Khayyāṭ does not distinguish between Ibn al-Rēwandī’s and the Muʿtazilites’ theories.11 All the same, we can be certain that Ibn al-Rēwandī was not influenced by the philosophers; it was still too early. The K. al-tāj advanced the discussion not just as far as the theory that the world was eternal, but also that it did not have a creator.12 This was ‘Dahrite’; the Ibn al-Rēwandī we have met so far would not have embraced it himself in earnest. Here as elsewhere the Dahriyya is above all a deterrent in his eyes.13 Ashʿarī was right in drawing the main conclusion from the treatise that when describing the emergence of something from nothing one had to choose one’s words with great care.14 8.2.2.3.3 The K. al-dāmigh A further text, which circulated under the martial title K. al-dāmigh ‘the crusher of brains’, collected contradictions and inadequacies in the Quran. This was also said of the K. al-zumurrud;1 indeed, Khayyāṭ, who says this in the introduction of his K. al-intiṣār, does not mention the K. al-dāmigh at all. He was, however, said to have refuted it2 – maybe later, after the K. al-intiṣār had already been written. The fragments known to us appear to come from Jubbāʾī’s refutation;3 Khayyāṭ’s treatise, as well as two other refutations,4 has been lost. The material is rather disparate. It seems that in some instances Ibn alRēwandī exploited older theological controversies that used the Quran in different ways: the argument over predestination,5 and over God’s foreknowledge.6 He was simply using those verses that experts regarded as mutashābihāt. He 10   Intiṣār 108, 14; a distant reflection of this is in Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid 82, 3. 11  Text XXII 189, q. 12  Text 37, d; 38, a and d. 13  Text 40, h. 14  Juwaynī, Shāmil 259, 2ff.; Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad 37, 12ff. Ibn al-Rēwandī’s definition of the term ḥadīth, which is Juwaynī’s subject, may have come from Ashʿarī’s K. al-fuṣūl, in which he quoted extensively from K. al-tāj and added his own criticism (cf. Catalogue of Works, refutation l, 1). 1   Text 43, c; also 44, c. 2   Refutation b, 6. 3   Ibid. c 5; cf. the commentary on Text 88 and 89. The quotations in Ibn al-Jawzī probably went via Ibn al-ʿAqīl, who edited Jubbāʾī’s text. 4   Refutations d 4 and g 4 (conjectured). 5   Text 89, b; also 90, c. 6   Cf. Text 88, c, with IV 41, g–h.

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also noted purely verbal contradictions that might easily be resolved with a little effort,7 exaggerated expressions,8 and also weaknesses of the image of God that might have been fundamentally turned against Islam.9 It culminated in criticism of the prophet, sections of which recall Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ: Muḥammad was an obscurantist; he avoided serious questions.10 In Mecca he was seeking a compromise with the pagans; he had doubts concerning his mission that only left him in Medina.11 The paradise he described to the believers is of Bedouin simplicity and consequently not very attractive.12 It is difficult to see which general line the argumentation adhered to. Issues of style as well as substance are discussed directly next to each other; it is not clear whether the Quran is criticised as the word of God or as the prophet’s wording. This was not, in fact, relevant; the iʿjāz dogma was destroyed in any case. Perhaps the text was really only a slightly accidental collection of passages; there are precedents for this. Wansbrough pointed out a catalogue of nine questions on the Quran added retrospectively to Muqātil b. Sulaymān’s Tafsīr khams-miʾat āya which resemble his style noticeably;13 in this text it is ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbbās who resolves all the contradictions. One of the examples mentioned there was adopted by Ibn al-Rēwandī,14 however, together with three others from the list of nine it is also found in Malaṭī (d. 377/987); the number of examples has risen to 25 here.15 Criticism was frequently blamed on the ‘heretics’; this is Malaṭī’s strategy,16 but it was also employed by the grammarian Quṭrub from whom a K. fīmā sa‌ʾala ʿanhu l-mulḥidūn min āy alQurʾān has been transmitted.17 It was often directed against the kuttāb,18 later also against the physician al-Rāzī.19 The topic was developed further by Ibn

7   Text 89, c–d and e–f; 89, i = 90, a; 90, b and o. 8   Text 89, g–h; 90, q. 9   Text 90, d (God’s intrigues). Also 90, c; 90, n, and in particular 88, b (Gods cruelty, with reference to the legends of punishments); also 90, p. 10  Text 90, g; cf. Text V 4, c, which uses the same comparison. 11  Text 91–92; cf. p. 102f. above. An allusion to the ‘Satanic verses’? 12  Text 90, h–m. 13   Quranic Studies 163f. 14  No. 3 = Text 89, k. 15   Tanbīh 44ff./54ff.; also Wansbrough 165. 16  Ibid. 43, 17/54, 11 (zanādiqa); also 44, 5/55, 3. 17  Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 41, 7, where suʾila is certainly a mistake (Flügel 38, 14, also has sa‌ʾala). Cf. also Suyūṭī, Itqān II 27, 6. Regarding Quṭrub see vol. II 46 and 100f. above. 18  Jāḥiẓ, Dhamm al-kuttāb in: Rasāʾil II 192, 7f. 19  Who included the other revealed scriptures in his criticism; cf. Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 113, 15ff. = Orientalia 5/1936/362f. (VIII).

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Qutayba (d. 276/889) in his Ta‌ʾwīl mushkil al-Qurʾān.20 He was a contemporary of Ibn al-Rēwandī’s, and it is surprising that he refers only to the Ibn ʿAbbās tradition. However, this book is an early work and was probably composed before 236/850;21 the K. al-dāmigh did not yet exist at that time. We do not need to include later texts such as Zarkashī’s Burhān22 or Suyūṭī’s Itqān in this overview.23 It is remarkable, however, that the material from the K. al-dāmigh was not considered there, either. In one place Zarkashī appears to refer to Jubbāʾī’s Naqḍ al-dāmigh; Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, too, knew the book – possibly thanks to later citations.24 Still, the main strand of transmission preserved in the handbooks came from elsewhere. As Wansbrough demonstrated,25 orthodox tradition pushed the category tanāqud ‘inconsistency’ aside as it was of no use to them, and attempted to replace it with ikhtilāf ‘variation, change of expression’. The K. al-dāmigh, on the other hand, linked Quranic examples that could be resolved in this way to others which criticism had attacked more harshly.26 Consequently there would be few contacts later,27 with the exception of the one similarity mentioned.28 Under these circumstances it is not possible to search for unmarked quotations from the K. al-dāmigh in Zarkashī’s works and elsewhere. The only passage that might be attributed is Mughnī XVI 389, 3ff.; it was apparently discussed by Jubbāʾī in Naqḍ al-dāmigh and is found immediately before the marked fragments (Text 89). It concerns laytha ka-mithlihī shayʾ (sura 42:11), which is described as contradictory because the statement that something is ‘like its own kind’ cannot be negated. Things are always ‘like their own kind’; if one wanted to negate this, one would have to omit the ‘like’. Rummānī consequently thought later that ka – was redundant in this phrase, as the result would be unbelief otherwise (cf. Carter in: ZGAIW 1/1984/217, n. 12). Concerning the issue cf. also Ibn

20  P. 19ff. The parallel with Text 89, k, is found on p. 21, 6ff.; Ibn Qutayba’s reply (47, –6ff.) strongly recalls Jubbāʾī’s (who was a generation younger). 21  Lecomte, Ibn Qutayba 90. 22   I I 45ff.; also used by Nabhānī, Nujūm al-muhtadīn 422, pu. ff. 23   I I 27, 6ff.; he, too, quotes Zarkashī (29, 5ff.). 24  Cf. Text 89, commentary. 25   Quranic Studies 165f. 26  Besides 90, g (the parallel with Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ) also 90, f, which was transmitted in the same way under the name of Ibn Abī l-ʿAwjāʾ (see vol. I 530 above). 27  Text 88, c (similar Zarkashī II 51, 9ff. after Bāqillānī, Taqrīb), and 89, e (similar Malaṭī 51, 9ff./65, 1ff.). 28  Text 89, k.

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Mattōya, Tadhkira 377, 18f.; Murtaḍā, Amālī II 311, 12ff.; Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 351f.; Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz (Cairo 1317/1899) 164, apu. ff.; Gimaret, Noms divins 149 (also after Rāzī); Heinrichs in: ZGAIW 7/1991–2/266. Rummānī was correct; there is a similar doubling of the words of comparison in the well-known kidmūt of Gen. 1:26 (cf. Koehler/ Baumgartner, Hebr. Lexikon 213; K. Beyer, Die aramäischen Texte vom Toten Meer 555, with the translation ‘rather like’; Jenni in: Seybold/Zenger, Neue Wege der Psalmenforschung 202ff.). – In his definition of iʿjāz Jubbāʾī focussed on the category of ‘without contradiction’: ‘The Quran is incomparable (muʿjiz) because in spite of its great volume (maʿa kathratihī), and in spite of the multifarious narrative matter and legal information contained in it, no internal contradiction and no dissension (ikhtilāf) are found within it. If it had come from someone other than God, people would find dissension and internal contradiction within it, just as scripture tells us: “… then they would find much contradiction within it” (sura 4:82)’. It is worth noting that the arguments 89, i (= 90, a), and 89, k were also adduced by a Jewish author in Spain, namely the anonymous against whom Ibn Ḥazm polemicised in a separate text. He is usually identified as Samuel han-Nāgīd, whom the Muslims called Ibn al-Naghrīlla, ‘son of the young black woman’ (Ibn Ḥazm Al-radd ʿalā Ibn al-Naghrīlla 51, 7ff.  § 9, and 52, ult. ff. § 12). The attribution is by no means certain; several other authors have also been suggested (cf. Fierro in: REMMM 63–64/ 1992/81ff.). S. Stroumsa even assumed that Ibn Ḥazm was working with a fiction: he adopted the arguments directly from Ibn al-Rēwandī and then attributed them to Ibn al-Naghrīlla (in: JAOS 107/1987/769ff.). This hypothesis is not very convincing, as the arguments in question are found next to others not adopted from the K. al-dāmigh, thus proving only their wide circulation. D. Powers, who explored the text at around the same time (in: Studies in Islamic and Judaic Tradition, ed. Brinner/Ricks I 109ff.), does not see kinship with Ibn al-Rēwandī but only with Ḥīwī al-Balkhī (about whom p. 390f. below); it is true that Jewish tradition is probably more significant here than Islamic. Ibn al-Rēwandī’s ideas were known in Spain; Ibn Ḥazm personally refuted his K. al-farīd (cf. Catalogue of Works XXXV b, refutation r). – Concerning the person of Samuel han-Nāgīd in general see Ashtor, The Jews of Muslim Spain II 41ff., and Bargebuhr, Salomo ibn Gabirol. Ostwestliches Dichtertum 98ff.; also Wasserstein in: Al-Qanṭara 14/1993/109ff. The subliminal presence of Jewish criticism of the Muslim concept of iʿjāz has been shown by Sadan, Identity and Inimitability in: IOS 14/1994/325ff.

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8.2.2.3.4 The K. ʿabath al-ḥikma Three brief summaries of this book are extant, which partially agree and partially supplement one another: by Khayyāṭ, in the Fihrist, and by Ibn al-Jawzī. This is not much, but at least it helps us recognise that the title K. taʿdīl waltajwīr under which Khayyāṭ knew the book,1 was later replaced by K. naʿt alḥikma or,2 as we should like to assume, K. ʿabath al-ḥikma.3 It was a criticism of theodicy; divine wisdom turns out to be meaningless (ʿabath)4 insofar as God has foreknowledge of the ills he visits on humanity. This applies to illness and poverty5 as well as unbelief6 and the eternal punishment of hell;7 a sensible person cannot but ask where the place of mercy is in all this. The case of unbelief is exacerbated by God’s commanding the heathen to adopt the true faith although he knows that they will not do so – the accusation of taklīf mā lā yuṭāq.8 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam had proved in this way that God did not in fact have foreknowledge of events; Ibn al-Rēwandī, who was familiar with Hishām’s ideas, simply stood the argument on its head,9 as, in fact, had Abū ʿĪsā. The similarities with K. al-gharīb al-mashriqī – i.e. with the text known under that title – are striking.10 The book contained a total of 56 questions (shubah);11 while the opponents may have been the ‘Brahmins’.12 8.2.2.3.5 The K. qaḍīb al-dhahab According to Ibn al-Nadīm, Ibn al-Rēwandī ‘proved in this text that God’s foreknowledge emerged within time’ together with the things to which it relates.1 In that case he would simply have adopted Hishām b. al-Ḥakam’s 1   Text 87. 2   Regarding the issue cf. Catalogue of Works no. 39. 3   Cf. the correspondences between 86, a–b (ʿAbath al-ḥikma), and 87, d (Taʿdīl), as well as between 97, c (Taʿdīl) and Fihrist in Catalogue of Works no. 39 (ʿAbath al-ḥikma). 4   Regarding the term see vol. III 302 above. It is not used in the summaries, but they tell us at least that God does nothing ‘useless’ (86, c). 5   Text 87, a–b. 6   Text 87, c. 7   Text 87, d, and 86, a–b. 8   Emphasised particularly in the Fihrist, loc. cit. 9   Cf. Text 87, c, with IV 41, n; also 87, b, with IV 41, k–l. 10  Cf. Text 86, a–b = 87, d, with Text 1, c–e, and Text 87, c, with Text 1, a–b. Maʿarrī simply attributes one of these arguments to an anonymous ‘heretic’ (in his letter to al-Muʾayyad fī l-dīn; cf. Rasāʾil 112, pu. ff. ʿAbbās. Regarding Rāzī see Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 181, 3ff. 11  Al-Manṣūr billāh, Shāfī II 244, 4f., and 248, –5f.; also III 49, 17ff., which mentions only 50. 12  Cf. Mughnī XV 73, apu. f. 1   Catalogue of Works no. 41.

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point of view, but it was really too late for that. We may well assume that he was arguing dialectically here, too: if God has knowledge of things since the beginning of eternity, the world is eternal;2 thus if we want to avoid the theory of the eternal duration of the world, we have to assume that God only has knowledge of things once they come into existence.3 The K. qaḍīb al-dhahab is thus a companion piece to the K. al-tāj. 8.2.2.3.6 The K. al-farīd One argument in this book became known in particular, and that because Abū Hāshim discussed it in detail in his refutation:1 why, if the fact that the opponents could furnish nothing to match the Quran proved Muḥammad’s prophethood, were not Euclid or Ptolemy prophets as well, as there was no-one to match them in their respective sciences?2 This could be directed against the theory of the cultural hero as well; Muḥammad b. Zakariyyāʾ al-Rāzī employed the idea in that way.3 A Christian such as Qusṭā b. Lūqā found it useful, too, when he had to defend himself against a controversial theological text by ʿAlī b. Yaḥyā Ibn al-Munajjim, or his son.4 He apparently composed his response between 296/908 and 298/910;5 Abū Hāshim may well have been familiar with it. Further information we have concerning his refutation proves that the discussion was moving into epistemological channels: how do we know at all that we can rely on traditions concerning the prophet, or indeed concerning Euclid? Why did the Christians not preserve the information that Jesus spoke in the cradle?6 These questions may have appeared in this or similar form in the K. al-farīd; after all, they were raised in the K. al-zumurrud as well.7 Another issue we have come across elsewhere appears to have been discussed as well: the prophet’s time in Mecca. Of course everyone knows that Muḥammad was 2  This is how al-Nāṭiq bil-ḥaqq, Ziyādat sharḥ al-uṣūl, fol. 60 b, pu. ff., words this proof. 3  Text 93. 1  Refutation i 1. 2  Text 94. Concerning Abū Hāshim’s counter-arguments cf. Mughnī XVI 305, 3ff. 3  Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 229, 1ff., and 273, 7ff. = Kraus, Rhaziana no. XVI in: Orientalia 5/1936/370. 4  Correspondance islamo-chrétienne, in: PO 40/1981/608 § 57f.; modified 674 § 236. As we learn from this text it was possible at the time to manufacture concave mirrors that would set things alight at a distance of thirty cubits. Would thus someone who could achieve this over 100 cubits be a prophet? Cf. Rashed in: La Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam 165f. 5  Thus Kh. Samir, ibid. 547. Concerning the slightly more complex story of the work’s origin cf. ibid. 539ff. (against Haddad in: Arabica 21/1974/297ff.). 6  Cf. e.g. Mughnī XVI 305, ult. ff., and 28, 4ff.; further passages in Gimaret in: JA 1976, p. 328f. 7  The close kinship between the two texts is confirmed by the observation on p. 371, n. 6 above.

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acting wisely at the time, but how do we know that with all his diplomacy he did not also employ ignoble tricks? This argument was preserved, as so often, by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār in his K. Tathbīt dalāʾil al-nubuwwa.8 We have already seen he usually mentions Ibn al-Rēwandī together with other ‘heretics’ among the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila. Consequently it may be that some other passages that mention this group in general should be assigned to the K. al-farīd as well. These attempt to show Muḥammad’s hidden weaknesses: he had an affair with the wife of his adoptive son Zayd;9 he forbade his wives to marry again after his death because he knew that they had seen through him;10 unlike Moses or Jesus he did not promise there would be another prophet after him, because he wanted to keep everything for himself.11 It may be that the qāḍī intensified the assertions in these passages. The original intent may not have been to denigrate Muḥammad but rather to show that one had to be cautious when asserting that he was free from sin. 8.2.2.3.7 The Intention of these Works There is no need for us to go into the last two of these ‘scandalous texts’, the K. al-marjān and the K. al-luʾluʾa, as they left no trace. All the more remarkable, then, that Ibn al-Rēwandī should have refuted one of them, the K. almarjān, himself, besides the K. al-zumurrud and the K. al-dāmigh.1 Why did he do this? He does not seem to have attracted criticism for this book. It concerned the ‘differences of opinion among the followers of Islam’;2 people had long got used to this. The text would be refuted only once later, too, by Abū Hāshim – possibly only for completeness’ sake, after the other books had been repeatedly combed through as well.3 Ibn al-Rēwandī’s refutation is part of Ibn al-Nadīm’s first list of books, which does not contain the ‘scandalous’ books we have looked at so far at all. It does mention two which have been lost entirely: the K. al-ḥajar al-aḥmar and the K. al-ḥajar al-aswad.4 All of which, together with the information we collected about the individual titles above, suggests that Ibn al-Rēwandī was basically doing the same as Khayyāṭ, Jubbāʾī and 8   Text 95. 9    Tathbīt 650, 7ff.; the text is destroyed. Concerning the issue cf. vol. V 10, n. 36 (of the German edition). 10  Ibid. 653, pu. ff. 11  Ibid. 660, –5ff. 1 2 3 4

  Catalogue of Works no. 34–36.   Ibid. no. 43.   Refutation i 2.   Catalogue of Works no. 32–33; see p. 356 above.

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others would after him: he used the ‘scandalous’ books as a challenge to prove his dialectical skills. The fact that he was later believed to have been the author of the original texts was probably due to his having irritated his former fellow believers beyond endurance in his K. faḍīḥat al-Muʿtazila, although this does not explain everything. He may well have discovered some of the ‘scandalous’ material already written, but he certainly edited and published it. As a polemicist he was just as gifted as Abū ʿĪsā, and he delighted in showing the self-righteous theologians just how unsteady the ground was on which they believed they stood. This kind of approach was considered then, as it is now, to be inappropriate by those concerned; any criticism of theology would quickly transform into criticism of God in their view. In fact Ibn al-Rēwandī had always taken great care, as Sharīf al-Murtaḍā pointed out early on, to mark the different protagonists clearly: qālat al-Dahriyya, qālat al-Barāhima, qāla muthbitū l-rusul.5 It was not really possible to misunderstand him – but as soon as people were looking only at secondary quotations from his writings, this changed, and everything was very quickly ascribed to him directly. The example of the K. al-zumurrud has shown just how difficult it is to disentangle all this. Despite the wealth of documentation it is not possible to determine with certainty whether the text used by Māturīdī was the same as the one cited in Muʾayyad’s source. Madelung conjectured that Māturīdī was going back to Ibn al-Rēwandī’s K. ithbāt al-rusul.6 One might also consider his Naqḍ al-zumurrud, which has some arguments in favour of it if we believe the K. naqḍ al-zumurrud to have been a kind of new edition of the K. al-zumurrud with the counter-arguments of the muthbitū lrusul added in. However, according to Muʾayyad this had already been the case in the K. al-zumurrud.7 Or did he use an abridged title, as he did not have the original to consult? The ‘heretical’ arguments were already collected by Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq; we can see clearly that Ibn al-Rēwandī quoted him conscientiously – and with malicious intent.8 Kraus, who referred mainly to Muʾayyad who ignored Abū ʿĪsā entirely, discovered the ‘Brahmins’ only as the voice of the opposing side; he thought that Ibn al-Rēwandī founded a legend here whose influence would be felt throughout the subsequent heresiographical and theological literature (RSO 14/1934/341ff.). This theory found acclaim for a long time; 5  Shāfī 13, 10. 6  Catalogue of Works no. 20; also ZDMG 124/1974/150. 7  See p. 359f. above; also p. 358, n. 34. 8  Text 60, a, and 81, a. Abū ʿĪsā and Ibn al-Rēwandī are named together in Text 62.

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Meyerhof (in: IC 15/1941/55ff) and ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Badawī (Min ta‌ʾrīkh al-ilḥād fī l-Islām 75ff.) brought it to the notice of English – and Arabicspeaking audiences. More recently, however, new material has served to differentiated it, above all the studies by B. Lawrence (Shahrastānī on the Indian Religions 78ff.), S. Pines (in: JSAI 2/1980/220ff.), S. Stroumsa (in: JSAI 6/1985/234ff.), and B. Abrahamov (in: Arabica 34/1987/97ff., n. 77: against Pines, and in WO 19/1988/72ff.: against Stroumsa). Among other things the discussion focussed on the fact that Ibn al-Rēwandī was not, in fact, the first one to speak of ‘Brahmins’; a remark by Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm (d. 246/860) appears to be older (Abrahamov even mentions two (in WO 19/1988/73), but one of the treatises he relies on is probably not authentic; cf. Madelung, Qāsim 98). However, this passage paints a different picture of the ‘Brahmins’; in addition it may be assumed that it does not intend ‘Brahmins’ at all but rather ‘disciples of Abraham’, i.e. the Ṣābians (thus Abrahamov, loc. cit. 91); concerning the mistake see vol. II 507 above). Later reception transformed the teachings of the two groups into two sects into which the ‘Brahmins’ were believed to have split (thus Bāqillānī, Tamhīd 104ff.). Concerning the confusion cf. also Calder in: BSOAS 75/1994/40ff. However the question of precedence will ultimately be decided, it is certain that Kraus overestimated the importance Ibn al-Rēwandī accorded the ‘Brahmins’. Ibn al-Rēwandī seems to have cited them at the beginning of the book only (Text 49); Kraus’ generalisation is due to a rather careless remark by Muʾayyad (Text 36, b). Their role in the K. al-zumurrud may have been similar to that of Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq’s ‘stranger from the east’. The argument that links them with Ibn al-Rēwandī there has been verified by Vajda in the works of his Jewish contemporary Dāwūd alMuqammiṣ (d. ca. 277/890; cf. the translation in JA 265/1977/228ff.) who was not, however, dependent on Ibn al-Rēwandī, as Vajda assumed, but goes back to a later, presumably Muslim tradition. The argument (which unfortunately does not survive in its entirety in the only extant MS of the ʿIshrūn maqāla) seems involved and awkward in his hands (cf. the edition by S. Stroumsa, p. 254ff. = cap. XIII). Maybe he ultimately went back to Shāfiʿī, as the latter was said to have written a treatise ‘On the affirmation of prophecy and the refutation of the Brahmins’ (Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 308, 9; also Rāzī, Manāqib al-Shāfiʿī Manāqib al-Shāfiʿī 46, 12f., where he is named as the first author on the subject). In the early fifth century alKhaṭīb al-Baghdādī held this work in his hands and read it (Mashyakha, fol. 128b, 8).

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 Interest in the ‘Brahmins’ had its roots in antiquity. They took up a lot of space in the Indian chapters of the romance of Alexander; some of the material goes back to Megasthenes’ official account. In the early third century Hippolytus of Rome dedicated a chapter of his Refutation of all Heresies to it (transl. and commented by Filliozat in: RHR 130/1945/49ff.). Two generations later, Porphyry (233–305) went into raptures over their asceticism (De abstinentia IV 17–18 = p. 256, 1ff. Nauck), and there was even a separate text entitled De vita Bragmanorum (edition of the fragments by J. D. M. Derrett in: Classica et Mediaevalia 21/1960/100ff., cf. also p. 64ff.; in general Kraus 256f.) attributed to the Bishop Palladios who also composed the Historia Lausiaca. This tradition appears to have reached the Arabs via popular philosophical literature. Pseudo-Ammonius’ doxography under Neoplatonic influence, which was based on Hippolytus of Rome among others, describes ‘Brahman’ in detail, as a pupil of Kalanos and academic grandson of Pythagoras (cap. XVI Rudolph; concerning Kalanos cf. my Erkenntnislehre 263). Pseudo-Apollonius’ K. sir al-khalīqa criticises the Brahmins’ image of God (Weißer, Geheimnis der Schöpfung 82f. and 166f.). It contains no hint of the ideas that would later be attributed to the ‘Brahmins’ by Islamic theology. 8.2.2.4 Summary. Ibn al-Rēwandī’s Chronological Position With this background in mind we must once again consider Ibn al-Rēwandī’s chronological position. Muqammiṣ is no use as a terminus ante quem, as we have seen; in spite of Vajda’s assumption he is not dependent on Ibn alRēwandī.1 As a consequence there is even less support of the early dates. On the other hand, 298 as the date of his death can only be maintained if we assume that Khayyāṭ was wrong when he described Ibn al-Rēwandī as dead in K. al-intiṣār, which was composed around 269.2 This is not as improbable as it sounds. Ibn al-Rēwandī did not die in Baghdad, otherwise the legend of his visit to the house of the Jew Ben Levi in its various forms would hardly have grown in the way it did.3 However, this very legend also shows that nothing precise was known in Iraq; it would seem that Ibn al-Rēwandī left Baghdad secretly. We can safely assume that he returned to his home country where he had time enough to consolidate the theological reputation that would accompany him forever in the east. During his later years in Baghdad he had indulged 1  Thus also Stroumsa in: JSAI 6/1985/234ff. 2  See p. 336f. above. 3  See p. 339ff. above.

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in ‘épater le bourgeois’ which resulted in the ‘scandalous’ writings – that may not have been his after all. This was where the K. al-zumurrud acquired a chapter ‘against the Mohammedans in general’ that exercised Khayyāṭ greatly.4 It is not documented elsewhere; the word Muḥammadiyya alone is a provocation.5 It is doubtful whether it was included in the text that Māturīdī consulted. In the version current in Iran it was certainly Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq who was the villain; he could not defend himself as he was either already dead or still living in Baghdad.6 Ibn al-Rēwandī would thus be an older contemporary of Jubbāʾī’s whom he presumably never met.7 Evidence of the later dates may also be found in the debate preserved by Ashʿarī, in which Ibn al-Rēwandī supported Abū Saʿīd al-Ḥaḍrī against Ṣāliḥī (Text XXXI 43, e and i; cf. p. 152 above). This was said to have taken place in Baghdad; we would thus have to go back to the time before 269 again. If we presume a second, later visit to Iraq supporting Ibn al-Rēwandī’s having studied under Mubarrad (see p. 336 above), things become even more complicated. Unfortunately the parallels in Kindī’s apology pointed out already by Kraus (RSO 14/1934/336ff.) have no use in this matter; the date of this text has not yet been established (cf. Troupeau in: EI2 V 120f.; Griffith in: La vie du prophète Mahomet 106f.; ʿAbd al-Majīd al-Sharfī, Al-fikr al-islāmī fī l-radd ʿalā l-Naṣārā 123ff., and Haddad in: Gervers/Bikhazi, Conversion and Continuity 33ff.) 8.2.2.5 The Origin of the ‘Heretic’ Tradition Now we can approach the last remaining unanswered question, namely, where the ‘heretic’ tradition, with which Ibn al-Rēwandī caused such outrage in Baghdad, ultimately originated. In an earlier exploration of the subject1 I assumed that he brought it with him from the east. That is certainly where the 4  Text 43, d. 5  Muḥammadiyya, as Khayyāṭ explains, refers to a group of people (Muḥammad’s community), rather than a doctrine (‘Mohammedanism’). Examples of collective nouns of this type are found in Ullmann, Flughühner und Tauben (SB Bayer. Akad. Wiss., Phil.-Hist. Kl. 1982, issue 1), p. 31f. The adjective muḥammadī has, of course, negative connotations to this day. This was not necessarily the case in those days: Ibn Ṭāwūs expressed his regret that the Muslims did not call themselves ‘Mohammedans’ after their prophet, but rather according to their respective legal madhhab as Shāfiʿite, Ḥanafite, etc. (Ṭarāʾif fī maʿrifat madhāhib al-ṭawāʾif 4, 6). 6  See p. 331 above. 7  See p. 339 above. Arguments for the contemporaneity of the two were collected by Khushaym, Al-Jubbāʾiyyān (Cairo 1971), p. 216ff. 1  In REI 46/1978/171ff.

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two closest parallels may be found: in the Karrāmiyya, and in the works of the Jewish theologian Ḥīwī al-Balkhī.2 Ibn Karrām appears to have asked a number of questions in his K. al-sirr that were similar to those in Ibn al-Rēwandī’s K. ʿabath al-ḥikma or Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq’s K. al-gharīb al-mashriqī. Why did God create wild animals? If he had made them herbivores, much bloodshed would have been prevented. Why is it permitted to slaughter animals that have not done us any harm? Why does hadith tell us that we should kill serpents and mice,3 although they are God’s creatures like all the other animals? And finally, a question that would later ascribed to the ‘Brahmins’ as well: would it not have been better if God had sent an angel rather than a prophet? At least in that case everyone would have believed in him, and there would not have been doubts arising from the messenger’s worldly behaviour, of the kind that there were about Muḥammad of whom many a strange thing was transmitted.4 We do not know in what context these questions were asked; in fact, not even their attribution to Ibn Karrām is beyond doubt.5 Maybe they are an expression not of criticism of the wisdom of God himself, but of the theologians’ attempt at discerning his wisdom everywhere.6 Ibn Karrām did not believe in the aṣlaḥ theory;7 it did not make sense to him, either, that the prophets were generally protected from sin (ʿiṣma).8 One might infer from the title of the book that he would have been content to leave things that could not be explained to remain within the ‘secret’ of divine decree. Ibn Karrām died as early as 255/869, in Jerusalem, and possibly at a very old age. The K. al-sirr was composed in Iran before 251/865.9 We do not know if Ibn al-Rēwandī was familiar with the book; he would have had to come across it before leaving Baghdad. It seems almost more probable that these kinds of thoughts were quite common among Sufis at the time. The trust in the theodicy that had so inspired the Muʿtazilites was lost forever in Islam during these years; the concept of ʿiṣma that would survive instead had not really taken root yet.10 This is the best explanation of the occurrence of similar scepticism 2   Rāzī, who has numerous parallels as well, is later, and a slightly different case anyway. 3   Cf. vol. II 59f. above. 4   Concerning the ‘Brahmins’ cf. Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs 64, 11ff. (also Kraus 347, n. 2 no. 2); as a question asked by zanādiqa in general, vol. I 451 above. It is already hinted at in the Quran (sura 25:7). 5   Cf. Zysow in: JAOS 108/1988/581, n. 26. 6   Thus interpreted already in Ungenützte Texte 13ff. 7   Shahrastānī 84, apu./192, 4f. 8   Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 168, 4f.; Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 2, 3ff.; ShNB 19, 4ff. 9   Regarding the dates see vol. II 683f. above. 10  Burghūth assumed that the prophets might commit grave sins before their calling (Text XXXII 57 and 57A); with his Murjiʾite concept of faith Ibn al-Rēwandī was close to him. ʿAlī

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outside of Islam at the same time, namely in the works of the Jew Ḥīwī, or better: Ḥayyawayh/Ḥayyōya from Balkh, who was active between 850 and 875, i.e. ca. 235 and 260 AH. Saʿadyā found out about his theories and argued against them, thanks to which we know more than a little about them.11 Like Ibn Karrām Ḥīwī presented his criticism in the form of questions, calling his work ‘Two hundred questions on the holy scripture’; half of them are lost. Most importantly, though, he wrote in Arabic, and consequently his book was immediately accessible to the Muslims.12 One of the issues he broached was the meaningfulness of slaughtering animals for the sacrifice: God does not need to eat, so why does one sacrifice to him? And why should fat and blood be pleasing food?13 He emphasised God’s injustice14 and denied his omniscience by pointing out, like Ibn al-Rēwandī and Hishām b. al-Ḥakam before him, passages in the scripture according to which God came to know something.15 He showed that God sometimes changed his mind, and spoke of contradictions in the Bible.16 He rejected the creatio ex nihilo17 and found natural causes for Biblical miracles.18 Much of this was not being said for the first time with reference to the OT; the Marcionites had already asserted it centuries earlier,19 and

al-Riḍā, on the other hand, described people from the Sawad as unbelievers who thought that the prophet was never guilty of an oversight when praying (ʿUyūn akhbār al-riḍā II 203, pu. ff.). In more detail p. 668f. below. 11  Cf. S. I. Davidson, Saadia’s Polemic against Ḥīwī al-Balkhī (New York 1915); H. Malter, Saadia Gaon 267f. and 384f.; J. Rosenthal, Ḥīwī al-Balkhī. A Comparative Study (Philadelphia 1949). Regarding the comparison with Islam in particular see Vajda in: REJ 99/1935/81ff.; also the records in G. D. Cohen, The Book of Tradition by Abraham ibn Daud (Philadelphia 1967), p 56f.; EJud VIII 791f.; D. Urvoy, Les penseurs libres dans l’Islam Classique 134ff. – One Ḥayyawayh al-Balkhī was known as the inventor of a particular technique of archery (Latham in: Iran 8/1970/98), but he has probably nothing in common with our theologian. 12  We should expect that the Arabic was written with Hebrew letters. Furthermore a fragment in Hebrew was found in the Cairo Geniza, interestingly in rhymed prose (cf. Goitein, Medeterranean Society V 388f.; E. Fleischer, Shārīd mē ha-śāgōtāw shel Ḥiwwī ha-Balkhī ʿal sippūrē ha-miqrā, in: Tarbīṣ 51/1982/49ff.). 13  Salmōn ben Yerūḥīm in Vajda, Deux commentaires 62f.; Davidson, Polemic 24 no. 14, and Text 53ff. no. 28. 14  Rosenthal 7ff. 15  This time in the OT, of course (Rosenthal 10ff.; also Davidson 75 no. 64). 16  Rosenthal 13ff. and 20f. 17  Ibid. 23 no. 64. 18  Vajda in: REJ 99/1935/89; cf. also REJ 137/1978/339. 19  Concerning the sacrifices cf. Tertullian, Adv. Marcionem II 22; denying God’s omniscience cf. Hanson, Allegory and Event 138. Contradictions in the OT had been pointed out by the Church Fathers as well.

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the Zoroastrians had adopted it into their polemic.20 Even so, although there were still Marcionites in the East at this time,21 it is probably too simplistic to have Ḥīwī depending from them. It is possible that the Zoroastrians’ arguments are not of an earlier date than his. However, this may help to explain why legend had Ibn al-Rēwandī find sanctuary in Iraq with a Jew of all people. All of this is the expression of an existential crisis that beset Islamic theology and also went beyond it. Ibn al-Rēwandī was neither the heretic nor the rationalist as who he is often described.22 Someone who relies on reason too much, or believes that God’s decrees can be decoded everywhere, will ultimately quarrel with the creator. The quarrel with God, H. Ritter demonstrated, was widespread among the mystics;23 it was a vent for social protest among the common people. The fact that God’s justice cannot be grasped using the earthly standards of the ethics of reward was one of the major points of the Ashʿariyya’s criticism of the Muʿtazila;24 characteristically, Ashʿarī did not join the chorus decrying Ibn al-Rēwandī as a heretic. The next question arising would surely be: what is justice on earth? And this is where the image people had of Ibn al-Rēwandī became distorted. Verses were attributed to him in which he laments the meaninglessness of the world,25 and he became the hero of anecdotes in the same vein. When he accuses God in a poem of having distributed the means of subsistence among humans like a drunk,26 it corresponds to a story recorded by Tawḥīdī in which he, seeing a high official leave the caliph’s palace with great pomp, laments that this man lived in opulence while he, who had defended the faith, was suffering in poverty.27 Cf. also the porter’s prayer in the story of Sindbad the Sailor (1001 Nacht, transl. Littmann IV 98f.): the idea is the same, but the quarrel is resolved in his submission to God’s will. This story, too, includes a poem at the end; it seems that this kind of poetry was popular among the people. This kind of remarks led to a trial for blasphemy at the time of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III 20   Shkand gumānīk vichār, transl. de Menasce 185ff.; ibid. 179ff. also in detail concerning Ḥīwī al-Balkhī. Cf. also Rosenthal 80ff.; the polemic may have influenced ʿAlī b. Rabbān al-Ṭabarī, K. al-dīnn wal-dawla 46, 4ff. = 2101, 6ff./transl. Mingana 51f. 21  See vol. I 505 above. 22  E.g. by F. Gabrieli in: L’Elaboration de l’Islam 33f.; by M. Plessner in: Studies in Memory of Professor Uriel Heyd 8ff.; and J. L. Kraemer in: Festschrift Nemoy 167ff. 23  In: Oriens 5/1952/1ff.; later also Meer der Seele 159ff. Cf. Gramlich, Wunder der Freunde GOttes 392ff. 24  Cf. Nagel, Die Festung des Glaubens 114ff. 25  Catalogue of Works, end. 26  Ritter, Meer der Seele 160. 27   Hawāmil 213, 2ff.

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in Spain (cf. Fierro, Heterodoxía 63ff.). In early Judaism, where quarrelling with God was not greatly appreciated, either, the Book of Job was ignored for this reason; for a considerable time it was not available in either an Aramaic or a Greek translation, and the offensive phrases were reassigned (Urbach, The Sages 409ff.). On the other hand Saʿadyā would later compose a commentary that would be entirely in the spirit of the Muʿtazila and focussed on theodicy (The Book of Theodicy, transl. L. E. Goodman, Yale Univ. Press 1988). What did Tawḥīdī mean when he said that the poet ʿAlī b. Yūsuf Ibn al-Baqqāl (d. before 380/990); GAS 2/592) ‘followed the teachings of Ibn al-Rēwandī’ (Baṣāʾir 2VII 277, apu.)? According to Yāqūt, Irshād V 513, 5f., he supported the takāfuʾ al-adilla. Cf. also p. 746, n. 45 below. Tawḥīdī also recorded that the same was said of Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq,28 but the latter was not able to capture the popular imagination. Ibn al-Rēwandī, on the other hand, became more and more of a popular jester. Ibn al-Wardī (d. 749/1348) noted that the people laughed at Ibn al-Rēwandī stories;29 Kutubī (d. 764/1363) recalled that much apocryphal information was linked to him in this way.30 Niʿmatallāh al-Shūshtarī (d. 1112/1701) recorded some of these anecdotes in his Zahr al-rabīʿ,31 and Ulrich Jasper Seetzen heard them as late as 1807 in a coffeehouse in Cairo.32 Shortly afterwards Buṭrus al-Bustānī registered it lexically as well: a rāwandī is someone who speaks like ‘Rāwandī’.33 Muʿtazilite theology has ceased to exist, but the man who first pointed out its weaknesses survived as a joker.

28  Similarly also of Jahm b. Ṣafwān (Ritter, Meer 159); further variants ibid. 174f., and vol. I 451 above. 29   Tatimmat al-Mukhtaṣar, in Aʿsam, Ta‌ʾrīkh 197, pu. 30   ʿUyūn al-tawārīkh, MS Leiden Or. 2599, fol. 124 a. He also recorded a ‘follower’ of Ibn al-Rēwandī in Damascus at the beginning of the seventh/thirteenth century (cf. Cham­ berlain, Knowledge and Social Practice 84, n. 80). 31  Aʿsam, Ta‌ʾrīkh 243ff. 32   Reisen durch Syrien, Palästina, Phönizien …, ed. F. Kruse (Berlin 1854–59) III 171f. Regarding this type of stories cf. (very general) Heda Jason, Whom Does God Favour, the Wicked or the Righteous? The Reward and Punishment Tale; Helsinki 1988 (FF Communications no. 240), esp. p. 53ff. 33  He does not, however, derive the name from a place but from rāwand ‘rhubarb’ (I 836a, –9ff.; adopted by Dozy, Suppl. I 496).

part d Summary of the History of the Subject Matter

⸪

Introduction. The Topics of Theology In the eyes of the theologians, faith required order. That is what professions of faith, catechisms, theological Summae, doxographies were for. It was also useful to officials to be familiar with the most significant controversies; this explains the brief heresiographical outlines in handbooks for administration employees, such as Khwārizmī’s Mafātīḥ al-ʿulūm.1 Occasionally it is stated explicitly that a Maqālāt text is intended to support the work of ‘kings’.2 People had to know what reactions to expect, and where tolerance had to end; for tax purposes, too, it was important to know whether someone might (or had to) be counted among the believers.3 Furthermore religion was part of general knowledge; it was a popular topic of conversation and people were grateful if the basic terminology was available to them in the form of Listenwissenschaft.4 At the back of all this was the existential question of which tenets of faith were necessary for salvation, which ones were shared by all Muslims, and at which point heretics and sectarians began to walk the path of doom.5 Faith required definition, and this definition was frequently more easily provided, it seems, by listing the tenets rather than by describing the act of faith itself. The first impulse was given by the Quran. Sura 2:177 tells us: ‘It is not piety (al-birr), that you turn your faces to the East or the West (when praying). True piety is this: to believe in God, and the Latter Day, the angels, the Book, and the Prophets, to give of one’s substance, however cherished (ʿalā ḥubbihī), to kinsmen, and orphans, the needy, the traveller (ibn al-sabīl), beggars, and to ransom the slave, to perform the prayer (ṣalāt), to pay the alms (zakāt) …’ The emphasis was on the difference between the formal gesture of turning towards God and the substantial internalisation of the existential consequences 1  P. 27, 3ff./transl. Bosworth in: BEO 29/1977/94f. The catalogue may be based on a Maqālāt work by Nāshiʾ al-asghar and was in any case inspired by Muʿtazilite ideas; Bosworth’s translation does not always attribute the respective heterodoxies correctly. 2  See p. 138 above with reference to a book by Mismaʿī. 3  Concerning the early period cf. the argument over the poll tax in eastern Iran (vol. II 554f. above). 4  I am adopting the term ‘Listenwissenschaft’ from Albrecht Alt (cf. ThLZ 76/1951/142). Jonathan Z. Smith adapted it for religious study (Sacred Persistence in: Imagining Religion 47f.). Jacob Neusner applied it to Talmudic texts (Twentieth Century Construction of ‘Judaism’ 83ff. and 171; The City of God in Judaism 92, 191, 200). 5  Baghdādī determined which groups should not be regarded as Islamic any more, although they regarded themselves as Muslims (Farq 220ff./230ff.; also p. 769 below). He has the Ismāʿīliyya in mind above all; nowadays the problem with all its legal ramifications applies to the persecution of the Aḥmadiyya.

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of this gesture;6 the list does not claim to be complete. However, the substance appears in similar combination elsewhere, too,7 and the āyat al-birr, as people came to call the verse, would soon make the Muslims think.8 They realised that it named two different categories of tenets, namely theoretical truths and practical commandments. The former were subsumed under the heading of īmān ‘faith’, the latter under (sharāʾiʿ al-) islām ‘(practices of) Islam’.9 The word birr, on the other hand, which in the Quran had comprised both, was not adopted into theological and legal terminology.10 This development has not yet been studied in detail. It is reflected in a widely narrated legend according to which Gabriel appeared to the prophet in the guise of a Bedouin and called on him to explain the terms īmān, (sharāʾiʿ al-) islām, and iḥsān. The tradition is found at the beginning of Fiqh absaṭ, where Abū Muṭīʿ al-Balkhī traces it back to Abū Ḥanīfa,11 and in a similar form in Muslim’s Ṣaḥīḥ, once again at the very beginning, as the first hadith ever and the start of the K. al-īmān;12 its exposed position showed that it was regarded as a kind of declaration of principle. However, it already had a tendency, as the seeds sown in the Quran had not all grown equally strong: some tenets had been adopted without question, and without giving rise to further thought. Thus the early theologians did not devote much time to the angels,13 and the eschatology had withered in the Quran itself. Instead, other issues began to occupy the minds, and the first of these with primarily theological significance beyond political differences, the question of the relation between human will and divine predestination, permeated the entire hadith. Faith now means ‘that one believes in God, in his angels, in his books,14 his messengers and the 6  Thus Nagel, Der Koran 138. 7  Concerning the first half cf. sura 4:136 and 2:285; concerning the second, cf. sura 4:36 with the parallel passages in Paret, Kommentar 94. Regarding ʿalā ḥubbihī cf. Paret 38. 8  Cf. e.g. the material in Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3III 336ff. 9  Concerning the meaning of sharīʿa/sharāʾiʿ cf. sura 45:18, and W. C. Smith, On Understanding Islam 87ff., esp. 93. The word did not have a central function at that time, and was consequently not limited to the later meaning ‘laws, rules’, as demonstrated by the fact that it is occasionally omitted from the phrase under discussion. Māturīdī records this in his way when he says that some transmitters did not ‘hear’ it (Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 821, 10ff.). 10  Sura 2:189 did not change this, either. It defines birr in a similarly antithetic fashion, but then simply equates it with taqwā ‘awe, fear of God’. 11  P. 40, pu. ff.; cf. vol. I 259 above. 12  P. 36ff. no. 1. 13  Further details p. 597ff. below. 14  Sura 2:177 has the singular in the canonical text, but the word is defective, and one might read it as a plural, too. It is possible that ‘books’ was restricted to the Quran in retrospect only; the plural would fit into the phase of the Isrāʾīliyyāt (see vol. I 144f. above). In the

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Latter Day, and in the predestination in good and evil’.15 The addition is clearly visible by the repetition of ‘that one believes’ (wa-tuʾmina). In Muslim’s version the course of the conversation is steered in this direction in clear terms from the introduction onwards.16 In comparison the version in the Fiqh absaṭ is noticeably less developed.17 Here, the subject of qadar is not touched upon in the introduction, although the persons conducting the dialogue are already the same (ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUmar and Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar).18 The distribution of īmān and islām is slightly different, too. Faith is first defined as ‘professing that there is no god but the God, and that Muḥammad is his servant and his messenger’; followed by the passage from Muslim.19 The thought process is, in fact, correct, as the shahāda expressed a theoretical religious truth and consequently belongs in the category īmān. However, it was also a doublet in this passage,20 and thus Muslim has it in the place where it would remain forever more: among the practical commandments, the sharāʾiʿ al-islām (he, of course, calls them simply al-islām). Seen under another aspect it was, after all, an action performed with a part of one’s body: the profession of faith using one’s mouth or, as people said, ‘one’s tongue’. Islām, Muslim says, means ‘professing that there is no god but the God and that Muḥammad is the messenger of God,21 performing the prayer, paying the alms tax, fasting during Ramadan, and performing the pilgrimage to the house (of God) if one is at all able to’.22 parallel in 2:285, which has the plural form, Ibn ʿAbbās read the singular but interpreted it as the generic collective (Zajjāj, Maʿānī l-Qurʾān I 369, –5ff.). 15  Muslim I 37, 9f. 16  Cf. in detail my deliberations in Festschrift Meier 67ff. The passage is particularly interesting as it names Maʿbad al-Juhanī as ‘the first one who spoke of qadar in Basra’; it does not usually happen that the ‘founder of a sect’ is given a name in canonical hadith. 17  There are numerous further versions, with or without the background, and with divergent isnāds; they are discussed in Fs. Meier 69ff. In comparative agreement with Muslim with regard to the issues discussed in the following, but without any kind of background information, also Muqātil b. Sulaymān, Tafsīr khams-miʾat āya 13, 4ff. The material in Ibn Taymiyya, Īmān 254, 8ff., should also be consulted. 18  Different in the Musnad Abī Ḥanīfa, where Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar asks his companion (who is anonymous, unlike in Muslim’s version) whether they should visit Ibn ʿUmar and ask him about the qadar. Despite this difference the isnād is identical to the one in Fiqh absaṭ. 19  P. 41, 6ff. 20  Of ‘believing in God … [and] his messengers’ (see above). 21  Note the difference with the version in Fiqh absaṭ where we read ‘his servant and messenger’. This version is also found in the inscriptions on the north and east gates of the Dome of the Rock (cf. van Berchem, Jérusalem, ‘Ḥaram’ 249f./transl. Busse in: Das Heilige Land 109/1977/11). 22  This addition refers to the ḥajj only (cf. sura 3:97; also vol. I 373 above).

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It was a long journey from the second half of the āyat al-birr with its situational strong emphasis on charity to this orderly list of the five primary religious duties, the future arkān, and it was probably not straightforward, either, as the more archaic version of the Fiqh al-absaṭ, which did not include the shahāda, included a further commandment at the end that would never be emphasised afterwards: the greater ablution after sexual intercourse.23 It appears to be a special Khorasanian feature.24 To conclude, the third term introduced by the legend in addition to īmān and islām, iḥsān, is interpreted in the same way in all the versions: ‘worshipping God as if you saw him (before you)’. Here the factor of existential appropriation, that had resonated in the Quranic term of ‘piety’ but was now in danger of being lost due to the focus on the list, was brought back.25 And the text, in all versions, concludes with a warning against chiliastic thinking: the prophet does not know the ‘hour’, either.26 The term arkān (instead of sharāʾiʿ al-islām or al-islām) does not occur in any of these hadiths. Originally arkān did not mean the ‘pillars (of Islam)’, but the ‘limbs’ and was used only in the phrase ʿamal bil-arkān next to ʿamal bil-jawāriḥ (e.g. in Majlisī, Biḥār LXIX 68 no. 21 and 22; in general W. C. Smith, On Understanding Islam 164ff.). The Khārijites in Iran experimented with the term waẓāʾif instead (see vol. II 653 above). Among Shīʿites the term daʿāʾim was also used (cf. Qāḍī Nuʿmān, Daʿāʾim al-Islām I 2, 11ff. after a remark by Muḥammad al-Bāqir). The number five is expressed in the hadith (cf. Conc. II 82b), but is not binding. A waṣiyya addressed by the companion of the prophet Samura b. Jundab to his sons mentions only the prayer and the alms tax, and that one should avoid the ‘bad things’ (khabāʾith) forbidden by God (cf. sura 7:157; Ibn Manẓūr, Mukhtaṣar TD III 93, 7f.); elsewhere in a hadith, in a similar vein, only prayer and fasting (Nawawī, Arbaʿūn no. 22, ed. Pouzet 41). It is wellknown that among the Sunnites jihād was often added as the sixth fundamental duty, and among the Shīʿites, the walāya (cf. R. Hartmann, Die Religion des Islam 65; Kulīnī, Kāfī II 18 no. 2). In this context the Shīʿa shows a tendency to include all these tenets into the shahāda; cf. e.g. 23  P. 41, 11. 24  See vol. II 559, n. 24 above. It is true that the same addition was included by the Ibāḍite Ibn Sallām, who lived in the Maghrib (Kitāb Ibn Sallām 69, 14ff.). The wording is so precisely identical that we must presume it to be dependent on the hadith. 25   Aḥsana thus does not mean ‘to do good, be charitable’ here, but rather ‘to do (something) properly, in the right way’. Regarding Muqātil b. Sulaymān’s more intense approach cf. Nwiya, Exégèse coranique 44ff. 26  The later versions, Musnad Abī Ḥanīfa and Muslim, also name the omens (ashrāṭ).

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Kashshī 418, 11ff. regarding the time of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq: ‘I submit to God (adīnu llāh) in the profession that there is no god but the God, that Muḥammad is his servant and messenger, that the ‘hour’ will come without any doubt and that God will raise the (dead) in the graves, as well as in performing the prayer, paying the alms, fasting in the month of Ramadan, going on pilgrimage to the house (of God), if one is able to do so, and also in loyalty (walāya) to ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib, the commander of the faithful after the prophet’s death, and loyalty to Ḥasan and Ḥusayn, loyalty to ʿAlī b. al-Ḥusayn and loyalty to Muḥammad b. ʿAlī, and after his death to you …’. After all, all the practical commandments can be summarised in the formula mā jāʾa min ʿindi llāh: ‘I profess that there is no god but the God alone, who has no associate, and that Muḥammad is his servant and messenger, and I profess that which has come from God’ (Kashshī 424 no. 798f.). This formula is old and was already used in connection with the Najdiyya (Ashʿarī, Maq. 90, 11f.) as well as the Murjiʾites (cf. Text II 15, a, with commentary). ‘That which has come from God’ or, with bihī, ‘that which (the prophet) has brought from God’ is simply the ‘law’ or the ‘revelation’. The arkān prevailed in the form developing here. The list of tenets as presented by the hadith, however, would soon lose its appeal. It is true that later times with a greater focus on tradition would revive it: e.g. Ibn Manda (d. 395/1005) in K. al-īmān,27 shortly afterwards Ḥalīmī (d. 403/1012) in Minhāj fī shuʿab al-īmān,28 and finally, dependent on him, Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Bayhaqī in Shuʿab al-īmān;29 also where Sunni authors in the philosophical tradition (in Iran) explored theological issues, such as Rājib al-Iṣfahānī (d. early fifth/ eleventh century)30 or ʿĀmirī.31 At the beginning, however, the development took an entirely different course. Only once was hadith successful in bringing it up to date; then the words became set in stone, as it were, for good. In addition, hadiths were not universally accepted as authority for a long time; the Muʿtazila and the Shīʿa had no cause to legitimise their lists of problems in this 27  Ed. ʿAlī b. Muḥammad b. Nāṣr al-Faqīhī, 1–2; Beirut 1406/1985; regarding the author cf. GAS 1/214f. The work was transmitted by Ibn Manda’s son ʿAbdallāh. 28  Ed. Ḥilmī Muḥammad Fawda, 1–3; Beirut 1399/1979. 29  Ed. Abū Hajar Muḥammad al-Saʿīd Zaghlūl, 1–7 and Indices; Beirut 1410/1990. In his K. al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt, Bayhaqī was greatly influenced by Ḥalīmī. 30  In his K. al-iʿtiqādāt (ed. Shamrān al-ʿIjlī; Beirut 1988). Regarding the author’s dates cf. Madelung in: Fs. Meier 155ff., and Rowson in EI2 VIII 389. 31  In his Iʿlām bi-manāqib al-Islām. In his eyes the arkān al-iʿtiqādiyya are those named in the āyat al-birr; they are juxtaposed to the arkān ʿibādiyya which are identical to the usual arkān (124, 10ff.).

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way. In the Shīʿa people spoke of ḥudūd al-īmān32 and referred to the imāms. It comprised whatever the imām had declared to be a tenet of faith: the prophet’s journey to heaven, the interrogation in the grave, the conviction that paradise and hell have already been created by now, before the Judgment, and ʿAlī’s intercession on the Latter Day.33 This is thought along Kufan lines; we are now looking at theologoumena that helped people recognise fellow believers, and that were defended against those of other faiths. Interestingly the image of God is not touched upon in this last-named list. The same is true of the issues that would become the core of the Fiqh al-absaṭ in Balkh.34 God was reality accepted without questioning, and his particularly Islamic features, his oneness and his uniqueness, would be verbalised by the Muʿtazilites. Of course the Shīʿite theologians of the mid-second century, above all Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, thought about him, too;35 they even, as we know from the titles of books, concentrated all of this in the term tawḥīd.36 However, it was Abū l-Hudhayl who made it a ‘dogma’; to him, tawḥīd was the first of the Muʿtazilite uṣūl – of which there were five in total, like the arkān.37 We do not know whether this was coincidence. The number five occurs elsewhere in this context as well. Ḥasan al-Baṣrī claimed to have listed five commandments an Islamic ruler must observe (cf. Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/105f.). In a hadith we learn: ‘Islam is erected upon five things’ (Conc. II 82 b); the metaphor recalls ‘foundations’ (uṣūl, Abū l-Hudhayl’s term) or ‘pillars’ (arkān, to which this did, indeed, refer). The issues the Muʿtazilites discussed in their treatises in reality went far beyond the uṣūl al-khamsa. While the structure would often be applied even later when organising the material, it was not really suitable any more.38 The detailed propaedeutics in particular did not fit into it: atomism, epistemology, etc.; they survived for a long time and would be reshaped completely in Iran

32   Kāfī II 18 no. 2. 33  Thus after Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq (cf. Biḥār LXIX 9 no. 11). 34  See vol. I 242 above, and earlier. 35  Ibid. 333ff. and 358ff. 36  Ibid. 348, 362, and 385; vol. V 102 (of the German edition; = Catalogue of Works IV e no. 1). 37  See vol. III 240 above. 38  One need only look at Ashʿarī’s Maqālāt al-Islāmiyyīn: tawḥīd and ʿadl occupy 110 pages in the chapter on the Muʿtazila in the first volume, al-asmāʾ wal-aḥkām 8, al-waʿīd 4, and al-amr bil maʿrūf all of half a page. In the Ibāḍite Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī’s Bayān al-sharʿ (II 44, –7ff.) all that was left of the structure was an empty shell.

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under the influence of Avicenna. The uṣūl themselves, even if they were retained, would sometimes be given new meanings. Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, for instance, who adopted the structure, arranged only the first three of them in accordance with the Muʿtazilite model, replacing the other two with statements on the Quran and the Sunna, and on possessions and acquisitions (makāsib; ʿImāra, Rasāʾil al-ʿadl wal-tawḥīd I 142; also Madelung, Qāsim 104). – The degree to which the propaedeutics were able to spread in the time following Avicenna is demonstrated by Ījī’s late handbook (Al-mawāqif fī ʿilm al-kalām). As Madelung points out in GAP II 333, only its last two main sections discuss theology in the usual sense; in the printed version they, together with Jurjānī’s commentary, account for only the last of eight volumes. It is also worth noting that the theological terms listed by ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī in his Shakwā l-gharīb (p. 15, 8ff. ʿUsayrān/transl. Arberry, A Sufi Martyr 40) all belong to the field of ontology and physics. The propaedeutics also serve to show us how much the Muʿtazilites were not only rooted in the tradition of the Quran but also moved within the framework of those problems that had been delimited by the ideas of late antiquity. This was the foundation of not only atomism and epistemology but also of the remarkable interest in the capacity to act that was the linchpin for the entire early Islamic discussion of human free will; there were, in fact, similar speculations on the subject among the Greeks, for instance by Epicurus.39 For all their fundamental differences, early Muslims were often as close to antiquity in their choice of topics as the Church Fathers.40 During antiquity, theology had rested on cosmology,41 and a mutakallim like Naẓẓām fitted this image well. It was for this reason that the latter was called a ‘philosopher’, as was quite customary during Ma‌ ʾmūn’s rule.42 Philosophers like al-Kindī or 39  Cf. the chapter, extant in fragments, from his Περὶ φύσεος (Pap. 1056), frg. 7ff. Arrighetti 2325ff./transl. Jürß et al., Griechische Atomisten 269ff. Cf. also vol. I 433f. above regarding a connection between Hishām b. al-Ḥakam and Chrysippus. 40  Cf. one of the characteristic examples, the discussion of the question of why earth is suspended at the centre of the world (Jürß 104 and 456, n. 20; cf. vol. III 257f. above). Concerning the question of the degree to which kalām treatises resemble the writings of the Church Fathers in their structure cf. J. L Kraemer in: Fs. Baneth 110ff., and U. Rudolph in: Oriens 34/1994/299ff. 41  See p. 516 below. In general cf. Sambursky, Religion und Naturwissenschaft im spätantiken Denken, in: SB Heid. Ak. Wiss., Math.-Nat. Kl. 1981 no. 4, and Blumenberg, Genesis der kopernikanischen Welt 206. 42  See vol. III 72, 221, 324, 332, 359; also p. 132 above.

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science theoreticians like Ibn Farīghūn and al-Khwārizmī identified their metaphysics – the metaphysics of the Greeks – with Islamic theology;43 they could refer to the use of the word θεολογία in neo-Platonic tradition.44 It was only from Fārābī onwards that falsafa and kalām did not have much to say to each other any more. Of course the Quran had been firmly opposed to this view from the outset, but the dogma that it alone was the guideline for speculative theological thought only became accepted gradually in Sunni Islam from the fourth/tenth century onwards. Only at that time did the ‘harmonisations effected by a zealous courting of the world of late antiquity decline’, as Blumenberg put it with reference to the time after the first Christian centuries.45 Rather like Minucius Felix, Tertullian, Arnobius, Eznik of Kolb or Aeneas of Gaza, early Islamic theology avoided instances from scripture for as long as it saw itself in a debate with foreign religions and philosophical systems.46 We will have to look to the selection of topics in the following, too.

43  Cf. Gutas, Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition 243ff. 44  It is well-known that there are hints of it even in Aristotle (cf. Ebeling in RGG3 VI 755); after all, ilāhiyyāt ‘metaphysics’ goes back to τὰ θεολογικά; in more detail Ch. Hein, Definition und Einteilung der Philosophie 308ff. 45   Genesis der kopernikanischen Welt, ibid. 46  In the case of Aeneas of Gaza asserted by M. Wacht, Aeneas von Gaza als Apologet (Bonn 1969), p. 20f.

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The Image of God Islam, we are told by a hadith that would become famous, is innate to every human ( fiṭra).1 This was even truer of the concept of God: ‘Praise be to God who has created humans in such a way that they will recognise him of themselves ( faṭara l-ʿibād ʿalā maʿrifatihī)’ is how Sahl b. Hārūn, the director of the bayt al-ḥikma under Hārūn al-Rashīd, began his K. al-namir wal-thaʿlab.2 The Shīʿites attributed this axiom to the imāms Muḥammad al-Bāqir and Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq;3 the dogma of the gifted recognition of God survived for a long time in Shīʿite speculative theology.4 More detailed inquiries first emerged in Basra, characteristically among the Murjiʾites in particular. Thanks to their Kufan brethren they were probably familiar with ideas similar to the Shīʿite ones, and now, at the beginning of the Abbasid era, they discovered that the fiṭra could not apply to the image of God as a whole; there are insights granted to humans only in a second step, through the revelation. The boundary between the first and the second knowledge of God could not be drawn easily,5 although it was clear that if there was indeed primal knowledge, a lumen naturale in which even the heathen had a part, God’s existence would have to be part of it.6 There was no such thing as direct atheism at the time at all.7 Even agnosticism was expected of the Indians only,8 or from people who were influenced by the scepticism of antiquity;9 arguments with the dualists concerned God’s uniqueness, not his existence. Most ‘unbelievers’ were ahl al-kitāb and shared

1  In more detail HT 101ff. 2  P. 174, 4. 3  Barqī, Maḥāsin 188 no. 222ff.; Kulīnī II 12f. no 1–5. 4  Cf. Text IV 1, also vol. I 399 above. The Shīʿite traditions mentioned previously were in part transmitted by the theologian Zurāra. Ibn Bābōya was still using the term fiṭra in this context (Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 38), later also Ibn Ṭāwūs, Kashf al-maḥajja 10, 10ff.; 12, 11ff.; 24, 12ff. Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, a Sunnite, however, said badīhī instead (Iʿtiqādāt 32, 6f., and 34, –4ff.). 5  Cf. vol. II 196f. with 200 above. 6  Some commandments were regarded as fiṭra as well, especially the purity laws which, while not stated in the Quran, appeared to be universally applicable (cf. Wellhausen, Reste 2167ff.). However, we do not need to go into that here. 7  Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī says this implicitly (38, 7ff.). 8  See vol. II 566f. above; this frequently simply hid the fact that Buddhists did not believe in a personal God. 9  For more information see p. 745f. below.

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the same theist approach.10 Once the Meccans’ polytheism had disappeared so very suddenly and without a trace, greater numbers of pagans in the true sense of the word remained to be converted in Central Asia or in Africa only; however, the beliefs found among Turks and black people were regarded as pure superstition.11 Muslims knew from the Quran that there had been deistic heathen in pre-Islamic times, and indeed before the revelation;12 from time to time – but not very frequently – their role and destiny was the subject of some speculation. Thus Abū Shāmir al-Ḥanafī (see vol. II 200f. above), and above all Thumāma b. Ashras (see vol. III 178ff. above); possibly also certain Ibāḍites towards the end of the second century (the text is not, however, quite clear; cf. vol. I 413f. above). The oldest instance, if we presume the text to be authentic, is Abū Ḥanīfa’s second letter to ʿUthmān al-Battī (see vol. I 234f. above); Abū Shamir might have referred to this. Of course the idea soon emerged that Adam, too, had been a prophet, and that revelation had consequently been part of the story from the very beginning (cf. Schöck, Adam im Islam 133ff.); systematic exploitation of the subject only began in the context of Ismāʿīlite theology. The concept of the primordial covenant, too, (sura 7:172: a-lastu bi-rabbikum), too, comes to the foreground in this context in the deliberations of Junayd and Sahl alTustarī (see p. 314 and 323 above); in hadith its actual purpose had been the affirmation of predestination (HT 32ff.).

10  More, in fact, with the Jews than with the Christians; the former – unlike the latter with their belief in the trinity – could not be accused of being ‘polytheists’ (cf. vol. II 265 with I 414 above). The Jews consequently pointed out that they and the Muslims shared the first part of the shahāda (cf. vol. I 36 and II 691, n. 11 above); a joke circulated about a Jew who found employment as muʾadhdhin and called people to prayer with the words ‘There is no god but God, and people say Muḥammad is his prophet’ (Marzolph, Arabia ridens II 242 no. 1114). 11  An Ibāḍite source has deliberations on the question of whether the black inhabitants of Sufāla, who had never heard of Islam, had a duty to acquire religious understanding (Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ II 300, 3ff.); cf. also Text VII 2, u–w. Concerning Central Asia cf. vol. II 553f. and 558f. above. 12  The so-called Ḥanīfs; cf. esp. sura 30:30, where ‘Ḥanīfism’ is described as ‘the natural way’ in which God created humans. The fiṭra hadith grew out of this. The fact that some of these Ḥanīfs had been Muḥammad’s enemies (cf. Rubin in: JSAI 13/1990/86ff.), was a different matter.

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All the same, there was no objection to proofs of the existence of God; these were already found in the Quran.13 It was not until comparatively late that they were explored and expressed: the teleological one possibly for the first time by Muḥammad b. al-Layth, the secretary to al-Mahdī and Hārūn al-Rashīd, in his K. al-ikhlīlaja,14 and the proof e contingentia mundi by Abū l-Hudhayl.15 Like the Basran Murjiʾites16 and the Stoics17 before him, he did not see it as a contradiction to the innate knowledge of God. The Stoics had believed the existence of the gods to be manifest, but constructed proof all the same in order to render them apparent; Epicurus, too, believed that we have a ‘pre-existing concept’ (πρόληψις) of God.18 The same is true of the Quran: the proof there is always and only confirmation. However, the epistemological parameters are actionable; by giving humans an a priori knowledge of himself – whichever form it may take – God has an ‘argument’ (ḥujja) against them.19 This added a legal element which distinguished Islamic theology from the philosophy of antiquity,20 and was rooted in the idea of the Day of Judgment. After all, a human may forget the knowledge that was given him;21 he is consequently obliged to preserve it and to try and acquire a more precise picture. Knowledge of God was a commandment, just like faith was a commandment (although it was believed for a long time that faith, too, was created by God within humans22). Consequently Abū l-Hudhayl wondered – as did many others after him – how much time God had granted humans for their more in-depth knowledge of God.23 Of course not everyone was willing to accept this kind of obligation in this form; after all, it concealed the seeds of rationalism. Someone who divided 13  Ahrens, Muhammed als Religionsstifter 71f.; cf. also p. 512f. below. Intuitive recognition of God and rational knowledge of God are closely related, after all. 14  See vol. III 28f. and II 550 above; regarding the later development see p. 234f. above. 15  See vol. III 250 above. 16  See vol. II 196f. above. 17  The Nestorian physician and philosopher al-Ḥasan b. Suwār (d. after 408/1017) reports that the question of whether knowledge of God was innate or acquired was debated among Islamic theologians; his view was that depending on the point of view, one could decide differently (Abū Sulaymān al-Manṭiqī, Ṣiwān al-ḥikma 156, apu. ff. Dunlop/353, ult. ff. Badawī; regarding al-Ḥasan b. Suwār cf. Walzer in: Oriens 6/1953/97). 18  Cf. e.g. M. Schofield in: Doubt and Dogmatism 289ff.; also Pohlenz, Die Stoa 59 with n. II 34f. 19  Sura 6:149; cf. sura 4:165 and 2:150. 20  Cf. vol. I 234 and 483 above; for more information see Index of terms s. v. ḥujja. 21  Barqī, Maḥāsin 188 no. 225. Mysticism covered this, turned into an existential idea, with the term ghafla ‘carelessness, indifference’, thus e.g. Muḥāsibī (cf. Gedankenwelt 61ff.). 22  See p. 642f. below. 23  See vol. III 271f. above; ‘notice, respite’ (muhla) was probably evolved based on Quranic passages such as sura 73: 11 or 86: 17.

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people not into stupid ones and intelligent ones, but into blind ones and chosen ones, had to proceed differently. The majority of early Shīʿites rejected the necessity of reflecting on God;24 instead it was necessary to elect the right leader through whom one could find the way. For, they had Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq confirm, ‘God is too sublime and too august to be recognised by his creatures; on the contrary, the creatures are recognised by him’. He must make himself known, and he does this first through the prophet and then through the imām who, in the conflict of exegesis, proves himself to be the guardian of the Quran (qayyim al-Qurʾān).25 This is knowledge from above, as opposed to sensory or rational insight from below. Along the same lines Clement of Alexandria had asserted that God cannot be shown; only for his son who is wisdom, knowledge and truth is there a proof and a representation.26 On the Sunni side the so-called aṣḥāb al-maʿārif exacerbated the problem: how can one become aware of the obligation to recognise God if one does not yet know what ‘God’ is?27 Still, whether it was innate or not, the concept of God alone was not enough; one only knew God once one knew his ‘names’ and his attributes. And the first of these, on which Shīʿites as well as Sunnites insisted was that God was One, and that he had no associate.28

24  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XII 379, 13f.; also Ashʿarī, Maq. 51, 9ff. 25  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 168f. no. 2. 26   Stromateis IV 25. 156, 1. 27  See p. 115f. above; also p. 742f. below. In comparison it may be helpful to consider Karl Barth: Only God can know God (Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 200). God’s perceptibility results from us recognising God; consequently the question cannot be whether God is really recognised but only under what conditions (ibid. II1 68). 28  Sura 6:136, 17:111, and 25:2.

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God as the One

God must not have an associate because he would have to share his power (mulk) with him; God is the ruler and consequently One, the monarch. The reference to God’s royal power is added explicitly in two of the Quranic passages named,1 and each time in the characteristic connection with the assertion that ‘he has not taken to him a son’;2 the associate to be ruled out is thus not a random second God in the sense of dualism, but begotten by God himself, or kin to him. Of course this is less unambiguous than we might wish; walad can be singular or plural, masculine or feminine, and one might ­consider Allāh’s daughters in the Meccan pantheon as well as the son of God in the trinity.3 However, the inscriptions in the Dome of the Rock – and the intention of the building4 – leave no doubt that these verses were interpreted as being anti-Christian.5 God’s power becomes a metaphor for the Arabs’ victory over Byzantium; it is expressed in the grandiose magnificence with which the new domed structure confronts the older Anastasis.6 The assertion repeated everywhere there, that God has no associate, is reinforced by sura 112 whose ‘neither begetting nor begotten’ (lam yalid wa-lam yūlad) brands the Nicene ‘begotten, not created’ as heresy.7 Even at that time the Sūrat al-ikhlāṣ was regarded as a distinguishing characteristic of Islam; Yazīd b. Hārūn, the great hadith teacher from Wāsiṭ, would later quote the words of Abū Hurayra, recommending that it should be recited eleven times a day as a profession of faith, together with an introductory lā ilāha illā llāhu waḥdahū lā sharīka lahū.8 Together with the Fātiḥa and the last two suras it shares the peculiarity that its name is not taken from the wording itself but that it summarises its substance or its function; it was chosen to express 1  Sura 17:111 and 25:2; Paret is probably correct to make a corresponding addition in brackets in sura 6:163. 2  Also in other contexts concerning the uniqueness of God, e.g. sura 4:171. 3  Cf. Paret, Kommentar 26f., with regard to sura 2:116f. 4  See vol. I 12f. above and p. 441f. below. 5  Sura 17:111 is found in the external ambulatory (van Berchem in: CIA, Jérusalem II 229/transl. Busse in: Das Heilige Land 109/1977/12). 6  Concerning the relation between the Dome of the Rock and the Anastasis cf. the essay by Busse cited in vol. I 10 above, in: Busse/Kretschmar, Jerusalemer Heiligtumstraditionen in altkirchlicher und frühislamischer Zeit p. 1ff.; also Goitein in: JAOS 70/1950/104ff. = Studies 135ff. In general F. E. Peters, Jerusalem and Mecca 80ff. 7  The anti-Nicene tendency of sura 112 is emphasised by K. Ahrens, Muhammed als Religionsstifter 195; cf. also Henninger, Glaubenswahrheiten 47ff. 8  Baḥshal, Ta‌ʾrīkh Wāsiṭ 141, 5ff. Even Ibn Sīnā wrote a commentary on it (ed. Ḥ. ʿĀṣī, Al-tafsīr al-qurʾānī wal-lugha al-ṣūfiyya fī falsafat Ibn Sīnā, Beirut 1983, p. 106ff.).

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the attitude of those who ‘direct their faith entirely towards God’ (akhlaṣū dānahum lillāh, sura 4:146).9 It speaks of God as the One (aḥad), and this was understood to mean that the pious must dismiss everything else besides him, namely an associate. The internalised piety of the Basran ascetics would later appropriate the term ikhlāṣ. Ḥasan al-Baṣrī was said to have cited a hadith emphasising the ‘secret’ within the term: that everything distracting the pious from God is ‘associate’ and leads to ‘associating’ others (shirk) with him.10 Ikhlāṣ was the ‘purity of intention’11 or the ‘sincerity’12 with which one aspires to God in one’s actions, and God was the Unique one rather than the One.13 ‘Associating’, however, the polytheism of the olden days, was not easy to diagnose any more; shirk had but little connection to superficial actions and consequently appeared more concealed than ‘the steps of black ants in the darkest night on hard rocks’.14 One could evade it only by renouncing the world altogether. Ultimately the profession of God’s oneness (tawḥīd) consisted in, as Junayd expressed it in unmatched brevity, ‘liberating the eternal One from everything that was generated within time’ (ifrād al-qadīm ʿan al-muḥdath).15 In this way God was worshipped not only as the One and the unique One, but also as the holy One;

9  Paret, Kommentar 530; regarding the wording cf. Ringgren in: Oriens 15/1962/93ff. 10  See vol. II 51 and 115 above; also the materials collected by Gramlich (transl.), Die Lebensweise der Könige 74f. 11  Cf. my Gedankenwelt des Muḥāsibī 149f.; also Reinert, Tawakkul, Index s. v. ikhlāṣ. 12  This is Gramlich’s translation of the word. 13  Cf. the relevant chapter in Qushayrī’s Risāla (p. 95f./transl. Gramlich 295ff.), and the deliberations in Gramlich, Abū l-ʿAbbās b. ʿAṭāʾ 18ff.; also Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 498: God’s oneness may mean uniqueness (singularitas) and simplicity (simplicitas). 14  Thus after an apocryphal prophetic dictum quoted in mystic sources in particular (cf. Muḥāsibī, Iḥkām al-tawba, MS Berlin or. oct. 1435, fol. 8 b, pu. f.; Sarrāj, Lumaʿ 83, 16/transl. Gramlich 143, and Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 45, –8f./transl. Gramlich 174, with further references from later sources). First indications of this also in Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad IV 403, 6f., or Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya III 36, –4ff. (traced back via Sulaymān al-Taymī; see vol. II 420 above). Later references in Reinert, Tawakkul 56. ʿAṭṭār, Tadhkirat al-awliyāʾ the same image refers to God’s guile (makr). 15  Thus Abdel-Kader, Life, Personality and Writings of Al-Junayd 70; also C. W. Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism 28ff. Originally Junayd probably put it in more abstract terms: ifrād al-qidam min al-ḥadath, ‘separating the “without-beginning” from the “with-beginning”’, as Gramlich translates in Das Sendschreiben al-Qushayrīs 25. The sentence does not occur in Junayd’s extant original writings, but it seems that he expressed himself on the subject more than once (cf. Sarrāj, Lumaʿ 28, 15ff./transl. Gramlich, Schlaglichter 67ff.). He also wrote a treatise on it, a Risāla fī l-tawḥīd that, as Baghdādī put it (Uṣūl al-dīn 309, 15f.), was written in the spirit of the mutakallimūn and the language of the Sufis. Were the fragments Abdel-Kader published in his study on Junayd part of this? (P. 51ff./transl. 171ff.).

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other predicates such as jalāl ‘sublimity’ or ʿizza ‘greatness’ continued this train of thought. The formulaic language of religion expressed it by means of the eulogies taʿālā and ʿazza wa-jalla or subḥāna llāh. Jalāl once again played an important part mainly in mysticism (cf. e.g. Jullābī/Hujwīrī, Kashf al-maḥjūb 370, 10ff., and 490, 14f.; cf. p. 488 below). Quddūs was derived from the root q-d-s ‘to be holy’; this predicate, however, was not adopted by early theology (cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 203f.). Regarding the mystical tawḥīd in general cf. the materials collected by Gramlich, Derwischorden II 342ff. It would be worth researching whether ascetics and mystics everywhere shared these esoteric ideas. The ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila who were active in the time discussed here16 probably had a different image of God. Ibn Karrām, too, called God simply aḥadī al-dhāt or aḥadī al-jawhar ‘of one essence and one substance’,17 and was thus closer to Ibn Sīnā (who lived a century and a half after him)18 than to Junayd. His meaning was rooted in the oldest layers of Islamic theological thought, for in the early days oneness had conveyed the idea of ‘self-containedness’; God is the One in that he is contained in himself, a unified substance19 (or, as they said at the time, body), impermeable, and God ‘through and through’, as Paret translates verse 2 of sura 112. In all probability this sura was not yet called Sūrat al-ikhlāṣ as the time; there is a parallel and possibly older form Sūrat Qul huwa llāhu aḥad.20 God is solid and compact (muṣmat); it is for this very reason that one can say that no-one can have been begotten by him.20a This surprising and to later generations barely comprehensible interpretation was tied to the predicate al-ṣamad in verse 2 that rhymes with aḥad. We may never be entirely certain what the Quran meant here originally; mediaeval exegetes such as Ṭabarī were basically at a loss. Still, we can say that the lexical equation ṣamad = muṣmat they offer among others, was very old; presumably 16  Cf. vol. III 141ff., and p. 101 above. 17  Ḥākim al-Jushamī, Risālat Iblīs 132, apu. f.; cf. vol. II 684 above. 18  Cf. his Taʿlīqāt 54, 1, where aḥadī al-dhāt is also asserted of God. Did the philosopher align himself with the Karrāmites – who, we presume, were familiar to him? 19  This word only was felt to be not appropriate for God in Ibn Karrām’s text (Baghdādī, Farq 203, 9ff./216, 9ff.). 20  Paret, Kommentar 554. 20a  The caliph al-Mahdī accuses the patriarch Timothy of believing in a ‘hollow’ God because he had a son, i.e. a child had issued from him (Mingana, Christian Documents 78).

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older even than the others. Ṣamad = al-sayyid ‘the lord’, or ṣamad = al-maqṣūd ilayhi fī l-ḥawāʾij ‘he to whom one turns in adversity’ are interpretations used by the Muʿtazilites and possibly coined by them, too.21 Muṣmat sounded all the more convincing, of course, because it sounded like ṣamad, but there would not have been any thought that this might be an etymology of the word: Arabs would hear the difference between the final consonants far too clearly. Muṣmat expressed the information: that God was not hollow, nor porous,22 ‘altogether compact’, as Massignon said,23 or just ‘God through and through’. Regarding the justification of this translation cf. Paret in: Der Islam 56/1979/294f.; also Kommentar, addendum in the paperback edition, p. 555. Jacques Berque has ‘Dieu de plénitude’ in his French translation, comparing to Parmenides: ‘for now it (the being) is all at once, a continuous one’ (ἐπεὶ νυ̃ν ἐστιν ὁμου̃ πα̃ν ἓν συνεχές; frg. B 8, l. 5f./transl. Burnet). – The discussion of the meaning of the word in the Quran (and in pre-Islamic times) begins with F. Rosenthal’s essay in the Joshua Starr Memorial Volume (New York 1953), p. 67ff. Paret summarises Rosenthal’s theory as well as R. Köbert’s (in: Orientalia 30/1961/204f.) in his Kommentar, p. 530. Interest in the question was reignited more recently; cf. Newby in: Orient and Occident, Festschrift C. H. Gordon 127ff. (who starts with Rosenthal’s deliberations and assumes a stone image for ṣamad); Schedl in: Der Islam 58/1981/2ff. (who bases his exploration on Köbert’s); Rubin in: Der Islam 61/1984/197ff. (who regards ṣamad as a ‘polytheistic attribute of the pre-Islamic High God’, p. 205f.); and debating it Ambros in: Der Islam 63/1986/219ff.; briefly also Schall in: Festschrift Rundgren 327f.; Gimaret, Noms divins 320ff.; and Nevo et al., Ancient Arabic Inscriptions from the Negev I 54, n. 2. Ambros regards ṣamad merely as a ‘formal-aesthetically motivated filler without incisive semantic-theological intention’ (p. 243); in his eyes, the rhyme with aḥad is the decisive factor. Furthermore, aḥad is not as straightforward as it sees. In the Quran it is a hapax legomenon as predicate of God; one would have expected wāḥid (cf. Ambros 225f.; concerning the interpretation of the exegetes and grammarians cf. 21  Thus after Ashʿarī, Maq. 218, 7f.; but we should not forget the Ibāḍites, either (cf. Rabīʿ b. Ḥabīb, Musnad, Damascus 1388/1968, p. 241, –6ff.). Both interpretations betray a philological approach to the Quran (cf. Abū Ḥayyān al-Andalusī, Al-baḥr al-muḥīṭ VIII 530, 11f., after Ibn al-Anbārī). – In general cf. Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Zīna II 121, 1ff.; Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 78, 4ff., and above all Ibn Taymiyya, Tafsīr sūrat al-ikhlāṣ 2ff.; also Blachère, Le Coran II 174, n. 2. 22  See vol. I 424 and II 594f. above; also Paret, Kommentar 530. 23   Passion 2III 73/iii 63; cf. Gardet in ER VI 28 a, who translates as ‘impénétrable’.

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Gimaret 196f.). – Muṣmat occurs as a term in philosophical texts: ḥurūf al-muṣmata are ‘dull, mute sounds’ as opposed to the ḥurūf al-dalāqa, the liquids and the voiced labials f, b, and m (cf. Fleisch, Traité I 227). Due to the scarcity of literary witnesses it is not possible to discern whether ‘solid, compact’ was originally so closely tied into the anti-trinitarian direction of Syrian-Islamic thought that its intention was to reject any multiplicity on God’s part – in that he is not divided into three parts.24 What is conspicuous is that ṣamad as a predicate of God was very popular during the Umayyad era. It appears on the first coins after the reform, even if the complete sura 112 does not fit onto them.25 Ḥajjāj is said to have been criticised by religious circles because they saw this spectacular emphasis as a profanation of the Quranic text; the silver dirhams of these issues were called ‘offensive’ (makrūha).26 The name ʿAbd al-Ṣamad is comparatively frequent at that time; Walīd II’s tutor was one who bore it,27 as was an early Abbasid, ʿAbd al-Ṣamad b. ʿAlī.28 In his ‘Murjiʾite’ poem Thābit Quṭna used the characteristic phrase waḥḥada l-ṣamada, ‘professing the oneness of him who is ṣamad’.29 It is just as obvious, however, that at the moment when texts became more explicit and theological speculation began or became tangible, that which is 24  Christian theology did not, of course, see it this way, either (see p. 413f. below). However, we must not forget that during the last decades before Islam the Monophysites of Syria and Egypt, for instance John Philoponus, embraced a doctrine of the three substances that appeared to their opponents to be tritheism; cf. Ebied/van Roey/Wickham, Peter of Callinicum. Anti-Tritheist Dossier (Leuven 1981). 25  The usual coin legends in the first years are sura 112 or the formulae Allāhu waḥdahū lā sharīka lahū or Allāhu aḥad Allāhu l-ṣamad. Sura 112 is found on the reverse of the oldest Syrian gold and silver coinages from the year 77 onwards (cf. Walker, Catalogue of Muhammadan Coins II 84ff. for the gold coins, and 104ff. for silver coinages from 78 onwards; also Bates, Islamic Coins 15, and Nāhiḍ ʿAbd al-Razzāq Daftar in: Mawrid 15/1986, issue 4/46f.); the abridged formula that comprises only vv. 1–2 of this sura is occasionally found on the smaller copper coins (e.g. Walker II 229 and 242; even with a Greek countermark, cf. Ilisch in: Münstersche Numismatische Zeitung 9/1979, issue 3/36). With the rise of the Abbasids the inscription vanished from the coins, to reappear more frequently only at the beginning of the fifth century on coinages of the Kākūyids in Central Asia (cf. Miles in: Iraq 5/1938.97ff.), previously only isolated on one cold coin of the caliph al-Muqtadir (Baghdad 313/925; cf. [Sotheby’s Auction Catalogue] 24–25 March 1988, no. 371) or on a Būyid coinage of Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād from Rayy of 380/990 (Miles, Numismatic History of Rayy 171, no. 200). I am grateful to L. Ilisch of Tübingen for this information. – Regarding the linguistic form of the quotations from sura 112 cf. Ambros, loc. cit. 224f. 26  Balādhurī, Futūḥ 575, 8f. 27  Blachère in: Mélanges Gaudefroy-Demombynes 106; also vol. I 456 above. 28  Regarding him cf. vol. II 765f. above; also Kennedy, Early Abbasid Caliphate, Index s. n. 29  Text II 3, v. 7.

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imagined grows more physical. God is solid compared to humans, who are hollow (ajwāf); that is why Satan can enter into humans,30 and why humans require food: in order to fill the hollow that is their belly ( jawf ). God, on the other hand ‘feeds and is not fed’ (yuṭʿimu wa-lā yuṭʿamu; sura 6:14);31 he is, as the proem of the K. al-ʿālim wal-mutaʿallim tells us, the ‘compact one to whom no food is given’.32 Mujāhid appears to have focussed on this aspect in the exegesis of the words: God does not eat, nor does he drink.33 The angels, too, are compact for this reason;34 they were not regarded as spiritual beings at the time.35 This was the starting point for Muqātil b. Sulaymān, who imagined God in human form, made from flesh and blood, but solid;36 into the exegesis of ṣamad he worked the idea that Adam was created in the image, the form (ṣūra) of God.37 And it was also the starting point for Dāwūd al-Jawāribī: God is made out of flesh and blood, but he cannot be entirely without a cavity inside him, as that is the seat of the heart,38 and one cannot deny that God has a heart: it is 30  Cf. the delightful Midrashic narrative in Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3I 459, 16ff.; transl. Cooper I 215; quoted by me in: The Youthful God. Similar Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 458, 4ff. 31  Paret’s translation is clearer, but more involved: ‘who provides nutrition (for his creatures), while no-one gives him nutrition’. The Quran regards the consuming of nutrition as a peculiar to human existence (cf. sura 5:75; 11:69f.; 25: 7 and 20). 32  P. 27, 2. In Samarqand, where the text was composed, people might have been familiar with Hindu or Buddhist sacrificial practices. Concerning Balkh cf. the prophet’s alleged prayer transmitted by Shaqīq al-Balkhī and recorded by Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī II 349, –4. Aʿmash in Kufa interpreted ṣamad like this, too (see vol. I 274 above). 33  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 2XXX 344, 12ff. However, over time this interpretation would be superseded by others that were less offensive (e.g. in the separate edition of Mujāhid’s Tafsīr; cf. ibid. II 794, –5ff.). A similar development may be observed in Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (cf. Ṭabarī 2XXX 345, 3f., with Rāzī, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb XXXII 182, 5f., and Ibn Taymiyya, Majmūʿ fatāwā XVII 219, 13); it seems that Qatāda preserved the anthropomorphic interpretation (cf. Rāzī 182, 4). Less disturbed, and thus unmistakeably anthropomorphic is the tradition with regard to Shaʿbī and Yamān b. Riʾāb (cf. Abū Ḥayyān al-Andalusī, Al-baḥr al-muḥīṭ VIII 530, 7f.). Sarrāj, Lumaʿ 162, 6f./transl. Gramlich, Schlaglichter 257, still has this as the only registered interpretation. It was preserved by the lexicographers, e.g. Lisān al-ʿArab III 258 b, apu.; cf. Rubin in: Der Islam 61/1984/214. – Defecation was always associated with food and drink at the time (cf. Text XXII 217, p; also vol. II 130 above); we must thus consider whether concepts of purity did not play an at least accidental part in denying that God could need nutrition. 34  Thus Yaḥyā b. Abī Kathīr (regarding him see vol. II 751f. above) in Ibn Taymiyya, Sharḥ ḥadīth al-nuzūl 26, 2. 35  See p. 597 below. 36  See vol. II 594f. above. 37  More detail p. 421ff. below. 38  The Quran states this, too; cf. sura 33:4.

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the ‘source of his wisdom’.39 This wisdom took on the form of the Quran which, it was imagined, emerged directly from the chest, i.e. the cavity inside God, and entered into the chest, i.e. the heart, of humans.40 Consequently God should be imagined as hollow in the upper half of his body; he is solid only from the loins downwards; while there is a cavity within his body, he does not have a belly. The reference to jawf had taken only vegetative functions into account so far.41 There is nothing that would justify our regarding this interpretation of sura 112 as the only accepted one in the first century. Jahm b. Ṣafwān presumably referred to the same source, and in his view God was the One in that he acts as the only one; free from attributes and of course free from ‘form’ of any kind.42 When ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAwn addressed God as yā aḥad in prayer,43 he must have had sura 112 in mind, but we do not know what he imagined in this context. The knowledge that God is one was considered fiṭra by some;44 Faḍl alRaqāshī, on the other hand, saw it as an element of the ‘secondary knowledge of God’ that is achieved only by the revelation.45 It is probable that all Muslims felt the increased abstraction of monotheism46 to be a mark of quality of their religion. Sura 112 could be interpreted to the effect that each verse rejected a different ‘association’.47 Everyone spoke of tawḥīd in the context;48 it was not until later that the Muʿtazilites were able to claim the term for themselves. 39  See vol. II 492 above. 40  Cf. Text XXXIII 47 after Ibn al-Thaljī; also Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 90, 11ff., and in general Khayyāṭ, Intiṣār 104, pu. f. ʿAmr b. Dīnār said that the Quran was ‘generated by God’ and would return to him (Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 121, ult. ff.; also Madelung in: Festschrift Pareja 511). This would remain dogma to the Ḥanbalites until the seventh century; at the end of times, they believed, it would be removed from the humans’ chest once more (cf. the treatise by Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn al-Maqdisī edited by Arberry in IQ 3/2956/16ff.). The Jahmites, on the other hand, disapproved of the idea that it was ‘within the chest of humans’ (cf. Ibn Baṭṭa in WO 16/1985/130; also Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 109, 15). The association of ideas was supported by ṣadara ‘to emerge (from)’ and ṣadr ‘chest’ were derived from the same lexical root. 41  Cf. e.g. Majlisī, Biḥār VIII 302 no. 60, Instead of lā jawfa lahū we also find the phrase lā ḥashwa lahū, or laysat lahū aḥshāʾ, ‘he has no intestines’ (Ibn Taymiyya, Tafsīr sūrat alikhlāṣ 2, –6. Ibn Sīnā would later understand this as lā māhiyyata lahū (ʿĀṣī, Al-tafsīr alqurʾānī 110, apu. ff.). 42  See vol. II 562 above. Regarding the contrary arguments of later generations cf. Ibn Taymiyya, ibid. 56, –7ff. 43  IS VII2 28, 12f.; regarding ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAwn cf. vol. II 404ff. 44  Majlisī, Biḥār III 277 no. 4ff. 45  See vol. II 197f. 46  N. Luhmann, Funktion der Religion 128ff. 47  Jannāwunī, Waḍʿ 8, –4ff. 48  See p. 400 above and 417 below; cf. the index of titles s. t. Tawḥīd.

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Basically, it was the combination of tawḥīd and ʿadl that resulted in the typical Muʿtazilite mix; it is even found on gravestones (and not merely Muʿtazilite ones) in Upper Egypt where a number of these survive from the early Islamic centuries.49 Christian Arab theologians imitated the Muʿtazilites, praising God’s waḥdāniyya50 and finding evidence for it.51 One might be tempted to say that the Christians put in rather more effort; after all, they now had to defend themselves against the suspicions of tritheism and ‘associating’.52 On the Muʿtazilite side the only extant early thoughts on tawḥīd concentrate on refuting non-monotheists, especially dualists: by Abū l-Hudhayl53 and, in particularly elegant form, Naẓẓām.54 Autonomous systematic deliberations, on the other hand, are rare, and frequently in a more rhetorical mould.55 Only when we reach ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān do we sense that the apologetics practised led scholars to define their own terminology: ‘one’ is not be interpreted numerically; rather, it is an honorific.56 This theory was memorable only because it was new during its author’s lifetime, and not shared by all his contemporaries. A generation later, al-Nāshiʾ al-akbar appears to note and agree with it: Some people say: (with the assertion ‘God is One’) we do not mean that he is one in number, nor do we mean that he is one in the sense that if he is added to another one, he (and this other one) will result in two; not one as an individual being (shakhṣ) that can be divided into many (further) parts, and not one in the sense of an atom. What we do mean when 49  Cf. RCEA II 165f. no. 635 for the year 259/873, and similar already I 256f., no. 327 for the year 233/848 (God as witr ʿadl, ‘unique and just’). The two instances are not representative of the region. 50  Thus e.g. Abū Rāʾiṭa; cf. Griffith in: OC 64/1980/178f. 51  Thus e.g. ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī, Al-masāʾil wal-ajwiba 100, 5ff., or Israel of Kaskar (?), Risāla fī tathbīt waḥdāniyyat al-bāriʾ wa-tathlīth khawāṣṣihī (ed. Holmberg; Lund 1989); cf. also Griffith in: Proc. PMR Conference 4/1979/67f. In general R. Haddad, La trinité divine 196ff.; also p. 236f. above. 52  A defence of the unity of God with regard to the trinity may be found in Timothy (cf. Hurst, Syriac Letters 165ff. after Timothy, Apology 136/transl. 64). 53  See vol. III 291ff. 54  Ibid. 392ff. 55  Cf. e.g. the speech ʿAlī al-Riḍā is said to have given on the subject in the presence of Ma‌ʾmūn (ʿUyūn akhbār al-Riḍā I 123ff. no. 51), or the sermon attributed to ʿAlī recorded by Kulīnī, Kāfī I 134ff. no. 1. We may wonder whether the apologetic texts were in aid of confirming one’s own identity rather than debate; they were composed at a time when the opponents had no influence any more. Still, this does not make them systematic presentations. 56  Consequently ʿAbbād distinguished between wāḥid and fard (see p. 31 above).

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we say ‘one’ is ‘without equal’. Everything that has an equal is not truly one, for if it is added to another, they are two and consequently assume the quality ‘not one’. The one thing, and he who is the One are in every case one only to the extent that reason cannot find a second one (to match it).57 For his own purposes Nāshiʾ expressed this to the effect that everything outside of God is one only in the figurative sense;58 only God is ‘one’ in the sense of ‘unique’. It cannot even be said of humans; personal uniqueness or individuality did not occur to Nāshiʾ in this context.59 We know that he was familiar with al-Kindī’s philosophy;60 indeed, it is possible that ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān did, too. After all, Kindī had devoted some reflections to this subject already.61 Concerning the later time cf. the relevant chapter in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Mughnī IV 241ff.); also Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 45, 10ff., and Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Iʿtiqādāt 69, 9ff. The qāḍī introduces his remarks with a doxographical summary; cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 191ff., and Ashʿarī 252. – Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī criticised Kindī for not having distinguished clearly enough in this point (Tabyīn ghalaṭ al-Kindī, transl. Périer, Petis traités 118ff.). There is some criticism of Nāshiʾ from the author of the Risāla mentioned in n. 51 above, i.e. perhaps Israel of Kaskar (who, however, died a generation before Nāshiʾ; cf. ibid. § 102ff. and intro., p. 96ff.). For further materials on the subject see p. 31f. above.

57  Text XXXI 52, c–f. 58  Text XXXI 51; cf. p. 164 above. 59  Cf. also ʿAlī al-Riḍā in Kulīnī, Kāfī I 119, 3ff.: a human is one in name only, but not in essence. 60  See p. 165 above. 61  Cf. Netton, Allah Transcendent 57f., also 59f.

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1.2 Anthropomorphism The way in which Muqātil b. Sulaymān and Dāwūd al-Jawāribī imagined God was called tashbīh ‘comparison, similarisation’ by the heresiographers; we usually translate the term as ‘anthropomorphism’. In fact, however, ‘similarisation’ was not intended at all; in being solid and ‘neither eating nor drinking’ he is actually different from humans. Maimonides saw this clearly: we are actually looking at a kind of partial transcendentalism (tanzīh).1 Only those who believed that they had to go further, the Muʿtazilites above all, ultimately inverted the perspective. Besides them, however, there were many who continued along the same path. We have been able to observe this with the example of the Kufan Shīʿa. Hishām al-Jawālīqī argued in favour of God’s possessing a ‘form’ that comprised all those body parts that were functionally necessary,2 and Hishām b. al-Ḥakam proposed a contrasting concept of God’s physicality that could best be imagined using the example of ideal geometric shapes. The image of the gleaming silver ingot or the luminous spherical pearl combined God’s compactness, perfection, and luminous nature.3 At the same time it demonstrated the triumph of scientific – abstract categories over the religious tradition that was considered insufficiently reflected; hadith and Quran, the sources based on which one had concluded that there must be a ‘form’, were sublimated within rational theory. Consequently Hishām b. al-Ḥakam was able to write a book with the unvarnished title K. al-tawḥīd;4 Hishām al-Jawālīqī refrained. Of course, the former did not escape Muʿtazilite polemic, either, although his opponents used the word tajsīm, corporealisation of God, rather than tashbīh.5 A passage in Theodore Abū Qurra, who lived a generation after Hishām b. al-Ḥakam in Ḥarrān, not in Kufa or Baghdad, appears to show the extent to which Hishām’s theory became accepted and was regarded as ‘progressive’: in his twentieth dialogue he translates the predicate al-ṣamad as σφυρόπηκτος ‘hammered (together), tightly packed’.6 In his refutation of the Quran Nicetas 1  Dalālat al-ḥāʾirīn 26, 9ff. Atay/transl. Goodman, Rambam 56. 2  See vol. I 405f. above. 3  Ibid. 359ff. Parmenides had already tried to grasp the perfection of being in the comparison with a ‘rounded sphere’ (εὐκύκλου σφαίρης; frg. B 8, v. 43/transl. Burnet). 4  Catalogue of Works IVc, no. 1; cf. p. 400 above. 5  In his Radd ʿalā l-mushabbiha (Rasāʾil IV 7, 4ff.) Jāḥiẓ shows that the striving for sublimation had been recognised all the same. 6  Migne XCVII 1546 C; also Ducellier, Miroir de l’Islam 301. The dialogue might have been composed by one of his pupils. Regarding the rather unusual word used cf. Sophocles, Greek Lexicon of the Roman and Byzantine Periods 1062; it is a compound of σφυ̃ρα ‘hammer’ and πήγνυμι ‘to combine’. Abū Qurra does not express an opinion on it. His treatise on the

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of Byzantium (d. 1213) uses the word ὁλόσφαιρος ‘spherical’, and in his translation of sura 112 he appears to refer to Abū Qurra by using the word ὁλόσφυρος. The latter term would be repeated frequently in other texts. Cf. A.-Th. Khoury, Polémique byzantine contre l’Islam 338ff.; Pelikan, Christian Tradition II 233. Regarding the term cf. Lampe, Patristic Lexicon 950. Bartholomew of Edessa used ὁλόσφυρος καὶ ὁλόβολος (ibid. 949; cf. Confutatio Agareni 6, 16 Todt). It was adopted into the recanting ritual that Muslims had to undergo when converting; interestingly Manuel I Komnenos tried to have it expunged during his rule (1143–80) as it did not correspond to the reality of the Islamic creed any more (Todt 106ff.). The argument over Hishām b. al-Ḥakam’s ‘tawḥīd’ lasted for a long time.7 The term tawḥīd, too, continued to be used by the anthropomorphists in spite of all the Muʿtazilite criticism.8 We must, however, bear in mind that anthropomorphism in Islam is always derivative in character, in that it is not a genuine attempt at comprehending God by means of human categories but always a theological problem generated by a text, either a hadith or the Quranic revelation itself.9 It is furthermore noticeable how little attention was paid to mental or emotional anthropomorphisms, or ‘anthropopathies’ as one might also call them, although Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ (or rather, the author of the anti-Islamic polemic attributed to him) had already criticised it.10 For a long time anger and delight were the two most important – and only – attributes in theology, expressions of the polarity of the nature of God;11 while mercy had a central place in the basmala with the name of God al-Raḥmān. Even a Muʿtazilite maintained that God could be sad or delighted.12 Fundamental rejection was expressed, ad hoc and with anti-Christian emphasis, in the official letter from Hārūn al-Rashīd to Constantine VI,13 it was much later when Ibn Bābōya put it in a systematic veneration of images makes clear that he regarded the Muslims as anthropomorphists (cf. Griffith in: JAOS 105/1085/66). 7  See vol. I 450ff. and vol. III 238f. above. 8  Cf. e.g. K. al-tawḥīd (!) wa-ithbāt ṣifāt al-Rabb by the Shāfiʿite Ibn Khuzayma (GAS 1/601), or the K. al-arbaʿīn fī dalāʾil al-tawḥīd by ʿAbdallāh al-Anṣārī al-Harawī (cf. Ritter in: Der Islam 17/1928/255). 9  Cf. Werblowsky in ER I 317 b. 10  Text V 6 and 8 b. 11  See p. 487f. below. 12  See vol. III 155f. above. 13  Vol. III 28 above.

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context.14 In particular those attributes that appeared to compromise God’s perfection were regarded as problems: his guile,15 his derision,16 his sense of shame,17 his forgetfulness,18 and also his patience.19 A special case is the love of God; this was due in part to the fact that as in antique thought love was defined as an illness. God is accorded the predicate al-wadūd twice in the Quran (sura 85:14 and 11:90); Paret translates as ‘liebreich’ (‘affectionate, loving’). The wellknown verse 5:54 must also be taken into account, which speaks of people whom God ‘loves, and who love him’ (yuḥibbuhum wa-yuḥibbūnahū). This has the same significance as the Old Testament phrases in Deut. 4:37; 7:8 and 13; 10:15; 23:6; the use of the word is formulaic. Furthermore, the love of God is directed at a group rather than an individual. Ultimately this is based on the language of ancient oriental feudal treaties (cf. W. L. Moran, The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy, in: Cath. Bibl. Quarterly 25/1963/77ff.; Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School, Oxford 1972, p. 83ff.). Concerning the theological development in Islam cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 423ff., and Bürgel, Allmacht und Mächtigkeit 314; also P. Antes, Die Liebe Gottes als theologisches Problem, in: Fs. Schimmel 25ff. Regarding the literary motif ‘Liebe als Krankheit’ (‘Love as an illness’) cf. the collection of this title edited by the Anglicist Th. Stemmler, Mannheim 1990 (which includes a contribution by Bürgel, Der Topos der Liebeskrankheit in der klassischen Dichtung des Islam, p. 75ff.); on the dependence on 14  Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 27ff. 15  Cf. sura 3:53 and 4:142; Ritter, Meer der Seele 71; Brunschvig, De la fallacieuse prospérité (makr Allah et istidrāj), in: SI 58/1983/5ff.). Cf. also Text XXXV 90, d. 16  Sura 2:15 and 9:79; discussed, like the preceding attribute, by Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 114, –7ff. Both were usually regarded as metaphorical expressions (Ibn Taymiyya, Īmān 106, 11ff.). 17  With reference to sura 2:26 which, however, states that God is not ashamed to do something; cf. Māturīdī, Ta‌ʾwīlāt ahl al-sunna I 78, pu. ff. 18  Sura 9:67, also in the well-known abrogation verse 2:106, where the canonical reading nunsihā is certainly – and for this very reason – the secondary one compared to nansahā (see vol. II 484f. above). Saʿd b. Abī Waqqāṣ (?) and after him Ḥasan al-Baṣrī read tansahā in order to shift the weakness onto the prophet (Samīn al-Ḥalabī, Al-durr al-maṣūn II 58, 9ff.). 19  ‘Patient’ (ṣabūr), while one of the 99 names of God, does not actually occur in the Quran. Jubbāʾī and his school rejected it as an attribute of God, as it seemed to imply that something unpleasant was happening to him (Gimaret, Noms divins 77 and 422). The question of whether God, because of his mercy, could feel patience with humans, was not asked. – The mental and emotional anthropomorphisms discussed were explored in some detail, but under a positive aspect, by Bayhaqī at the end of his K. al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt (p. 599ff.).

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antique ideas see Gutas and Biesterfeldt in: JAOS 104/1984/21ff.; in general also M. Dols, Majnūn. The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society 313ff. – In the context of Christianity the question was altogether different due to John 3:16 etc. It was indisputable that God felt love; Karl Barth considered, with reference to Angelus Silesius, to what extent divine love would be possible without an object (Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 316ff.). Thus the situation is similar, but at the same time different, to Judaism. There, too, anthropomorphism was an exegetic problem. It had strong supporters,20 and to the Muslims it even seemed that the Jews in general believed in it and did not know any better.21 When Jewish theologians rejected it, however, they always included the mental and emotional anthropomorphisms as a matter of course.22 In Judaism as well as in Islam people occasionally found the solution of referring the anthropomorphic text passages to an angel or a demiurge who relieved the distant and invisible God of the work of creation or the judgment (examples from Judaism in Urbach, The Sages 152ff.). Interestingly the Jewish theologian who was best known for this theory was a Karaite: Benjamin al-Nihāwandī; the Karaites had adopted the Muʿtazilite concept of tawḥīd (see vol. I 472 above). In Christianity the idea sometimes appears in the context of Arianism or Sabellianism, but in a different, Christological context: its intention is to explain in what 20  Consider, e.g., how Rabbi Abraham ben David of Posquières responds to Maimonides: ‘With what right does Maymūnī call him who says “there is only one God, but he is a body and has a form” a sectarian? (Mose ben Maimon, Der Führer der Unschlüssigen, transl. A. Weis and J. Maier, I 160; also Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 108). Rabbi Abraham ben David, named Rabbad (1125–1198) was a contemporary of the philosopher’s and commented his Mishnē Torāh (cf. ER II 19f.). In his dialogue with Trypho, Justin pointed out that the Jews believed God to have hands, feet, fingers, and a soul (114.3). The exegesis started with words such as Ps. 8:3: ‘When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers’, and the vision in the Book of Daniel (7:9; cf. Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Munya 77, 5ff.); cf. in general the collection of instances in M. L. Klein, Hagshāmat hā-ēl bat-targūmīm ha-aramiyyīm lat-tōrā (Jerusalem 1982). 21  Cf. e.g. Bāqillānī, Tamhīd 166, 2ff. (with instances from the OT); Samawʾal al-Maghribī, Ifḥām al-Yahūd 44, –5ff.; also vol. I 473 above. 22  Thus e.g. Ibn Kammūna, Tanqīḥ al-abḥāth 33, 4ff./transl. Perlmann 54ff.; Maimonides, Dalālat al-ḥāʾirīn I cap. 36ff. = ed. Atay 87, 19ff. Saʿadyā attempted a philosophical solution by reading the relevant verbs as causatives: God is not joyful or sad, but he makes (someone) joyful or sad (Davidson, Saadia’s Polemic aginst Ḥīwī al-Balkhī 49ff. no. 20f.). In general cf. A. Marmorstein, The Old Rabbinic Doctrine of God, passim; Neusner, A History of the Jews in Babylonia V 198ff.

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form God can have an associate. Furthermore, according to Justin Arius had derived it ultimately from Judaism (cf. Pelikan, Christian Tradition I 193ff., esp. 197; the connection was also made by Shahrastānī, Milal 169, pu. f./512, 5f.). Where it occurs in Islam, e.g. in Faḍl al-Ḥadathī’s works (see vol. III 474ff. above), it was felt to be foreign heresy. G. Stroumsa furnishes instances from Gnosticism in: HTR 76/1983/274ff. Of course we might ask whether it is possible to escape anthropomorphism at all. Avicenna accused even the Muʿtazilites of adhering to tashbīh because their doctrine of the attributes continued to presume an analogy with the sensory world (Taʿlīqāt 52, 17ff.). E. Jüngel demonstrated that every linguistic utterance is of necessity anthropomorphic in Gott als Geheimnis der Welt 3352ff. (with reference to Heidegger). Abstract terms are no exception (Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 250).

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1.2.1 Topics and Motifs With the exception of the brief summaries by heresiographers, no systematic accounts of Islamic anthropomorphism in the early period are extant.1 In any case the question remains to what extent they existed at all parallel with the exegetic approach; much argues in favour of the initial predominant position of hadith and tafsīr, ‘midrash’ in the loosest sense of the word. This material is by no means unified; it probably had origins in different local traditions, but cannot as yet be separated out definitively according to either their geographical or chronological origin. The question of the extent to which the weight of argumentation was distributed among the individual supporting documents must also remain mostly unanswered. To begin with there is no other option than to list the individual motifs in the form of instances. We must take into consideration that Quran and tradition were closely connected at that time; hadiths were frequently exegetic in character, and at a time of numerous conversions extra-Islamic ideas were not yet perceived as foreign. 1.2.1.1 Humans as the Image of God If God has a form (ṣūra) according to Muqātil b. Sulaymān and Shīʿite theologians of the subsequent generation such as Shayṭān al-Ṭāq or Hishām alJawālīqī, the main reason for it is surely that Adam was created ‘after his form’ (ʿalā ṣūratihī).1 This reminiscence of Gen. 1:27 was fundamental theological knowledge for all those who came from a Jewish or Christian background; we may safely assume that it entered Islamic exegesis with the quṣṣāṣ. Later the sentence would become a hadith attributed to the prophet, and included by the canonical collections.2 After this shift the Old Testament was not relevant as the source to Muslims any more: they did not read the Torah. Even so, the memory was not entirely lost.3

1  A certain exception is the Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd’s K. al-tawḥīd; however, he, too, was an opponent of tashbīh and furthermore his book is not transmitted in the original form any more (see vol. I 478 above). The Islamist secondary sources are not particularly fruitful, either; the most detailed one being the overview in Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 27ff. 1  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār names it as the basis of anthropomorphist theology (Faḍl 149, 12). On the subject in general cf. Watt in: Transactions Glasgow Univ. Or. Soc. 18/1959–60/38ff.; Massignon, Passion 2III 111ff./transl. III 100ff.; Kister in: IOS 13/1993/137ff. 2  Cf. Conc. II 71 a; also vol. II 763 above. 3  Cf. Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 227, 13f.: ‘People say that something similar is also written in the Torah (al-Tawrāt), in the first book’.

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There is disagreement concerning the degree to which the phrase had anthropomorphic implications in Genesis,4 but the accent was certainly not on that aspect. People might, in fact, have heard the opposite: if God made humans in his image, it is ruled out that humans could make a god in their own image. It was during the early Christian period at the latest that the direction of proof was inverted. To Melito of Sardis, if humans were a likeness of God, God, too, must have a body;5 the Audians followed his lead.6 To a Christian, the train of thought was, of course, easy to follow, as Christ had human form.7 The Muslims loathed this association, but to begin with they were content with evading it by pointing out God’s compactness. The first theologian of whom we know that he used the dictum as evidence in an anthropomorphic context was a Kufan (?) contemporary of Abū Ḥanīfa’s named ʿUbayd al-Muktib, but the form in which he presented it shows that he was part of a tradition and expected objections.8 Indeed, the term ṣūra occurs in connection with God as early as the second decade of the second century, used by Bayān b. Samʿān;9 the Khārijite Shaybān b. Salama (d. 130/748), too, appears to have used it.10 None of them appears to have felt any doubt that the Quran was on their side. The phrase laysa ka-mithlihī shayʾ (sura 42:11) that would repeatedly be used against them later held no terror for them; this barrier could easily be overcome by stating a relative difference between God and his creation and ‘things’. For if nothing is the same as God, this does not mean that nothing could be similar (shabīh) to him; Arabic did not distinguish neatly between the two meanings, after all.11 What the ‘similarisers’ did not notice was that the 4   Cf. the research overview in L. Scheffczyk, Der Mensch als Bild Gottes xxiff., also the first essays collected in this volume, especially Duncker, p. 77ff. A summary by G. A. Jónsson, Genesis 1:26–28 in a Century of Old Testament Research (Lund 1988); concerning more recent research W. Groß in: Bibl. Notizen 68/1993/35ff. 5  Hanson, Allegory and Event 151 (after Origen). 6  Cf. Puech in: RAC I 913. They were found mainly in Syria and Mesopotamia, but also in Egypt (cf. also Vööbus, History of Asceticism II 124ff.). It was different from the ‘anthropomorphism’ of certain ascetics in the Scetic desert, the latter being the opposite of the symbolism of certain Origenists (G. Florovsky, Collected Works IV 89ff.). 7  Cf. Kürzinger in: Scheffczyk (ed.), Der Mensch als Bild Gottes 69ff.; Takeshita, Ibn ʿArabī’s Theory of the Perfect Man 9ff., based on the relevant secondary sources; Gignoux, Imago dei. De la théologie nestorienne à Ibn al-ʿArabī, in: Recurrent Patterns. Proceedings Bamberg 1991, p. 13ff. 8  See vol. I 244 above; more details p. 428 below. 9  Ashʿarī, Maq. 5, 12. 10  Ibid. 99, 7; cf. vol. II 665 above. 11  Predecessors of the Quranic expression are found in Egyptian temple inscriptions from the time of the Ptolemies; there, however, they do not assert that nothing is identical to God but that there is no other God equal to him (cf. E. Otto, Gott und Mensch nach

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Quran, as well as the book of Genesis, did not actually share their point of view. In the Quran Adam’s creation from soil or clay12 was compared to the miraculous and divinely ordained generation of every human from sperm;13 the point at issue was less the beginning of humankind but rather displaying God’s creative power. The latter is the more frequent and also, it would seem, the older motif;14 the sentence from Genesis does not occur in the Quran at all. While it does speak of ‘form’ and ‘shapes’, this is not with reference to Adam but to humans in general. ‘We have created you (pl.). Then we gave you (pl.) form (ṣawwarnūkum), says sura 7:11, and sura 64:3 continues, as it were: ‘He shaped you (pl.), and gave you (pl.) a beautiful form ( fa-aḥsana ṣuwarakum)’.15 It was not possible to infer God’s ‘form’ out of this information. Of course, once one had determined on an anthropomorphic image of God, these verses fitted into the context thus provided. Furthermore Adam, even though he was independent of the creation story, had always been the prototype of all those humans God created from sperm at all times; the Quran, too, adhered to this.16 And it was not a large step from sura 82:8 reminding humans that God ‘composed (him) after what form he would’ to the thought that God’s form was distinct from that of humans in that he is not composed; he is One, but a human, at least as a physical being, is not.17 This would later become a starting point for critics: if God is not composed, he cannot be a body, as a body is composed by definition.18 This stage had not den ägyptischen Tempelinschriften der griechisch-römischen Zeit 11ff.). This does not even presuppose monotheism (ibid. 14). – Later, the Arabs would discover that in the Arabic version the ka- in ka-mithlihī gave rise to difficulties because of its redundancy (see p. 380 above). The early exegetes, on the other hand, paid barely any attention to the passage (cf. Gilliot in: JA 179/1991/57); only the Muʿtazilites and other opponents of tashbīh such as ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd (cf. vol. I 407 above) appear to have brought it out into the open. 12  Sura 3:59. 13  Cf. the instances given in Paret, Kommentar 314f. on sura 18:37; also O’Shaughnessy, Creation and the Teaching of the Qurʾān 10ff. 14  Thus Nagel, Der Koran 57 and 180f. 15  Regarding parallels cf. Paret, Kommentar 432 on sura 40: 64. Thus also sura 6:2: ‘He is the one who created you (pl.) from clay’. 16   In sura 7:11 ‘you (pl.)’ is replaced with ‘Adam’ immediately afterwards (cf. Paret, Kommentar 156f. on the passage. We must also consider sura 95:4, ‘we created humans fī aḥsani taqwīm’, which could easily refer to Adam; only the meaning of taqwīm had to be defined (cf. Künstlinger in: OLZ 39/1936/2f.). 17  According to K. Barth, too, ‘God is simple’ means: he is not combined or divisible (Kirchl. Dogmatik II1 501); he is the individual as such (ibid. 504). Regarding the human soul as the indivisible according to Muʿammar see p. 574f. below. 18  Cf. vol. II 244 and p. 99 above. Abū l-Hudhayl had already perceived that differentiation was necessary in this context (Text XXI 155, d; cf. vol. III 310 above).

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yet, however, been reached at the beginning, when the question was how God passed his form on to Adam. The problem may well have been that a God in human form did not possess foreknowledge;19 he has knowledge of himself but has not beheld his face (ṣūra) yet. For this reason he looks into a mirror20 or, according to a presumably older interpretation, into the waters of the primordial ocean, in order to see his own face.21 It was also imaginable that his image was a shadow detaching itself from him; the well-known Shīʿite speculations according to which the imāms had existed as shadow beings even before creation may well have taken their cue from this.22 In the eyes of Mughīra b. Saʿīd Muḥammad was the first of these shadows, Muḥammad having taken Adam’s place in his concept. It seems that Mughīra went so far as to regard him as a kind of son of God, referring to sura 43:81: ‘If the All-Merciful (al-raḥmān) has a son, then I am the first of them who worship (i.e. of the humans)’.23 The next question was in what way God was alike to Adam. The answers given differed. Some thought it was owed to his sublimeness that they must both be gigantic: Adam being ‘as tall as a tall palm tree’,24 sixty cubits or around thirty metres.25 Others emphasised his ideal measurements: God is seven 19  See vol. I 386, 401f., 437f. above. 20  Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 225, pu.; based on a story in which ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUmar rejects this idea (cf. Khāmis b. Saʿīd al-Shaqaṣī, Manhaj al-ṭālibīn I 392, –4ff.). 21  This, too, after a hadith; cf. al-Manṣūr billāh, Shāfī I 135, 18f. It is well-known that God sits on the throne above the waters (see p. 455f. and 503 below). It is imaginable that māʾ ‘water’ was misread as mirʾāt ‘mirror’. 22  See vol. I 341 and 533 above. Hebr. ṣäläm in Gen. 1:26 was also linked to Ar. ẓalima ‘to be dark’, and led to the inference of this meaning a shadow image (cf. K. L. Schmidt in: Scheffczyk (ed.), Der Mensch als Bild Gottes 27ff.). 23  Ashʿarī, Maq. 8, 1ff. Paret, of course, had to translate rather differently: ‘Should the merciful one (indeed) have a child, I would be the first to worship (it)’. However, the conditional clause is introduced by in, not by law. The way in which the exegetes evaded the difficulty may be seen in Ṭabarī (Tafsīr 2XXV 101, 4ff., with Ṭabarī’s own commentary 103, 1ff.), or Ṭabrisī (Majmaʿ V 57, –7ff.). The philologist al-Akhfash understood in as negation: ‘God has no offspring’ (Maʿānī al-Qurʾān 111, 8ff.). When asked about the passage the philosopher Ibn Sabʿīn, on the other hand, explained ʿābidīn as jāḥidīn (ʿAbd al-Ḥaqq al-Bādīsī, Maqṣad, transl. Colin in: Archives Marocaines 26/1926/48f.). Ibn Masʿūd is said to have simply read law instead of in (cf. Sufyān al-Thawrī, Tafsīr 235, n. 7). – Concerning in in sentences in the irrealis mood cf. Reckendorf, Arabische Syntax 498, n. 1. 24  Ṭabarī I 161, pu. f./transl. Rosenthal 332. 25  Cf. Watt in: Transactions Glasgow 18/1959–60/42; Graham, Divine Word 151f.; Schöck, Adam im Islam 69ff. The blessed in paradise were also imagined to be gigantic (Saleh, Vie future 38). In fact, there are other traditions according to which Adam was even taller originally, and was shortened to this height (Ṭabarī I 122, 9ff./transl. Rosenthal 293f.; also Kister in: Rippin, Approaches 107. Maqdisī, Badʿ II 99, –5f., notes scepticism towards this kind of legend.

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spans high – of his own spans, of course, as Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, and possibly Muqātil b. Sulaymān before him, added.26 Seven spans equal around one metre fifty; presumably people did not grow any taller in those days.27 Others still did not talk about measurements but about beauty, for ‘God is beautiful, and he loves beauty’.28 He clothes himself in the beauty of Joseph that is like the light of the footstool, and in the beauty of Muḥammad’s face that is like the light of the throne.29 This beauty was imagined in different ways. According to Muqātil it was the beauty of a grown man in full possession of his strength, with flowing hair and 32 years old;30 while hadith has God as a beardless youth with frizzy hair, wearing a green garment and golden sandals.31 An edict issued by Rāḍī in 323/935 accused the Ḥanbalites of relying on this hadith. Ibn al-Athīr, Kāmil VIII 230, 10ff./308, 5ff. Regarding the hadith itself see vol. II 811 above concerning Nuʿaym b. Ḥammād, also II 431 concerning Ḥammād b. Salama; Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 557, –8ff., and 559, 4ff. The variants are collected by Ritter, Meer der Seele 445f. (and earlier in: Der Islam 17/1928/257), and Muḥ. Riḍā al-Jaʿfarī in: Turāthunā 8/1412, issue 1–2/206ff. Jaʿd ought to be translated as ‘frizzy’ (thus Fück in: Arabische Kultur 269) rather than ‘curly’ as Ritter does; this appears to be confirmed by the parallel qaṭaṭ (Ritter 446) which means ‘woolly-haired’, and is thus closer to ‘frizzy’ than ‘curly’. On the other hand here as well in Muqātil the word muwaffar ‘with flowing hair’ is used in the same context (Ritter, ibid., where this is presumably the correct reading rather than mūfir; cf. Lane 2956c). The beardless youth might be imagined to be around fifteen years old; the youth worshipped as a god by the Qarmates in Bahrain, around whom they performed the ṭawāf in the nude, was ‘about twenty’ according to Dhahabī (Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Islām, Ṭabaqa XXXIV, p. 14, apu. ff. after Ibn Rizām/ transl. Halm, Reich des Mahi 231f.). The man aged 32, on the other hand, is the kahl entering manhood; at 33 one’s youth is behind one (Lisān al-ʿArab XI 600 b, 5ff. and 16ff.). In the Shīʿa this was how the mahdī was 26  Cf. Text IV 10, w, and XIV 22; also vol. I 423f. and II 594 above. 27  ʿAlī was said to have defined the height of an adolescent reaching sexual maturity (and thus not quite fully grown) as five spans (Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf II 961, 10f.). 28   Conc. I 373 b; also Ritter, Meer der Seele 480. 29  Thus in a ḥadīth qudsī recorded in Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 273, 2f. 30  See vol. II 595f. above. Similar also Hishām al-Jawālīqī, Shayṭān al-Ṭāq and allegedly even ʿAlī b. Mītham (vol. I 346 above, and Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 69, 10ff.); concerning ʿAlī b. Mītham see also vol. II 484 above. 31  However, the antichrist has frizzy hair, too (cf. Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ 155, 2 = Īmān 273).

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imagined (Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 95f.). It is also the age of Jesus, and the age which the blessed have in paradise (see vol. II 595f. above); God shares his form with the exalted human rather than with Adam. The youth with the frizzy black hair may well be owed to the Jewish allegoresis of the Song of Solomon (see vol. I 469 above), but there are parallels in Iran, too. Ahura-Mazda creates time in the form of a fifteenyear-old youth whose face shines like the sun (Nyberg in: JA 214/1929/231; Corbin, Cyclical Time and Ismaili Gnosis 7; similar Mokri, Esotérisme kurde 24). In the Mithraic liturgy the mystes beholds the youthful god with golden curls and crowned with a golden diadem (Reitzenstein, Das iranische Erlösungsmysterium 238ff.); in this youthful form Mithras may once again embody infinite time (Vermaseren, Mithras. De geheimzinnige God 95ff.). The ancient Iranian God Narse/Nēryō(k)sang, too, was imagined as a youth of fifteen, but the reason why he has this appearance is in order to make women feel desirous and thus forget to seduce the just; Allah could not possibly adopt this kind of lightning conductor function (Widengren, Iranische Geisteswelt 91f.). Manichaeism transferred this concept onto the ‘third messenger’ who was regarded as the god ‘whose realm is light’ (Böhlig, Gnosis III 62). The motif of the puer aeternus also influenced the representations of Christ in palaeo-Christian art; Ritter noted this parallel (Meer 447). It is remarkable that God was never imagined as a shaykh. He does not have a beard; even Dāwūd al-Jawāribī admitted that there was no confirmation of a beard anywhere in the tradition.32 The ‘Ancient of days’ mentioned in the book of Daniel (7:9) was a typically Jewish image in Muslim eyes.33 In paradise, Moses is the only one who has a beard; it reaches down to his navel, as a mark of his community, as it were. Thus in one of Ḥammād b. Salama’s hadiths (cf. Fück, Arabische Kultur 270). A parallel says this of Aaron (Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb II 142, –5f./transl. Gramlich III 194). A divergent version on p. 450 below. – I do 32  See vol. II 491 above. 33  See vol. I 470 and 473 above. The passage from Daniel is translated in this c0ntext in Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 51, 9ff. – Presumably the anthropomorphists, who according to some late sources regarded God as an old man (cf. Ritter, Meer 446, after Āmidī; Faḍl b. Shādhān 21, n., after Dawānī), were Jews. A defamatory poem of Ma‌ʾmūn’s time preserved by Ibn al-Nadīm says shaykh with reference to God, but this might be misread for shabaḥ (cf. Fihrist 207, 3 Tajaddud against Fück in: Fs. Shafīʿ 62, 5).

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not think it very probable that the fact that God is beardless indicates his asexuality, as C. Schöck does (Adam im Islam 121f.). Calling the youthful god amrad means that his moustache is beginning to show (but no beard on his cheeks or chin yet; cf. Lane, Lexicon 2706 s. v.). His flowing hair is another argument against it; as a sign of the grown man it is once again linked to Jesus (Schöck 71). The Abbasids wore their hair in this style; a Syrian hadith compares them to women for this reason (cf. Madelung in: SI 63/1986/37). More information on the issue on p. 442f. below. In the eyes of Christian theologians, being created in the image of God has remained the foundation of human dignity to this day.34 Early Islam held a similar view; one hadith exhorts the believers never to slap anyone’s face, or to say to him ‘May God make your face ugly’, as God created Adam in his image.35 For the same reason, someone who mocked others for being deformed could expect to be reprimanded.36 However, this idea was unable to develop significantly, as the opposition against it was growing. The critics tried to prove that the image in which Adam was created could not in fact have been God’s own, and that the pronoun had to have a different referent.37 They circulated the story that when the prophet saw a man slapping his slave, he told him ‘Do not do this, for God created Adam in his (i.e. Adam’s) image’.38 It was not included in the canonical collections, and is probably of rather late origin, but it is not unique. While Bishr al-Marīsī, a severe critic of anthropomorphism, did not refer to a hadith, he called on Ibn ʿAbbās as his witness that if God created

34  Concerning this as well as pre-Christian approaches see V. Pöschl, Der Begriff der Würde im antiken Rom und später 42ff.; also the sources listed p. 422, n. 4 above. 35  Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad 2XIII 152f. no. 7414 with further references in the apparatus; also Majālis Thaʿlab I 115, 8f.; Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 26, 10ff.; Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 370, –7ff.; Rāzī, K. al-zīnā II 59, –9ff.; Conc. V 221 b. Also Watt in: Transactions Glasgow 43f.; Schöck, Adam in Islam 71f. A Medinan nobleman, ʿUthmān’s grandson, appears to have reminded Manṣūr of the hadith referred to, when the caliph had him flogged and his face had been hit in the process (Ṭabarī III 176, 14f.). 36  See vol. III 546 above, and Text IX 2, b which, however, emphasises only humans’ creaturehood. The same reaction is found in Judaism (Dereḵ ereṣ Rabbā, cap. 4/transl. M. van Loopik, The Ways of the Sages and the Way of the World 88f.). 37  Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 12, apu. ff.; cf. Watt, ibid. 39ff.; Gimaret, Noms divins 287f.; Takeshita, Ibn ʿArabī’s Theory 16, n. 21; Kister in: Rippin, Approaches 105f.; Gramlich, Ghazzālīs Lehre von den Stufen zur Gottesliebe 64f. 38  Mutawallī, Mughnī 24, 7ff.; Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 308, 5ff.; Watt 41, and Takeshita, loc. cit., with further references. Ṣūra appears to have been understood to mean ‘face’ here, as earlier (cf. n. 35; cf. Lane 556c s. v. muḥarram).

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Adam in ‘his’ image, this must have been an image of Adam that he had carried within his foreknowledge.39 Of course this reinterpretation led to counter-reactions in its turn. ʿUbayd al-Muktib buttressed the older text by replacing ʿalā ṣūratihī with ʿalā ṣūrat al-Raḥmān.40 Hadiths would be transmitted that contained this version;41 Ibn Ḥanbal relied on them,42 calling those who did not refer the pronoun in the original version to God, Jahmites.43 In the long run the argument lost its acrimoniousness; even authors not opposed to anthropomorphism were looking for compromise. Ibn Khuzayma regarded the possessive pronoun as merely the expression of an indirect attribute: it asserted that God created the image, and that consequently it was ‘his’ just as earth is ‘his’.44 Bāqillānī’s pupil Simnānī evolved a different approach: While God did indeed create Adam in his own image, this only meant that he endowed him with his own attributes.45 Ghazzālī would later take this as his starting point.46 1.2.1.1.1 God as a Being of Light There were other ways in which to deal with the undesired implications of that hadith. The appearance of an anthropomorphic God could, for instance, be limited to the act of creation;1 in that case God would give himself a ‘form’ as soon as he was connected to the world and humans. The same intention was at the basis of the idea that he had an angel take his place, who bore anthropomorphic traits.2 This would then have to repeated on the Latter Day, too; for if God speaks to humans at that moment, as the Quran appeared to demand, he has to show himself to them as well.3 It could now be said that on 39  He had heard it from Muḥammad b. Yaʿlā, called Zunbūr, a pupil of Abū Ḥanīfa’s (Rabīʿ b. Ḥabīb, Musnad III 23 no. 844; cf. vol. III 197 above). 40  See vol. I 245 above; Watt 42f. 41  Thus also with reference to the hadith mentioned in n. 38; cf. Ibn Khuzayma 27, 13ff. 42  Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 168, –7ff./transl. Gramlich I 530f. 43  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 309, –5ff.; a counter-tradition is included in Mīzān no. 2287 s. n. Ḥamdān b. al-Haytham. 44   Tawḥīd 28, 10ff., following some critical remarks on the isnād. 45  Cf. Schreiner in: Actes VIII. Congrès II1 113f., after Ibn Ḥazm; also Kister in: Rippin, Approaches 106. 46  Cf. Wensinck, La pensée de Ġazzālī 39ff.; Jabre, La notion de la Maʿrifa 86ff.; Watt 46f. Regarding Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s criticism of Ghazzālī’s solution cf. Pourjavady in: Spektrum Iran 2/1989, issue 2/58ff. 1   See p. 441 below; also vol. III 475 above. 2   See p. 419 above. 3   See vol. II 127 and 813 above.

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that occasion he looks like Adam.4 Sura 55:27 could also be adduced, which states just before a description of the Last Judgment (v. 31ff.) that ‘the sublime and venerable face of the lord will abide’, thus implying that this face would be visible to humans – as long, that is, as wajh Allāh was not simply regarded as a metaphor for God himself.5 This did not, of course, solve the problem, as anthropomorphism was still an alternative at least. Furthermore one might wonder whether God really appears to humans in the likeness of Adam; after all, he is awe-inspiring and terrifying at that moment. Consequently, it was said in that case, they would not recognise him at first – as they expect him to be in the likeness of Adam, while he appears before them ‘in a form different from that they know (of him)’.6 Under these circumstances another solution offered greater applicability: God could be dematerialised while retaining his ‘form’ if he was believed to be a being of light. In the eyes of Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī this was later the standard doctrine of the mushabbiha.7 Not even this light was entirely without substance, however, and it was possible to imagine – especially under Iranian influence – all manner of versions of this idea. This was most clearly demonstrated by the ‘mythology’ of the early extreme Shīʿa. Bayān b. Samʿān believed God to be a man made of light, of whom only the face remains in the end (which is presumably what one will behold during the judgment).8 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam was only the first to scent dualism here, as the man made of light is only the God of the earth who exists for as long as the world and the humans exist, while beyond him there is – apparently entirely invisible and concealed – a God of heaven who is greater and has precedence.9 His explanation is not necessarily the only one; it is possible that we are looking at alternating manifestations of one and the same God: Mughīra b. Saʿīd, who was executed together with Bayān, also spoke of a man made of light but did not presume either duality or a demiurge. Instead he believed that this being of light had limbs that were in reality the letters of his sublime name, and then resolved the problem of God’s kenosis in the act of creation by means of gematria. God does not create with his hands, but by means of ideal essences, namely these letters, using which he combines the names of individual things, rather like a computer. He casts a shadow, but is angered by it and finally rips out one of its 4  al-Manṣūr billāh, Shāfī I 135, –10. 5  See p. 443 below. 6  Cf. the hadith Conc. III 438a; also Text XX 14, and Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 78, 5ff. 7  Baḥr al-kalām 20, –5f. 8  Ashʿarī, Maq. 5, 12; Baghdādī, Farq 228, 1ff./237, –6ff. (transl. Halm, Gnosis 60f.). 9  Thus Kashshī 304 § 547/tranls. Halm 59; cf. ibid. 62.

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eyes; the ‘splitting’ of God must not be. The eye, which is light even when part of a shadow, he turns into the sun.10 This trend is continued in the so-called Umm al-kitāb, a text extant in a late version only, at the core of which is a description of the apocalypse going back to Jābir b. Yazīd al-Juʿfī and probably originating in Khaṭṭābite circles around the middle of the second century.11 Here, too, God’s form consists of light; his five senses with which he enters into contact with the world correspond to the five colours into which white light can be divided.12 God shields himself from the world by means of coloured curtains (ḥijāb, corresponding to the καταπέτασμα imagined by the Greeks);13 and the demiurge Salmān expels the demon ʿAzāzīl from heaven in this way.14 Similar information is provided by the Kufan mutakallimūn: Hishām al-Jawālīqī imagined that God consists of white light on which rests the mass of his black flowing hair.15 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, finally, believed God to be only light, a radiant sphere or ideal geometrical body that looks the same from all sides and is consequently beyond spatiality. He does not have sensory organs any more but perceives the world by means of rays that enter into objects.16 These last-named deliberations are not only an expression of the coarse imagination of theological laymen, as is demonstrated by the fact that philosophers like Ibn Sīnā would later deny God the knowledge of particularia because he would have to possess senses (according to Ghazzālī’s version; cf. van den Bergh, Averroes’ Tahafut al-Tahafut I 276, with commentary II 152 ad 276.4). We must not lose sight of the fact that the being of light presented here did not have any foreknowledge according to the theologians of the time; the senses or rays perceived only that which 10  Cf. the text in Ashʿarī, Maq. 7, 3ff./transl. Halm, Gnosis 90ff. Cf. also vol. I 368 and 491 above, as well as my more detailed exploration in: Der Name Gottes 173f., and in: The Youthful God 6f. 11  Cf. vol. I 296 above; also the analysis of the layers in Halm, Gnosis 118ff., and similar in: Der Islam 58/1981/44ff. 12  Halm 145. 13  Halm 195; but cf. also sura 83:15. Interestingly, καταπέτασμα mostly refers to the curtain in the Temple (cf. Liddell-Scott, Greek Lexicon 905; also O. Hofius, Der Vorhang vor dem Throne Gottes, Tübingen 1972). 14  Halm 160ff.; also in: Der Islam 58/1981/48. ʿAzāzīl is believed to have been the name of Satan before his disobedience (Ṭabarī, Tafsīr I 502f. no. 686/transl. Cooper I 239). In the OT it originally referred to an impure spirit (Lev. 16:8). He had already been fully identified with Satan in Origenes’ writings (Contra Celsum 6.43/transl. Chadwick 360). 15  See vol. I 405f. above. 16  See vol. I 423f. above.

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already exists. This was not seen as a flaw, as the theologians did not necessarily have a creatio ex nihilo in mind (see p. 501ff. below). When Mughīra b. Saʿīd intended to say that the actions of humans are predetermined, he expressed this in cosmological terms: when God reflects that humans might sin, he breaks out in an angry sweat. His sweat flows into a sweet and a salty ocean; from these he creates the believers and the unbelievers (cf. also vol. I 368 above, and p. 453f. below). Regarding the conjectures about the meanings of letters within the Shīʿa cf. also Majlisī, Biḥār II 316ff. Among Sunnites the belief was that the letters of the alphabet were distributed among the six days of the creation and that the mnemonics abjad, ḥawaz etc. spelled the names of the days. The last two mnemonics thakhadh and ḍaẓagh were not considered; the tradition was based on the phonetic inventory of Hebrew or Aramaic. Mughīra even spoke of only 17 letters; these are the consonants of the Greek alphabet, or indeed the Arabic one if one does not consider the letters distinguished by the addition of diacritics. Those of Mughīra’s followers who embraced al-Nafs al-zakiyya’s cause believed after the latter’s death that he would return, and 17 men would be resurrected with him to each of whom he would entrust one letter of the sublime name for them to use it as a secret weapon (Baghdādī, Farq 44, 9ff./58, –5ff.). Shīʿite theology in Kufa unanimously adhered to this concept of God into the third century.17 Light was the substance of the transcendental world; God’s throne consists of it,18 and paradise, too, was created out of light.19 Believers emerge from God’s light, and return to it;20 the imāms have a share in it.21 Above all, sura 24:35 agreed, the so-called verse of light according to which God is the ‘light of heaven and earth’.22 All the same, this was the only passage in which the Quran stated this so clearly; elsewhere it mentions the ‘light of God’23 17  Opposing tendencies are usually sanctioned with the name of ʿAlī al-Riḍā (cf. Biḥār III 292 no. 12, and 304 no. 42); not so Kulīnī, Kāfī I 134 no. 4, where Muḥammad al-Bāqir is invoked. 18  See p. 455 below. 19  Majlisī, Biḥār VIII 188 no. 158. 20  Ibid. V 243, 2f. 21  See vol. I 533 above. 22  The connection was observed by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 149, 13f., and Tanzīh al-Qurʾān 286, 5f. (transl. Monnot, Penseurs musulmans 93); Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 224, 1f. Wellhausen noted that even in pre-Islamic times the Arabs inclined to worship light (Reste arabischen Heidentums 1172ff./2210f.). 23  Sura 9:32, 39:69, 61:8.

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that ‘has come from God’,24 or that he has ‘sent down’.25 Consequently the exegetes among both Shīʿites and Sunnites would later be cautious; on the whole they interpreted the light metaphorically, e.g. as ‘right guidance’.26 Sunni records are overall less frequent, Qatāda being foremost among those who can be classified thus.27 However, the Sunnites were also familiar with aberrant hadiths such as the one that God created the angels out of the light of his arms and his chest,28 and the attribution of a speech of 82/891 in Kufa (!) to ʿAbd al-Malik, in which he described the caliph as ‘God’s shadow on earth’ has the caliph referring to the ideas mentioned above.29 They would reach full bloom in later mysticism, probably because mysticism permitted the exaltation of humans: the first creatures, Adam or Muḥammad, possess a nature of light, insofar as they have a share in God’s light. Sahl al-Tustarī (d. 283/896), who probably grew up in surroundings leaning towards anthropomorphism, evolved this idea.30 1.2.1.2 Muḥammad’s Experience of God during his Journey to Heaven It is well-known that at the beginning of his calling Muḥammad experienced two visions of God; he describes them in sura 53:5–18.1 However, as early as the mid – and late Meccan period he stated that he received his revelations from Gabriel;2 consequently the Quran contains essentially prophetic auditions. What sura 53:7 presents as a vision of God is referred to the ‘excellent messenger’ (81:19), presumably an angel, in sura 81:23.3 Despite the clear indication 24  Sura 5:15, and 39:22. 25  Sura 4:174, 7:157, 64:8. 26  See p. 180 above. Also de Boer in: EI1 s. v. Nūr; Gimaret, Noms divins 372ff.; also p. 644 below. Regarding the exegesis of the verse of light cf. Mokri in: Le theme de la lumière 381ff. 27  See vol. II 163 above; also p. 437, n. 35 below. 28  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā Bishr al-Marīsī 140, 11ff./497, apu. ff. One variant has ‘hair’ instead of ‘light’ (see p. 454 below). 29  Balādhurī, Ansāb V 354, 17. If, however, the caliphs are apostrophised as ‘light’ in panegyric texts, this is mere metaphor with no expressive value as to the image of God. 30  Böwering, Mystical Vision of Existence 149ff.; cf. p. 323 above. Regarding the concept of nūr Muḥammad cf. Rubin in: IOS 5/1975/62ff. Regarding the development of the imago Dei motif in Khallāj and later Sufi thought cf. Takeshita, Ibn ʿArabī 15ff.; also Watt in: Transactions Glasgow 46. The idea that God is light and that the multeity of creation emerges from him like rays has been frequently expressed in mysticism since Ghazzālī (Mishkāt al-anwār) and Ibn ʿArabī. 1  Cf. Paret, Kommentar 460f. with further references; Nagel, Koran 118. 2  Thus Nagel in: Klimkeit, Götterbild 94ff. 3  Sura 81 is early, but the second half (v. 15ff.) was presumably revised or added later. Furthermore the rhyme changes at verse 21, precisely the one we are looking at here.

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in 53:10, people soon became accustomed to interpreting the entire pericope as a vocational event with Gabriel at its centre;4 Ibn Isḥāq having played a significant part in this development.5 Kufan Shīʿites who adhered to the older understanding were criticised based on a dictum by ʿĀʾisha.6 Elsewhere attempts were made to explain the experience as a dream vision, to which end it was linked to the legend of the opening of the breast.7 What was decisive in the long run was that another Quranic passage was adduced as well: sura 17:1, the allusion to a miraculous nocturnal journey (isrāʾ). While the sentence itself is not in any way enlightening – it is entirely isolated8 – it would soon attract a motif that also connected to sura 53:5ff., and that was most dear to popular piety: the journey to heaven (miʿrāj). Neither of the two Quranic passages explicitly mentions an ascent, but the motif of the journey to heaven had taken firm roots in the Old World from late antiquity onwards;9 it quickly entered hadith and the prophet’s biography through ‘Midrashic’ theology – possibly thanks to the exploration of Jewish ideas of the Hēḵalōt literature. This development has not been studied in any depth, the origin of individual traditions in particular remaining shrouded in obscurity.10 It does appear, however, that this was another area where the ideas of Sunnite and Shīʿite circles were rather close to each other. The oldest K. al-miʿrāj appears to have been written by a Shīʿite, the Kufan theologian Hishām al-Jawālīqī.11 4  See vol. II 115 above. 5  Regarding the details of the development cf. my article Le miʿrāǧ et la vision de Dieu dans les premières speculations théologiques en Islam, in: M. A. Amir-Moezzi (ed.), Le voyage initiatique en terre d’Islam, Paris 1996, p. 27ff.; also Lohmann in: MIO 14/1968/280ff. 6  Bukhārī, Tafsīr Sūrat al-Najm 1; Muslim, Īmān no. 287; Dhahabī, ʿUlūw 132, 3ff.; Ibn Khuzayma 145, 3ff.; also Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 221. It is clear that this hadith polemicises against the Shīʿa, as it condemns another, ‘Saba‌ʾite’, heresy (cf. Arabica 21/1974/36). 7  Cf. the traditions in Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 141, 1ff.; also Lohmann 287ff., and Birkeland, Legend of the Opening 13ff. The Sīra generally asserts that the revelation came to the prophet in the form of prophetic dreams (p. 151, 2ff. Wüstenfeld). 8  Consequently Wansbrough linked it to Moses rather than Muḥammad (Quranic Studies 67f.); in sura 44:23, asrā laylan refers to the Exodus. 9  See vol. I 405, n. 96 and 99 above, for further references. M. Dean-Oting, Heavenly Journeys. A Study of the Motif in Hellenistic Jewish Literature (PhD Frankfurt 1984) furnishes a catalogue of individual motifs. 10  Cf. Busse’s article in: JSAI 14/1991/1ff., and Böwering in ER IX 552ff. (with further reading). Concerning the narrative itself see R. Hartmann, Die Himmelsreise Muhammeds und ihre Bedeutung in der Religion des Islam, in: Vorträge der Bibliothek Warburg 1928–29, p. 42ff. The Abū Hurayra tradition to which Ṭabarī refers is cited by E. Renaud in: C. Kappler, Apocalypses et voyages dans l’au-delà 267ff. For more information see p. 441f. below. 11  See vol. I 405 above; cf. also 409, n. 121. Concerning the central position of the miʿrāj in Shīʿite thought see p. 398 above and p. 661f. below.

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The question that is most relevant to us is to what extent people believed that during his ascent the prophet had seen God himself. The anti-Islamic text whose fragments are transmitted under Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ’s name assumes this; Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, refuting this, does not deny it, either.12 Ibn ʿAbbās believed it,13 as did Muqātil b. Sulaymān.14 It is also evident from the fact that the fragments of the visionary account in sura 53:5–18 were incorporated in the description of the journey to heaven.15 The latter was frequently presented as the final point of a climax in which the prophets competed with regard to their closeness to God: Abraham had been God’s ‘friend’ (khalīl Allāh), Moses had been the one to whom God spoke on Mount Sinai (kalīm Allāh), and Muḥammad was the one who had beheld him with his own eyes. This, too, people claimed to have heard from Ibn ʿAbbās.16 It mainly spread in Iraq; Jaʿd b. Dirham polemicised against it and it was probably for this reason that he was executed in Wāsiṭ.17 Ḍaḥḥāk b. Muzāḥim adopted it in his very detailed description of the miʿrāj which he based on Ibn ʿAbbās.18 Further descriptions would go beyond the Quran, including the form in which the prophet beheld God – ‘in his most beautiful appearance’, that is19 – and this most beautiful appearance, the early Shīʿites knew, was that of a shābb muwaffaq, a young man of 30 or 32 years of age.20 This motif was presented in a variety of more concrete images. According to a tradition traced back to ʿIkrima, the prophet saw ‘the lord of all the humans in the world in an enclosed garden of the sanctuary 12  Text V 8 a; more information in my article cited n. 5 above. 13  Qushayrī notes it with tangible reluctance (Miʿrāj 94, 4f.). 14   Tafsīr IV 160, 1ff.; cf. Nwyia, Exégèse coranique 97. 15  Frequently the two visions of which the Quran also spoke were simply conflated into one (cf. Qushayrī 94, pu. f.); in more detail Tuft, The Controversy over ‘Ruʾya’ 24ff. 16  Qushayrī, Miʿrāj 94, –4ff.; Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 130, 1; Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr 2IV 268, 7f. 17  See vol. II 515 above. 18  Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 75, 15. Regarding the text see vol. II 573 above; it was spread in Iran, but later reintroduced in Iraq by Maysara b. ʿAbdrabbih (vol. II 140). In surroundings that feared anthropomorphism the climax would be developed differently (cf. Brinner in: Brinner/ Ricks (eds.), Studies in Islamic and Judaic Traditions I 74). 19  This, too, transmitted in Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr 268, 21ff. and –6ff., after Ibn ʿAbbās; cf. Ibn Khuzayma 140, pu. ff., and Qushayrī 95, 4f. Regarding ʿalā aḥsani ṣūratin see p. 423ff. above, and p. 437 below. 20  Concerning the problem of the reading shābb muwaffaq see vol. I 406, n. 110 above. The word muwaffaq is not documented elsewhere in a compatible meaning (‘fully grown, in the prime of life’?), but the parallels are more numerous than I thought; consequently they cannot simply be reduced to one ancient misspelt form, as I assumed there. Ibn Bābōya uses the word not only p. 57, 4, but also p. 69, –5f., but the most important evidence is that in the passage by Ibn Abī Zaynab al-Nuʿmānī, which I added subsequently loc. cit., it also refers to the qāʾim.

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( fī ḥaẓīratin min al-quds) in the form of a youth wearing a crown that blinded the eyes’.21 The place imagined here is an earthly paradise; the nocturnal journey ends in Jerusalem without requiring a miʿrāj. Jerusalem would later be called al-Quds, possibly with reference to this hadith, or simply as place of the ‘sanctuary’, i.e. the Temple; cf. my article in: J. Raby and J. Johns (eds.), Bayt al-maqdis. ʿAbd al-Malik’s Jerusalem 96f. Concerning Jerusalem as the location of paradise see also p. 441 below. Ritter translates ḥaẓīra min al-quds simply as ‘heavenly garden’ (Meer der Seele 446), based on the original dictionaries (cf. e.g. Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāya I 404 s. v. ḥ-ẓ-r; after him Lane, Lexicon 596 and 2497). However, it is not said explicitly that the garden was located in heaven. ‘Garden of holiness’, as Lane translates 2497, is not accurate, either, as the passage under discussion does not read ḥaẓīrat al-quds (as Ibn Ḥanbal says Musnad V 257, –5) or ḥaẓīrat al-quds min al-janna (as Ibn Khuzayma says Tawḥīd 237, –9 and –6), but rather ḥaẓīra min al-quds. While I should like to assume that the dictionaries are correct when they suppose the phrase to refer to paradise, al-quds in all probability denotes a location. The ḥaẓīra may be a reference to the temple district. And the green colour of the garment worn by the youth (see p. 425 above) recalls paradise (see vol. III 165 above). According to another tradition the garment, however, was black (Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 227, 7). – Starting with Ghazzālī (Mishkāt al-anwār 66, 10ff.), the ḥaẓīrat al-quds took on a life of its own within mysticism, but the development has not yet been studied. Shāh Waliyyullāh Dihlawī uses it to denote the circle of light formed by the highest angels and the souls of the perfect within which the decisions concerning the fate of the universe are made (cf. Baljon, Religion and Thought of Shāh Walī Allāh Dihlawī 24ff. and index s. v.). This is not the place to explore the relation between isrāʾ and miʿrāj, the visit to an earthly paradise and the journey to heaven, or how and when the relevant traditions became mixed.22 What is important is to determine the extent to which the last-named hadith provoked concern. While it has been quoted comparatively frequently, it never became canonical. Suyūṭī adds the comment 21  Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 30, 8ff.; cf. on the subject as a whole Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 547ff. 22  Cf. my deliberations in Raby/Johns, Bayt al-Maqdis I 89ff., and the literature cited there. J. Chabbi’s theory in: JA 274/1986/473, that in the earliest stratum the concept of space was not vertical but horizontal is probably going too far, and should be examined carefully by means of analysing individual versions.

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that Sufyān b. Ziyād al-ʿUṣfurī,23 who had heard it from his uncle, went to ask ʿIkrima if he had really heard it just like that; ʿIkrima confirmed this, but with the important addendum that the prophet had ‘seen God with his heart (bi-fuʾādihī)’.24 This was a qualification applied by the Muʿtazilites, too;25 in this way the vision was reduced to imagination. The account of the vision seemed to confirm it; sura 53:11 has: ‘His heart26 did not invent what he saw’. De facto the result was the same as if the vision had been transferred into a dream,27 although of course language contributed to the latter option, as ruʾya meant ‘vision’ as well as ‘dream’, and ‘dreaming’ was usually expressed by ra‌ʾā ( fī l-nawm).28 The two interpretative devices were not really on the same level. As long as the prophet saw God with his heart, only the means of vision was affected, while in the case of a dream its reality could be doubted. However, we probably emphasise the difference more strongly than people did at the time; if a prophet dreams, all his dreams are prophetic. ‘The prophet’s eyes are sleeping, but not his heart’, Ibn Khuzayma says with reference to a well-known hadith;29 both motifs are connected here. As we said on p. 433 above, the dream may originally have been part of the legend of the opening of the breast. Later it would lose its function, as the journey to heaven was regarded as a prophetic miracle and thus became imbued with indubitable reality (cf. e.g. Bayhaqī, Dalāʾil al-nubuwwa II 117ff. and earlier). At the same time this renders it all the more unique and inimitable; when in 819/1416 someone claimed in Cairo that he had journeyed to heaven and seen God in person and also spoken to him, he was simply sent to a lunatic asylum – after a jurisconsult had been asked to provide an expert opinion (Ibn Ḥajar, Inbāʾ al-ghumr III 99, 2ff.). 23  Regarding him cf. Mīzān no. 3321. 24  Suyūṭī, ibid.; cf. also Ibn Khuzayma 131, 12f., and 130. 3ff. 25  Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Baḥr al-kalām 67, apu. ff.; see also p. 663 below. 26  Here, too, the word used is fuʾād rather than qalb, which would have been the usual word. 27  See p. 433 above. 28  Whenever this interpretation is applied in the sources it appears stilted. It occurs as gloss (e.g. in Dārimī, Sunan, Ruʾya 12 [= Bāb fī ruʾyat al-rabb fī l-nawm]; Ibn Manda, Radd ʿalā al-Jahmiyya 89, 5ff.; Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad I 368, 11/2V 162, 8f.), as a commentary (thus in Ibn al-Jawzī, Dafʿ shubhat al-tashbīh 30, 5f.), or as a comparison (thus in Ibn al-ʿArabī; cf. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge 116); further instances in Gramlich, Nahrung der Herzen I 435. In a famous poem, Mutanabbī claims to have seen the mamdūḥ like God in a light, adding shortly afterwards that he thought he was sleeping, i.e. dreaming (Dīwān 20, 1ff. Dieterici; cf. Bīrūnī’s account recorded by Heinrichs in: Kugel, Poetry and Prophecy 133f.). 29   Tawḥīd 137, pu.; cf. Conc. VII 48a.

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Toned-down versions of this tradition even appear in popular versions such as the one in the Liber Scalae Machometi.30 At the cusp of his journey Muḥammad sees only God’s throne, not God himself;31 when he is given the Quran during the audience God grants him, he is still separated from God by two curtains.32 Elsewhere the secret is preserved by the prophet having been forbidden to tell of how he saw God.33 Where he does behold him, God is frequently a being of light,34 and the light is as much of a revelation as it is an obstacle. When Abū Dharr inquired of Muḥammad whether he had seen God, the prophet was said to have answered: ‘Light! How could I have seen it (i.e.: looked straight at it, but also: seen him)?’35 Whatever may have been the circumstances of seeing God, all versions agree that he heard God’s voice;36 the auditory experience of God clearly takes precedence. It is occasionally joined by another experience that shows the anthropomorphic aspect in a different light: being touched by God, ἐπαφή, as it was called in late antiquity.37 We will now have to look at this separately. 1.2.1.2.1 Divine Touch In this context the Liber Scalae Machometi – which, after all, avoided the vision of God – tells us that God laid his hand on Muḥammad’s head, for the prophet to feel its coolness in his heart; in this way he received the knowledge that distinguished him from the other humans.1 And in a variant of the abovementioned hadith of the earthly paradise we learn: ‘I saw my master in the most beautiful form like a youth with full hair sitting on the throne of mercy. He placed his hand between my shoulders, and I felt its coolness in my liver. 30   ‘Libro della Scala’, ed. Cerulli, cap. XLIX § 125. 31  Ibid. cap. XX § 52. A source might be Qushayrī, Miʿrāj 58, 7ff. 32  Ibid. cap. XLIX § 123f.; also Qushayrī 60, –4ff. It may be significant that the version quoted is of Basran origin (cf. the isnāds ibid. 28, 2ff., and 34, 5ff.). 33  Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī 74, 12f. 34  Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 66, 1ff.; also in the text from Spain in Asín-Palacios, Escatología musulmana 439. 35  Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 134, –4ff. and earlier, where, interestingly, the isnād goes via Qatāda (see p. 432 above). Regarding the entire issue cf. Andrae, Person Muhammeds 71ff. In the Jewish parallels God remains invisible throughout (Dean-Otting, Heavenly Journeys 155ff.). 36   ‘Libro della Scala’, cap. XX § 51. 37  Mainly with reference to Io who, having been transformed into a cow, was transformed back to her original form by Jupiter touching her with his hand; the son to whom she gave birth later was called Epaphos (cf. RE V 2708f., and IX 1732ff.; also F. Wehrli in: Fs. Schefold 199 = H. Hommel (ed.), Wege zu Aischylos II 842ff.). 1  Cap. XLIX § 125.

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He said to me: …’.2 This, too, is about a revelation, which is quoted verbatim, indicating that the main interest should be directed at it, while the attendant circumstances serve to confirm it and to describe the intimate nature of the event.3 In this second example, and unlike the Liber Scalae Machometi, it is the auditory experience that is reinforced by the vision of God as well as the experience of his touch; and it is not the head that is being touched but the heart.4 Furthermore the context was not necessarily the journey to heaven or the nocturnal journey to the paradise garden in Jerusalem; people imagined that the prophet might have had similar encounters at other times as well, in the evening5 or the morning after praying6 (i.e. always in twilight7). God ‘visits’ him and honours him with his presence. The touch always originates with God; the human, being the servant, would never dare approach his lord in this way. The vision of God was much more active by comparison; someone who directs his look at something takes possession of it in some way.8 Independently of how the gesture was imagined, its purpose was usually the transfer of knowledge or an initiation. The Liber Scalae, as we have seen, believed that Muḥammad received the Quran during the miʿrāj;9 according to one of the hadiths quoted above he was granted exhaustive knowledge – of everything ‘that is between east and west’.10 Or he learns matters about which ‘the heavenly council (al-mala‌ʾ al-aʿlā) argues;11 this is the correct observance of ritual duties. When God places his had between his shoulder blades the prophet feels as though all creatures around him have died and he hears only the angels’ voices.12 God’s placing his hand on his head has even deeper meaning, conveying the appointment to his position. Similarly it was said that 2  Ritter, Meer 445f., after Dāraquṭnī, Ruʾyat al-bāriʾ. 3  Cf. Stretter, Topoi und Schemata 4ff. While we should find the warmth of someone’s hand pleasant, in the Orient it is the coolness that is enjoyed; cf. p. 583, n. 14 below. 4  The heart is clearly meant here, not only for practical reasons but also because the prophet feels the coolness of the hand that rests between his shoulder blades on the other side, ‘between his nipples’, too (Ibn Khuzayma 142, 14; similar Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 26, 4ff.). Sometimes the heart ( fuʾād!) is named explicitly (cf. e.g. Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 74, pu.). 5  Conc. III 438 b. 6  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 78, 1ff. Further parallels in Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj al-sunna 2II 509, 4f. 7  The Shīʿites also expected the mahdīto arrive in the evening, when the sun disappears behind the horizon (cf. the references collected by Wasserstrom in: Fs. Wickens 280). 8  See also p. 460 below. 9  See p. 437 above. 10  Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 141, 2. 11  Ibid. 141, 1; also Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 75, 7ff., in the account by Ḍaḥḥāk b. Muzāḥim (see p. 434 above). 12  Suyūṭī 75, 3f.

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God would stroke the forehead of someone created for the caliphate with his right hand.13 Of course there was no corresponding ‘kingship ritual’ in the Islamic world. As for the prophet, there was also the opening of the breast as a symbol of his initiation; it was undertaken by angels and not by God. The idea that the prophet received the Quran on this occasion, too, was not without difficulty; after all, the Quran had not been revealed en bloc. Consequently the idea of an initiation was abandoned after a while; the journey to heaven resulted in singular results: for instance that Muḥammad was able to reduce the number of prayers,14 or that he was able to look into hell.15 Thus at least in the Sunni view; it did not at first occur to the Shīʿites that the secret revealed might have something to do with Muḥammad. Rather, God reveals to him ʿAlī’s high rank,16 i.e. the prophet learns that ʿAlī is destined to become his successor.17 And it was in the Shīʿa that the motif, once again as a symbol of initiation, was usurped by someone else who believed himself to be a prophet: the gnostic Abū Manṣūr al-ʿIjlī (executed between 120/738 and 126/744).18 Furthermore this is the oldest securely dateable record. Abū Manṣūr claimed to have been raised to heaven (ʿurija bihī ilā l-samāʾ). God ‘brought him closer’ (adnāhu) and addressed him in Persian as yā pasar ‘my son’; afterwards he sent him back to earth with the task of spreading the word about him.19 Abū Manṣūr presumably believed himself to be the son of God; his followers thought he was the logos (kalima) and swore by this h ­ onorific.20 God’s ‘bringing him closer’ is presumably an allusion to sura 53:8, the account of the vision that was incorporated into the miʿrāj traditions. While here it is God who approaches rather than the prophet, the scenario of the journey to 13  In the pre-existence? Cf. Mīzān no. 8565: hadith after the Medinan Ibn Abī Dhiʾb (regarding him see vol. II 763ff. above). Parallels collected by Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/98 (where the transmitters are noble Hāshimids, among them the caliph Manṣūr who refers to Ibn ʿAbbās). 14  See p. 659 below. 15  The book by Asín-Palacios mentioned on p. 391, n. 34, is mainly dedicated to this subject. 16  Bar Asher in: Arabica 37/1990/294 and 300; n. 30; also Amir-Moezzi ibid. 41/1994/127ff. 17  Who was still a minor at the time. 18  Regarding him see vol. I 367f. and 466 above. 19  Ashʿarī, Maq. 9, 11ff.; Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-Shīʿa 34, 6f. > Qummī, Maq. 46, apu. f. Only the last-named passage has God speaking Persian; Nawbakhtī says ‘speaking Syriac’ instead. However, Gimaret is probably correct in explaining this as a misspelling (see vol. I 368, n. 10 above). The only difficulty is that yā, being an Arabic vocative particle, does not go with Persian pasar. 20   Maq. 9, 13. He based this on sura 52:44 which says that a piece (kisf) might miraculously fall down from heaven; this, he said, was how he fell from among the Banū Hāshim (who were in heaven with Muḥammad) to earth, landing among the Shīʿites (ibid. 9, 9f.).

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heaven soon ensured that the roles were reversed.21 The climax in comparison to earlier prophets as mentioned above22 appears to have been included as well: when God strokes Abū Manṣūr’s head (masaḥa) during the audience, he knows that he is now equal to the prophets, knows that he is now ‘God’s friend’, like Abraham. At the same time he is a messiah (masīḥ) like Jesus; in Abū Manṣūr’s view, Jesus was the first creature, a kind of logos being.23 That he himself became a messiah when God placed his hands om him is due to the fact that his community heard the Aramaic loan with Arabic ears; masaḥa did not mean primarily ‘to anoint’ as did Hebr. mashaḥ or Syr. meshaḥ.24 However, Judaeo-Christian circles had already played with the meaning of the word by connecting the isomorphic Aramaic roots meshaḥ ‘to anoint’ and meshaḥ ‘to measure’.25 There is no text comparable to Abū Manṣūr’s self-contained narrative. Later, only mystics would dare claim miʿrāj experiences in a similar fashion, such as Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī.26 The motif of divine touch was valued only where people believed in incarnations or epiphanies, e.g. among the Nuṣayrians. They were familiar with it through a tradition by Jābir b. Yazīd al-Juʿfī which appears to have gone back to the circle of the worshippers of the fifth imām – and thus to the time of the ghulāt. In it, Muḥammad al-Bāqir reveals himself to Jābir as the ‘sublime and great God’ (Allāh al-ʿālī al-kabīr) by stroking his arm and face with his hand. Jābir, however, does not feel the weight of the hand and thus realises that he is in the presence of a supernatural being. In this case the vision of God is less important than the ἐπαφή, as Jābir continues to see only the imām. The hand did, however, possess ‘a brilliance I could not comprehend and whose extent I could not measure’.27 There is no need to explain that the innocence achieved by Christianity in the context of this motif – as in the doubting Thomas! – was never reached in Islam. The first epistle of John, the author tells us at the very beginning, intends to proclaim ‘That which was from 21  Cf. p. 46 of my article mentioned on p. 433, n. 5, above. 22  P. 433f. 23  Cf. the heresiographical account cited. 24  ‘To anoint’ would be dahhana in Arabic. Stroking someone’s head with one’s hand is a gesture of blessing, e.g. for an orphan; masīḥ was understood as ‘someone whom God has touched with the power of blessing’ (Lisān al-ʿArab II 594b, 18; more generally Vollers in: Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 8/1905/98ff.; cf. vol. III 18 above). Whether masaḥa and massa, lamassa etc. form a semantic field ‘to touch’ is for the Semitic scholars to decide. 25  Cf. G. Stroumsa in: HTR 76/1983/285. 26  Cf. the text edited by Nicholson in: Iscla 2/1926/402ff.; also Wensinck, Semiëtische Studiën 115f., and Nazeer El-Azma in: MW 63/1973/93ff. The latter also includes information on further adaptations of the motif. 27  Strothmann, Esoterische Sonderthemen, Ar. Text 7, ult. ff./transl. Halm, Gnosis 106f.

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the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled’ (I. John 1:1). 1.2.1.3 God’s Footprint in Jerusalem The belief that Jerusalem, where the ‘faraway place of prayer’ of sura 17:1 would be located in due course,1 was the home of the earthly paradise where God sat on the throne after the creation, and where he will sit in judgment at the end of time, is of Jewish origin.2 Islam added the idea that Muḥammad met God in the same place. The double gate to the Ḥaram al-sharīf built by ʿAbd al-Malik on the ruins of Herod’s wall may have been given the name Bāb al-nabī for this reason; the prophet rode through it on his nocturnal journey.3 As long as the encounter was imagined in this way, a journey to heaven was not necessary. Consequently the traditions are probably of an early date; the isnāds of the miʿrāj traditions do not lead to Jerusalem in any case, but to Iraq.4 And the footprint, the indentation in the rock shown to the believers in the Qubbat alṣakhra to this day, could not at the time have been interpreted as the imprint left there by the prophet before his journey to heaven.5 In fact there are more than a few traditions indicating that Muslims in Syria and Palestine – but only there – believed that God himself left this footprint behind when he returned to heaven from the earthly paradise. This, too, would be an entirely anthropomorphic train of thought. It has not yet been possible to determine with any certainty whether ʿAbd al-Malik embraced this idea when he had the Dome of the Rock built there. Critical polemic spread by his enemies in the Hijaz insinuated this, but the inscriptions do not mention it.6 It is not relevant in the present context. The re-interpretation of the footprint shows that here as in the other cases – and indeed more than in those – people began to have misgivings. The Dome of 1  At the very latest under Walīd, when the Masjid al-aqṣā – if indeed that was its name at the time – was built on the Ḥaram al-sharīf. Concerning the question of the original meaning of the name cf. Paret, Kommentar 295f., and Busse inL JSAI 14/1991/1ff. In Jerusalem it was sometimes used to refer to the entire Temple district (cf. Grabar in EI2 VI 707f.). 2  Cf. my deliberations in: Raby/Johns (ed.), Bayt al-Maqdis I 89ff. 3  Ibid. 97 after M. Rosen-Ayalon, The Early Islamic Monuments of al-Ḥaram al-Sharīf 45. 4  See p. 433f. above. 5  Cf. EI2 II 646f. = 2IV 367 s. v. Ḳadam as̲h̲-s̲h̲arīf, which incorrectly locates the footprint in the Masjid al-aqṣā. – Despite its pertinent title, St. D. Benin’s book The Footprints of God. Divine Accommodation in Jewish and Christian Thought (Albany 1993) does not discuss our topic. 6  Cf. my abovementioned article, p. 98f.; also concerning the possible associations with the temple of Solomon. Regarding the question of whether the mosaic decoration inside the building (the mosaics of the external walls are lost) fits into this interpretations cf. RosenAyalon, loc. cit. 46ff.; also the text quoted by Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī in: JSAI 14/1991/60.

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the Rock may be a testament to the original power of anthropomorphism; in that case ʿAbd al-Malik’s intention was to outdo the Christians by building a dome – maybe originally: a ruler’s tent (qubba)7 – over the place where God ascended to heaven, the Christians having built domes over those places where Christ had risen from the dead and ascended to heaven. ʿAbd al-Malik’s building, however, would remain forever isolated in the Islamic world. The place from which ‘God ascended to heaven after he had created heaven and earth’, i.e. presumably the place where his throne had been standing, was also believed to be in the holy district of the Thaqīf near Ṭāʾif in the Wajj valley; God was said to have ‘taken his last step’ here (cf. Kister in: JSAI 1/1979 = Studies, no. IX, p. 18 with references; also Musnad ʿUmar b. ʿAbdalʿazīz, ed. Harley in: JASB NS 20/1924/421, 10ff.; Ibn al-Jawzī, Dafʿ 56, 4ff.). This ‘God’s last step’ (ākhir waṭʾatin waṭiʾahā llāh) would later be re-interpreted metaphorically as the prophet’s last campaign against the unbelievers (cf. the references in Kister, ibid. p. 1), but the expression should surely be interpreted literally; Wajj, too, was an earthly paradise (cf. Lammens in: MUSJ 8/1922/139f.). It is simply a competing tradition based in the Hijaz. – Once the footprints were linked only to prophets – to Muḥammad in Jerusalem, to Abraham in Mecca – the question arose of how they could have appeared in the first place. Muqātil came up with the rather rationalist explanation that in the beginning the rocks were soft; all humans left imprints in them. The miracle was thus merely that God had preserved Abraham’s footprint by the Kaʿba through the millennia, not that Abraham’s weight made him sink into the hard rock (Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān IV 206, 2ff.). Significantly, Muqātil does not mention Muḥammad and Jerusalem at all. 1.2.1.4 God’s Limbs The borderline case with which God’s human form could most easily be put to the test was his gender. Of course God was a man, but he was free from sexuality. The latter was, however, manifest only in his being solid; there was no reason not to ascribe to him a sexual characteristic. Mughīra was said to have reserved a particular letter for the penis, the letter hāʾ.1 Later generations 7  In more detail ibid. 102f., and vol. III 459f. above; the qubba was made from red leather. Does this explain Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī’s remark (JSAI 14/1991/59) that in ʿAbd al-Malik’s time the Dome of the Rock was covered with red felt during the winter? 1  Ashʿarī, Maq. 7, 4f. It is not easy to see why it should have been this letter in particular; usually the letter discovered in the penis was a lām (Wagner, Abu Nuwās 389 and 397). The association

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were less uninhibited: Dāwūd al-Jawāribī was already said to have admitted that he could not rely on tradition here,2 and the Basran Muʿādh b. Muʿādh positively writhed in embarrassment.3 Of course both these accounts show that the opponents delighted every time in bringing up this particular topic; as late as 475/1101 and Ashʿarite preacher accused the Ḥanbalites in Baghdad of believing that God had a penis;4 the Ḥanbalites probably had good cause to see this as an unjust vilification.5 After all, in the long run the only divine limbs to be debated were those mentioned in the Quran or in (canonical) hadith, and greater emphasis was placed on their functionality than on the completeness of the ‘form’. Consequently the abdominal cavity ( jawf ) disappeared from the discussion, as did the heart ‘from which wisdom emerges’,6 and ears and nose.7 The eye, the hand, the foot with the calf, the side, and above all the face were retained. The least outrage was caused by God’s face, due to the fact that the Quran already used the word quite metaphorically in the phrase ibtighāʾa wajhi llāh ‘having God before one’s eyes’;8 theologians could easily say that there was no difference in meaning between ‘God’s face’ and God himself.9 Still, it sounded

was indeed based on the appearance, as may be confirmed by the fact that Mughīra linked the alif to the legs (qadam) ‘because of their curve’ (ibid. 7, 4). He probably had the alif in the Kufic alphabet in mind, which had a ‘foot’ at the bottom (Schimmel, Calligraphy and Islamic Culture 5). Qadam does refer to the foot, after all (from the ankle, as the lexicographers specify; cf. Lisān al-ʿArab XII 479a, 7). However, that the passage quoted referred to the leg as a whole is confirmed by Ibn Ḥazm using the word sāq in his account (that may be dependent on Ashʿarī; Fiṣal IV 184, 14). Elsewhere the alif was frequently compared to the upright human form (Schimmel, ibid. 94ff.). In poetry the comparisons with letters began during Mughīra’s lifetime, with Dhū l-Rumma. 2  Cf. vol. II 491; also p. 412 above. 3  Ibid. 432. 4  Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam IX 4, 16ff.; regarding the event in general cf. Makdisī, Ibn ʿAqīl 375ff. 5  Some unusually direct remarks are found among the works of the mystic Bahāʾi Walad (Meier, Bahāʾi Walad 350f.). Furthermore the problem also existed for Christians in a similar form; cf. L. Steinberg, The Sexuality of Christ in Renaissance Art and in Modern Oblivion (London 1983), esp. p. 50ff. In general H. Eilberg-Schwartz, God’s Phallus and Other Problems for Men and Monotheism (Boston 1994), p. 73ff. 6  See p. 412 above. Both were already mentioned by Mughīra (Maq. 7, 2f.). 7  Cf. vol. I 405 above. 8  Cf. Baljon, ‘To Seek the Face of God’ in Koran and Hadith, in: AO 21/1953/254ff.; Baljon compares this with biqqēsh penē Yahweh in the OT. Cf. S. Wagner in: Theol. WB zum AT I 763ff. s. v. biqqēsh. 9  See vol. III 294 above concerning Abū l-Hudhayl, 433f. concerning Naẓẓām; in general p. 297. The same can be said for Hebrew.

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anthropomorphic, and was interpreted as such in some quarters,10 as demonstrated by the reaction of some anti-anthropomorphic Shīʿites. They interpreted wajh as the ‘direction’, and wajh Allāh consequently as the ‘direction prescribed by God’, i.e. his religion (dīn). Thus when the Quran says that ‘everything is doomed, except his face’ (sura 28:88), it meant that Islam would exist forever,11 and ibtighāʾa wajhi llāh made acceptable sense like this, too. The case of the divine eye was similar. The Quranic expressions such as ‘under our eyes’ = ‘in our care’ (bi-aʿyuninā)12 and ‘in my sight’ = ‘under my supervision’13 suggested a metaphorical interpretation. The impression was strengthened by the plural being used in bi-aʿyuninā, rather than the ‘corporeal’ dual; the singular expression ʿalā ʿaynī in sura 20:39 is not entirely clear.14 The Muʿtazilites understood both passages as meaning bi-ʿilminā ‘with our (= my) knowledge’, subsuming the controversial wording under a non-­ corporeal attribute they accepted, too.15 On the other hand knowledge was acquired primarily by means of the eyes; thus when God in his form as a being of light emitted rays with which he recognised things, this was simply a sublimation of the antique theory that explained vision as rays that are emitted by the eye.16 Hishām al-Jawālīqī emphasised the anthropomorphism much more strongly in this point. Cf. vol. I 405f. above, where we expressed the assumption that Jawālīqī believed God to have one eye only. This would have satisfied functionality more perfectly, and furthermore the Quran, as we have seen, does not mention two eyes anywhere. On the other hand Jawālīqī also ascribed to God an ear and a nose, which proves that his deliberations were not primarily based on the Quran after all. When it came to God’s side, the Muʿtazilites used the same approach as they did for the eye, regarding it as a metaphor for God’s command.17 Ibn Bābōya, 10  It was known that the Jews calculated the extent of God’s forehead in thousands of cubits (Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal I 221, 2ff., after the Shīʿūr Qōmā). 11  Cf. Ibn Bābōya in Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 27, with further references in the apparatus. 12  Sura 11:37 and 23:27; 52:48, 54:14. 13  Sura 20:39. 14  Cf. Paret, Kommentar 332 on the passage; in general Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 395ff. 15  Ashʿarī, Maq. 218, 4, and 195, ult. Thus also Muqātil b. Sulaymān, who did not take all anthropomorphisms literally by any means (cf. Gilliot in: JA 179/1991/61; cf. also vol. II 594f. above. 16  Vol. I 424 and 429 above. 17  Ashʿarī, Maq. 218, 4ff.

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on the other hand, believed it expressed human obedience.18 This strange discrepancy was due to the fact that janb ‘side’ in the relevant passage in the Quran was part of the prepositional phrase fī janbi llāh. Consequently the word is not found on the surface of either Paret’s (‘Wie sehr bedaure ich, Gott gegenüber ‘towards’ Missachtung gezeigt zu haben’) or Arberry’s translation (‘Alas for me, in that I neglected my duty to God’). Muqātil is not wrong to interpret it as dhāt Allāh;19 the construction is similar to wajh Allāh. The reason for the Muʿtazilites’ different – and in fact clumsier – approach was that the anthropomorphists had isolated the word, linking janb in the phrase fī janbi llāh with Allāh, and not with fī any more. The Shīʿites regarded ʿAlī as ‘God’s side’.20 For them, too, the metaphorical understanding was secondary. The hand of God is not usually physical in the Quran, either, although it is mentioned frequently. Where something is said to be ‘in God’s hand’,21 it is easy to understand why the Muʿtazilites or the ‘Jahmites’ explained yad as niʿma ‘grace’.22 Even sura 5:64, which says ‘he has spread his two hands and gives what he will’, did obviously not mean anything other than that God gives every human his subsistence.23 The true anthropomorphism in this verse is spoken by the Jews: ‘God’s hand is bound’, but even then the context made the metaphorical intention clear.24 The only difficult passage was in sura 38:75 where God says that he created Adam ‘with his own hands’. People like Bishr al-Marīsī could point out all they liked that this was said for emphasis;25 it still gave rise to those Jewish – Christian patterns of thought that introduced the Old Testament’s concept of creation into Islam.26 A hadith later regarded as ‘weak’ claimed that God kneaded Adam’s clay for forty days with his hand.27 And similarly sura 39:67, where the exegesis expressed in hadith was the actual beginning of the concrete interpretations: when the Quran says that ‘on the 18   Tawḥīd 116, 8ff.; Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 27. 19  Cf. Gilliot in: JA 179/1991/64. 20  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 145, –5f. 21  Sura 3:73; cf. the parallels cited by Paret, Kommentar 72, for the passage. 22  Ashʿarī, Maq. 218, 3; cf. vol. III 434 above, and Text XX 9. 23  Text XX 9. Regarding Ibn Bābōya cf. Fyzee, Creed 28. 24  Regarding the issue cf. Paret, Kommentar 125. Ibn Khuzayma, on the other hand, used the passage to prove that ‘hand’ could not mean ‘grace’ here (Tawḥīd 58, –7ff.). An explanation of the passage is found in Newby, A History of the Jews of Arabia (Columbia 1988), p. 59. 25  Text X 8, a–c. 26  For more details see p. 502f. below. 27  Shahrastānī 77, –5f./176, 2; cf. Gimaret, Livre des Religions 343, n. 32, and Gramlich, Ġazzālīs Lehre von den Stufen zur Gottesliebe 591, both with further references. In general Fahd in: Sources Orientales I, La naissance du monde 260ff.

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day of the resurrection he will hold the entire earth in his hand’, now people began to ask how it would be distributed among his individual fingers, and had a Jew come up with an answer affirmed by the prophet.28 When according to sura 7:143 God ‘appeared to the mountain and the mountain crumbled to dust’, the interpretation that seemed most suited to do justice to his power was to say that he needed only to extend the tip of his little finger.29 In the pre-­existence he shall turn the hearts of humans over between two fingers in order to determine their fortunes.30 Those who ascribed human form to God did not, of course, imagine him with just one hand, but with two and, it was emphasised, both right hands.31 Jābir b. Zayd used the phrase ‘God has a right hand, but not a left hand’ in prayer and elsewhere – perhaps intending to say that God has one hand only, and that one not necessarily to be taken literally.32 God’s feet were not mentioned in the Quran at all, but a hadith tells us that God places his foot (qadam) into the fire of hell in order to quell its blaze. This was once again pursuing a Quranic statement, sura 50:30, where hell demands more until it overflows, until God himself stops it – with his foot.33 The opponents tried to tackle the word qadam philologically: it denoted those who were walking ahead towards hell because of their evil deeds. Bishr al-Marīsī 28  See vol. II 489f. for Dāwūd al-Jawāribī; Text XX 13, d–e. Numerous variants in Ibn Manda, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 83ff.; also Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 52, 3ff.; Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 94, –5ff.; Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 421ff. 29  Ibn Khuzayma 75, 8ff., and Ibn Fūrak 97, –5ff., and 98, –7ff.; also Fück, Arabische Kultur 269 (after Ḥammād b. Salama). 30  Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ 2045 no. 2654 (= Qadar 17); further instances in Gramlich, Ġazzālī 64; Text XX 13, a. This went back to sura 6:110, where God says of himself: ‘We shall turn about their hearts and their eyes’ (nuqallibu afʾidatahum wa-abṣārahum); this is how he acquired the predicate muqallib al-qulūb wal-abṣār (Gimaret, Noms divins 108). There, too, the meaning was that the hearts were in God’s power – with a negative result: humans lose the ability to believe. Concerning the development cf. also Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 124, –11ff./transl. Gramlich I 406f. 31  See vol. II 490 above; also Ṭabarī I 156, 13/transl. Rosenthal 327; Ibn Khuzayma 58, 8ff.; Ibn Fūrak 38, 8ff.; Bayhaqī 419, 4ff.; Kulīnī, Kāfī II 126, 6. Ṭāhir b. al-Ḥusayn was awarded the title Dhū l-Yamīnayn by Ma‌ʾmūn (cf. EI1 IV 660b); an early record of this usage with regard to humans is found in a verse by Farazdaq (quoted by Ibn Fūrak 40, 3). Regarding the preference of the right side over the left cf. Reinfried, Bräuche bei Zauber und Wunder nach Buchari 10ff., and Chelhod in: R. Needham (ed.), Right and Left 239ff.; also R. C. Martin in ER VIII 495ff. 32  Maḥbūb b. al-Raḥīl, Sīra ilā ahl Ḥaḍramawt in: Al-siyar wal-jawābāt 316, 4f. 33  Cf. Text XX 15 after Bishr al-Marīsī; also Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 13, 1 (with the commentary); Ibn Manda, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 41, 2ff.; Ibn Khuzayma 61, 15ff.; Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 227, 11ff.

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suggested this; Lisān al-ʿArab attributes it to ‘Ḥasan and his followers’, i.e. presumably Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s school.34 This does not really fit, as Ḥasan was not a predestinarian.35 In fact Bishr al-Marīsī relied on an exegesis by Ibn ʿAbbās, worded slightly differently.36 True to form, Iranian anthropomorphists based their view on a dialectical argument: sura 7:195 states that the idols do not have feet and hands, eyes and ears; surely God, in contrast to them, must possess all these.37 It is instructive to see how people came to speak of God’s calf. They based this on the Quran, but it was meant entirely differently there. Sura 68:41 tells us that on the Day of Judgment ‘the calf shall be bared’, i.e. the garment will be gathered up; and there is not really a reason why God should be assumed to be the subject of this impersonal phrase. On the other hand some people read the phrase as an active construction (yakshifu or nakshifu) rather than passive; this version was attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās and Ḥasan al-Baṣrī.38 We do not know whether Muqātil b. Sulaymān read it like this as well, but he did refer the word to God; indeed, he was convinced that it referred to God’s right calf that would illuminate the earth with its brilliance.39 Others believed that God would be recognised by this gesture during the Last Judgment;40 he gathers up his garment (izār) and places the other hand on his head.41 It is true that Muqātil provided a metaphorical explanation as well, this, too, legitimised by Ibn ʿAbbās.42 It was more appropriate to the later understanding of the passage and was thus included even in Ibn Manda’s Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya, although this author is the mouthpiece of the anthropomorphists elsewhere in this text.43

34  XII 470 b, 12ff. 35  See vol. II 54 above. 36  Text XX 15, b. Ibn Fūrak also furnishes several interpretations (44, 5ff.), some with reference to Ibn al-ʿArabī. 37  Thus already Ibn Khuzayma 60, 5ff.; in general Saksakī, Burhān 20, 16ff. 38  Gilliot points this out inL JA 179/1991/62; cf. Jeffery, Materials 104. The passive voice fits better with the following yudʿawna. 39  See vol. II 596, n. 20 above. Similar also in a hadith attributed to a client of ʿUmar II. (Ibn Manẓūr, Mukhtaṣar TD XXIX 277, 7f.). 40  Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ, Tawḥīd 24 (= IV 463, –4f. Krehl) after Abū Saʿīd al-Khuḍrī; Ibn Khuzayma 155, 14ff., in a hadith after Ibn Masʿūd. In more detail Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 435ff. 41  Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 106, 3f., after Zurāra b. Aʿyan. 42   Tafsīr IV 409, 6ff. Shiḥāta. 43  P. 35ff.

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1.2.1.5 God’s Activities God appeared to require feet because he comes to sit in judgment;1 he arrives together with the angels ṣaffan ṣaffan ‘one row after the other’.2 He descends to earth on other occasions, too – but not on foot; in Minā or ‘on the eve (layla) of ʿArafa’3 one may encounter him in a golden litter on an ashen grey – or red – bull camel. This is not merely an outing for pleasure; during it God accepts the prayers and penitence of humans.4 In accordance with this legend it was said of Ibn Ḥanbal that during the ḥajj he saw God sitting on a camel.5 Bishr al-Marīsī, on the other hand, emphasised that in the Quran God is called al-qayyūm, and that this should be interpreted as ‘he who does not move’.6 However, the exegesis he chose was by no means communis opinio; Ṭabarī understood al-qayyūm ‘he who takes care of everything, the preserver of all things’.7 And the theologians of the Kufan Shīʿa regarded movement as God’s central quality, albeit interpreted in an entirely abstract meaning as the ability to perceive and to enter into contact, possibly as internal divine life – the radiance of a being of light that does not move from its place at all.8 God did not move from his place because he was imagined as sitting on his throne in heaven. This was once again due to the Quran; the idea goes back to Jewish influence.9 It also tells us that angels carry the throne and surround it, praising God.10 The hadith demonstrates the way in which the train of thought was continued: the image of the four winged beings who carry the throne and 1  Thus in sura 2:210, or 6:158 (f. Text II 30, e, and XX 11; also vol. III 199 and 476 above). Regarding the exegesis cf. Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 78, 6ff. 2  Sura 89:22; cf. Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil IV 13, –7ff. 3  The visit to Minā immediately precedes that to ʿArafa (8–9 Dhū l-Ḥijja); both refer to the same moment. One should not translate as ‘the evening of ʿArafa’ (although the ritual ends at sunset). 4  Text XX 4, a. Cf. Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 16, 1f. with n.; Ibn al-Jawzī, Dafʿ 46, 11ff.; Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 83ff.; regarding Ḥammād b. Salama cf. Fück, Arabische Kultur 269. Variants in Yāqūt, Irshād III 153, 5ff.; Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj 2II 509, 2ff., and Bayhaqī 565, 1ff. This was the so-called ḥadīth al-nuzūl (see vol. II 682 above); Ibn Taymiyya wrote a monograph about it (cf. the bibliography). 5  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 79, –5ff. 6  Text XX 5; cf. sura 2:225, 3:2, and 20:111. The attribute probably goes back to Dan. 6:27 (Horovitz, Proper Names 219); Paret translates as ‘der Beständige’ (the steadfast one). 7  Tafsīr 3V 388, 1ff., with reference to earlier authorities. 8  See vol. I 401, 407f., and 428 above. For late Shīʿite criticism of the concept of God descending cf. Kulīnī, Kāfī I 125, 3ff. 9  Thus according to O’Shaughnessy, Eschatological Themes in the Qurʾān 12ff.; on the topic as such cf. id. in: Numen 20/1973/202ff., and the collection by M. Philonenko (ed.), Le trône de Dieu (Tübingen 1993). More detail on p. 455ff. below. 10  Sura 39: 75 and 40:7; cf. Marzūqī, Azmina wal-amkina I 100, 12ff.

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have a different face each was adopted from the vision of Ezekiel (1:10),11 and people imagined that when God waxes wrathful he grows bigger on the throne and the bearers have trouble holding him.12 He sits there ‘in the fashion of a lord’ ( jilsat al-rabb): one leg crossed over the other and leaning back, resting on both his hands – quite relaxed, in fact, not as majestically as we would imagine it.13 This idea, too, appears to have been inherited from Judaism. Shahrastānī pointed the parallel out,14 and he also knew where it came from: the description of the seventh day of creation, when God rests from his labours;15 this explains the relaxed position. Of course sura 50:38 tells us: ‘And so we created heaven and earth, and everything between them, in six days, and no weariness touched us’, and, even more apodictically, the throne verse in sura 2:255: ‘He is touched by neither weariness nor sleep’. Still, the same thing was said in Ps. 121:4: ‘Behold, he that keeps Israel neither sleeps nor slumbers’. This was not necessarily seen as a contradiction; after all, God may sit and relax on his throne on the sabbath even if no weariness touches him.16 His bearing is that of an earthly king. Cf. the way in which the caliph al-Wāthiq is described in the story quoted in vol. III 545 above. There is a parallel to this, too, in Jewish tradition; in the Midrash on the Song of Songs (Neusner, Song of Songs Rabbah I 141, sentence C). In ordinary mortals, however, this position was frowned upon. Kaʿb al-aḥbār was said to have criticised someone by remarking that only God may sit like this (Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 25, ult. f.); a parallel has the companion of the prophet Qatāda b. Nuʿmān who criticises his half-brother Abū Saʿīd al-Khudrī because of it (Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 448, 10ff.; Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 79, 2ff.; also Faḍl b. Shādhān 14, 3f., but without naming the persons). Later, however, Bayhaqī stated that the position 11  Thus e.g. Muqātil b. Sulaymān, with a new, individual interpretation (cf. Nwyia, Exégèse coranique 69). We are familiar with them as the symbols of the four evangelists named in Rev. 4:6–8 (cf. Zimmerli, Ezechiel I 60ff.). The concept was already evoked by Umayya b. Abī l-Ṣalt in a verse (Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 60, –8). Cf. Text XXII 254.14, b, with the commentary, and in more detail C. Schöck in: WO 27/1996/104ff. 12  Thus Ḥammād b. Salama after a certain Ayyūb b. ʿAbd al-Salām of whom Ibn Ḥibbān said that he was very nearly a zindiq for that reason (Mīzān no. 1089; Fück, Arabische Kultur 270). 13  Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 226, 3; Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 42, 4ff. 14   Milal 171, 9f./519, 1f.; transl. Gimaret, Livre des Religions 611. 15  Thus also Ibn Fūrak, loc. cit. 16  Cf. the hadith Ṭabarī I 20, 8f./transl. Rosenthal 188; also ibid. 47, 11ff./transl. 217f. The Jewish parallels are discussed in St. Schreiner’s professorial dissertation Lehre und Gebot Berlin 1987), p. 61ff.

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was forbidden only if the person’s izār was too short (ibid. 451, –9ff.). Ibn ʿArabī imagined that God while sitting on his throne placed one of his feet into paradise and the other into hell, thus displaying his dual nature of jamāl and jalāl (Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge 359ff.). The distinction stated above, between God’s otium (being an attitude of the upper class) and his weariness (which would be more suitable to a labourer), must be seen against the background of pagan criticism of the Judaeo – Christian concept of the work of creation. Aphrahat seems to defend himself against the Zoroastrian accusation that God was too weak to create the world (Neusner, Aphrahat and Judaism 125). Celsus, too, emphasised this point (cf. H. J. Vogt in: Studia Patristica XXI 359ff.). Some Muslims, on the other hand, tried to use this pagan argument against the Jews with reference to the Quran (cf. Radtke, Weltgeschichte und Weltbeschreibung 222ff.); they even had Christian predecessors (cf. Speyer, Biblische Erzählungen 23). Regarding the further development of the discussion around sura 50:38 cf. vol. III 155 above. The parallel in sura 2:255 is said to have led Hishām b. al-Ḥakam to conclude God’s physicality: only in that case the statement that ‘neither weariness nor sleep’ touched him could be ‘praise’, i.e. point out God’s perfection (Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir 2VII 178 no. 556). There is sufficient room on the throne for God to call someone to himself if he wishes to show his favour; we have seen that according to an exegesis by Mujāhid, he will awaken the prophet ‘to a praiseworthy rank’ on Judgment Day and have him sit on the throne beside him.17 ʿĀʾisha was said to have confirmed that God promised him this.18 Even so, Muḥammad had competition: Muqaddasī confirms that someone in Wāsiṭ claimed the same of Muʿāwiya. On this occasion God will anoint the caliph’s beard with sweet-smelling perfume and present him to the people like a bride.19 This was an honour apparently expected for every pious Muslim, or at least the martyrs among them,20 for the ‘beloved of God’ will, Muqātil b. Sulaymān claimed, walk past the rows of the angels until God sits him onto the throne next to him, touching his knee.21 17  See vol. II 720 above; after sura 17:79. 18  Ibn al-Jawzī, Dafʿ 66, 4ff. 19   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 126, 15ff. According to the heresiography published by P. Walker in JAOS 114/1994/343ff., this was Ibn Ḥanbal’s doctrine. 20  Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNBIII 224, apu. f.; with reference to sura 54:55, which speaks of a ‘good seat in the presence of a mighty king’. 21  See vol. II 596 above. Cf. the inscription BR 5115 (31) in Nevo et al., Ancient Arabic Inscriptions from the Negev 52, where a certain Bishr b. Tamīm asks to be ‘awakened to a praiseworthy rank’.

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Besides the different Quranic starting point, this may have had a different situation in mind, too: the pious human is exempt from the Judgment, while the prophet takes part in it and intercedes from his place on God’s throne. In the latter view the motif of shared rule is more prominent than elsewhere. Concerning intercession see p. 607ff. below. If it was believed to be possible at all, it was always inferred from sura 17:79 and the prophet’s ‘praiseworthy rank’, while the finer details, such as the sitting on the throne, were often left unsaid. Khushanī heard from a merchant in Qayrawān how around 280/893 a quarrel erupted concerning the issue in Baghdad (Akhbār al-fuqahāʾ wal-muḥaddithīn 158, –9ff.); the events discussed vol. II 720 above also belong in this context, which is expressed clearly by Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 198, –7ff. – Of course we also have to bear in mind Ps. 110:1: ‘Sit on my right side, until I make your enemies your footstool’. The phrase used there became incorporated in the Creed (sedet ad dexteram patris) and gave rise to vast swathes of theological literature; cf. in great detail M. Hengel in: Philonenko, Le trône de Dieu 108ff. The idea that God anoints the believers, and above all the ruler, with ‘the oil of gladness’ is also found in the psalter (45:7); it refers to the king in Israel. In order to determine the Sitz im Leben more precisely it is worth asking what kind of throne people had in mind, if it had room for a second person besides God. Royal thrones in ancient Mesopotamia were usually in the form of chairs; there is barely any reference to benchlike thrones.22 The throne of the Sasanid rulers, on the other hand, was in the style of a κλίνη, wide enough for the king of kings to have cushions on either side.23 Presumably influenced by this style central Asian princes, too, had thrones with side and back panels, with room for two or three people.24 A miniature in the Haughton-Shāhnāme shows Kay Khosrou and Rustam sitting on the same throne.25 This is the piece of furniture we must imagine in the report of Ziyād who, when he was governor of Iraq,

22  Cf. Metzger, Königsthron und Gottesthron (Kevelaer 1985); concerning benchlike thrones cf. ibid. 167. 23  L’Orange, Iconography of Cosmic Kingship 38; cf. also p. 74 and 78, fig. no. 74 and 78. In general cf. H. Kyrieleis, Throne und Klinen, Studien zur Formgeschichte (Berlin 1969). The Achaemenids followed the ancient Oriental tradition (cf. G. Walser, Audienz beim persischen Großkönig 8ff.). In: Philonenko 154f., Hengel uses images of ancient Egyptian thrones, but they are too early for the present issue. 24  Togan, Ibn Faḍlāns Reisebericht 160f. 25  Ed. Dickson-Welsh II no. 172.

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invited a scholar to sit next to him.26 This kind of throne was called takht in Persian; it could even be spacious enough for the Qarmate Abū Saʿīd in al-Ḥasā and his six sons to sit on it together. They also issued their orders jointly; whoever sat on the throne with the ruler was equal to him.27 All this applied to God in the same way. In addition the Khosrou was described as sitting on his throne with the sky at his feet, i.e. like a deity.28 It is possible that sitting ‘in the fashion of a lord’ may have been the demeanour of the Sasanids, too. On a relief in Tang-i Sarwak the prince sits enthroned on a dīwān in a similarly comfortable position (cf. P. O. Harper and P. Meyers, Silver Vessels of the Sasanian Period 105). From India to Iran people crossed their legs in front of their torso when seated, or one might dangle one’s feet a little and cross the ankles (cf. von Gabain in: Festschrift Pritsak 260; also Das Leben im uigurischen Königreiche von Qōčō 106ff.). In the imagination of the Mazdaists God sat in heaven like Khosrou on earth, ruling by means of the letters that make up the sublime name (Shahrastānī 193, 10ff./633, 6ff.). In the eyes of the anthropomorphists God’s actions confirmed the functionality of his limbs. Just as his ‘coming’ implies that he has feet, so eyes and ears are a logical consequence of the Quranic statement that he sees and hears.29 Early Shīʿites genuinely believed that he could see only that which was not hidden by a screen, just like humans.30 Bishr al-Marīsī, on the other hand, explained that ‘to see’ in this context always meant ‘to know’.31 However, in the original understanding God could also forget;32 his knowledge was thus not reliable. The belief that he was all-knowing was not universal in any case; in Kufa – and possibly elsewhere, too – it was believed until the late second century that he had no foreknowledge.33 Whatever he saw was new to him; he perceived it with his senses or with his (sight) rays.34 In addition God proves his physicality by being seen; in the long run the visio beatifica became the point where the 26  Balādhurī, Ansāb IV 242, –6 ʿAbbās; more examples vol. II 721 above. 27  Nāṣir-i Khosraw, Safarnāme 82, –8f./transl. Schefer 227. 28  See n. 23 above. 29  Cf. the frequent formula inna llāha samīʿ un baṣīr; cf. p. 478 and 497 below. 30  Thus Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm in a Muʿtazilite expression; cf. Abrahamov in: Arabica 34/1987/102. 31  Text XX 10; cf. p. 93 and 217 above. 32  See p. 418 above. Later this would be rejected based on sura 19:64 (Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 111, 6ff.). 33  See vol. I 386 and 437f. above; also p. 492f. below. 34  See p. 430 above, also 423f.

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opponents’ transcendentalism reached its limits.35 When God appears to the blessed he is laughing, as he is pleased with them.36 Some traditions were marginalised and do not easily lend themselves to interpretation. If we read that God suffered from eye trouble and that the angels visited him on his sickbed, it becomes comprehensible only once we learn that he had cried about the flood and the destruction of the humans until his eyes were red;37 it was known that this legend had its origin in a Midrash.38 It appears in a new light when we compare what Ibn Ḥazm reported, following a narrative preserved by Masʿūdī, about the liturgy of the Jews: on the eve of Yom Kippur they would remember how Metatron, ‘the small God’ (al-rabb alṣaghīr) was tearing his hair and crying because his house had been destroyed and his children been made orphans.39 Metatron had the function of mitigating anthropomorphism,40 and the destruction of the Temple was added to the recollection of the flood.41 However, what should be done about the hadith that God created his being (himself? nafsahū) out of the sweat of horses that he had created previously and then made them frolic until they felt hot?42 Sweat is an emanation and consequently makes it possible to explain creation without involving ­matter.43 Still, Mughīra b. Saʿīd had put things more simply already: God himself sweats and an ocean – or rather: two seas – form out of his sweat, which he then uses 35  See p. 460ff. below. 36  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 50, 1; Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 263, 12ff.; 264, 6ff.; 277ff.: after a hadith. Further references for this issue in Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 150, 14ff.; concerning the theological problem cf., briefly, Ammann, Vorbild und Vernunft 24f. 37  Shahrastānī 77, apu. ff./176, 5ff.; also Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj 2II 400, 1f. Also Fück, Arabische Kultur 269. 38  Shahrastānī 169, –6/511, 9. Cf. the passages in P. Kuhn, Gottes Trauer und Klage in der rabbinischen Überlieferung 47ff. and 401f. 39   Murūj II 390f./II 83 § 802 Pellat > Fiṣal I 223, 11ff.; also Lazarus-Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds 31, and Adang, Muslim Writers on Judaism 79f. and 99ff. 40  See p. 419 above. This motif is not found in the Midrash; on the contrary, Metatron offers to carry God’s sadness for him (Kuhn 237). 41  Kuhn 61ff. and 232ff. 42  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Marīsī 143, 2ff./500, 11ff.; Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 156, ult. ff.; Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 471ff.; Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 11, 2 (with further instances in the apparatus; Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 76, apu. ff.; Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 3, 8ff.; Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 225, apu.; Ahwāzī in: BEO 23/1970/130 = Yāqūt, Irshād III 153, 13ff.; Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 48, 6ff.; Fück, Arabische Kultur 268 with references; Kohlberg, Medieval Scholar 129, with reference to the K. al-asmāʾ by a certain Sulaymān b. Muqātil. Adopted by Ḥammād b. Salama and Muʿādh b. Muʿādh; later dismissed as an invention of the zanādiqa. Baghdādī rejected it because it was absurd and did not allow of a reasonable exegesis (Uṣūl al-dīn 23, 2ff.). 43  See vol. I 368 above.

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to create the good and the evil humans.44 A later Sunni text includes the idea that the light, feeling ashamed before God, began to sweat, and emanated the angels, the throne etc. in this way.45 In the understanding of the ahl-i ḥaqq, the panj-tan or shash-tan, once again angelic beings, were created from God’s sweat, moustache, underarm hair46 – why, then, the horses? The only connection that appears to suggest itself so far is with sura 100, where the feminine plural forms in verses 1–5 were interpreted as indicating horses.47 And we do not know just why it was God’s ‘being’ or ‘soul’ – rather than his ‘form’ – that was created in this way.

44  Ashʿarī, Maq. 7, 10f.; cf. p. 431 above. 45  In Macdonald’s article in: Isl. Studies 3/1964/290, where the translation has incorrect ʿirq ‘vein’ instead of ʿaraq ‘sweat’. Regarding the text see p. 582, n. 2 below. 46  Niʿmatullāh, Shāhnāme-yi ḥaqīqat vv. 727ff.; Minorsky in: EI2 I 260f.; Mokri in: JA 265/1972/241. There is a hadith confirming that the angels were created out of God’s body hair, which appears to have been interpreted as particles of light (cf. Fück 269; also Bayhaqī 432, –5ff., and Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 76, apu. ff.; also p. 432 above. 47  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 2XXX 271ff.; here, too, we read khayl as in the hadith. In general cf. Neuwirth in: Festschrift Falaturi 6ff., which also considers sura 71:1–5. In the present context it is relevant that the horses are imagined as running.

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1.2.2 ‘Sitting on the Throne’ and the Omnipresence of God In the Quran, the throne is the most prominent symbol of God’s power; usually God does not have a crown or a sceptre.1 This probably explains why the so-called throne verse 2:255 was particularly attractive to Muslim piety; it is found on an inscription probably dating to the second century and now preserved in the museum in Amman.2 Anyone reciting it after every prayer will be prevented only by death from entering into paradise immediately, a hadith assures us.3 In fact, the throne is only one of several topics on which this comparatively long verse touches; furthermore, the word used here is kursī rather than the more usual ʿarsh.4 However, rather like sura 112, this verse came to be seen as a kind of profession of faith. Theodore Abū Qurra5 as well as ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī6 regarded the idea of the throne as a core concept of Muslim thought.7 There is no room in the present study in which to unfold the range of popular ideas that grew up around this core.8 Judaism had already assumed that the throne, like God, consisted of light; hair-splitters imagined that the divine light generated a light reflex in the primal ocean out of which the throne would be fashioned.9 In the Shīʿa we find the idea that its light is refracted: it is red, green, yellow and white – presumably in contrast to the pure white colour of

1  The Umayyad caliphs did not usually wear a crown either (cf. EIran VI 418f.). Mughīra b. Saʿīd’s locating the sublime name on top of God’s crown was based on a Jewish idea (see vol. I 471f. above). The same may be true of the hadith on p. 435 above. 2  Munajjid, Dirāsāt fī ta‌ʾrīkh al-khaṭṭ al-ʿarabī 115. 3  Sic! Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī II 230ff. with further instances. 4  The exegetes did indeed sometimes interpret this as a stool instead of a throne (cf. Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3V 398f. no. 5789ff.); see also p. 460 below. However, in the Aramaic of the Book of Daniel, korsē denotes the ‘throne’. In general see Vitestam, ʿArsh and Kursī. An Essay on the Throne Tradition in Islam, in: Living Water. Festschrift Løkkegaard 369ff. 5  Cf. REI 46/1978/129. 6  Burhān 77, –6ff. 7  Both are Christians; a Jew would probably not have perceived a great difference. The significance of the throne verse for the anthropomorphists was emphasised by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 149, 15f. Regarding its exegesis in Ṭabarī and Naysābūrī cf. Monnot in: MIDEO 15/1982/119ff. 8  Cf. Fahd in: Sources orientales I 246ff.; Corbin, Et son trône était porté sur l’eau, in: In Principio 293ff. Regarding Muqātil b. Sulaymān cf. Nwyia, Exégèse coranique 69; regarding Suyūṭī Heinen, Islamic Cosmology 77ff. Dhahabī collected a wealth of material in his K. al-ʿulūw lilʿAlī al-Ghaffār. 9  Scholem, Jüdische Mystik 123; in general see B. Ego, Gottes Thron in Talmud und Midrasch, in: Philonenko, Le trône de Dieu 318ff. In the study cited on p. 448, n. 9 above, O’Shaughnessy also refers to Jewish sources.

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the divine light.10 They probably had the rainbow in mind.11 This four-coloured light is in turn the source of earthly light, sun and moon,12 but also of the enlightenment in the heart of humans, of knowledge.13 God is the one who lives on high (al-ʿālī);14 after the work of creation he ‘settled himself on the throne’ (istawā ʿalā l-ʿarsh).15 However, it is not the case that he is borne by the throne; on the contrary, it is God who carries the throne.16 The relation between God and the throne gave rise to a multitude of conjectures. One hadith answers the question of where God was before he created the throne: ‘in the clouds (ʿamāʾ), air above and air below’.17 Awzāʿī was the first to express the belief that God did not sit on but above his throne ( fawqa ʿarshihī);18 he is above’ (bi-jihati fawq), as the Karrāmite theologian Hayṣam b. Muḥammad would say later.19 On the other hand many Ḥanbalites insisted that he touched the throne; Ibn al-Jawzī tried to qualify this belief.20 This gave rise to the question of whether the throne surrounds him, as in that case God would be smaller.21 The early Karrāmites found the compromise solution that he was confined from beneath only, but was infinite in all other directions.22 This allowed them to say that he was mightier than everything, for although the throne encompasses heaven and earth,23 there had always been the idea that God was greater, greater even than the world.24 Ibn Kullāb understood ‘on the throne’ to mean simply ‘on high’, without denoting a specific 10  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 129, 12ff.; Majlisī, Biḥār LVIII 10, 3ff.; also Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 127. 11  Cf. in general E. Zenger, Gottes Bogen in den Wolken (Stuttgart 1983). 12  Ṭabarī I 76, apu. f./transl. Rosenthal 247. 13   Kāfī I 129, 12ff. 14  Gimaret, Noms divins 206f. 15  Sura 7:54 with the parallels in Paret, Kommentar 161; Nagel, Koran 180. Cf. also p. 440f. above. 16   Biḥār III 330f. no. 35 (after Hishām b. al-Ḥakam); X 198, –5ff. 17  I.e. before the clouds part and the rainbow becomes visible; Fück, Arabische Kultur 270, after Ḥammād b. Salama. 18  Dhahabī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Islām VI 228, 1f. 19  Juwaynī, Shāmil 511, 12f.; claimed for Ibn Karrām himself by Shahrastānī 80, 3f./181, 3f. (cf. Gimaret, Livre des Religions 348, n. 12). Regarding Hayṣam b. Muḥammad cf. my Ungenützte Texte 68ff. 20   Dafʿ shubjat al-tashbīh 47, 6ff., and 17, 5ff. 21  All the more so if Muḥammad, too, finds room on it. Consequently the prophet himself was quoted as saying that the space left for him was only four fingers wide (TB VIII 52, 11 and 15). 22  Cf. my Ungenützte Texte 21. Ezekiel already had a ‘firmament’ (raqīʿ) separating God from the four ‘living creatures’ carrying the throne (1:22); however, the throne is above it. 23  Thus Kulīnī, Kāfī I 132 no. 3f. 24  Cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 208, 10ff.; also Dārimī, Radd ʿalā Bishr al-Marīsī 85, 7ff./443, 6ff.

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location.25 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam had already suggested a more abstract approach, regarding the throne as a (metaphorical?) name for the location where God is.26 Even so, one would have to decide whether God is not, in fact, the space ( faḍāʾ) in which the things, presumably including the throne, are ­located.27 In that case, one would have to say, God is infinite.28 This recalls God being called ‘the place’ (māqōm) in Judaism.29 We might also refer to Jamblich; in his view God was the space in the sense that he encompasses and embraces everything.30 Polemic often reduced this to simple alternatives: Above and Below, for instance,31 or Somewhere and Nowhere. God is either everywhere, in ‘space’, or in a specific location, namely on his throne; the idea that God was everywhere was considered ‘Jahmite’.32 In reality, the ‘Jahmites’ ranged from immanentism to transcendentalism; they were agreed only in the rejection of attributing any location to God.33 In this they agreed with the Muʿtazilites; God is everywhere, as he guides and governs everything, was the usual f­ ormula34 – ­everywhere, but not anywhere in particular,35 or everywhere, but without either touching things or being separate from them.36 Even on the top of a mountain one is no closer to him.37 This idea finally took root, with some nuances, among all the speculative theologians. Not even the ascetics were averse to it at 25  See p. 219 above. 26  See vol. I 427 above. 27  Mentioned as the view of one particular group by Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB III 227, pu., after Naẓẓām and Burghūth; shorter Ashʿarī, Maq. 209, 5f., apparently after Burghūth as well; Nashwān, Ḥūr 146, pu. ff.; Khwārizmī, Mafātīḥ 20, 11ff. (read Faḍāʾiyya instead of Qaḍāʾiyya); in most detail in the heresiographical text discussed by P. E. Walker in: JAOS 114/1994/343ff., where we also learn the names of two sectarian leaders. Cf. Schreiner, Ges. Schriften 277ff. 28  Maqdisī, Badʾ I 103, 9 (which also has, incorrectly, aṣḥāb al-qaḍāʾ rather than aṣḥāb al-faḍāʾ). 29  ‘Place’ in the sense of ‘space’ (cf. Jammer, Das Problem des Raumes 28ff.; Wolfson, Philo I 247ff.; Urban, The Sages 66ff., where he translates as the ‘omnipresent’ one). In the words of ShNB, too, God is makān al-ashyāʾ. 30  Simplikios, In Categ. 363, 32–364, 6 Kalbfleisch. Jammer points to the connection between space and light; space is filled with light (36ff.). 31  Regarding the world view of the Christian Middle Ages cf. e.g. H. Blumenberg, Genesis der kopernikanischen Welt 40f. 32  See vol. II 604 and 600 above. 33  Ibid. 564f. 34  See p. 130 and vol. III 95 above. Concerning the Jahmiyya cf. Dārimī, Radd ʿalā Bishr alMarīsī 101, 11ff./459, 4ff. 35  Thus Kulīnī, Kāfī I 94, 3ff., after a prophetic dictum. 36  Ibn Qutayba, Ikhtilāf fī l-lafẓ 36, 3f./239, –4f. 37  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā Bishr al-Marīsī 100, 13/458, 7.

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first, the Bakriyya being a good instance of this.38 Opponents were found above all in Iran, among the ascetics around Ibn Karrām and his school,39 elsewhere mainly among the Shāfiʿites and the Ḥanbalites. Even a man as conservative as Ibn Ḥibbān al-Bustī (a Shāfiʿite himself) was attacked because he believed God to be unlimited.40 ʿAbdallāh al-Anṣārī accused the Ashʿarites of believing that heaven was empty and that God could fit inside the stomach of a dog.41 This argument suggested itself; it was found in a similar form in the Indian Lokāyata.42 The author of the Shkand gumānīk vichār mocked the contradictions in which the Muslims entangled themselves.43 Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s father presented in even more detail that God is neither within things nor outside of them (Meier, Bahāʾi Walad 118f.); rather, God is ‘with’ all things (ibid. 144ff. and 160ff.). This sounds rather like panentheism in Spinoza’s sense, but there is not enough material on the early Jahmites for us to determine how far the parallel went. S. Schechter collected rabbinical documents on God’s omnipresence (Some Aspects of Rabbinic Theology 26ff.). Could the intensity of the debate in eastern Iran in particular be linked to the fact that among the central Asian Turks the word for God, tängri, actually meant ‘heaven’? (Cf. J.-P. Roux, La religion des Turcs et des Mongols 110ff.). It is not always easy to discern which position the traditionalists were hiding behind their polemic. Of course they, too, believed that God governs all, but they did not infer from this that he actually had to be present everywhere. The Muʿtazilites and many Jahmites probably did not believe this, either, but they were quicker off the mark when metaphorical explanations were needed. The throne (kursī) is God’s knowledge, they said based on Ibn ʿAbbās. He had interpreted the central passage of sura 2:255 as follows: if the throne ‘reaches far beyond heaven and earth’ this is because God has knowledge of even the furthest corner44 – and not only the Jahmites repeated it after him,45 but even 38  See vol. II 128 above. Ḥasan al-Baṣrī, on whom their ideas were based, was said to have refused to comment on the matter altogether (cf. the Ibāḍite account in Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ II 49, 2ff.). 39  Cf. U. Rudolph, Al-Māturīdī und die sunnitische Theologie in Samarqand 303ff. 40  Cf. Fück in: EI2 III 799. 41   Dhamm al-kalām, quoted by Beaurecueil in: MIDEO 5/1958/81, n. 2. 42  Cf. Tucci in: Atti Lincei, Series V 17/1923/284. 43  Transl. de Menasce 167, 2ff. 44  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3V 397f. no. 5787f. 45  Text XX 17, a; Ibn Manda, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 45, 11, and apu. f.

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Ṭabarī embraced it.46 In the eyes of the Jahmite with whom Dārimī debated,47 God’s ‘settling himself on his throne’ was simply an expression of his rule;48 in that sense he ‘settles himself’ on everything.49

46   Tafsīr 3V 401, 1ff.; also Kopf in: SI 5/1956/54. 47  See p. 255 above. 48  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Marīsī 84, 5ff./442, 4ff.; regarding the diverse interpretations cf. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal II 123, –11ff. 49  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 127 no. 6. In the view of Karl Barth, too, God’s omnipresence is the basis of his rule. He is present in everything; distance and closeness are one (Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 518ff.). The throne is within space but raised above earthly space, and consequently God’s space only (ibid. 533).

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1.2.3 The Vision of God in the Otherworld The prophet himself had already discovered problems with the idea that it could be granted to humans to see God.1 ‘The eyes (of humans) attain him not’, sura 6:103 tells us, with sura 42:51 stating more clearly that when God imparts a message to a human he does so ‘from behind a curtain’.2 It is consequently not surprising that early exegetes such as Mujāhid, ʿIkrima, or Ḥasan al-Baṣrī were said to have rejected the possibility of seeing God with one’s eyes (ruʾyat Allāh bil-abṣār).3 In hadith we come across the idea that during the Last Judgment God is screened by curtains of darkness, water, etc.;4 in some cases the ruʾya is rejected outright.5 There was opposition in Judaism,6 and during Hārūn alRashīd’s time the patriarch Timothy I even excommunicated fellow believers who claimed that ascetics could see God, and that Jesus had done so during his earthly existence.7 The ruʾya had champions, on the other hand, in all those to whom paradise had a special significance: the mystics, e.g. in ʿAbd al-Wāḥid b. Zayd’s circle,8 and the warriors for the faith; the idea spread especially in the thughūr on the border with Byzantium and in eastern Iran.9 People listened eagerly hadiths telling them how on Fridays the blessed gather on platforms and chairs, and how God descends from his heavenly throne (ʿarsh) to them, onto his earthly throne (kursī) in paradise;10 then the curtain is raised and they

1  See p. 432f. above. 2  Cf. also Paret, Mohammed und der Koran 145/550. 3  Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal III 2, 4ff.; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī IV 213, 3ff. > Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 466, 2ff.; Rabīʿ b. Ḥabīb, Musnad III 22 no. 855 with further names; also vol. II 734, n. 3, and 700f. above. The extant text of Mujāhid’s Tafsīr has probably been castigated and contains no information on either passage. 4   Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 15, –6ff. and earlier. 5  See p. 433 and 436f. above; also Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 276, –4ff., or Shawkānī, Fawāʾid majmūʿa 441, 8ff. The Jahmites as well as the Muʿtazilites exploited these traditions (cf. Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 155, 1ff., and vol. II 786 above; also ibid. 214 and I 139). 6  Gruenwald, Mysticism 93ff.; Rüger in: Mittelpunkt Bibel, Festschrift Fick 39ff. 7   These were probably Messalians; cf. J. Martikainen, Timotheos I. und der Messalianismus in: J. Martikainen/H. O. Kvist, Makarios-Symposion über das Gebet (Åbo 1989), p. 47ff. Due to the incarnation, the vision of God was not generally a problem for Christianity. However, Augustine did not accept a physical vision of God, either: one does not see, one believes (Civitas Dei XXII 29.1). 8   See vol. II 112ff. above; also vol. I 143f. 9  Muranyi points this out in: ZDMG 136/1986/532. Cf. vol. II 601 and 617f. above; regarding the east Iranian Ḥanafite sources also Wensinck in: Muslim Creed 130 and 193f. Similar conditions would later be found in Spain (cf. Fierro in: RSO 66/1992/22ff.). 10  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 50, 1ff.; also vol. II 104 above.

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behold their lord, luminous as the full moon at night.11 ʿUmar II was said to have had such stories narrated to him already.12 Muḥāsibī harmonised them in an overview in his K. al-tawahhum;13 Dhū l-Nūn furthermore imagined the ‘spiritual concert’14 in which David would recite the psalter to celebrate the grand occasion.15 During the year of Dhū l-Nūn’s death16 the ruʾya was mentioned explicitly as an article of faith on a gravestone from Upper Egypt.17 These compelling images had only a limited foundation in the Quran. While it does describe the delights of paradise in great detail, it does not refer to the vision of God in any depth. Only sura 75:22 says that ‘radiant faces’ will ‘gaze upon their lord’ – but not in paradise, but rather ‘on that day’, i.e. during the Judgment when the faces of the damned are ‘scowling so one might think they were being branded’. This was no visio beatifica, but rather a brief moment in which a human grasps that God is well-disposed towards him. The hadith referring to the full moon at night was frequently linked to this m ­ oment.18 Even if one assumed the vision after the Judgment, it could not possibly be permanent; far too many other things had been promised the blessed. Consequently it soon became customary to adduce the statements of sura 10:26 and 50:35 according to which the ‘righteous’ (alladhīna aḥsanū) may expect ‘something in addition’ (ziyāda) to the ‘very best’ (ḥusnā). This ‘something’ was the vision of God;19 the Friday on which God shows himself to the blessed in the abovementioned prophetic dictum was consequently called yawn al-mazīd there.20

11  Dārimī 46, 1ff.; Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 84, 8ff.; Dāraquṭnī, K. al-ruʾya 99ff. (listing all variants). Also Conc. V 467a, and vol. II 490 and 813 above, also III 475. Concerning the philological problems see vol. V 358, n. 3 (of the German edition). – Concerning the spread of these hadiths in the Maghrib cf. Muranyi, loc. cit. 529ff. 12  Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 262, 10ff. 13  P. 54, ult. ff.; transl. in Gedankenwelt 214, and A. Roman, Une vision humaine des fins dernières 71ff. § 196ff. 14  The comparison was drawn by Massignon (Essai 2209). 15  Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya X 82, 20ff.; transl. Massignon, Essai 2209f., and Schacht, Lesebuch 91f. Cf. also Gedankenwelt 214f. 16  245/860; see vol. II 815 above. 17  RCEA II 21 no. 430. 18  Cf. e.g. Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 47, 1ff., and Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 100, –5ff., and 110, 5ff.; also vol. II 813 above. This was probably the original meaning, after all; the other versions merely eliminated the connection with the Judgment. Cf. vol. II 127. 19  See vol. I 307, and II 431 and 618 above; Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Marīsī 160, pu. ff./518, 11ff.’ Dāraquṭnī, Ruʾya 297ff. (with saying by the tābiʿūn in this sense); Ibn Khuzayma 118ff.; Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XV 62, apu. ff. Even Farrāʾ mentions this interpretation (cf. Beck in: Le Muséon 64/1951/200). 20  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 50, 9.

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Due to this exegetical broadening the body of evidence became increasingly complex. Those who believed in the visio beatifica basically relied on hadiths; the exegesis of sura 10:26 and 50:35 was anything but cast-iron,21 and sura 75:22f. could not demonstrate that the vision would be a reward granted to the blessed even after the Judgment. Those who rejected the vision of God for fundamental reasons, on the other hand, could refer to the phrase lā tudrikuhū l-abṣār in 6:103, and adduce the Moses pericope in 7:143, according to which Mount Sinai crumbled to dust because it could not bear the theophany,22 but sura 75:22f. was against them. The result was that compromises emerged instead of coherent, unified positions. Traditionalists often distinguished between the vision of God in this world and in the otherworld and admitted that lā tudrikuhū l-abṣār was quite valid in this world,23 while there were some Muʿtazilites who believed only the vision with the eyes (bil-abṣār) to be impossible but accepted the vision ‘with the heart’.24 Ḍirār believed that God would give humans a sixth sense in the otherworld;25 this, too, would ultimately be a ruʾya bil-qalb. Najjār said the vision of God was possible, but could not be proven.26 It was doubtful whether these intermediate solutions really made a difference; while the visual process did not take place with an organ of vision, it still referred to a visible object, and it was by no means certain whether God could be such an object. Certainly not for those who, following Jahm, even rejected the use of the predicate ‘something’.27 Others, too, met with difficulties, at least on the conceptual level; the objection that visibility presupposed physicality

21  Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Marīsī 158, –5ff./516, 5ff.; Ṭabarī 3XV 69, 8ff. The Jahmites based their divergent interpretation on Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (Ibn Khuzayma 121, 1ff.). Paret queries the equation of ḥusnā = ‘paradise’, and translates ziyāda as ‘excess (of reward)’. 22  Text XIII 21 A. XIV 19, o, and XV 29; regarding the understanding of this passage in general see Tuft in: Hamdard Islamicus 6/1983, issue 3/3ff. Similar also Text XX 12, f. 23  Thus e.g. some Basran Murjiʾites (cf. Gimaret in: JA 173/1985/243; similar vol. II 827 above). Indications of this are found in Muḥāsibī, Fahm al-Qurʾān 371, 5ff., and Pseudo-Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, ʿAdl wal-tawḥīd in: ʿImāra, Rasāʾil I 105, 13ff. 24  Thus Abū l-Hudhayl (see vol. III 277 above); similar also Kindī, Al-qawl fī l-nafs in Rasāʾil I 277, 13: ruʾya ʿaqliyya lā ḥissiyya. Regarding the early Shīʿa cf. Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 122f., who assumes this to have been a mystical tendency (144f., but see p. 435f. above). 25  See vol. III 53 above. 26  Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal III 2, 9; see p. 402 above. Of course these deliberations could not be separated entirely from the question of whether the prophet had seen God (see p. 432ff. above; also Ibn Khuzayma 130, 1ff.); it was emphasised that he, too, will see God during the Judgment and will be called up to intercede (ibid. 161, –4ff.). 27  See vol. II 562 above, and p. 484ff. below.

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had to be expected at all times.28 The antique theory of vision in particular, which the anthropomorphists were otherwise happy to cite,29 now became an obstacle: if one did not see the things themselves but only colours,30 there could be no explanation of the vision of God. And if one imagined God to be omnipresent, in every place ( fī kulli makān), the most important special characteristic – that was indispensable for the visual process according to the inherited understanding – was absent: the direction of the eye onto a particular point.31 This was probably why the Muʿtazilites adapted their position to that of the Jahmites: one does not see God, one only comes to know him.32 Sura 75:23 was reinterpreted, ‘those who gaze upon their lord’ meaning ‘those who await reward from him’.33 In due course the Shīʿa would convert to this opinion, too. Cf. the traditions in Kulīnī, Kāfī I 95ff.; also Mufīd, Fuṣūl II 121, 15ff./286, –8ff., and Sharīf al-Raḍī, Al-majāzāt al-nabawiyya 27, 4ff. (including a metaphorical interpretation of the full moon hadith). At first the problem had played a comparatively small part among the Shīʿites; the ruʾya is not mentioned among the fundamental truths of the faith (see p. 399f. above). This may be linked to the fact that they believed in the imām’s earthly vision instead (thus Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 328f.). Consequently many ‘Imāmites’ joined forces with the Muʿtazilites in 28  Cf. e.g. TB XI 466, 4ff., as Ibn Abī Duwād’s argument against Ibn Ḥanbal, or Dhahabī, Siyar XI 167, –6f. with reference to the trial of Aḥmad al-Khuzāʾī; also vol. I 468 and III 310 above. The consequence was the affirmation that that which has being is visible (see p. 181 above). 29  See p. 430 and 453 above. 30  Cf. vol. I 428f. and III 384, as well as p. 157 above. 31  And of course the distance to the perceived item; cf. vol. II 565 above, and in detail Tuft, Controversy over ‘Ruʾya’ 175ff. 32  Thus already Abū l-Hudhayl (cf. Text XXI 67f.). Regarding the Jahmiyya cf. Text XX 12, b–d. The east Iranian Ḥanafites who persisted in their belief in the ruʾya said instead that there was no distance between God and his creatures in this case (cf. ‘Fiqh Akbar II’, § 17; Wensinck, Muslim Creed 193f. and 229). Zuhayr al-Atharī (cf. vol. II 826f.) held a similar view. Regarding the conditions of visibility in Jahmite/Muʿtazilite understanding cf. Abdus Subhan in: IC 15/1941/422ff., and Stieglecker, Glaubenslehren 781ff.; they are summaries in Text XXIII 11 (Ṣāliḥ Qubba). 33  Jāḥiẓ, Radd ʿalā l-mushabbiha, in: Rasāʾil IV 9, apu. f.; Pseudo-Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm 105, –6f.; Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, Muʿtamad 31, 5f. This was apparently adopted from Mujāhid (see vol. II 718, n. 5 above, and Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 2XXIX 192, –8ff., where, however, one tradition limits the rewards to things of this world). A similar exegesis also from the middle Akhfash (vol. II 209f.); more strongly divergent Abū Ḥanīfa’s grandson after his grandfather (cf. Text XX 3, b–d; but see vol. I 242 above). For further information cf. Tuft 103ff.

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this issue early on (ibid. 118ff.); regarding the later period cf. Nettler in: Humaniora Islamica 1/1973/140ff. Concerning the subject in general cf. A. K. Tuft’s abovementioned PhD thesis, The Origins and Development of the Controversy over ‘Ruʾya’ in Medieval Islam and its Relation to Contemporary Visual Theory (UCLA 1979); the essay mentioned in n. 22 above is an excerpt of this. A good overview is provided by N. Pūrjawādī’s study Ruʾyat-i māh dar āsmān published in several issues of the journal Nashr-i dānish (10/1368 SH, no. 1, p. 6ff.; no. 2, p. 2ff.; no. 3, p. 16ff.; no. 4, p. 4ff., and no. 5, p. 16ff.; now also in print, Teheran SH 1375/1996). Pūrjawādī includes later mysticism in his deliberations. Among the sources some monographs originating in the environment of the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth are worth emphasising; besides Dāraquṭnī’s mentioned above (K. al-ruʾya, ed. Ibrāhīm Muḥammad al-ʿAlī and Aḥmad Fakhrī al-Rifāʿī; Zarqāʾ 1411/1990) these include ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. ʿUmar Ibn al-Naḥḥās (323/935–416/1025, K. ruʾyat Allāh; ed. by Maḥfūż al-Raḥmān b. Zaynallāh al-Salafī in: Majallat al-Jāmiʿa al-Islāmiyya, Medina 52/1401 [1981]/285ff.) and the Syrian historian Abū Shāma who studied Zamakhsharī’s ideas, among others (Ḍawʾ al-sārī ilā maʿrifat ruʾyat al-bārī, ed. Aḥmad ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Sharīf; Cairo 1405/1985). The most detailed exploration known to me among the primary sources is found in Ibn al-Wazīr, Al-ʿawāṣim wal-qawāṣim fī l-dhabb ʿan sunnat Abī l-Qāsim, in the fifth volume of the edition by Shuʿayb alArnāʾūṭ; the author gives a platform to both sides. The Muʿtazila’s original willingness to compromise (Ḍirār, Abū l-Hudhayl) may have been because in Kufa, where Ḍirār was active, as well as in Basra, the home of Abū l-Hudhayl, there were strong currents in favour of the vision of God; it was only in Baghdad that the Muʿtazila had closer contact to the Jahmiyya. Polemic of the day includes the argument that an object one can see, one can also touch (Qirqisānī, Anwār 170, 11ff.). This had ancient roots; the Kufan ghulāt might have vanished, but there were still ascetics in Basra who believed it possible that God touched them and they embraced him (Ashʿarī, Maq. 214, 4ff.). Most of those who believed in the ruʾya, however, were not open to this analogy, pointing out that one could see but not feel colours (Qirqisānī 170, ult. ff.). The evidence for the vision of God in this world adduced was that there were people who had dreamt of God: ‘whoever sees God in a dream will go to paradise’ the Kufan khaṭīb Yūsuf b. Maymūn transmitted (Mīzān IV 475, 3f.; see vol. I 264 above). The apocryphal book of dreams by Ibn Sīrīn discusses a few cases (Tafsīr al-manāmāt 5, 10ff.). The prime example was the Kufan khaṭīb Raqaba b. Maṣqala al-ʿAbdī (see vol. II 115f.

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above). While the vision of God lost its claim to reality in this context (see p. 436 above), it was clear in any case that the recipient of the dream embraced an anthropomorphic image of God. The Jahmites, consequently, believed such dreams to be mere flights of fancy (see vol. II 568 above). Ghazzālī (?) expressed his view on the issue in some detail (Al-maḍnūn bihī ʿalā ghayri ahlihī, in: Al-quṣūr al-ʿawālī 305ff.). For further examples see Ritter, Meer der Seele 447f.; after all, even Aḥmad Amīn mentions in his autobiography that he had seen God in a dream once as a child (My Life, transl. I. J. Boullata; Leiden 1978, p. 40). – Concerning the difference between the ruʾyat Allāh in Islam and the visio beatifica in Christianity cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 341ff.

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1.2.4 Summary and Outlook In the light of these materials the theory with which we started, namely that anthropomorphism in Islam was derivative,1 requires modification. Anthropomorphism is hardly based on scripture at all; the Quran contains considerably fewer anthropomorphic statements than the Old Testament. Its breeding ground, in fact, is the hadith. It must be said that more than a few prophetic dicta in which anthropomorphism is tangible and on which the ‘systematists’ base their argument possess some veiled exegetic meaning; they show how the Quran was read with some background knowledge. This background knowledge was tied to local traditions; consequently anthropomorphism is not so much derivative as induced. After all, it was not a new phenomenon; the two earlier revealed religions had explored it, too. This does not change the fact that frequently the individual level of education may have played a part. Bīrūnī later stated that simple people need images of gods as they rely on what is concrete.2 He said this with regard to India; looking at Hinduism one could learn what true anthropomorphism was. Jāḥiẓ had already found words of understanding for this foreign world;3 he also knew that because of their intensive connection with God Islamic anthropomorphists were more zealous when praying.4 Of course, this was no reason for him to believe their view to be correct;5 but it contained the seed of the insight that someone who ‘made an image’ of God did not necessarily make a statement regarding the transcendental reality at the same time.6 As long as the exegetic trench warfare had not fully erupted it was possible for literal and metaphorical understanding of scripture could exist side by side without trouble. Muqātil b. Sulaymān, himself an anthropomorphist, quite openly assumed a figurative meaning in some Quranic passages that would later be cited in support of anthropomorphic positions.7 The Ibāḍites, on the other hand, knew that before they had settled on a transcendentalist image of God,8 there had been no objections in their circles against occasional 1  See p. 417 above. 2  Taḥqīq mā lil-Hind 84, 4ff./transl. Sachau I 111. 3  Ḥayawān I 5, –4ff./transl. Souami 195f. 4  Ḥujaj al-nubuwwa, in: Rasāʾil III 253, transl. Ritter, Meer der Seele 441; cf. p. 132 above. 5  The entire section is directed against the Christians who worship Jesus as a visible God (ibid. 251, –5ff.). 6  Y. Friedmann found that the Iranian historian Gardēzī, who was familiar with Hinduism from personal experience, refrained from criticism altogether (JAOS 95/1975/216). Bahāʾ al-Dīn Valad, Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s father, held a similar opinion to Jāḥiẓ (cf. F. Meier, Bahāʾ-i Walad 268 and 278 with further material on the subject). 7  See vol. II 594f. above; also Gilliot in: JA 279/1991/57ff. 8  See vol. II 237f. above.

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anthropomorphisms.9 On the local level the two tendencies confronted each other in Basra10 and Kufa11 as well as – and in particular – in eastern Iran.12 There were some arguments concerning the issue, but matters became critical only once the material that had grown out of local tradition was collected, and compared with one another on a larger scale. This was an impulse to theology, especially within the Muʿtazila, to master the matter on a rational level. On this rational level it was easier to defend transcendentalism. It was not actually denied by the anthropomorophists either, just as the Christians did not deny it although they embraced the incarnation. Consequently the concept of a God who is different, not like humans, but at the same time not unattainable or alien, has remained an essential constituent of Islam to this day. There is no doubt that this included a degree of speculative progress, but we must beware of ascribing to it a one-dimensional earlier-or-later view. Jahm b. Ṣafwān, who carried transcendentalism to extremes, is the earliest Islamic theologian whose profile emerges for us to see; Jaʿd b. Dirham, too, who published similar ideas in another part of the empire altogether, in Upper Mesopotamia,13 stood at the very beginning. It is possible that they were both influenced by Neoplatonic ideas,14 but we should be guilty of simplification if we traced the trend towards a more abstract image of God back to the contact with Greek thought. It is possible to make this case for Judaism;15 but in the early Islamic period this synthesis had long been completed in the Middle East and could be adopted as it stood. In the region where Jaʿd b. Dirham lived, a prohibition of images had been issued shortly before, under Yazīd II;16 this might have been 9  Maḥbūb b. al-Raḥīl, Sīra ilā ahl Ḥaḍramawt in: Al-siyar wal-jāwābāt I 316, 7ff. Regarding Mujāhid cf. also vol. II 720 above. 10  Ascetics, mystics (see vol. II 114ff. above) and traditionists (ibid. 431f.) against Muʿtazilites and Ibāḍites. 11  ‘Rāfiḍites’ and a part of the Murjiʾites (e.g. ʿUbayd al-Muktib; see vol. I 243f. above) against Abū Ḥanīfa (see vol. I 242 above) and the Zaydites (cf. Abū Khālid al-Wāsiṭī, Tafsīr gharīb al-Qurʾān, vol. I p. 265). Kalbī, too, who probably had connections to the extreme Shīʿa (vol. I 298f.), included anti-anthropomorphic traditions in his Quranic commentary that were reported to him to have originated with Ibn ʿAbbās (Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Marīsī 54, 3ff./411, –5ff.). 12  Jahm b. Ṣafwān against most, if not all Murjiʾites (Abū Muṭīʿ al-Nasafī subsumed the mushabbiha under the Murjiʾa; Radd 120, –4ff.). 13  Regarding him see vol. II 509f. and p. 434 above. 14  Vol. II 514f. and 562f. above; also p. 476 below. 15  Cf. e.g. H. A. Wolfson’s monumental study of Philo (1–2, Cambridge, Mass., 1948). In a didactic treatise addressed to Ptolemy VI Philometor (ca. 175–170 BCE), i.e. two centuries before Philo, Aristobulus of Alexandria reinterpreted the anthropomorphisms of the Old Testament (Hanson, Allegory and Event 42; Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus 3298). 16  See vol. I 32 above.

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an expression of the same spirit.17 On the edges of the Old World, in the traditional centre of Islam, we find reticence when it came to the anthropomorphic interpretation of the scripture: in the Hijaz, with Ibn ʿAbbās and Mujāhid in Mecca,18 and Ibn Abī Yaḥyā19 and Ibn Isḥāq20 in Medina. While there was a counter-trend here, too, in which the Qadarite Muḥammad b. ʿAjlān played an important part,21 we may safely assume that transcendentalism – as long as it was not thwarted by some substrate – was found sufficient nourishment in the Quran. The opposition tried to tackle the issue by means of the bilā kayfin formula. The beginnings of this approach date back a long time. In his fatwā against the Jahmiyya Ibn al-Mājashūn emphasised that one should not ask ‘how?’ in the case of God;22 we come across similar phrases in the early Shīʿa, when it was still entirely anthropomorphically inclined.23 The idea, after all, suggested itself; in Christian theology the Syrian Bābai had already expressed something similar at the beginning of the seventh century.24 The way in which it was expressed, however, is of a comparatively late date; it is found in the Fiqh absaṭ, but only in a second stratum of the text,25 then in Zuhayr al-Atharī’s writings – presumably in the second half of the third century,26 and finally used by Ashʿarī27 and Māturīdī.28 In his Maqālāt, Ashʿarī traces it back to the aṣḥāb alḥadīth;29 Jāḥiẓ, too, was familiar with it from that environment.30 It asserts that God does not possess those sensitivities we observe in earthly things, above all 17  Regarding the relationship between divine transcendence and the prohibition of idols and the worship of alien Gods in the OT cf. O. Keel, Jahwe-Visionen und Siegelkunst 37ff. F. Peters lists texts from Judaism in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam III 52ff. Concerning the arguments of Byzantine theology cf. St. Gerö, Byzantine Iconoclasm during the Reign of Leo III., and in general Pelikan, Christian Tradition II 91ff.; for basic information see Strohmaier in: J. Irmscher (ed.), Der byzantinische Bilderstreit 83ff.). 18  See vol. II 720 above. The Ibāḍiyya in Iraq referred to Ibn ʿAbbās (cf. vol. II 238f. above). 19  See vol. II 782f. and 786 above. 20  See p. 433 above; cf. also the kitāb fī l-ṣifa he was said to have written (vol. II 757f. above). 21  Cf. Watt in: Transactions Glasgow Univ. Or. Soc. 18/1959–60/40, n. 2; also vol. II 763 above. 22  See vol. II 785 above. There is a much-transmitted dictum of this substance by his contemporary Mālik b. Anas, too (cf. e.g. Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 130, 12f.). 23  See p. 477 below. 24  Pelikan, Christian Tradition II 49. The Church Fathers probably furnish even earlier records. 25  See vol. II 604 above. Only a vague phrase was transmitted from Shaybānī in Iran (Nasafī, Tabṣira 130, 4ff.). 26  Vol. II 826f. above. 27   Ibāna 6, 9ff. and passim; cf. Frank in: Le Muséon 104/1991/159. 28   Tawḥīd 85, 15ff. Further instances in W. M. Watt in: Transactions Glasgow 13/1947–49/1ff., and Frank, loc. cit. 159ff.; also Abrahamov in: Arabica 42/1995/365ff. 29   Maq. 290, 9ff. 30  See vol. III 468.

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ourselves; one might even infer that consequently there was no need to concern oneself with them. Cf. Frank in: Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 2/1992/24f., and in more detail in: Le Muséon 104/1991/155ff. He rightly criticises (ibid. 175, n. 87) that earlier scholarship such as Wensinck and McCarthy always focussed on the latter connotation and consequently imputed fideism, antiintellectualism or even agnosticism to those who used the formula. For individual interpretations it would be advisable, however, to concentrate on the first interpretation. Kayfiyya, as the ‘infinitive’ of kayfa (cf. vol. V 378 [of the German edition]), denotes the peculiarity of earthly things; it is presupposed when one refers to a ‘form’ or ‘appearance’ (ibid. 156f.). The ambiguity hinted at was due to the fact that many of the statements concerned were found in the Quran, and thus in the view of the majority came directly from God; consequently they had to be accepted as they were.31 This was the decisive difference to the point of view of a ‘Jahmite’ such as Bishr al-Marīsī, who regarded the Quranic metaphors as human comments on God; he believed the ‘borrowed’ (mustaʿar), i.e. figurative descriptions in the Quran to be created.32 If, on the other hand, they were God’s speech, they could not have been ‘borrowed’; God only ever speaks in true speech.33 This was precisely what bilā kayfin referred to: as we are not familiar with God’s essential state of being, it appears metaphorical to us. This does not rule out the use of majāz in the Quran; Ibn Qutayba deliberated on this in the relevant chapter of his Ta‌ʾwīl mushkil al-Qurʾān.34 Metaphorical expressions, Ibn Ḥazm held, are part of everyday speech structure,35 but in the Quran it must only be presumed where there is some evidence for it.36 This evidence is found in the context; the Ashʿarites consequently explained that which we should call metaphors as the contextual meaning of a polysemic expression.37 31  This was why the Māturīdte Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī could say that it was permitted to speak of the hand of God in Arabic, but not in Persian (Baḥr al-kalām 21, 4f./transl. Jeffery, Reader on Islam 389). 32  Text XX 1; also vol. III 199 above. 33  This was demanded by the term employed; ḥaqīqī ‘veritative’ could not be separated from ḥaqīqa ‘truth, reality’ (veritas). 34  P. 76ff. 35   Iḥkām IV 29, 6ff./2I 414, 5ff.; also Arnaldez, Grammaire et théologie 78f. 36  Thus Ibn Samāʿa, Al-iktisāb fī l-rizq al-mustaṭāb 20, –4ff. 37  Cf. Frank in: Le Muséon 104/1991/162, n. 54. In Ibn Taymiyya’s review the key word is qarīna ‘attendant circumstance’; if a word can be understood without qarīna, it is used in its colloquial meaning, otherwise it is metaphorical (Īmān 109, –7f.).

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People sensed that the pair of opposites ḥaqīqa: majāz did not apply in the Quran; it had validity only on the linguistic, not on the theological level. Consequently, once it had become established it was used freely only where the subject was human speech, especially on the field of poetry. While it does occasionally occur in the uṣūl al-fiqh or in the tafsīr, this is only where it did not have to be applied to divine attributes. On the field of kalām, on the other hand, it was controversial from the first.38 It was only the Muʿtazilites and – later not separate from them – the ‘Jahmites’ who did not mind this, but for them, too, the best records are found in the uṣūl al-fiqh, e.g. Jaṣṣāṣ or Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī.39 The extreme opposite position was represented by those who ruled out any figurative meaning in the Quran, among them Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s son.40 Most, however, did not go as far as this, at least not in what they said. The practical distance was not quite small anyway; after all, even the Ẓāhirites admitted a context-related meaning in concrete individual ­cases.41 The argument concerned the principle above all. The issue was exacerbated when philosophers such as Ibn Sīnā conveyed the impression that they regarded the entire revelation as metaphorical.42 The subject needs further research. Ibn Taymiyya explored its theological dimension in detail in K. al-īmān (p. 83ff.). He noted that Ibn Ḥanbal of all people allowed a majāz in the Quran wherever God refers to himself in the first person plural (85, 7ff.). Apart from this instance he agrees with present-day scholarship that the beginning of ‘orthodox’ exploration of the concept was with Abū ʿUbayda (84, 2ff.). Of course the question also confronts Christian theology, but nowadays this always focusses on human speech about God; metaphors are the only adequate way in 38  Cf. EI2 V 1025ff. s. v. Mad̲ jā̲ z; also Heinrichs in: ZGAIW 7/1991–92/253ff. 39  Regarding Jaṣṣāṣ cf. Heinrichs 268ff.; regarding Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī cf. Muʿtamad 16ff. The latter refers to those who believed majāz to be possible in the Quran as the great majority (al-jumhūr; p. 30, 12); the opponents are ahl al-ẓāhir, ‘literalists’, to him, whom he refutes briefly (31, 7ff.). Concerning the Muʿtazilite and Jahmite use of ḥaqīqa: majāz in theology cf. vol. II 560 and III 199 above; also Heinrichs 256. Regarding majāz in the later uṣūl al-fiqh literature see Modarressi inL JAOS 106/1986/787ff. 40  ʿAbbādī, Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya 74, 2f.; the Shāfiʿite Aḥmad Ibn al-Qāṣṣ al-Ṭabarī (d. 335/947; cf. Halm, Ausbreitung 130), a pupil of Ibn Surayj, is mentioned besides him. Abū Yaʿlā had come across this attitude among Ḥanbalites (ʿUdda II 695, 7ff.; cf. Ibn Taymiyya, Īmān 84, ult, ff.). Among the Ẓāhirites in Spain it was embraced by the qāḍī Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-Ballūṭī (Ibn Taymiyya 85, 6; regarding him see p. 308f. above). Muḥammad b. Dāwūd’s approach is demonstrated by the example found in Heinrichs 264f. 41  Similar Ibn Taymiyya, Īmān 102, –5ff. 42  See p. 619f. below.

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which to speak about God and are consequently accorded the rank of actual speech (cf. e.g. Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 259, and Ricoeur, La métaphore vive 325ff.). E. Jüngel adds that this is linked to the fact that anthropomorphism is a fundamental condition of human existence (see p. 419 above). The doctrine of the analogia entis does not resolve the difficulty; consequently it was not evolved within Islam at all (cf. the information provided by Meier, Bahāʾi Walad 315f.; in general Jüngel, Gott als Geheimnis der Welt 3357ff.). In a later phase it would occasionally be relevant that other areas of poetic language, such as metaphors, hyperbole etc. were regarded as ‘lies’ in poetics, i.e. as deliberate alterations of reality (this was noted already by Ibn Qutayba as a critical argument, Ta‌ʾwīl mushkil al-Qurʾān 99, 6f.; later e.g. Abū Yaʿlā, ʿUdda II 700, ult., and al-Muʾayyad fī l-dīn, Majālis I 11, 1ff. In general Heinrichs, Arabische Dichtung und griechische Poetik 58ff.; Bürgel in: Oriens 23–24/1974/54ff., and N. Ajami, The Alchemy of Glory. The dialectic of truthfulness and untruthfulness in Medieval Arabic literary criticism, Washington 1988, with further references). The only stylistic device considered honest was the explicit comparison; nobody minded that it was used in the Quran as well (cf. Wagner, Grundzüge I 181; Heinrichs in: ZGAIW 1/1984/209). Zamakhsharī discovered that fictionality in Quran and hadith, as, indeed, everywhere else, does not necessarily mean untruth (cf. Heinrichs in: Fs. Schimmel 246). In the early period, however, the Quran was not viewed under the aspect of poetics at all, not even in the iʿjāz discussion (see p. 676ff. below). Beyond, and independently of, these hermeneutic theories an genuine anthropomorphism lived on in those movements and literary genres that were directed at the lower and lower middle classes, with the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth,43 the Ḥanbalites,44 in mysticism,45 in apocalyptic texts, and in popular beliefs in general. We have seen that when it came to mysticism the border fighters appear to have been the driving force.46 Muqātil b. Sulaymān, who linked

43  Ibn Khuzayma with his K. al-tawḥīd is a good example; he was a Shāfiʿite. 44  In more detail p. 474f. below. The report in Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 312, –5ff., may be regarded as including Ibn Ḥanbal himself; cf. also vol. III 486f. above. 45  See vol. II 115ff. above. Ibn Khafīf insists in his ʿaqīda that the prophet really saw God during his journey to heaven (Daylamī, Sīra 296, 105f.). Regarding tashbīh and tanzīh in the works of Ibn ʿArabī and Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī cf. Pourjavady in: Spektrum Iran 1/1986/20ff. 46  See p. 460 above.

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anthropomorphism with mystical ideas,47 seems to have been close to these.48 Interestingly Ibn Ḥanbal believed him to be the best among the early exegetes.49 The reason why anthropomorphically inclined Sufis such as Ibn Karrām were so keen to retire to Jerusalem may have been because they hoped that there, in the place of the miʿrāj (and the earthly paradise), they would be closer to God. Material on this subject may be found in Elad in: JASI 14/1991/67f. Regarding Ibn Karrām see vol. II 684 above; there were malicious rumours that he had a son whom he named ʿAbd al-Jashīm (!) (Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 68, 11). As for the border fighters we should not forget that they were not only hoping to become martyrs (shuhadāʾ) and see God in paradise before the other Muslims would be admitted but also – and above all – to be united with the paradise maidens. Concerning this topos cf. M. Jarrar in: Abhath 41/1993/27ff.; Ibn al-Mubārak composed a qaṣīda on it (ibid. 58). This is not necessarily linked to tashbīh; many mystics were reticent on the matter. Kharrāz rejected the tashbīh point-blank (see p. 322 above); Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī dreamt of God’s presence without seeing him (vol. II 627f. above). Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī beheld God ‘with the eye of certainty’ when conversing with him, but does not describe how he saw him (Sahlajī in ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Badawī, Shaṭaḥāt al-Ṣūfiyya 138, 3ff.); as this was during the process of un-becoming, sensory perception would not be the correct term any more. The contrast between anthropomorphists and transcendentalists was not, however, determined by social class from the outset; this was only determined by the disdain the Muʿtazilites and others felt for everything non-rational. Interestingly the first instances of the deepening conflict and harsher words are found on the side of the mushabbiha: possibly in Jaʿd b. Dirham’s execution,50 and certainly in a passage of the Bāqir apocalypse, the foundation of the Umm al-kitāb. This has ʿAzāzīl refusing to prostrate himself before Salmān al-Fārisī as the pre-existing Adam in whom God manifests himself, with the argument that God could not inhabit Salmān as his dwelling is the highest of the heavens. Within an adaptation of the pericope sura 15:28ff., God’s transcendence is thus presented as the idea of Satan. The idea rejected in this way is inimical to God and seductive at the same time: Jābir al-Juʿfī, the recipient of 47  In more detail Nwyia, Exégèse coranique 35ff. 48  See vol. II 581f. and 573. 49  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt I 68, 3f. 50  See vol. II 512ff. above.

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Bāqir’s revelation, is inclined to agree with ʿAzāzīl. Only the imām can change Jābir’s mind.51 Similarly the Jahmites and Muʿtazilites believed anthropomorphism to be due to the influence of the zanādiqa, and ascribed the hadiths that demonstrated it to their machinations;52 Ḥammād b. Salama, who circulated them in Basra – and was said to have learnt them from the Sufis in ʿAbbādān53 – was called the stepson of Ibn Abī l-ʿAwjāʾ.54 There were speculations on whether the tashbīh might be reason enough to exclude someone from the Muslim community.55 When the caliph Muhtadī (r. 255/869–256/870), sitting on the by a pond, gave everyone a wish, the Muʿtazilite Abū ʿUmar al-Bāhilī56 was said to have wished for the pond to be filled with the blood of the a­ nthropomorphists.57 The Ibāḍites had no qualms about killing them58 and enslaving their kin; Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm would express the same opinion in a later ­treatise.59 However, in most cases this had no direct legal consequences; often takfīr was simply the same as consigning opponents to the fires of hell.60 Furthermore the opponents were just as confident in their own way. A certain Abū l-Saʿādāt from Karkh, who had studied under Ṭabarānī, transmitted a characteristic ḥadīth qudsī from Ibn Ḥanbal, claiming that the latter traced it back to Ibn ʿAbbās (!): On the eve of every Friday God descends to this world together with 600,000 angels and takes his seat on a throne made from light. In front of him he has a tablet of red rubies on which are listed those members of 51  Cf. the text in Halm, Gnosis 160ff., esp. 167. 52  See vol. III 196f. regarding a Jahmite and Jāḥiẓ; later also Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 308, 12ff. and, in the Muʿtazilite tradition, Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 48, 6ff. The theory was adopted even by opponents of the Muʿtazila such as Ibn Qutayba; Dārimī, on the other hand, protested against it (cf. e.g. Radd ʿalā l-Marīsī 89, 1ff./446, –5ff. regarding the amrad hadith). See p. 453, n. 42 above, also p. 449, n. 12. 53  See vol. II 431 above. 54  Fück, Arabische Kultur 260; clearly marked as a mere conjecture by Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ walṣifāt 560, 7f. (where the relation is inverted). 55  See vol. III 147f. above concerning Murdār; also vol. II 202 concerning the Basran Murjiʾite Abū Shamir. More clearly Abū l-Hudhayl (vol. III 310f.). In more detail p. 748 below. 56  Regarding him see p. 274f. above. 57  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 311, –5ff. 58  Even when they were fleeing, which would normally have been contrary to the Ibāḍite code of honour (Maq. 109, 10ff.; also vol. II 265 above). 59  Madelung, Qāsim 121f. 60  See p. 749f. below. The miḥna does not contradict this, either. While the tashbīh did play a part in it besides the khalq al-Qurʾān (see vol. III 504 and 511f. above), apostasy would have been punishable by death. Later, however, the Almohads justified their jihād against the Almoravids with the latter’s anthropomorphism (cf. EI2 III 959f. s. n. Ibn Tūmart).

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Muhammad’s community who profess the vision (of God), (his) nature,61 and his form. He takes pride in them before the angels, saying: these are my servants who never denied me; they have fulfilled the sunna of my prophet and were not afraid of any criticism with regard to God. By my power and my glory, I testify here before you angels that I shall receive them into paradise without a judgment.62 The Ḥanbalites remained aggressive. They attacked not only Ṭabarī and Ibn Ḥibbān,63 but Abū Nuʿaym as well; he was chased from the mosque.64 Qushayrī was angered by them when he came to Baghdad.65 They instituted new local traditions, or continued old ones, such as in Damascus,66 and possibly also in Herat.67 In Iran anthropomorphism remained strong in any case; geographers noted it in the cities of Hamadan and Kāshān;68 Ḥākim al-Jushamī in the region of Azerbaijan.69 The Ẓāhirites were notorious for it, presumably in the region around Isfahan.70 In Shams al-Dīn al-Dimashqī’s day (654/1256– 727/1327) people in Gīlān still believed that God visited the humans at noon (!), riding on a grey (ashhab) donkey.71 ʿAllāma al-Ḥillī (648/1250–726/1325) reported the same of the Ḥanbalites in Baghdad, topping it with the remark that they put food and strw for the donkey on the roofs of their houses, as unlike God the donkey could not be without sustenance.72 The Ḥurūfīs would later even change the call to prayer for their anthropomorphism’s sake, adding the phrase ashhadu anna Ādama khalīfatu llāh because they believed that 61   Kayfiyya, apparently meant as a contrast to bilā kayf. 62  Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī II 26, –8ff.; regarding the transmitter cf. Mīzān no. 634. 63  See p. 458, and vol. II 720 above. 64  See vol. II 705 above. 65  Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿAwāṣim 282, 9ff. The author made a note of their spokesmen in all the countries through which he travelled: Egypt, Syria, Iraq (ibid. 283, 5ff.). The case of Ibn al-Jawzī shows that there were some moderates among them, too. In his Dafʿ shubhat al-tashbīh he names the radical ones, among them Abū Yaʿlā Ibn al-Farrāʾ, the author of Muʿtamad (5, 4ff.). 66  Regarding the seventh century cf. Pouzet, Damas au VIIe/XIIIe siècle 88ff.; Ibn Qudāma explored the issue at the beginning of the century in his Taḥrīm al-naẓar (§ 71ff. Makdisi). 67  Especially the mystic ʿAbdallāh al-Anṣārī; regarding his K. al-arbaʿīn fī dalāʾil al-tawḥīd see p. 417, n. 8 above. 68  Schwarz, Iran 527 and 568. Kāshān was mainly Shīʿite (see vol. II 708 above). 69   Risālat Iblīs 137, 10; see also p. 271 above. 70  Shāṭibī, Iʿtiṣām I 191, –5f. 71   Nukhabat al-dahr 226, 13ff. Mehren/transl. 315; similar Saksakī, Burhān 20, 9ff. regarding Ṭabaristān. Cf. p. 448 above. 72   Minhāj al-karāma in: Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj al-sunna 2II 506, –4ff. It is remarkable that Ibn al-Dāʿī also attributed scientific views on e.g. earthquakes, tides, etc. (Tabṣira 82, –5ff.).

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God had revealed himself in the face of Adam who was created in his image.73 However, overall the debate was toned down over time: people realised that a God who was in the form of a human from head to toe was a figment of the imagination and would upon closer scrutiny be found to consist of only those details that had been verbalised in the Quran and hadith.74 On the other hand great care was taken not to do away with these expressions altogether in the ‘Jahmite’ manner; but they were said to be beyond semantic and theological explanation.

73  Cf. Ritter in: Oriens 7/1954/1. 74  Ibn Khuzayma is typical of this view. He goes over the attributes one by one, always citing the Quranic confirmation first. He does not, however, accept ṣūra (Tawḥīd 26, 6ff.).

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Names and Attributes

In Jahm b. Ṣafwān’s view God could not be perceived; he has no qualities. When we look at the further development this appears to be an extreme position; the Muʿtazilites did not go as far. In the early phase, however, it was not entirely isolated. A similar understanding is demonstrated by a Hermetic logion presumably translated into Arabic by Sālim Abū l-ʿAlāʾ, the secretary of the caliph Hishām, which stated that God had no māhiyya.1 The Neoplatonic influence we already assumed above2 hypothetically for this time may once again find expression here. However, the word māhiyya is difficult to comprehend; it was distinct from anniyya ‘existence’ and was understood it to mean approximately ‘individual reality’.3 This pair of opposites it typical of early Kufan theology, but it also occurs in the works of the Christian ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī4 and was later adopted by the Neoplatonists around al-Kindī.5 Ḍirār b. ʿAmr and Najjār were the last to employ it in kalām; they, too, believed that it was impossible to perceive God’s māhiyya, although they did not altogether deny that he possessed it.6 This was not an end to the problem in any case; it lived on in the form of the question of whether God possessed a nafs or not. Nafs also denoted that which one tried to express with māhiyya: God’s personhood. The new term, however, had been gleaned from the Quran,7 which meant that the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth could now explore the issue. The Jahmites, on the other hand, regarded the nafs simply as a superfluous hypostasis. Cf. Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 4, 9ff.; negative also Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm (Madelung, Qāsim 115). Ibn Khuzayma put the discussion of the problem at the beginning of his book; he probably regarded the nafs as the basis of further attributes. Cf. also Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 351f.; in general Gimaret, Noms divins 151ff. 1  Ed. Grignaschi in: BEO 19/1965–66/75, l. 10; after a pseudo-Aristotelian mirror for princes. The Text emphasises, like Jahm b. Ṣafwān, God’s absolute omnipotence (p. 50); maybe this was the reason for his particular interest in the Umayyads. 2  P. 467. 3  See vol. I 433 above regarding Hishām b. al-Ḥakam. It is possible that the Hermetic logion has anniyya next to māhiyya, if we change the reading from ayniyya. 4  Masāʾil 153, 9. 5  Cf. the references vol. I 426, n. 52 above. Also Endreß in GAP III 20f. 6  See p. 150 and vol. III 53 above. The so-called Tafsīr of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq has māʾiyya with regard to God (MUSJ 43/1968/188, pu.; regarding the work see vol. I 351f. above). 7  Only, however, in the form of a reflexive pronoun (cf. sura 3:28, 6:12 and 54, 20:41). The most expressive is Jesus’ speech in sura 5:116: ‘You (God) know what is within my soul, and I know not what is within your soul’ (cf. Text XIV 19, p).

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The only way in which theology could react to God’s being impossible to perceive was with speechlessness. Khalīl b. Aḥmad furnishes a good example – that would later attract some ridicule.8 The Kufan Shīʿa tried neologisms: ‘God whered the Where without Where, and howed the How without How (ayyana l-ayn bilā ayn wa-kayyafa l-kayf bilā kayf). He cannot be comprehended either through Howness (kayfūfiyya) or through Whereness (aynūniyya), and he cannot be perceived by a sensory organ or by means of a rational conclusion (qiyās) in any way’.9 He is ‘free from Before before (every) Before’, and ‘free from After after (every) After’.10 Forms such as kayfūfiyya and aynūniyya sounded alien and yet somehow familiar; nouns of the pattern faʿlūla had always been derived from second-weak roots (which, after all, both ayna and kayfa were).11 The same phenomena are found in mysticism, e.g. with Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī or Junayd.12 God has ‘neither kayfiyya nor kaymūsiyya’, neither being nor juiciness, Quss b. Sāʿida was quoted as having said in praise of God earlier.13 The reference to χυμός, the ‘bodily juice’, was probably predominantly stilted scholarly speech;14 the lexicographers inferred from the word that God had no need of nourishment.15 Statements of this kind were well suited to rhetorical tawḥīd. ‘Praise be to God who precedes the kayfiyya and the māhiyya! He is superior to everything that is localised, limited, or describable ( jamīʿ al-ayniyyāt walmaḥdūdāt wal-mawṣūfāt)’ was transmitted from Aristotle.16 God, this tells us, is ‘something that can be neither comprehended nor defined’.17 Deus definiri nequit;18 his essence is his incomprehensibility, his ἀκαταληψία.19 Whatever humans say about him is wahm – mere imagination.20 The Neoplatonic approach had always found numerous followers in Christian thought. Maximus Confessor, the leading Byzantine theologian 8  See vol. II 256ff. above. 9  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 78, 13f.; also 88, 12. Similar, but not as stilted, the Hermetic logion in BEO 19/1965–66/75, l. 10f. 10  Ibid. 89, –4, and 90, 2; further examples in Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 14, 8ff. 11  Cf. daymūma, kaynūna, shaykhūkha (Wright, Grammar I 120). The Karrāmiyya would later derive the names of divine attributes of act in the same way from other verbal roots as well (cf. Ungenützte Texte 22: khāliqūqiyya, rāziqūqiyya). 12  Cf. e.g. his letter to Yaḥyā b. Muʿādh, ed. Abdel-Kader 2/transl. Reinert in Gramlich, Islamische Mystik 22f. 13  Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāya IV 200, 4ff. > Lisān al-ʿArab VI 197 b, 14ff. 14  Ullmann, Medizin im Islam 20; WKAS I 512a. 15  Cf. p. 412 above. Of course kaymūsiyya is not a direct morphological parallel to kayfūfiyya. 16  Mubashshir b. Fātik, Mukhtār al-ḥikam 186, 1. 17  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 82 no. 1. 18  Cf. Karl Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 216ff. 19  Ibid. 207f., with an overview of the historical development. 20  Thus in Shīʿite tradition, but maybe also in Khalīl (see vol. II 258 above).

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during Muḥammad’s lifetime, had emphasised the apophatic nature of knowledge of God: only negative statements are genuinely true.21 S. Griffith found the same tendency among the Christian theologians of the early Abbasid period who wrote in Arabic.22 In Islam, on the other hand, the model appeared quite alien. Much more than the Old and New Testaments the Quran contains predications of God which ascribe certain positive qualities to him. These liturgical affirmations are usually in the form of a nominal sentence: ‘He is the hearing one and the knowing one’ etc.; the personal aspects of God emphasised in the predicates of these sentences were called his ‘names’. Of course such ‘names’ could also be inferred from verbal sentences, and this would be made use of later. However, Sībawayh already emphasised that the asmāʾ, the nouns, take precedence over the afʿāl, the verbs;23 furthermore, the frequency of the predications in the Quran meant that an additional analytical approach did not appear to be immediately necessary. Above all, of course, the book itself exhorted the believers to address God by ‘(all) the beautiful names’ (al-asmāʾ al-ḥusnā) to which he is entitled;24 in this way the prayer practice from which theology would later profit, was instituted during the prophet’s own lifetime. When choosing the names it was irrelevant whether the predicates were expressed by an adjective or a noun (cf. Allāh, rabb, sayyid etc., besides ʿalīm, ʿazīz etc.); but the adjectives and participles were, of course, much more frequent. John of Damascus, on the other hand, proceeded analytically and on a philosophical foundation; consequently the ἰδιώματα he listed in De fide orthodoxa (I cap. 14) are much more abstract. It is thus not by accident that the ‘most beautiful names’ – which is another possible translation25 – are invoked besides the face of God, his mercy and

21  Pelikan, Christian Tradition II 32f. The theology of Pseudo-Dionys is fundamental here, especially his treatise De divinis nominibus. Regarding the problem in the present-day view cf. Jüngel, Gott als Geheimnis der Welt 3316ff. (regarding Pseudo-Dionys ibid. 348ff.). 22  In: Proc. PMR Conference 4/1979/66f. and 79ff. 23  The reason he gave was that a sentence could consist of asmāʾ only (adjectives being asmāʾ, too), while a finite verb form ( fiʿl), an action, always requires a noun as well (cf. U. Mosel, Syntaktische Terminologie 77f.). 24  Sura 7:180 and 17:110; also 20:8 and 59:24. 25  Thus in the hardback edition of Paret’s translation, which includes a retrospectively added note on the individual passages referring to Wehr, Der arabische Elativ (25) and pointing out the other variant. The latter has been included in the text in the paperback edition.

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his ‘perfect word’ in an inscription in the Dome of the Rock.26 A hadith traced back to Abū Hurayra, promises paradise to those who recited the names.27 This also gives their number as 99, one less than a hundred. It is well-known that this belief has become firmly established; it is how they are recited on a ‘rosary’ to this day.28 There were, however, competing ideas: a Shīʿite tradition speaks of 360 names,29and 1001 were also mentioned.30 Sahl al-Tustarī, on the other hand, recommended invoking God using the 40 names transmitted from Ḥasan al-Baṣrī,31 and a prayer recited by Shaqīq al-Balkhī which he traced back to the prophet (via Uways al-Qaranī!) listed only 36. Each time together with a rejection of the opposite: ‘You are living, not dead’ etc. (Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī II 349, –8ff.). 36 and 360 are round numbers (see vol. III 326 above), as is 40; 1001 and 99 are both nearly round, or deliberately not round (cf. H. Reinfried, Bräuche bei Zauber und Wunder nach Buchari 1f.). In a variant, however, we find 52 (Suyūṭī 350, –5ff.), and Qushayrī explains 85 names in Fuṣūl fī l-uṣūl (85; ed. Frank in: MIDEO 16/1983/65ff. § 59). Cf. also ‘the prayer of the prophet Idrīs in Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 71, 22ff./transl. Gramlich 257ff.: with 40 names) and that of Ibn Ḥanbal in Khallāl, Musnad 475, 1ff. (where the names are mixed with other formulas; the emphasis in this list is anti-Jahmite). Furthermore there are significant differences in the wording between the versions of the hadith that list the names individually; four versions are extant, in addition to a list by Sufyān b. ʿUyayna which is different again.32 It is important that from the outset many names were included that did not have any basis in the Quran. It might be conjectured that it was simply not possible to come up with a full 99,33 but this is not necessarily true: Sufyān b. ʿUyayna succeeded, and extrapolated from verb forms in very few cases only.34 It is more probable that from the first there were litanies that were fundamentally independent 26  By the east gate; cf. van Berchem, CIA, Jérusalem ‘Ḥaram’ 248/transl. Busse in: Das Heilige Land 109/1977/11. 27   Conc. I 474 b; also Gimaret, Noms divins 51f. 28  Cf. Wensinck in: EI1 s. v. Subḥa; Venzlaff, Der islamische Rosenkranz, esp. p. 37ff. 29  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 112 no. 1. 30  Cf. Meier, Bahāʾi Walad 139, n. 11. 31   K. al-muʿāraḍa, in Tunç, Sahl b. ʿAbdallāh al-Tustarī und die Sālimīya 116 §168. The Zaydite Muṭarrifiyya would later insist on this figure (cf. Tritton in: Le Muséon 63/1950/60). 32  Cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 55ff.; also Gardet in EI2 I 714ff. 33  Ibn ʿArabī would later claim that only 83 names were known with certainty (Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge 44). 34  Gimaret 69ff.

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from the Quran, and that Sufyān was reacting to these. He probably considered their independence to be deplorable. This was not yet the case in hadith. Shīʿite sources show similar findings.35 This encouraged the conclusion that the Jahmites had drawn from the very first: we are not looking at God’s predication of himself, but at humans speaking of God, which is not derogatory at all; humans praise God in these litanies using words which, while they might not all occur in the Quran, did follow its spirit. Of course this implied that these words were created and had no share in the divine origin of scripture. In the second century this was the true bone of contention. Ḥaddād al-Jadalī was flogged to death in Basra for this opinion,36 but there were certainly others who agreed with him; among the Ibāḍites the Nukkār believed this, probably perpetuating an old-established idea.37 This gives rise to the question of the relation between God and these names. Shīʿite sources believed to date from the same time tell us that he is the meaning (maʿnā) expressed by them all; he is consequently not identical with the respective names. He himself is eternal, but his names are merely ­earthly words.38 Bishr al-Marīsī put it even more incisively: God does not have a name at all; after all even a human exists independently of his name.39 And indeed the Quran does not contain any self-revelations by God in the style of an ‘I am …’-statement.39a Based on the Quranic records the question is not easily answered either one way or the other, as the Quran does not contain instances of the invocatio nominis which would be instantly recognisable as a prayer due to its being in the second person. The predications is does contain are worship anamneses in the third person, that had already passed through one theological reflexion and had been objectivised there.40 As God frequently appeared to guide the 35  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 114 no. 2, and 120ff. no. 2; regarding Ibn Bābōya cf. Gimaret 66. A list of names of God that is independent from the Quran is also found in the K. sirr al-khalīqa (p. 33, 5ff. = § 2.3; cf. Weißer, Das ‘Buch über das Geheimnis der Schöpfung’ 78ff.), but it follows Hellenistic tradition. 36  See vol. II 212f. above. 37  ʿAlī Yaḥyā Muʿammar, Ibāḍīya 302. ʿĪsā b. ʿAlqama al-Miṣrī may have been addressing people of his own school when he was fighting this doctrine (see vol. II 808 above; also 213). 38  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 87 no. 2 (Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq answering a question by Hishām b. al-Ḥakam); 113f. no. 4; 114 no. 2; 116 no. 7. 39  Text XX 1, c; also vol. III 198. 39a  With the exception of the passages sura 20:12–14 and 21:15, both of which do not belong in this context directly. Sura 20:12–14 recounts the events by the burning bush; interestingly ‘I am that I am’ is rephrased as ‘I am God’. 40  R. Schaeffler, Das Gebet und das Argument (Düsseldorf 1989; esp. p. 97ff.) is useful to put the question more precisely; however, he focusses on the invocations in the second person, as suggests itself in the context.

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prophet’s language,41 they could be interpreted as self-reflecting statements explained by verbal inspiration.42 Consequently the debate about this issue in the sources often reads like an early version of the argument over the khalq al-Qurʾān. When Bishr al-Marīsī wrote to the Abbasid Manṣūr b. Muḥammad, a brother of Hārūn al-Rashīd,43 asking if the Quran was ‘creator’ or ‘created’,44 his answer was an exhortation to banish the thought of such ‘innovations’ and focus on the names of God that were written in the Quran instead – as this was God’s speech.45 Shāfiʿī was said to have demanded, in the same spirit, that someone who perjured himself by a name of God would have to pay in expiation, but someone swearing on the Kaʿba or other earthly things would go unpunished in the case of perjury.46 This fatwā was probably not genuine;47 consequently Bishr al-Marīsī was also cited on the issue – with a different result, of course: someone swearing on the all-merciful (al-Raḥmān) with God in mind, has to atone in the case of perjury, but if he has the Sūrat al-raḥmān in mind, he will not be punished, even though the sura is part of the Quran.48 This was a ḥīla of the type people expected from the Ḥanafites; dicta in a similar vein were transmitted from Abū Ḥanīfa49 and from Shaybānī.50 The authors, it was thus insinuated, were ‘Jahmites’ to a man. The most effective – and artful – argument was to use the ‘name’ Allāh himself: Is ‘Allah’ created where and because he occurs in the Quran?51 Or, as Ibn al-Mājashūn put it: Can sura 112 be created if it is God himself putting his essence into words?52 In order to avoid constantly confusing the levels the Jahmites – and later the Muʿtazilites – came up with 41  In the sentences beginning with ‘Say (qul)’; see p. 693f. below. 42  Although God does not reveal anything about his essence in the stricter sense, but imparts the names to the humans for them to use them in anamnesis and reflection (cf. Leuze, Christentum und Islam 179f.). 43  He led the pilgrimage in 185/801 (Ṭabarī III 651, 5f.). 44  This is based on an alternative that was really only relevant in the early phase of the debate (see p. 698 below). 45  Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd III 62, 10ff. 46  Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 211 no. 343f.; Dhahabī, ʿUlūw 205, 2ff.; cf. also vol. II 571 above. 47  The substance, however, would later be called ijmāʿ al-fuqahāʾ by an Ashʿarite in Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 313, 4ff. 48  Text XX 23. 49  See vol. I 219f. above. 50  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 92, 11ff. 51  See vol. II 570; cf. also the argument by Nuʿaym b. Ḥammād in vol. II 812 above. The idea that God is part of the Quran because he is mentioned in it is found as a separate dogma in Ashʿarī, Maq. 586, 13ff. 52  See vol. II 780 above. It is impossible to determine whether Ibn al-Mājashūn refers to the father or the son.

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the idea to join forces with the grammarians and distinguish terminologically between ism and musammā, the name and that which it denotes.53 Names, the Muʿtazilites explained towards the end of the third century, are not ṣifa ‘quality’ but waṣf ‘description’, waṣf al-wāṣif or tasmiyat al-musammī.54 The opponents, waxing polemical, called this ‘denuding, draining’ of the divine essence. Ibn Khuzyama, Tawḥīd 25, –5ff.; Kulīnī I 120, –4ff. Regardingi taʿṭīl as the opposite of tashbīh cf. Strothmann in EI1 IV 742ff. s. v. Tas̲h̲bīh; also Furat in IA XIII1 61 f. s. v. taʿṭîl. However, a commandment could also be ‘denuded or drained’ (Ashʿarī, Maq. 91, ult.); it would then be stripped of its meaning and void. The term never had a systematic function; Ashʿarī does not use it to denote a sect in Maqālāt. Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 143, consequently translates as ‘agnosticisme’, but as it is only God’s essence that has been ‘drained’ and not his existence as such been put into doubt, this is too general. We could entertain the possibility that the slightly unusual wording may go back to Greek κένωσις. Theodore Abū Qurra had already described the Muʿtazilites as muʿaṭṭila (Mīmar fī ikrām al-īqūnāt 103, 1 Dick); it might be part of a Christian tradition. However, in the core passage in the NT (Phil. 2:7) it is interpreted positively: Christ ‘made himself of no reputation (ἑαυτὸν ἐκέωσεν) and took upon him the form of a servant’. In this Christological context it was adopted by the Church Fathers, too (cf. the instances in Lampe, Patristic Lexicon 744ff. s. v.; also Pelikan, Christian Tradition I 256f., and in general P. Henry in: Suppl. Dict. de la Bible V 7ff. s. v. Kénose, and U. Gerber in: Ev. Kirchenlexikon II 1027ff.). While the – rather more obvious – negative usage is also found in the NT (cf. 1 Cor. 1:17 and 9:15; also Theol. WB zum NT III 661f.), it did not have a terminological effect. We should perhaps bear in mind that Christian theology always warned against extending the κένωσις beyond Christ onto God; ‘the bosom of the Father shall never be drained of the divinity of the Son (ἐκενώθη)’, Athanasius said (Expositio fidei in: PG XXV 204 B). The Muslims, on the other hand, of course insisted that Jesus was a servant only; Timothy had to protest before the caliph against the imputation of not taking it seriously (Apology, transl. Mingana 80f.). The subject

53   See p. 227f. above; in general Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb II 89, 12f./transl. Gramlich III 23. 54  Leaving open the possibility that God, too, might be this wāṣif or musammī; thus Kaʿbī according to Māturīdī, Tawḥīd 50, 10f. Regarding Jubbāʾī’s idea that ṣifa = waṣf see Allard, Attributs divins 122.

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requires more in-depth exploration. I am grateful to L. Abramowski and E. Jüngel for their advice in this matter. The Muslims themselves do not mention Christian influence. Ashʿarī traces the Jahmites’ taʿṭīl back to the zanādiqa (Ibāna 45, 1ff.), and accuses the Muʿtazilites of having adopted it from ‘their brothers, the philosophers’ (Maq. 483, 7ff.). He was referring to tanzīh, Gr. ἀφαίρεσις (cf. van den Bergh, Tahafut al-Tahafut II 88 ad 135.3; Happ, Hyle 636ff.). This expressed the same circumstance in a positive or at least neutral way, i.e. that God, as Ashʿarī put it with regard to these (Neoplatonic) ‘philosophers’, is an ‘entity’ (ʿayn) that ‘has existed from the very beginning’ and about whom no other assertion can be made – once again apophatic theology. There are other terminological differences. The kenosis was paraphrased, if it was mentioned in Islamic theology, with the word inkhalaʿa (cf. Suyūṭī, Itqān I 43, 15; there also together with ṣūra ‘form’). Originally, however, taʿṭīl did not mean ‘draining’ or ‘denuding’ but rather ‘to remove a woman’s ornament’ (Lisān al-ʿArab XI 453f. s. v.). The theological weighting of the Quranic material had its own difficulties, and it was not always a straightforward process. Mujāhid assumed quite freely that there were unknown names of God, giving Ramaḍān as an example.55 The Shīʿa had Muḥammad al-Bāqil say the same thing, adding that if one was referring to the month one must always say shahr Ramaḍān.56 This was presumably based on sura 2:185, which contains this phrase, and Ramaḍān in the genitive might denote the owner or master of the month.57 Thus even at that early time an exegete found himself faced with the problem of how to derive the names of God from the Quran if one used it as the source. It was never entirely resolved. On the one hand it was demanded that people should speak of God only in the way the Quran and the prophet spoke of him: the Ḥanbalite Barbahārī (d. 329/941) expressed this principle.58 His fellow believer Abū Yaʿlā (458/1066), on the other hand, had to protest against the Sālimiyya calling God īmān ‘faith’,59 even though this, too, came from the Quran. Sura 5:5, in fact, says: ‘And whoever denies faith (man yakfur bil-īmān), his work shall be as nothing’, and as it did not seem entirely logical to be ‘an unbeliever’ towards faith (kafara bi instead of the usual jaḥada), some exegetes, including once again Mujāhid, 55  Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān I 342, –4ff. 56  Ibn al-Ṣaffār, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt 311 no. 12. 57  Cf. Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3III 444f. no. 2811. 58  Cf. Frank in: MIDEO 18/1988/118. Thus also Ibn ʿArabī (cf. Chittick, Sufi Path of Knowledge 42), and even the Baghdad Muʿtazila (Ashʿarī, Maq. 525, 7ff.). 59   Muʿtamad 69, 4ff.

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had come up with the idea of interpreting īmān as meaning Allāh.60 While Abū Yaʿlā’s protest may have been justified, he was not particularly consistent himself, either. On the one hand he rejected the idea that every verb found in a Quranic passage about God could be transposed into a participle and thus become a ‘name’; God is not a ‘mocker’ (sākhir; after sura 9:79) or a ‘schemer’ (mākir; after sura 3:54).61 On the other hand he did not mind for God to be called a ‘leader’ (dalīl), even though this was not stated in the Quran, and the word might have been interpreted as ‘proof’, too.62 Ibn Ḥanbal had preceded him in this.63 Words with laudatory implication had it easier;64 usage had, after all, been a determining factor.65 In the case of Jubbāʾī we can see what degree of subtlety these deliberations could reach,66 although among the Muʿtazilites, ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān had focussed on the linguistic aspect of the issue before him.67 Even so, like nearly all the theologians of his time he was less concerned with ‘names’ than with attributes, which was not the same thing. Bishr al-Marīsī, for instance, regarded the names as merely human speech, but he appears to have admitted that God possessed certain qualities.68 Names were separate linguistic utterances, aqwāl, as ʿAbbād said; i.e. components of speech acts,69 while attributes were content. Jahm b. Ṣafwān had not yet made this distinction; to him, God was not only nameless but also without qualities. Of course no-one dared be as obstinate as he and refuse to even refer to God as shayʾ for a long time;70 even theologians who regarded God as the absolute Other, such as the ‘Murjiʾite’ al-Ṣāliḥī, still called him shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ.71 At this point theological and linguistic problems once again superimposed upon each other. Shayʾ means ‘thing’ but also ‘something’. Of course, God could not be a ‘thing’, but he might be ‘something’. What the theologians meant, was fundamentally simply ‘being’;72 shayʾ, Jubbāʾī said, is ‘everything 60  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3IX 592ff. no. 11291ff. 61   Muʿtamad 62, 16ff.; similar Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 129, 5ff. Cf. p. 417f. above. Concerning the problem of ḍārr ‘harmful’ see p. 11, n. 26 above. 62  Ibid. 68, 14ff. 63  Ibid. 62, 9f. 64  Cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 99. The usual – and Quranic – word for dalīl was hādī (ibid. 367ff.). 65  Unlike Barbahārī, Ashʿarī also accepted the consensus of Muslims as a basis (Lumaʿ 10, 7f.). 66  Ashʿarī, Maq. 534, 13ff., also 526, 5ff.; cf. Allard, Attributs divins 126ff. 67  See p. 24ff. above. 68  See vol. III 199f. above. 69  See p. 24f. above. 70  See vol. II 562 above. 71  See p. 155 above. 72  Jolivet, Etudes sur Avicenne 20ff., has an overview of the definitions of shayʾ in early kalām.

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that can be put to language, and about which a statement can be made’.73 He had learnt this from the philologists (ahl al-lugha); Mubarrad regarded shayʾ as the most universal of all nouns.74 Jahm’s denying God the predicate shayʾ probably aimed at expressing that God was ὑπερούσιος or ἐπέκεινα τη̃ ς οὑσίας;75 God is not the being but the generator of being, of all being things munshiʾ al-ashyāʾ or, as was sometimes said, mushayyiʾ al-ashyāʾ76 or, using a different term, muʾayyis al-ays.77 Nearly all other theologians retained shayʾ for God and thus had to distinguish between created and uncreated being in one way or another; everything called shayʾ is created, except God, Ibn Bābōya transmitted from Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq.78 Over time, the word mawjūd would join shayʾ.79 Once the strangeness of the neologism had waned, this created a degree of terminological clarity, but on the theological level the unease remained for some time to come. Naẓẓām believed any speculation on whether God was shayʾ or lā shayʾ to be h ­ eresy.80 Hishām al-Fuwaṭī appears to have referred to Jahm directly.80a His teacher Abū l-Hudhayl, too, was careful not to include the words shayʾ or mawjūd in the doctrine of the attributes; in any case, he believed the number of ‘things’ to be limited in the creation.81 His formula for God’s being different was to call him ‘the opposite of the world’ (khilāf al-ʿālam);82 thus also Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm and the Jewish theologian Muqammiṣ.83 At this point ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān saw his 73  Ashʿarī, Maq. 161, 9f. 74   Muqtaḍab IV 280, –4. Further definitions of this sort in Frank, Beings 31, n. 14. 75  It is well-known that the latter expression was coined by Plato (Rep. 509 B 6ff.), but he meant ‘beyond that which is present’; it was the Neoplatonists who interpreted it as ‘beyond being (i.e. that which is)’ (cf. Jüngel, Gott als Geheimnis der Welt 3316ff.). Regarding the development in general cf. J. Whittaker, Ἐπέκεινα νου̃ καὶ οὑσίας, in: Vigiliae Christianae 23/1969/91ff. 76  Cf. vol. V 215 (of the German edition) regarding Text XIV 7. 77  Thus Kindī and Pseudo-Ammonius (Stern, Isaac Israeli 66ff.; Rudolph, Doxographie 121). The coined word ays, abstracted from the verb laysa via the similarly artificial al-laysu by omitting the negation, already occurs in Jāḥiẓ (cf. vol. III 122 above and Index of terms s. v.). 78   Tawḥīd 95, 8. 79  Thus already Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, if indeed the phrase goes back to him (vol. I 419 above); also Sulaymān al-Raqqī, possibly under Christian influence (cf. vol. II 543 above), and finally Ibn Kullāb (see p. 215f. above; also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 26f.). In general Gimaret, Noms divins 133ff. 80  See vol. III 434 above. It was probably also significant that lā shayʾ now introduced ‘nothingness’ into the discussion. 80a  See p. 13 above. 81  Ibid. 275; also Frank in: Le Muséon 82/1969/471f. 82  Vol. III 263f. above. 83  Cf. Madelung in: Aram 3/1991/38.

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opportunity of introducing the elusive word shayʾ. Shayʾ, he explained, means the same with regard to God as to everything else that has being: that something is an individual and consequently different.84 Ṣāliḥī thought on the same level, but his phrase shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ emphasised the element of transcendence even more. Unlik ʿAbbād he did not admit attributes, but he agreed with him that there was a predicate that applied to God only and consequently expressed his difference pithily – and more pithily, in fact, than shayʾ: eternal.85 The handy formula shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ, that was really rendered superfluous, still suggested itself because one passage in the Quran appeared to apostrophise God as shayʾ.86 It was still employed later by such diverse people as the Shīrāz mystic Ibn Khafīf87 or the Shīʿite Ibn Bābōya.88 In the Shīʿa it appears to have gone back beyond Ṣāliḥī;89 it suited an environment in which God’s incomprehensibility was emphasised so s­ trongly.90 For the same reason, however, it was possible that the paradigm was twisted back to Jahm’s radical version there: in the Ismāʿīliyya. But this development goes beyond the time-frame of the present study. Of course, local tradition may have played a part here, too; after all, the Ismāʿīliyya belonged to eastern Iran, as did Jahm. In Sijistānī’s view the formula shayʾ lā kal-ashyāʾ did not express God’s transcendence adequately, as God is not shayʾ in any way. Of course, he is not not shayʾ, either; what is needed is a double negative theology (Walker, Early philosophical Shiism 77f.). Similar Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī (cf. de Smet, La Quiétude de l’Intellect 75ff.). Regarding the transcendence of being in particular cf. Walter 72ff., de Smet 41ff., and Landolt in: AS 45/1991/44f.; in the Ismāʿīlite tradition also Shahrastānī (cf. A. Hartmann in: Fs. Khoury, 196ff.). According to Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī God is muʾayyis al-ays (Walker 53); mushayyiʾ al-shay’ is the starting point of Kirmānī’s deliberations (de Smet 144, although he believes, in my view incorrectly, that this derived 84  Text XXV 37; also p. 22f. above. 85  See p. 24 and 155 above. 86  Sura 6:19; Gimaret, Noms divins 144f. 87  In his ʿaqīda printed in the appendix to his Vita (Daylamī, Sīrat Ibn Khafīf 286a, 26). 88  Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 26). 89  See p. 155 above. 90  See p. 476f. above. Similar expression were found here: God is shayʾ but indefinable (AmirMoezzi, Guide divin 114), or shayʾ bi-ḥaqīqat al-shayʾiyya ‘being in the truest sense of the word’ (in a dictum by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in Kulīnī, Kāfī I 81, –4). Cf. also Khalīl b. Aḥmad’s play on the word shayʾ (vol. II 257 above). – Who were the Zaydites who according to Ashʿarī refused to call God shayʾ, but did not want to deny him this predicate unequivocally, either (Maq. 70, 4ff., and 181, 2f.)?

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from a IV form meaning ‘to want, will, desire’). In Kirmānī’s eyes the transcendent God was not even eternal (de Smet 60f.). Predicates such as shayʾ, qadīm, mawjūd etc. had the disadvantage that they did not say anything about God’s person, and of course these bloodless metaphysical ghosts do not occur in the Quran.91 On the other hand, if one understood God as a ‘perfect person’,92 the 99 names were a hindrance, as many of them are mere synonyms. It is thus not surprising that discussions always focussed on a few attributes; at first, outside the Muʿtazila among Khārijites and Zaydites, the polar qualities of delight and anger which could be used to delimit predestination, and later above all omnipotence and omniscience. Bishr al-Marīsī was said to have recognised four attributes;93 afterwards, there would be a few more. Cf. the lists in Text XXI 56, a–b (Abū l-Hudhayl); XXII 173, a–b (Naẓẓām); XXXIII 6, a–c (Ibn Kullāb). They do not necessarily claim to completeness. The Andalusian Ibn Masarra believed the number of divine attributes to be infinite (cf. the text in Massignon, Recueil 70/transl. Schacht, Der Islam 106f.). Ibn Kullāb probably did not count them, either; later, different reports are speculation (see p. 213 above), due presumably to the fact that by then a distinction was made between attributes of essence and attributes of act, emphasising the former. This frequently resulted in seven or eight: knowledge, life, power, will, hearing, seeing, and speech (cf. e.g. Ibn Rushd, Kashf ʿan manāhij al-adilla 160, 3ff./transl. Alonso, Teología 241ff.; Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Muḥaṣṣal 135, pu. f./2313, –8; Wensinck, Muslim Creed 188 regarding the so-called Fiqh akbar II), and in addition the oneness which, however, was really identical with God’s essence (Allard, Attributs divins 5, n. 1, and 56f.). Kulīnī mentions eleven in total, seven of which he links with an opposite (Kāfī I 112, 1ff.). Bāqillānī was said to have assumed fifteen attributes (Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 207, 7ff.); this was also said of Ibn Kullāb (see p. 213 above). Indian philosophy knew a list of 24 divine qualities (cf. K. H. Potter, Encyclopedia of Indian Philosophy II: Metaphysics 112); the Muslims were never so strict. The opposing qualities riḍā and sakhaṭ/ghaḍab, or walāya and ʿadāwa were applied in the Jazira (Sulaymān al-Raqqī; cf. vol. II 543 above) and 91  They would later be legitimated based on the Quran all the same (cf. e.g. Gimaret 134 and 144f.), but that is a pure construct. 92  Luhmann, Funktion der Religion 131. 93  See vol. III 199f. above.

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in Syria (Abū Sulaymān al-Dārānī; cf. Gramlich in: Oriens 33/1992/31) as well as in Iran, here by the Khārijites (vol. II 651 and 592 above) and the Ḥanafites (Fiqh absaṭ 56, –5ff., traced back to Abū Ḥanīfa himself; cf. Daimer, Islamic Concept of Belief 250), probably also by a theologian like Abū l-Ṣabbāḥ from Samarqand (vol. II 631 above), later also al-Ḥakīm alSamarqandī (Al-sawād al-aʿẓam § 29). Abū l-Hudhayl wrote on the subject (cf. Catalogue of Works XXI, no. 14). This wide scattering rules out the possibility of extra-Islamic influence. Of course the Christians, too, spoke of God’s pleasure (for instance in the context of Jesus’ baptism), but the word they used in Arabic was masarra – which was more than ambiguous to a Muslim (cf. my Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie 67ff.). It is noticeable that neither rāḍī nor sākhiṭ are ever used as names of God; walī is used, but mainly with the meaning ‘master, protector’ (Gimaret, Noms divins 325f.). The pair of opposites pleasure: anger, on the other hand, is clearly Quranic (cf. sura 3:162 and 47:28); the phrase raḍiya llāhu ʿanhu (cf. sura 3:15 and 47:28; parallels in Paret, Kommentar 62 and 134) has become part of the everyday language of faith. The Khārijites presumably also associated the antithesis walāya: barāʾa with this, in which they categorised interpersonal relations (see vol. II 651 and 224f. above). The idea that God encounters humans under two opposite aspects suggests itself; mysticism would later use the terms jamāl and jalāl (cf. Meier, Fawāʾiḥ al-jamāl 79ff.; Gramlich, Derwischorden II 28f.; concerning Jewish correspondences see Mach, Zaddik 127). It is also quite obvious that he should look with pleasure on what is good and with disapproval on what is evil (cf. the distinction between scientia approbationis and scientia reprobationis in Christian theology; Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 638f.). If the two qualities were regarded as eternal, the result was predestination or, in special cases, the doctrine of the muwāfāt (see p. 14 above); then it corresponded to the classification of humans into ahl al-janna and ahl al-nār. One is tempted to fit the dichotomous system into an overall Islamic development. Jahm b. Ṣafwān knew of no attributes at all. The imām al-Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm mentions one attribute only, the differentness and uniqueness of God, which he equates to his essential being (dhāt; Masʾalat al-Ṭabariyyayn, ed. Abrahamov in: JSAI 11/1988/49, –4f.; also Madelung, Qāsim 112f.). The polar concept described was replaced by that of the Muʿtazilites and Ashʿarites; they are the first regarding whom we can speak of a doctrine of the attributes. However, this does not mean that the older concepts had become outdated; literalists like Ibn Ḥazm did not think much of a doctrine of the attributes, either (cf. Fiṣal IV 207, 15ff.). Furthermore, Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm was younger than

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Abū l-Hudhayl and al-Naẓẓām, but he lived in Medina and in Egypt, away from the mainstream. We should probably take local traditions into account, too. In an attempt at keeping things tidy, in the long run a distinction was made between several categories, at first two, ʿAbbād had three,94 and later distinctions were even more precise.95 The two-category system was the most popular – they would be called attributes of essence and attributes of act, ṣifāt al-dhāt and ṣifāt al-fiʿl – but it gained ground only gradually. Abū l-Hudhayl did not yet apply it, and neither, presumably, did Naẓẓām;96 ʿAbbād’s approach was different, too. Not even Ibn Kullāb had any connection with it.97 Later Ḥanafite theology did not recognise it, either,98 and Ashʿarī linked it to the Baghdad school.99 There, it was soon discovered that there were certain attributes that slipped through the net. Some could be assigned in either way: ‘noble’, for instance,100 or ‘wise’.101 Others did not fit at all, e.g. those that in ʿAbbād’s words were attributed to God ‘because of the actions of another’ such as maʿlūm ‘knowable’102 or – more importantly – those on which the anthropomorphists concentrated: the face, the hands. etc.103 Under these circumstances it may be relevant that this system was introduced at around the same time into Islamic and Christian Arab t­heology.104 94  See p. 26f. above. 95  R. M. Frank studied this subject in his book Beings and their Attributes (Albany 1978). Cf. also Gimaret, La doctrine d’al-Ashʿarī 235ff. 96  Cf. vol. III 293f. and 401 above. 97  See p. 211 above. 98  Cf. Gimaret in: SI 47/1978/146f. Ashʿarī occasionally uses it when describing Khārijite dogma (Maq. 99, 12; also 96, 4f.).; but it is probably only an interpretation added by him (see vol. II 651 and 665, n. 24 above). Regarding Najjār’s rather unclear usage see p. 180 above. 99   Maq. 505, 8ff., in a passage beginning p. 503, 12ff. with a reference to the ‘people from Baghdad’ and is later interrupted by a digression (cf. Text XXVI 1, commentary); also 506, 8f. 100  Cf. Text XXIX 11 concerning Iskāfī, or Text XVIII 20 concerning ʿĪsā al-Ṣūfī; Ashʿarī, Maq. 528, 9ff. regarding Jubbāʾī who joined in the discussion as an outsider who was not from Baghdad. Cf. p. 94 above. 101  Thus, said of ‘people from Baghdad’ in general, Maq. 505, 11ff. 102  See p. 26f. above. 103  Later the phrase used in this context was ṣifāt khabariyya (see p. 216 above). The first group had relevance only if attributes from beyond Quranic usage were recognised at all, as ʿAbbād did (see p. 484 above). 104  Cf. ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī, Masāʾil 156, 6ff., albeit with different terminology; at around the same time also Abū Rāʾiṭa, but again only in substance (cf. Griffith in: OC 64/1980/182). Abū Qurra, on the other hand, was not familiar with the distinction (cf. Madelung in: Aram 3/1991/37).

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The distinction mattered to the Christians because they – unlike Greek – Western theology – regarded the hypostases as attributes as well105 and were able to separate these from the other qualities in this way. Abel advanced the hypothesis106 that the Muslims learnt from the Christians at this point, but the chapter in John of Damascus’ De fide orthodoxa on which he tries to base this does not actually show the distinction very clearly at all,107 and the passage in Kindī’s apocryphal Risāla that does express it unambiguously is probably too late.108 Furthermore, it would have to be researched whether the criterion according to which the distinction between the two categories was made – that an opposite of the attributes of act could be imagined in the case of God, but not the opposite of the attributes of act (i.e., willing: not-willing or pleasure: anger, but not knowing: unknowing) – has a model anywhere. Ashʿarī, Maq. 508, 11ff., ascribes the criterion to the Muʿtazilites in general, but it seems that his summary presumed ʿAbbād’s theories (509, 4ff.). In another passage it is consequently linked to Jubbāʾī first (530, 5f.). Cf. also Allard, Problème des attributs divins 115f. and, regarding the Shīʿa, McDermott, Al-Mufīd 143, and Kulīnī, Kāfī I 111, 2ff. – Sulaymān alRaqqī could have been in contact with Christian theology; Ashʿarī uses the phrase ṣifāt al-dhāt as well (but not ṣifāt al-nafs; see vol. II 545 above). However, he believed that all attributes have existed together with God since the very beginning (ibid. 543). The corresponding terms in Syriac are dīlāitā dha-ḵyānā and dīlāitā dhe-sāʿōrūtā (cf. Mingana in: Woodbroke Studies II 13); in Judaism the terms middōt ʿaṣmiyōt and middōt pe ʿāliyōt were used (cf. Thoma in: TRE XIII 639). Western theology, too, distinguishes between attributa absoluta, quiescentia, or incommunicabilia on the one hand and attributa relativa, operativa, or communicabilia on the other (Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 392); more general Leuze, Christentum und Islam 158ff. and 172ff. The ‘attributes of act’ outline God’s relation with the world; the Muʿtazila probably singled them out in order to preserve God’s transcendence. A further reason was probably that the category of potentiality was not available for a long time;109 otherwise it would have been possible to say that God had for 105  ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī calls these ṣifa dhātiyya (Masāʾil 177, 1 and 3). 106  In: Oriente Cristiano 504, n. 13. 107  Cap. I 14: φύσις vs. ἐνεργεια. 108  Cf. the translation in Tartar, Dialogue 125f.; also Intro. 68ff. 109  See p. 33 and 55f. above; also p. 509 below.

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all eternity and in his person (nafs) always virtually been the creator etc. This meant that the old pair anniyya: māhiyya was superseded. The māhiyya had been impossible to perceive; consequently Ḍirār and Najjār now postulated a strict theologia negativa within which a doctrine of the attributes could hardly take shape.110 Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm replaces māhiyya with dhāt; he, too, does not include a doctrine of the attributes in the sense of the word that would become established later. He is familiar with one attribute only, God’s incomparability, his distinctness from creation (see p. 489 above). This is God’s dhāt, distinct from his anniyya (Madelung, Qāsim 112). Regarding dhāt cf. the sources cited vol. V 398 (of the German edition); the history of the term is yet to be written. It does not occur in the Quran, where we find only nafs. It is true that the phrase ṣifāt al-nafs was sometimes used instead of ṣifāt al-dhāt (e.g. Maq. 505, 12; cf. also Frank, Beings and their Attributes 55), but we never find nafs Allāh instead of dhāt Allāh; it was probably too ambiguous. Dhāt Allāh, on the other hand, is said to have been used by ʿAlī in a sermon: ‘Whoever reflects on the essence of God commits heresy’ (tazandaqa; Kulīnī, Kāfī VIII 22, 1). ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī is familiar with the word (see n. 105 above), but he calls the essence of God jawhar ‘substance’ (Masāʾil 149, 3ff.). This was perhaps inspired by bi-dhātihī, the translation of the Aristotelian καθʹ αὑτό (cf. Wolfson in: Homenaje Millás-Vallicrosa II 550 = Studies in the History of Philosophy and Religion I 148); Fārābī explores this phrase in great depth (K. al-ḥurūf 106ff. § 74–79). While the Quran refers to God as dhū faḍl (sura 2:105, 2:243 etc.), or dhū l-quwwa (sura 51:58); but abstracting dhāt from this led to the question of whether the feminine could be suitable for God at all (Ibn ʿAqīl, Funūn 66, 5ff.). Sharīf al-Murtaḍā considered the matter to be significant enough to deserve a thorough refutation; in his view dhāt is ‘the expression of the thing itself and as such’ (ʿibāra ʿan nafs al-shayʾ wa-ʿaynihī; MS Princeton, ELS 2751, fol. 119, a–b. The word was met with opposition from the Muʿtazila, too. Abū l-Hudhayl does not appear to have used it yet with reference to God (see vol. III 294 and 299 above); ʿAbbād rejected it (see p. 27 above). In any case we must be careful not to associate too much in the way of metaphysics when translating as ‘essence’ (see p. 216 above); it does not mean ‘person’, either (see vol. II 827 above). Cf. also Frank, Beings 53, and Gimaret, Noms divins 150ff., briefly also Endreß in GAP III 21. 110  See p. 179 and vol. III 40 above; similar also Muqammiṣ (ʿIshrūn maqāla IX 17ff. = p. 196ff.). Still, Najjār was familiar with attributes of essence (p. 180 above).

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1.3.1 The Beginnings of the Doctrine of the Attributes Ṭabarī noted astutely that the doctrine of the attributes could not be buttressed with prophetic traditions;1 in the first century, when theology was still based on hadiths, it simply did not occur to anyone. A God in human form did not actually need attributes; he was a person through and through.2 Only when Jahm denied this did people feel the need to delimit certain aspects of the divine being. They would at first take different paths in different regions. In eastern Iran, where people distinguished between God’s anger and his pleasure, deliberations began to take shape concerning how pleasure and divine will would be separated if a human does wrong.3 The Basran Qadariyya had learnt that knowledge and will do not have to coincide: he may know human actions in advance, but this does not mean that he wills or predetermines them.4 In Kufa – at least within the Shīʿa – God’s foreknowledge was not postulated: rather, God reacts to events once they have happened.5 God, they said, acts by means of ‘movement’; this is how his perception and insight occurs, too.6 His will is not immutable, but when he ‘changes his mind’, this is an expression of his freedom.7 As God does not carry the substance of his knowledge and his will within him, the question of theodicy does not yet ask itself. The inverse idea, that God has known everything from the very beginning onwards because he had had his entire creation in front of or with himself always, is also found in the early period: in the Jazira, in the ideas 1  Ṣarīḥ al-sunna, in: REI 36/1968/198, –7ff. 2  Cf. also the deliberations by Nagel in: Klimkeit, Götterbild 93ff., esp. 113. 3  Fiqh absaṭ 54, 5; on the difference between amr and mashīʾa cf. ibid. 53, 7ff. (= vol. II 604 above), and vol. II 649f. above. Regarding Basra see vol. II 95. The sacrifice of Isaac/Ishmael provided a good demonstration of the problem, later mysticism would add the reflection on the actions of Satan (cf. P. Awn, Satan’s Tragedy and Redemption 101ff.). 4  Thus already in the Qadarite Risāla attributed to Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (77, 4ff.). The opposing theory, that the divine being possesses predetermining power, was first found in a hadith (Dārimī, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 52, 13ff.). 5  Cf. the remarks on badāʾ vol. I 365f. above; also 386. For a more developed theory on the relation between knowledge and will in the context of this theorem cf. Kulīnī, Kāfī I 148f. no. 16. Similar also beyond Kufa and the Shīʿa; regarding Jahm b. Ṣafwān cf. vol. II 560f. above; for the Qadariyya see p. 549 below. Of course, popular legends also sometimes presume that God does not know something in advance; he has to ‘correct retrospectively’ (cf. e.g. Maqdisī, Badʾ II 47, apu. ff.; also Radtke, Weltgeschichte 80f.). The same applies to the hadith quoted p. 453 above about God’s sorrow at the death of humans in the Flood. 6  See p. 448f. above. 7  Zurāra b. Aʿyān expressed this clearly in a verse: ‘Without the badāʾ there would not be freedom of action (taṣarruf) with him, and he would be like a fire always blazing (in the same way)’ (Shīrāzī, Sharḥ al-Lumaʿ 485, 8). Cf. Madelung in: Isl. Philos. Theology 123f. Karl Barth does not avoid the expression that the will conveys movement to God; it is what ‘God’s life’ means to him (Kirchl. Dogmatik II1 584f.).

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of Abū Ḥāḍir al-Naṣībī, and in eastern Iran in the works of Abū l-Ṣabbāḥ alSamarqandī.8 It is the old concept of κόσμος νοητός, adopted most impressively by Ibn ʿArabī in his ʿālam al-mithāl.9 It was not able to gain a foothold during the time discussed here. Even Pseudo-Ammonius rejected it, although he was part of the Neoplatonic tradition.10 The early Muʿtazilites did not know what to make of it as they lacked the concept of potentiality without which it was barely viable;11 they limited themselves to the remark that if God wanted to change his plan he did not necessarily have to change his will because of it.12 Apparently all attributes were originally regarded as changeable. People thought about God’s actions; his māhiyya, after all, was impossible to perceive. An old predicate of the māhiyya might have been al-ḥaqq. According to Muqātil b. Ḥayyān God says of himself: ana l-ḥaqq al-qāʾim alladhī lā azūlu (Fasawī III 275, 7). He means ‘the true one’, ‘the existing one’ who does not pass away. The predicate is Quranic (sura 22:6 and 62, 31:30; cf. Rahbar, God of Justice 31ff.), and consequently found in all lists of the divine names. Even so, the theologians were not always prepared to apply it to God in the true sense; its meaning was debated, too (Gimaret, Noms divins 138ff.; also Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān 97ff.). Paret translates as ‘wahrhaftig’ (true, genuine), emphasising less the ontological aspect than that of revelation. An argument in favour is Ḥassān b. Thābit’s (?) calling God ilāh al-ḥaqq, i.e. ‘god of truth’ (Farrukh, Bild des Frühislams 28). At least in the Neoplatonic tradition, however, the original understanding re-emerged under a new aspect. Kindī speaks of the ‘first truth, which is the cause of (all) other truth’ (Rasāʾil I 98, 1f.), referring to the ‘Theology in accordance with Aristotle’, i.e. Plotinus and Proclus, that had been collated for him, but also to Pseudo-Ammonius’ doxography (cf. the passages in Endreß, Proclus Arabus 93f., and 286, n. 1; Rudolph, Pseudo-Ammonios 77, ult. ff. and 207). It is doubtful whether Pseudo-Ammonius used ḥikma in addition to ḥaqq as one of God’s 8  See vol. II 531 and 631 above. 9  Cf. Corbin, Imagination créatrice 139ff.; first Nyberg, Kleinere Schriften des Ibn ʿArabī 48ff. In general Wolfson, Philo I 200ff.; H. J. Kraemer, Ursprung der Geistmetaphysik 21ff., and the literature cited in vol. II 531, n. 9 above. 10  Cf. his Doxography, cap. I–IV, and the commentary by U. Rudolph (p. 118ff.). 11  This only changes with Shaḥḥām (see p. 52 above). Cf. also Ashʿarī’s brief remark on a certain Anyab b. Sahl al-Kharrāz (Maq. 163, 7f.); while there are no further records of him, the context suggests that he was younger than Shaḥḥām. 12  ‘Willing a change is not changing one’s will’; cf. Sorabji, Time, Creation and the Continuum 240ff. Regarding this argument used by Muḥāsibī see p. 229f. above.

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attributes, as Alon (Festschrift Baneth 95ff.) and Rowson (Al-ʿĀmirī on the Afterlife 287, and A Muslim Philosopher 235ff.) assumed (cf. Rudolph, loc. cit. 159ff.). – Bishr al-Marīsī employed al-qayyūm in the function that al-ḥaqq in the sense of ‘the steadfast one’ had had previously (cf. vol. III 199 above).

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1.3.2 The Development of the Classic Doctrine of the Attributes There had been speculation on particular qualities of God already among the Neoplatonists; the philosopher Abū Ḥāmid al-Isfizārī summarised Proclus’ pertinent thoughts that would be refuted by John Philoponus.1 The previously quoted Hermetic text that may have been translated by Sālim Abū l-ʿAlāʾ mentions ṣifāt lā bi-ithbāt, ‘qualities not expressed positively’, i.e. presumably a theologia negativa.2 The early theologians’ reluctance to make assertions regarding the māhiyya by no means always stopped them from applying earthly categories to God; Hishām b. al-Ḥakam did this with his concept of the body,3 and Muʿammar with his maʿnā theory.4 On the other hand, this kind of thinking in analogies was often hampered by the sensualism they had inherited from the Iranian environment.5 This led Aṣamm to the statement that God was neither a body nor an accident.6 It is surely no coincidence that neither Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir nor his pupils, such as Murdār, nor indeed Thumāma evolved a comprehensive doctrine of the attributes.7 While the patriarch Timothy in his 40th letter highlighted the Christian trinity before the background that the Muslims conjecture concerning the ṣifāt,8 he had other exponents of kalām in mind, above all presumably Ḍirār, but possibly also Abū l-Hudhayl. Abū l-Hudhayl represents a turning point. He appears to have been the first to approach the issue by means of a systematic analysis of the Quranic data. It had probably long been known that the scripture contained not only God’s ‘names’ but also attributes: there were statements such as inna llʿāha ʿālimu ghaybi l-samawāti wal-arḍ ⁕ innahū ʿalīmun bi-dhāt1 l-ṣudūr,9 but besides them others such as qul: innamā l-ʿilmu ʿinda llāh,10 or wasiʿa rabbunā kulla shayʾin ʿilman.11 Scholars felt justified in retrieving the nouns, i.e. the attributes, from the ‘names’, i.e. the adjectives; ‘God is knowing’ could be interpreted to mean ‘God possesses (a) knowledge’. It is important to bear in mind that ‘knowing’ 1   Cf. Gimaret’s edition of the text in: MUSJ 50/1984/247, –6ff. 2   BEO 19/1965–6/75, 5. Assuming this is a genuine text, the early use of the word ithbāt is remarkable. 3  See vol. I 421f. above. 4  See vol. III 86f. above. 5  Cf. vol. I 530 and II 453; also III 73 and 79 above. 6  See vol. II 454 above. 7  Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s ideas on God’s will may have been harking back to the distinction between amr and mashīʾa (see vol. III 132f. above). 8  Cf. Griffith in: La vie du Prophète 101. 9  Sura 35:38 with numerous parallels; cf. the concordance s. v. ʿalīm, and Paret, Kommentar 16 on sura 2:33. 10  Sura 67:26; parallels cf. Paret, Kommentar 180 on sura 7:187. 11  Sura 6:80; cf. Paret, Kommentar 145 on the passage.

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did not necessarily mean ‘omniscient’; the deliberations concerned God’s activities, not his nature. Consequently ʿilm was not simply ‘knowledge’, and much less ‘omniscience’, but rather an individual ‘act of knowledge’; lahū ʿilm meant ‘he has knowledge of a certain event’. This was what the Quran meant, too; when the prophet was asked about the hour of the Last Judgment, he answered at God’s behest: innamā ʿilmuhā ʿinda rabbi ‘only my master has knowledge of it’.12 There was no thought of a permanent hypostasis; Abū l-Hudhayl did not employ philosophical categories but achieved the transformation purely on the linguistic level. Consequently he had no qualms about claiming that the ‘act of knowledge’ was identical with God; his starting point, the statement ‘God is knowing’, did not transgress the boundaries of his person. On the other hand this meant the definitive dismissial of the theologia negativa; he probably felt that his positive decoding of the ‘names’ was more in keeping with the spirit of the Quran.13 He lived at a time when grammar began to permeate exegesis.14 His opponents, i.e. presumably the ‘old Muʿtazilites’, members of his own school,15 immediately perceived the danger inherent in this step: if one postulates not only an ‘act of knowledge’ but also an ‘act of will’ (parallel to Allāhu murid), an ‘act of creation’ (parallel to Allāhu khāliq) etc., does this not impute multeity to him?16 Naẓẓām, consequently, put it differently: God is not knowing thanks to an act of knowledge he possesses, but he is knowing of himself (bi-nafsihī). In the same way he would be willing of himself, and creating of himself; the names always reflect his nature as such.17 Now the question emerged of why different names were used at all. Abū l-Hudhayl had still been able to say that they differ because of the object they refer to: ‘knowing’ refers to that which is known, ‘willing’ to that which is willed, etc.;18 but now everything came down to different aspects of divine nature, and it was logically entirely consistent that the next generation decided conclusively in favour of the pair of opposites ṣifāt al-dhāt vs. ṣifāt al-fiʿl; Iskāfī did so as well as 12  Sura 7:187. 13  Cf. vol. III 293ff. above. 14  For the first time in Kisāʾī’s (d. 189/805) K. maʿānī al-Qurʾān (cf. GAS VIII 117, and in general Neuwirth in GAP II 125ff.). Regarding the works of the same title by Akhfash and Farrāʾ see vol. II 209 above. 15  It is possible that not even his pupil Hishām al-Fuwaṭī adopted his doctrine of the attributes (see p. 12 above). 16  Regarding the issue cf. also Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 368ff. 17  See vol. III 432ff. above. This also meant that ‘knowing’ had evolved to ‘all-knowing, omniscient’. This is why ʿAlī al-Riḍā, when rejecting Abū l-Hudhayl’s formula, was said to have replaced ʿālim with ʿalīm (bi-dhātihī; Musnad al-imām al-Riḍā I 15, 4ff., after Ibn Bābōya). 18  See vol. III 295 above.

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ʿĪsā b. al-Haytham al-Ṣūfī.19 In the understanding of the Muʿtazilites this also meant that only the ‘attributes of essence’ were eternal, while the attributes of act only came into existence together with their object, with the world and the humans. At the same time they now had a new way of approaching the issue of anthropomorphisms. God’s hearing and seeing, which theologians like Bishr al-Marīsī had denied point-blank,20 still existed for the Muʿtazila; but as they denoted God’s activities the aspect of time had to be considered particularly.21 Iskāfī introduced the collective ‘name’ mudrik ‘perceiving’ instead. See p. 93f. above. Later the Basran and the Baghdad school differed because the one regarded mudrik as a separate attribute besides samīʿ and baṣīr, while the other equated it with ʿālim ‘knowing’ (Mānkdīm, ShUKh 168, 5ff.). Shīʿite tradition had Muḥammad al-Bāqir speaking out against the tendency to separate God’s seeing and hearing; everything refers to God in one way only (aḥadī al-maʿnā; Kulīnī, Kāfī I 108 no. 1) Thanks to Abū l-Hudhayl the dilemma of the doctrine of the attributes had become visible; it had to mediate between transcendence and revelation. God’s ‘names’ could be explained analogically only if one presumed that humans were created in God’s image; now, however, it seemed that each of God’s perfections was identical with every other one and with the entirety of them.22 It is thus not surprising that an opposition formed in Basra during Abū l-Hudhayl’s lifetime who, while starting with his ideas, arrived at conclusions which the Muʿtazila could not endorse. Ibn Kullāb was the first to formulate this counter-model; Ashʿarī would later be its definitive spokesman.23 Ibn Kullāb did not regard the attributes as identical with God, but as ‘factors’ (maʿānī) in his essence that might have independent being. After all, God did not refer to himself in the Quran as qawī ‘powerful’ only,24 but also as ‘owner of power’.25 On the other hand one could not go so far as to say that these maʿānī were distinct from God, as that would mean that they were accidents, as in the case of 19  See p. 94 and 101 above; also p. 488f. Cf. Najjār’s ṣifa fī l-dhāt (Catalogue of Works XXXII, no. 8). 20  Text XX 18, c; also p. 452 above. 21  See vol. III 273 regarding Abū l-Hudhayl; also Muḥāsibī, Fahm al-Qurʾān 344, –4ff. In summary Gimaret, Noms divins 262ff., and Ashʿarī 288. 22  Thus Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 374. 23  Regarding the fundamental differences cf. R. M. Frank’s illuminating deliberations in: Philosophies of Existence 258ff. 24  E.g. in sura 11:66, 22:40 and 74, 33:25 etc. 25   Dhū l-quwwati l-matīn; sura 51:58. See p. 491 above.

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a human. Consequently Ibn Kullāb settled on the formula that they were ‘neither identical nor not-identical’ with God. Christians had always described the relation between the divine being and the hypostases in this way; Ibn Kullāb exposed himself to the suspicion of having been influenced by them.26 This, however, if true at all, was a polemical reduction. The formula had long been at home in Islamic theology, too. Sulaymān al-Raqqī had applied it to the divine attributes,27 as had Hishām b. al-Ḥakam before him.28 The latter had by no means adopted it from the Christians but apparently from his teacher Abū Shākir al-Dayṣānī.29 In the Muʿtazilite model, on the other hand, people sometimes believed they could detect the influence of the ‘philosophers’ at work. Ashʿarī claimed this with regard to Abū l-Hudhayl;30 while Ibn Ṣāʿid al-Andalusī added detail by pointing to Empedocles.31 He had copied this from ʿĀmirī who had indeed ascribed a doctrine of the attributes of this type to Empedocles.32 Both systems shared the conviction that it was possible in principle to conceptualise the language of the Quran; this distinguished them from the traditionalists’ bilā kayf. Both were based on radical nominalism, as they had grown out of the analysis of the divine ‘names’. But they also both presupposed that the predicates applied to God in the same way as to humans; they were used univocally.33 This was the price they had to pay for the apophatic theology. Ḍirār had still rejected firmly that they could be transferred,34 and consequently denied that the attribute khāliq could be used of humans.35 Those who developed an independent doctrine of the attributes after him, however, regarded humans as qādir ‘capable’ as God; Arabic, interestingly, has no specific word denoting ‘omnipotence’.36 This postulate of univocality was presumably

26  See p. 212ff. above. 27  He, like Ibn Kullāb, regarded them as separate entities (ashyāʾ, sometimes also maʿānī); see vol. II 543f. above. 28  See vol. I 438f. above. 29  Ibid. 357 and 437. 30  Cf. Text XXI 63, 3, with the commentary. 31   Ṭabaqāt al-umam 21, pu. ff.; adopted by Ibn al-Zubayr, the author of Ṣilat al-ṣila (cf. Tornero in: Al-Qanṭara 6/1985/32, 15ff.). 32   Amad ʿalā l-abad 78ff. Rowson. The connection was first noted by Stern in: Actas IV Congresso UEAI (Coimbra), p. 326; cf. Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 206ff. and 223ff. (where he points out that Pseudo-Ammonius is another source). 33  Regarding this and the foregoing cf. Frank in: Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 2/1992/24ff. 34  See vol. III 40f. above. 35  See p. 42 above. 36  Not for ‘omniscience’, either (see p. 496 above).

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based on the Quran being not speech about God but God’s own speech;37 if God had his own language, we could not understand him at all. However, on the field of linguistic theory in particular the axiom reached its limits.38 1.3.2.1 Divine Will and the Creation The problems posed by univocal language usage could be avoided by means of lexically differentiating between divine and human qualities. It is no coincidence that the theological discourse gradually used qudra less in connection with humans, instead using istiṭāʿa (which was never applied to God). Those who paraphrased human actions as kasb or iktisāb avoided not only the word khalaqa but also faʿala.1 Of course, evasive manoeuvres of this kind were not always possible. Jāḥiẓ, for instance, saw that a human act of will has a different structure than a divine one;2 there were even attempts to grasp the problem doxographically.3 However, usually the difference was defined by the result: a human cannot be certain whether what he intends will come to pass, while in the case of God, whose power is not impeded by any external factors, the act of will occurs in the same instant as its implementation. That which he wills comes to pass without delay (bilā faṣl),4 which implies that God’s acts of will do not have any independent existence; certainly, they have no temporal ­extension.5 This was precisely how it had been intended. In the understanding of language of the time will (irāda) was willing or intending, a single act of will and thus not permanent. Consequently it was neither necessary nor advisable to call it eternal.6 ‘God has willed for all eternity’ means ‘He has known for all eternity what he wills (or is going to will)’, Naẓẓām put it;7 this was the only way to prevent extending God’s will to become predestination.8 Najjār was the first to embrace a consistent opposition; before him the idea that will was one of 37  See p. 683ff. below. 38  See p. 209ff. above, also Frank, loc. cit. 32f. 1 2 3 4

  See p. 186 and 192 above.   See p. 120f. and 123f. above.   Possibly rather late; cf. Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 240, 2ff.   Cf. Text XXI 125 regarding Abū l-Hudhayl; cf. vol. III 267 above. Regarding Naẓẓām ibid. 435f. Concerning bilā faṣl cf. vol. V 318 and 431 (of the German edition). 5  Rudolph, Psuedo-Ammonios 200 regarding Ḍirār and Naẓẓām. 6  See vol. III 88f. above regarding Muʿammar. In Abū l-Hudhayl’s view the divine act of will was an accident (vol. III 302 above). 7  See vol. III 437 above. 8  Muḥāsibī pointed this out, albeit under the opposite aspect (Fahm al-Qurʾān 341, 9ff.). Regarding the development in general cf. Alousi, The Problem of Creation in Islamic Thought 224ff.

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God’s accidents of essence had been contemplated only ever very c­ autiously.9 The Muʿtazilites had thought about this attribute only because there was one fact that proved that a divine act of will did not always come to pass: sin. In their view, a divine act of will could only aim at what was good and thus had to be identical with the commandment (amr) of doing what is right.10 This, however, belongs in the chapter on free will.11 As long as will and that which was willed happened in the same instant, the divine act of will was actually an act of creation. Consequently: just as irāda = murād, thus also khalq = makhlūq; or: if irāda ≠ murād, then khalq ≠ makhlūq.12 The equation khalq = makhlūq was convincing linguistically, as khalq meant the act of creating as well as that which is created.13 Abū l-Hudhayl was the first to clearly perceive this ambiguity;14 in Iraq, people would later prefer to use the word takhlīq rather than khalq to refer to the act of creation.15 In this context, Abū l-Hudhayl also pinpointed the difference between a divine act of will and an act of creation: unlike an act of will an act of creation is always accompanied by a speech act, as God not only wills things but also says ‘Be’ when he calls them to existence. Through this speech act something materially new is created, as in other instances God wills for something to manifest itself on a thing, which thus becomes the location where his will comes to pass. Creation, on the other hand, has no location, as the thing being created does not yet ­exist.16 The act of will that is at the same time an act of creation takes place in ‘non-locatedness’ (lā fī makān), as a hypostasis, without a substrate.17 This theory was rather complicated, simply because it took the Quran into consideration. The idea of the fiat had been expressed there already, e.g. in sura 2:117: ‘and when he decrees a thing, he says to it only ‘Be,’ and it is’.18 Still, some of Abū l-Hudhayl’s contemporaries had dismissed this detail, Bishr b. 9  By Bishr al-Marīsī (cf. vol. III 200) and, interestingly, also Bishr al-Muʿtamir (ibid. 132). Of course implicitly by all the predestinarians, but hardly within the context of an explicit system. And they preferred to use the word mashīʾa. 10  Cf. vol. III 52 above regarding Ḍirār, 132 for Bishr al-Muʿtamir, 151 for Murdār; also II 829 regarding the Murjiʾite Abū Muʿādh al-Tūmanī. Cf. Naẓẓām’s linguistic analysis (III 435f.). 11  See p. 549f. below. 12  As with Bishr al-Muʿtamir; cf. vol. III 132f. Cf. also Ḍirār (Text XV 22). 13  Cf. vol. II 828 and III 259f. above. 14  Vol. III 303f. above. 15  Ibid. 201f. It was possible to replace both terms by takwīn: mukawwan (ibid.; also Gimaret, Noms divins 310). Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb IV 178, 6ff., collects arguments for and against khalq = makhlūq. 16  Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ had already stated this polemically (or the author of the text against Islam that was attributed to him; see vol. II 36 above). 17  See vol. III 259f. and 302 above. 18  For parallels cf. Paret, Kommentar 27 on the passage. Discussed in detail in O’Shaughnessy, Creation and the Teaching of the Qurʾān 40ff.; p. 41 also concerning Christian parallels.

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al-Muʿtamir for instance, and Bishr al-Marīsī.19 In fact, he was alone with his theory, not even Naẓẓām following him.20 This may be indicative of a tendency of ‘de-mythologising’ the Quran,21 but the question was so difficult to deal with because no distinction was made between that which God said and the speech act itself; if an eternal will or a κόσμος νοητός had been presumed, it would have been much easier. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī was still repeating the argument that the imperative ‘Be’ must not be interpreted as an imperative as the thing it addresses does not yet exist.22 The only group with whom Abū l-Hudhayl’s concept lived on were the Iranian Ismāʿīlites, but instead of kun, the fiat, they spoke of amr, the ‘imperative’ (grammatically this applies to kun), and this imperative was not merely a hypostasis any more, but also a component and first step of the emanation. Cf. de Smet, Le verbe impératif dans le système cosmologique de l’ismaélisme; in: RScPhil. 73/1989/397ff. Also Walker, Early philosophical Shiism 84; to Sijistānī amr = kalima (kun) = irāda = ibdāʿ. In the issue of khalq Abū l-Hudhayl had still been obliged to deliberate on whether creating itself was created (vol. III 303 above). Now that khalq had been replaced by a different word, amr, it was easy to say that this hypostasis was not created, but that it executed creating in a different way, namely by ibdāʿ which is punctual and does not last like khalq (Walker 82f.). Once might imagine that the Ismāʿīlites were inspired by theologians such as Abū Muʿādh al-Thūmanī and Zuhayr al-Atharī who followed the tradition of Abū l-Hudhayl (see vol. II 828 above); this would be another reason not to locate them in Egypt but in Iran. However, we should also consider the creation myth of the early Ismāʿīliyya, in which kūnī and qadar, i.e. the (feminine) word of creation and the (masculine) divine omnipotence (cf. Halm, Kosmologie und Heilslehre 53ff.; Das Reich des Mahdi 26). Speculations similar to Abū l-Hudhayl’s are furthermore found in Pseudo-Ammonius whose text was also known to the Iranian Ismāʿīlites (cf. Rudolph 201ff.), and in the K. sirr al-khalīqa (cf. Weisser, ‘Buch über das Geheimnis der Schöpfung’ 89 cap. II 2; also Zimmermann in: PseudoAristotle in the Middle Ages 196ff.).

19  See vol. III 133 and 200 above. 20  Ibid. 435. 21  Thus later clearly stated by al-Kindī; cf. Walzer in: Oriens 10/1957/210f. = Greek into Arabic 182f. 22   Mafātīḥ al-ghayb XIII 33, 5ff. He was probably thinking of the Karrāmites here, as they regarded kun as a speech act (qawl) being generated in God’s essence and by an eternal qāʾiliyya, a predisposition (Mutawallī, Mughnī 16, 10ff.).

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Abū l-Hudhayl’s regarding God’s creative act of will as a ‘non-located’ hypostasis was his way of expressing the creatio ex nihilo. This, too, was not self-explanatory. In the Quran, ‘nothingness’ was no more a category than it was in the book of Genesis. According to the Biblical history of creation God orders the chaos, but he does not precede it, or better: he creates the good things distinct from the constitutive pre-existing elements earth, darkness, and primal seas.23 The distinction is effected by means of names: ‘God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day and the darkness he called Night’.24 The Quran, on the other hand, does not include an account of the creation, presuming the Biblical version to be known and referring to it.25 ‘Naming’ changes to ‘calling up’ by means of the fiat, introducing the first step to the creatio ex nihilo.26 Most of the Islamic theologians were presumably not even aware that they added a new idea to the revelation; Shahrastānī, however, stated it explicitly.27 Concerning the question of whether the Quran teaches the creation from nothing cf. Beck in: Le Muséon 89/1976/199ff., and O’Shaughnessy, loc. cit. 1ff.; also Alousi, Problem of Creation 11ff. Regarding the development in Christianity cf. Grant, Miracle and Natural Law 135ff., and G. May, Schöpfung aus dem Nichts. Die Entstehung der Lehre von der creatio ex nihilo (Berlin 1978). May points out that Rabbinical Judaism was not familiar with this concept, either (p. 22f.).; concerning the preceding phase cf. H.-F. Weiss, Untersuchungen zur Kosmologie des hellenistischen und palästinensischen Judentums (Berlin 1966). The first Christian thinker who proposed the theorem that matter was generated by God was Tatian (May 153ff.).

23  Cf. W. Groß in: Fs. P. Hünermann 149ff., and in Groß/Kuschel, ‘Ich schaffe Finsternis und Unheil’, p. 35ff. 24  Gen. 1:4f.; cf. also G. von Rad, Theologie des Alten Testaments 6I 155ff. 25  In a way that did not seem sufficiently consistent to the critics (Text XXXV 89, i); cf. Paret, Kommentar 433 on sura 41:9–12. 26  In the corresponding Quranic passages khalaqa is often replaced with qaḍā which, however, when applied to humans means calling to life by means of the spirit, not creatio ex nihilo (O’Shaughnessy 46f.). Creation by means of the word is a theological concept found already in Psalm 33:6; regarding its subsequent development in Rabbinical thought cf. Goldberg in: Judaica 36/1980/107. 27  In his Quranic commentary Mafātīḥ al-asrār (Facs. Tehran, fol. 105b, 10ff./transl. Monnot in La controverse religieuse 291). He links this to the observation that qadīm did not mean ‘eternal’ there, either.

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Creatio ex nihilo and divine transcendence are surely closely linked. Creating from matter is anthropomorphic; God is above this.28 Of course anthropomorphism was not a problem in early Islam at all. According to the Quran the world results from the ‘unstitching’ of the primal matter, with everything living emerging from the water.29 The first exegetes, too, adhered to this: God is in a cloud above the primal ocean and first creates the throne on which he will sit as the ruler;30 the heavens are created from the steam rising from the water.31 He creates the fish (nūn) on whose back he spreads the earth;32 otherwise it would sink under the waters. And as the fish moves the mountains have to steady the earth.33 While the fact that God was ‘alone’ is emphasised, this only means that the angels and humans did not yet exist.34 Just like Judaism, Islam enjoyed the creative combining of scriptural passages. The fish itself, for instance, does not occur in the Quran; the word nūn was quite unusual. But Jonah, whom the whale had swallowed, was called dhū l-nūn ‘the one with the fish’ in sura 21:87,35 and the letter nūn was the logogram at the beginning of sura 68. By combining the two, the logogram, which did not lend itself to interpretation, became the fish.36 It was followed in the text by an invocation of the reed pen (qalam) and ‘that which one writes (using it)’. The latter, it was soon understood, referred to the skill of humans, while the fish – rather more than the mere letter – placed the passage firmly into the creation myth. When the argument over predestination broke out, this passage became a key witness, the reed pen being regarded as the thing God created first.37 In the context of sura 68:1 the nūn could be interpreted (albeit not linguistically convincingly) as the ‘inkwell’.38 28  In this way the idea may have come into being among the gnostics (cf. May, Schöpfung aus dem Nichts 76). 29  Sura 21;30; also Speyer, Biblische Erzählungen 4f. Concerning the following see also the entry K̲ h̲alḳ in EI2 IV 980ff. (R. Arnaldez). 30  Ṭabarī I 34, 7ff./transl. Rosenthal 204; Tafsīr 3XV 246f. no. 17980f. regarding sura 11:7. Cf. p. 455f. above. 31  Ibid. I 49, pu. f./transl. 220 after sura 41:11; cf. Arnaldez in EI2 IV 983. 32  Ṭabarī I 48, 7ff./transl. 218; cf. vol. III 258 above with further sources. 33  Ibid., following sura 78:7 and 13:3 (with parallels in Paret, Kommentar 257). 34  Cf. Alousi 49ff. May’s abovementioned study shows how careful we must be of overinterpreting such statements. 35  In sura 68:48, on the other hand, ṣāḥib al-ḥūt. The word nūn is probably of Aramaic origin; cf. Horovitz, Koranische Untersuchungen 155, and Speyer, Biblische Erzählungen 407f. 36  Thus clearly in the tradition Ṭabarī I 48, 14ff./transl. 218; cf. Tafsīr 2XXIX 14f. Cf. also Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 243, 7f., and Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 482, 11f. 37  HT 77ff.; also Ṭabarī I 48, 4ff./transl. 218f. 38  Cf. Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 131, 5f.

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Not only the throne and the reed pen were in this competition; indeed, there were many answers to the question of what was the very first created thing. We can observe how the process of creation loses its materiality, and also directness, as people were looking for the medium God employed. Logograms like nūn may have been the point at which the idea – originally evolved in gnosticism – that God used letters in his creation;39 this allowed the conclusion that they were the hypostasis (shayʾ mutawahham) created first.40 Will, too, might acquire hypostatic function in this way: God creates it first, and then creates the things by means of it.41 Or, gnostic once again, as well as extreme Shīʿite: God, being a being of, first creates shadow by means of his will.42 Finally it was even said that God created reason (ʿaql) first of all.43 In the passage cited this appears to have Neoplatonic roots, but it was not necessarily meant in this way everywhere; some authors may simply have been emphasising the prominent role of human intellect.44 It was said that people argued in the presence of Muḥammad al-Bāqir concerning what was really created first of all: predestination (qadar), the reed pen, or the spirit (rūḥ), and he decided: none of these; the first thing created from which everything else emerged, was water.45 In this way the imām turned back to the Quran, but the primal ocean was not a preexisting material any more, but itself created. Mughīra b. Saʿīd has it as formed by God’s sweat.46 In the Quran khāliq ‘creator’ is replaced with badīʿ ‘evoker, maker’ in two places,47 from which the term ibdāʿ was derived that described the creatio ex nihilo.48 An Egyptian gravestone dating from 240/855 calls God badīʿ mubtadiʿ,49 but there is no indication in the Quran that badīʿ differed from khāliq; the exegetes, too, only understood the word to mean that God created heaven and earth, which are linked by it in both instances, either alone or first 39  See p. 429ff. above. 40  Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Zīnā I 66, 5ff./transl. Vajda in: Arabica 8/1961/119ff.; in this place God’s tawahhum still precedes them. 41  Kulīnī, Kāfī I 110 no. 4. 42   Al-haft wal-aẓilla 30, 7f. Tāmir; cf. p. 423f. above. 43  See vol. I 416 after another Shīʿite source. 44  See vol. II 196 above; Alousi, Creation 69ff. Also, in great detail, D. S. Crow’s dissertation The Spectrum of the Notion of al-ʿAql in early Hadith (McGill University, Montreal). 45  Kulīnī, Kāfī VIII 94f. no. 67; cf. also Arnaldez in EI2 IV 984. 46  Regarding the cosmological ideas of the early Shīʿites cf. Amir-Moezzi in EIran VI 317ff. 47  Sura 2:117 and 6:101. 48  Thus e.g. Kindī; cf. EI2 III 664 s. v. ibdāʿ. Regarding Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār cf. Peters, God’s Created Speech 268; on the development in general see de Smet, La Quiétude de l’Intellect 111ff. 49  RCEA I 289 no. 372.

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of all.50 When and where the concept of creation became radicalised is not known. It is possible that the early theology with its Neoplatonic orientation began the process; the abovementioned collection of Hermetic logia from the caliph Hishām’s circle contains a clear statement.51 Gnostics like Mughīra b. Saʿīd are also possible candidates.52 Muḥāsibī incorporated the idea of creatio ex nihilo blatantly into the proem of his Riʿāya: ‘… for (God) had for eternity been one with nothing existing beside him. Then he began to create things, not from something that had existed beside him for eternity; he created things from nothing ( fa-khtaraʿa l-ashyāʾ) and made them come into existence and determined them as he desired’.53 However, this was not written significantly earlier than the gravestone mentioned. It may be that the question is futile, and phrased badly. The idea of the creatio ex nihilo did not have to be figured out; it had long been evolved and arrived imperceptibly, with the neophytes, but not necessarily in all regions at the same time. The passage by Muḥāsibī furthermore contains non-Quranic words; ikhtaraʿa in this sense is not even found in hadith. Like aḥdatha and awjada it is one of those terms with which the theologians expressed that God called something into existence54 ‘without pre-existing matter and without a model’ (min ghayrnaṣlin wa-ʿalā ghayri mithāl).55 Frequently, however, it seems that they did not focus on the connection between God and matter; some Muʿtazilites interpreted creation as setting-in-motion.56 This was a Greek idea;57 consequently it enabled them to communicate much more efficiently with their opponents,58 but ultimately led them onto an entirely different course. Naẓẓām explained things as a mixture of ingredients permeating one another,59 and his pupil Jāḥiẓ emphasised the consequence that these fundamental components, once created, will enter into ever new combinations.60 Clear engagement in favour 50  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3II 541 no. 1858f. 51  BEO 19/1965–6/74, 8: ansha‌ ʾa l-khalīqa lā min mawjūdāt wa-aḥdathahā lā min mutaqaddimāt. Regarding the text see p. 476 above. 52  In Mughīra’s view God, before he spoke his sublime name and thus allowed the letters to come into existence, was ‘alone, without anything being with him’ (Ashʿarī, Maq. 7, 7). Cf. also p. 429f. above. 53   Riʿāya 1, 5ff. 54  Regarding the combination of bilā aṣl = ikhtaraʿa cf. Ibn Shabīb in Text XXXI 4, f. 55  Thus Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3II 581, 8, with reference to badīʿ. Cf. Rudolph, Pseudo-Ammonios 129f. 56  Cf. vol. III 352f. above for Naẓẓām. 57   Sorabji explains how Aristotle’s unmoved mover evolved into a creator (Aristotle Transformed 181ff.). 58  See p. 507 below. 59  See vol. III 363ff. above. 60  See p. 125 above; regarding Naẓẓām cf. vol. III 397ff.

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of the creatio ex nihilo is found more clearly in the philosophical grey area on the edge of kalām, once again in a text that shows Neoplatonic influence: the K. sirr al-khalīqa we already mentioned above.61 This may not be mere coincidence. After all, the opponents of the concept of creation came mainly from circles close to philosophy and antique thought: the so-called Dahriyya. This word did not refer to a particular school; rather, it was a collective term for individuals or groups with whom one would always come into contact in the middle-class inhabitants of towns and cities: physicians, astronomers (or astrologers), alchemists.62 A Dahrite does not think highly of ikhtirāʿ, Jāḥiẓ said, nor does he believe in prophetic miracles.63 He recognises only what he can see with his own eyes;64 this results in rationalism or, as the Muslims thought, scepticism.65 Denying the beginning corresponded to denying the end; there is no eschatology. Dahr is the eternal time, the unceasing revolution of the starry sky, the ‘wheel of the sphere’ (charkh-i falak), as the Persian poets would later say.66 The old Arabian poets had spoken of dahr, denoting ‘destiny’;67 by the time Islamic theologians crossed paths with the Dahriyya in Iraq, this had lost its relevance; now the focus was on Iranian and antique thought. On the other hand tradition had always had the antidote at its disposal. Proclus’ Propositiones on the eternal duration of the world (Ἑπιχειρήματα περὶ ἀϊδιότητος του̃ κόσμου)68 are better known in their Arabic than in their Greek versions, but they would be read together with John Philoponus’ refutation.69 61  Cf. Zimmermann in: Pseudo-Aristotle 198 with sources. The same is stated there for the Theologie des Aristoteles (p. 174f. and 199f.); but the latter is probably of a later date. Regarding Pseudo-Ammonios’ doxography cf. Rudolph’s commentary 118ff.; regarding Liber de Causis see Endreß in: Oriens 34/1994/183f. with sources. Al-Kindī adopted from there. 62  Cf. Kraus in: Al-Thaqāfa 226/1943/12; also vol. II 45 and III 360f. above. 63   Ḥayawān IV 90, 3ff. Cf. also the alleged discussion between Abū Ḥanīfa and a Dahrite in Abū l-Layth al-Samarqandī’s commentary on Fiqh absaṭ (ed. Daiber, The Islamic Concept of Belief 190ff., l. 771ff.). 64  Ibid. 90, 1; cf. also vol. I 530 above. 65  A characteristic example may be seen in the treatise against Islam linked to Ibn alMuqaffaʿ’s name (see vol. II 35f. above). Cf. also the deliberations in the Garshāpnāme, transl. Massé II 30f. 66  Ringgren, Fatalism in Persian Epics 49ff., also 9ff. 67  Further reading cf. HT 75; s. also vol. I 25 above. 68  Cf. the German translation in M. Baltes, Die Weltentstehung des platonischen Timaios nach den antiken Interpreten II 134ff. 69  Cf. Walzer in EI2 I 1340 s. v. Buruḳlus, and Endreß, Proclus Arabus 15ff. A. Hasnaoui has recently demonstrated that excerpts from Philoponus’ De aeternitate mundi contra Proclum in Arabic were attributed to Alexander of Aphrodisias secondarily (Ar. Sc. and Phil.

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The latter was a Christian and had good reason to raise objections, but different opinions came from the Iranian religions. The Zoroastrians knew of the end of the world70 and regarded Ahura-Mazda as the creator.71 The Marcionites, while rejecting the creatio ex nihilo, criticised those Dahrites who did not recognise God as the guide of the cosmos.72 According to the Dēnkart those who did not believe in the existence of the creator Ahura-Mazda and the ‘prophet of dēn’ (i.e. Zarathustra) were called sophists and Dahrites ‘in the language of the empire’, i.e. the Muslims.73 This probably refers to the Zurvanites among others whose name alone points to zurvān-i akanārak, the ‘infinite time’.74 The creatio ex nihilo was rejected by the Dēnkart; nothing comes from nothing.75 Zurvanite ideas were not altogether irrelevant to Islam; Abū l-ʿAtāhiya is one instance.76 Still, a Muslim could not deny that the world had a beginning and an end. Jahm b. Ṣafwān expressed this axiom quite radically: God is the first and the last (sura 57:3); he was alone at the beginning and he will be alone at the end.77 Jahm probably relied on a broad consensus here. In a prayer he recommended to be said before going to sleep the Medinan Abū Ṣāliḥ Dhakwān 4/1994/68ff.). Regarding the wider context of the discussion among Christian authors of the sixth century, e.g. Aeneas of Gaza and Zacharias of Mytilene, and a generation earlier Synaesius of Cyrene, cf. E. Rowson in his commentary on ʿĀmirī, Amad ʿalā l-abad (1988), p. 252ff. On John Philoponus’ relevant works cf. Sorabji in: Philoponus and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science 7 and 167f., also 233f.; regarding his influence see vol. III 249 and 427, also 42f. above. S. Pines published the fragments of a previously unknown text by the latter on the creatio in tempore in IOS 2/1972/320ff.; edited with a French translation by Troupeau in: Mémorial Festugière 77ff. The fragments of Contra Aristotelem, especially found in Simplicius but also in Arabic sources (Fārābī) have been presented in English translation by C. Wildberg: Philoponus. Against Aristotle, on the Eternity of the World (Ithaca, Cornell Univ. Press 1987); on the textual history cf. id. in: Sorabji, Philoponus 198ff. – The interest people took in the controversy is also documented by PseudoAmmonius who, being a Neoplatonist, held Proclus in great esteem, attempted to prove that he did not in fact argue in favour of the eternal duration of the world (cap. XXV with comm. p. 204ff. Rudolph). 70  Zaehner, Dawn and Twilight of Zoroastrianism 312ff. 71  Ibid. 249f.; according to Zarathustra God creates the world by means of thought, i.e. ex nihilo (ibid. 199). Cf. the summary in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 331, 2ff. 72  See vol. I 506f. above. 73   Dēnkart, transl. de Menasce 237 § 225; cf. also the text in Zaehner 197. 74  Zaehner 181; concerning them in general ibid. 198ff., and Boyce in: Fs. Yarshater 20ff., and Shaked in: JSAI 17/1994/50ff. 75  Transl. de Menasce 327 § 362. 76   Agh. IV 5, 14ff.; see vol. I 526 above. The well-known Zurvanite origin myth was familiar to the Arabs (cf. Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq in Malāḥimī, Muʿtamad 597, –7ff.); also Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 334, 4ff. 77  See vol. II 569 above; cf. also Rudolph, Pseudo-Ammonios 129.

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al-Sammān (d. 101/720) used the formula: ‘You are the first, and there is nothing before you. And you are the last, there is nothing after you.’78 They both presumed that God was the only one to occupy time completely; he is within time, or maybe he is time – anā l-dahr, as hadith put it.79 Jahm understood this to mean that not only is there nothing after God but that he is the only one who remains, presupposing that humans will not stay in paradise forever. But only very few people were willing to embrace this consequence; after all, it did not seem to be covered by the Quran.80 The system had the advantage that it allowed clear opposition to the Dahriyya. Consequently Abū l-Hudhayl continued to maintain that all movement had a beginning and an end; paradise could thus be eternal as long as it would be filled with eternal rest in the long run. To the Dahrites the movement (of the stars) had been the fundamental element of their world view;81 by adopting it, Abū l-Hudhayl came to understand creation as setting in motion. His successors, as we have seen, accepted this, but tried to evade the consequence inherent in the theory. With Iskāfī the analogy between beginning and end was revoked; it is possible, he thought, to prove that all movement must have a beginning without having to admit its end.82 Kindī demonstrated shortly afterwards that there were indeed phenomena that had a beginning but no end, such as the sequence of numbers or time.83 This approach to a philosophical question that had been discussed since antiquity did not allow the interpretation of God as the one who exists in time any more; rather, he created time with movement.84 After all, time, as Aristotle had said, was the measure of movement.85 It was also now impossible to presume movement in the case of God as suggested by Kufan theory;86 God is immutable 78  Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ 2084 = Dhikr 61; parallels cf. Conc. I 134b, and Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 77, 6ff.; also Gimaret, Noms divins 172. 79  HT 76. The Ibāḍite Naffāth b. Naṣr al-Qanṭarīnī later expressed this exaggerated to God being al-dahr al-dāʾim (Ṣāliḥ Bājiyya, Al-Ibāḍiyya fī l-Jarīd 63ff.). 80  This depended on how one interpreted kh-l-d in jannat al-khuld or khālidīna fīhā (see vol. II 568 and III 58 above; also p. 613f. below). 81  Presumably above all because of astrology; the laws of heaven it presumed were guaranteed by the eternal duration of the motion of the firmament (cf. the doctrine of the ‘Chaldaeans’ in Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca historica II 30; also van der Waerden in: SB Heid. Ak. Wiss., Math.-Nat. Kl. 1972, no. 5, S. 20. 82  See vol. III 282 above. 83  Cf. the text, ed. Celentano in: AIUON 39/1979, Suppl. 18, p. 7, 10f. In the case of numbers Kindī, following the spirit of his time, disregards negative numbers. 84  Regarding Ibn Shabīb see p. 146 above. 85  See vol. III 261 above. 86  See p. 448 and 492 above.

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and beyond time. In the words of the K. sirr al-khalīqa87 the world was created at a certain point in time, time was created with the world; there is no time for time. Still: if there is no time for time, how can God exist before creation? This new aspect of the problem exercised the theologians during the second third of the third century. God does not, in fact, exist before things, ʿAbbād said; he is ‘before’ in principle. He is takes precedence over things by virtue of their dependence on him. ʿAbbād was thinking of contingency rather than of chronological posteriority. While God becomes the creator only at the point of creating, it must not be said that he was a non-creator from the very beginning.88 Ṣāliḥī tried to illuminate the matter by defamiliarising everyday language: God is not qabla l-ashyāʾ but qablu l-ashyāʾ.89 Shaḥḥām was the first to introduce the concept of potentiality: even before being created, bodies have a certain existence in God’s knowledge.90 This was only a rough draft; the concept of possibility was still lacking.91 Still, it was a decisive breakthrough as it meant that now systems such as the Aristotelian, which was based on the contrast between δύναμις and ἐνέργεια, could be converted to the kalām way of thinking. The rapprochement thus initiated would still take centuries, and even then it came to a halt halfway. Theologians never wanted to explain the relation between God and the world with the concept of contingency alone; creation always was creation within time. Consequently the question asked by the Dahriyya, why God created the world at precisely this point in time and not earlier or later,92 would still be discussed by Ghazzālī in Tahāfut al-falāsifa.93 The relation between God and the world was never reduced to one between cause and effect, either;94 only philosophers, for instance in the pseudoAristotelian K. al-īḍāḥ fī l-khayr al-maḥḍ, the Latin Liber de causis, claimed that. Even the Ismāʿīlites distanced themselves from the Neoplatonists in this 87  P. 62, 2ff. 88  See p. 28 above. 89  See p. 159f. above. 90  See p. 55f. above. 91  This was not about possibility, but rather about existence or, more precisely, continued existence (thubūt) as a ‘something’ (shayʾ), within God’s knowledge. Shaḥḥām thus pulled the ground from under theories according to which a thing becomes a thing only once God has made it come into being and consequently knows about it (thus Shayṭān al-Ṭāq after Maq. 37, 3ff.; also vol. I 401 above). 92  Thus ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī, Masāʾil 106, 4ff. 93  Cf. the translation in: van den Bergh, Averroes’ Tahafut al-Tahafut I 1ff.; also B. S. Kogan, Averroes and the Metaphysics of Causation 46ff. Generally R. C. Dales, Medieval Discussions of the Eternituy of the World (Leiden 1990). 94  Ibn al-Rēwandī’s claiming to have discovered indications of this in the theories of Abū ʿAffān al-Raqqī’s, a pupil of Naẓẓām, is probably mainly polemic (see p. 135 above).

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matter.95 God’s will remained a free decision linked to an intention: God does nothing ‘for a joke’, the Quran tells us, and the theologians adhered to this.96 Of course it was hardly possible to reach a unanimous decision as to the reason why he decided to abandon his solitude. The Muʿtazilites said, for the sake of humans, meaning: in order to benefit them, which made the creation into an act of charity.97 God, one might thus say, created out of generosity and mercy.98 The Christians believed this, too;99 Muqammiṣ repeated it after them.100 When interlocked with the doctrine of the incarnation, however, it gained a deeper meaning, while the Muslims always had to face the criticism that the act of charity was directed at beneficiaries who did not yet exist. Incorporating the idea of Muḥammad’s pre-existence101 suggested itself, particularly within mysticism. God, Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī tells us, created the world for the humans, but he created Adam (the ancestor of the humans) for Muḥammad’s sake, and Muḥammad for his own, i.e. God’s, own sake.102 Or indeed, more pointedly in every respect: ‘If it had not been for you (Muḥammad), I would not have created the spheres’.103 Alternatively one might see the meaning of creation in the fact that humans – and only they – are capable of knowing God; God thus reveals himself through creation. The Shīʿa cherished this thought,104 and once again mysticism adopted it through a ḥadīth qudsī: ‘I was a hidden treasure and wished to be recognised’.105 This was a confident statement, but difficult to prove, which 95  Cf. Walker, Early philosophical Shiism 41, regarding Sijistānī. The latter went no further than calling God muʿill ʿillat al-ʿilal, causator causae causarum (cf. Madelung in: Nasr (ed.), Ismāʿīlī Contributions to Islamic Culture 57). Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī was even more reticent (cf. de Smet, La Quiétude de l’Intellect 134ff.). In general on the question also Alousi, Problem of Creation 237ff. 96  See vol. III 302 above; also Maqdisī, Badʾ I 115, 3ff. 97  Vol. III 440 above; regarding indications in the Quran cf. O’Shaughnessy, Creation 59f. 98  Maqdisī, Badʾ I 115, ult. f. 99  Justin, Apol. I 10, 2; II 4, 2, and 5, 2; Irenaeus, Haer. IV 14, 1; in the Arabic language area Abū Rāʾiṭa 36, 5ff. Graf (CSCO vol. 130). 100   ʿIshrūn maqāla XII 3 = p. 231 Stroumsa. 101  See p. 659f. below. 102   Qūt al-qulūb I 244, 16ff./transl. Gramlich II 213, after the akhbār Dāwūd. More concise as a ḥadīth qudsī; cf. Furūzānfar, Aḥādīth-i Mathnawī 181 no. 575. 103   Lawlāka mā khalaqtu l-aflāk: famous but clearly late ḥadīth qudsī (cf. Furūzānfar 172 no. 546; Schimmel, Und Muhammad ist sein Prophet 114). 104  Majlisī, Biḥār V 312ff. 105  This, too, was transmitted elsewhere – and earlier? – as a dictum of David’s (Furūzānfar 29 no. 70; also Ritter, Meer der Seele, Index 711). Ibn Taymiyya described the dictum as a falsification (Ibn al-Daybaʿ, Tamyīz al-ṭayyib min al-khabīth 153, 10ff.). It has not been possible to find information concerning the origin and age of the dicta mentioned.

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is why it was expressed in the first person. Najjār had already denied that it was possible to find one single comprehensive reason; the world is far too complex, God must have had many reasons.106 Soon people wondered whether God needed a reason at all; the Ashʿarites107 as well as Ibn Ḥazm108 rejected this idea. In a verse of his Luzūmiyyāt Maʿarrī said: ‘God shaped me (ṣawwaranī); but I do not know why. Great is the mighty one, the One’.109 God’s greatness, after all, is also expressed in his autarky; he is ghanī, dependent on no-one.110 However, he does not retire from the world, either; his care corresponds to his lack of needs and abundance of being. The Quran makes it quite clear – much clearer than the OT – that creation was not only an event ‘at the beginning’, but that it takes place continually, in the form of God’s intervention in the course of the world that can be experienced daily. God does not rest; even on the seventh day he is the enthroned ruler who determines everything.111 ‘God possesses a tablet that is made from a pearl on one side, and from an emerald on the other, with a pen made of light’, Mālik b. Dīnār was said to have transmitted from Ḥasan al-Baṣrī, ‘with it he creates, gives subsistence, with it he gives life and death, exalts and humiliates, and does what he will through day and night’.112 From the very first God’s omnipotence was much clearer to see for the Muslims than his omniscience;113 they would not have come up with the idea that God in his foreknowledge left the world to its own devices like a clockwork. Of course this idea is not found in the Christian Middle Ages, either, but the Quran had put a particular emphasis on the issue.114 106  Text XXXII 21. This was confirmed by the Quran (cf. O’Shaughnessy, Creation 58ff.). 107  Regarding Ashʿarī cf. Gimaret, Doctrine 435; regarding Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī e.g. Mafātīḥ al-ghayb XVII 21, –4ff. 108  Regarding him cf. Arnaldez, Grammaire et théologie 295. 109   Luzūmiyyāt I 296, 2 Zand/transl. Nicholson, Studies in Islamic Poetry 159. In general also Maqdisī, Badʾ I 116, 5f. 110  Thus already in the Quran; cf. sura 4:131, and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 107. Regarding the later interpretation of the word cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 223f. The concept of αὐτάρκεια is employed by Greek philosophy as well as Hellenistic Judaism and Christianity (cf. B. Gärtner, The Areopagus Speech and Natural Revelation 216ff.); ghanī corresponds to οὐ προσδεόμενός τινος. – Of course one could hardly inquire into the reasons behind the creation if one, like for instance the early Shīʿite theologians, did not attribute any foreknowledge to God. 111  Cf. Nagel, Der Koran 181. Also p. 448f. above. 112  Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 20, 2ff.; regarding Mālik b. Dīnār see vol. II 105ff. above. A variant with a different isnād is found in Bayhaqī, Al-asmāʾ wal-ṣifāt 606, apu. ff. 113  Regarding it see p. 451f. and 492 above. 114  Early Christian polemic saw this very clearly (cf. the Διάλεξις attributed to John of Damascus, IV 429f. Kotter = Glei/Khoury, Schriften zum Islam 170ff.; regarding the authorship see p. 697, n. 14 below). The different approach of Western scholasticism was

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Muslims were most closely aligned with the Jews here. The latter were inclined to interpret the word yishbot in Gen. 2:2 (the origin of ‘sabbath’) as meaning that on the seventh day God interrupted his work, but did not finish it; as early as Philo we find the concept of the eternally continuing c­ reation.115 But while the theological systematisation was abandoned in Judaism after Philo, it would spread its wings freely in Islam in the future. The Sālimiyya in Basra established the idea as one of their dogmas.116 The philosopher Īrānshahrī117 used it to support the postulate that God, when he acts, does not move from a state of inactivity to a state of action: he is always acting.118 Even the Muʿtazilites, who were the theologians most influenced by the Hellenistic spirit, aligned with this in due course, at least in their Basran branch. For while they accorded humans free will, they lacked insight into the autonomy of inanimate nature. Only a minority believed that things function of themselves and according to the same laws under which they first emerged: among them Muʿammar,119 Naẓẓām,120 Thumāma,121 later also Kaʿbī122 and, in a particularly noticeable fashion, the Muṭarrifiyya in Yemen.123 Elsewhere it was emphasised that God could at any time intervene ‘as creator’ in the course of nature.124 Naẓẓām’s pupil al-Jāḥiẓ deplored this; some, he found, believed true monotheism to have been implemented only by denying that things have their own nature (ṭabīʿa, ḥaqīqa), even though in this way they deprived themselves of the opportunity of proving God through the workings of nature.125 explored in detail by M.-D. Chenu, Théologie au douzième siècle (Paris 1957; esp. ch. 1 and 5). After all, even Origen had believed that on the seventh day God ‘retires to his watchtower’ regarding himself – only, however, once time has ended in the world (Contra Celsum 5.59/transl. Chadwick 310; also H. J. Vogt in: Studia Patristica XXI, p. 359ff.). 115  May, Schöpfung aus dem Nichts 19; Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 511. The verb shābat means ‘to pause, interrupt’ (cf. Köhler/Baumgartner, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti Libros 946). The meaning ‘to rest’ is not directly implied in the earliest texts; cf. Ar. sabata ‘to cut off, interrupt’. Later it means ‘to celebrate the sabbath’. 116  Cf. Böwering, Mystical Vision of Existence 95, no. 10. 117  Regarding him see p. 137 and 327 above. 118  Cf. Meier in: Oriens 33: 1992/12. 119  See vol. III 74ff. above. 120  Ibid. 370ff.; regarding these two cf. also Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 559ff. (although the sources consulted are rather sparse). 121  Regarding him see vol. III 177f. above. 122  Cf. McDermott, Theology of Al-Mufīd 215f. 123  Cf. Madelung in: Akten VI. Kongreß UEAI Stockholm 77f. (= Rel. Schools and Sects, no. XIX). Regarding Ibn Rushd’s criticism of Ghazzālī in this matter cf. Kogan, Averroes and the Metaphysics of Causation 135ff. 124  Thus emphasised by Abū l-Hudhayl (see vol. III 299 above). In more detail p. 530f. below. 125   Ḥayawān II 134, apu. ff./transl. Souami 69. Also vol. III 397f.

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The theological proof of the existence of God is indeed not found particularly frequently among the Muʿtazilites,126 and where it does occur, in an apocryphon, it is linked specifically with Jāḥiẓ’s name.127 The theologians on the other side, however, inferred God precisely out of the changeability of everything on earth, out of movement.128 They were not familiar with the concept of substance in the Aristotelian sense; the accidents cannot be explained out of the nature of things, but are created by God to manifest themselves in connection with the thing itself.129 Consequently they had no need for the concept of potentiality; things that do not possess ἐνέργεια do not possess δύναμις, either. Only what is real is possible; the realm of the possible was thus numerically limited in Abū l-Hudhayl’s view, as was the entire real creation. See p. 507ff. above. This corresponds to the concept of possibility developed by the Megarics as a contrast to Aristotle. Nicolai Hartmann has pointed out its advantages over Aristotle’s idea: the latter imagined a real world ‘in which an abundance of the “merely possible” intrudes between what is genuinely real, as if it were a second kind of being’; this does not actually exist in reality (Kleinere Schriften II 94). Cf. also A. Faust, Möglichkeitsgedanke I 33f. However, Abū l-Hudhayl placed this within a theological framework: existing things are maqdūrāt, objects of divine omnipotence. God could leave them uncreated, but that would not make them potentially existing. Ghayr maqdūr are only those objects that were present in an act of creation as alternatives; from a grammatical point of view maqdūr has no gerundive function in this context at all (cf. vol. III 279 above). Furthermore, the other side did not necessarily disagree altogether; Naẓẓām’s kumūn concept was also only connected with potentiality under certain conditions (see vol. III 363 above). Those who assumed that something notbeing was already ‘something’, Shaḥḥām and his successors (see p. 52 and 55 above), were accused of believing in the eternal duration of the world (for instance by the Shīʿite Mufīd, cf. his Ḥikāyāt in: Turāthunā 4/1409, issue 3/124ff.; also Alousi, Problem of Creation 204f., and Madelung in: Akten VI. Kongreß UEAI Stockholm 81, n. 17).

126  This although indications of it are already found in the Quran; cf. e.g. sura 16:10ff. 127  See p. 235 above; also 404. 128  See p. 10 and 376f. above. 129  In more detail p. 515f. and 526ff. below.

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Of course Aristotelians such as Maimonides saw the systematic difference quite clearly.130 Thābit b. Qurra, not a friend of the theologians, either, and furthermore a follower of the ancient philosophers’ religion of the Ṣābians,131 pointed out to his Muslim correspondents that God could not be omnipotent in the sense postulated by them because he, as demonstrated by the example of the honeycomb, had to adhere to existing geometrical structures in order to achieve perfection.132 Over time the model of the continual creation condensed into consistent occasionalism; not only does God keep creating new things, he also creates everything that already exists, and that appears to possess continued existence, anew in every instant.133 This was the culmination of an ancient tendency; time had been atomised.134 Earlier, during the period we are studying here, only a few individual phenomena had been dissected in this way: motion and human action.135 The atomist model itself had already been the focus of interest; by the time occasionalism took hold, its greatest flowering was already past. 1.3.2.1.1 Excursus. The Early Islamic Theory of the Atoms Islamic atomism is an achievement of the early Muʿtazila, conceived in Basra. The Kufan Shīʿa did not know of it, and neither did Jahm b. Ṣafwān. Jāḥiẓ reports of a Shīʿite named Abū Luqmān who replied to a Muʿtazilite’s inquiry that ʿAlī was an atom ( juzʾ lā yatajazza‌ʾ), Abū Bakr and ʿUmar were divisible, and ʿUthmān even twice divisible; the only explanation Jāḥiẓ can think of is that the man was impressed by a terminology he did not understand at all.1 Even so, it seems that the Basran atomists were taught by someone who had worked in Kufa at least temporarily: Ḍirār b. ʿAmr. While he did 130   Dalālat al-ḥāʾirīn 206, 8f. 131  Albeit in a presumably reformed version (see vol. II 505ff.). 132  Strohmaier, Denker im Reich der Kalifen 49. The example of the bee was probably chosen with deliberate reference to the Quran (see vol. III 470 above); another example in Pseudo-Majrīṭī, Picatrix 335, 16ff./transl. 351. Cf. also Wolfson, Philosophy 614f. A. Dihle, Die Vorstellung vom Willen in der Antike 9ff., has shown that this is rooted in antique thought. 133   Tajdīd al-khalq fī l-ānāt; regarding Ibn ʿArabī cf. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge 18. 134  The classic study on the subject is D. M. Macdonald, Continuous Recreation and Atomic Time in Muslin Scholastic Theology, in: Isis 9/1927/326ff.; also id., Development of Muslim Theology 201ff. In more detail M. Fakhry, Islamic Occasionalism 25ff., and L. Rubio, El ‘occasionalismo’ de los teólogos especulativos islámicos. Su posible influencia en Guillermo de Ockham y en los ‘occasionalistas’ de la Edad Media (Madrid 1987). Regarding the Occident cf. R. Specht, Die Vorstellung von der Ohnmacht der Natur, in: Fs. Walzer 425ff. 135  See p. 528f. and 539f. below. 1  Ḥayawān III 37, pu. ff./transl. Souami 132f.

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not speak of atoms but of parts (abʿāḍ), he formulated an important principle that would lend Islamic atomism an entirely individual aspect for all time: namely that these parts only enter into existence when joined together.2 For in the Islamic understanding the atoms were not corpuscles, but they only achieved corporeality once they combined with others. However, unlike the parts they were not perceptible,3 for what Ḍirār called ‘parts’ were in fact qualities – the qualities of a body that appears as a ‘bundle’ with them.4 We experience it with our senses, and only what we experience in this way, the ‘accidents’ (aʿrāḍ), are part of it. This epistemological existentialism was probably inherited from Iranian ideas.5 It was also expressed by the Basran al-Aṣamm, albeit using a different terminology.6 All the same, it did not sit well with Muʿtazilite theology in the long run. It was akin to religions such as Manichaeism, which appeared in the guise of a system of natural science when in Islamic surroundings,7 and the Dahriyya presumably got on well with it, too;8 but someone who, like Abū l-Hudhayl, intended to prove the existence of an invisible God would have to think of something else. To him atomism was consequently not part of a physical system, but a theologoumenon. He distinguished between atoms, which he called ‘individual substance that is not further divisible’ (al-jawhar al-wāḥid alladhī lā yanqasimu),9 and the accidents that manifest themselves on them and are inherent to them. The accident that caused atoms to become a body was cohesion (ta‌ʾlīf), or agglomeration (ijtimāʿ), and it was granted by God. God was the one who generated visible reality in this way, and God could, by withdrawing the accident ‘cohesion’ and replacing it with the accident ‘separation’, destroy it, too.10 Atomism thus made it clearer how divine will worked. Nowhere are we told that God created the atoms first and then used them as building blocks, as it were;11 rather, he calls things into existence by means of 2  See vol. III 41f. above. 3  Ibid. 245. 4  Regarding the ‘bundle’ model see vol. III 47 above; also Dhanani, Physical theory of Kalām 90ff. 5  See vol. I 530 above. It was also linked with Indian tendencies (vol. II 23 and 566 above). 6  See vol. II 453 above. 7  See vol. I 497 above. Regarding the Manichaeans’ materialism cf. also G. G. Stroumsa in: HTR 81/1988/43ff. 8  In general p. 506 above. 9  Text XXI 4, a; also vol. III 74 above regarding Muʿammar. 10  See vol. III 241f. and 247f. above. Regarding the part played by taʿlīf cf. also Ibn Sīnā, Shifāʾ, Ṭabīʿiyyāt I 185, 8ff. 11  We should not leave out that the idea occurs occasionally that during the pre-existence in their original covenant with God (mīthāa) humans had the appearance of atoms (thus

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the fiat. Muʿammar, too, who was employing the same model as Abū l-Hudhayl at the same time – and may have evolved it even earlier12 – would probably have agreed. Admittedly, he was not familiar with ta‌ʾlīf and had the accidents generated by the nature of the bodies; according to him God could effect things only through the bodies’ predisposition willed by him.13 In this respect Muʿammar was more scientifically oriented than Abū l-Hudhayl, but he was not able to prevail. Naẓẓām, whose ideas were fundamentally not dissimilar from Muʿammar’s,14 after all turned his back on atomism as he regarded it as a model not suitable in this respect. We are looking, one might say, at the re-theologisation of antique natural science,15 although we must not forget that in the eyes of Hellenistic philosophy the topos Περὶ θεω̃ ν had its place in physics.16 Even then, during the ‘cosmological crisis of antiquity’, as David Furley called it,17 there had been a confrontation of approaches as different as Abū l-Hudhayl’s and Naẓẓām’s; furthermore even the most important atomist of the early modern age, Gassendi, embraced voluntaristic theology.18 Even so there can be no doubt that the intention of Abū l-Hudhayl’s atomism was entirely different from the antique version. Abū l-Hudhayl does not wish to explain nature as Democritus or Leucippus did – not least because there was no nature per se in his world view. In the eyes of the two pre-Socratics the atoms were eternal, infinite in number and forever in motion;19 they moved within the infinite void of the universe, and only coincidence brought them together.20 Above all, they were e.g. Ibn Manda, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 63, 9; cf. Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 41, and vol. III 300 above). One might wonder how atoms in this state were able to reply to God’s question a-lastu bi-rabbikum (Kulīnī, Kāfī II 12, 8ff.). However, it is based on the well-known hadith of the descendants (dhurriyya) of Adam whom God takes out of his loins (cf. HT 32ff.); the word for ‘atom’ in this case is dharr, not jawhar or juzʾ (lā yatajazza‌ʾ). 12  See vol. III 72f. above. 13  Ibid. 73ff. 14  See p. 512f. above. 15  A similar process, it seems, as in the case of alchemy, which emerged within Gnosticism through adaptation of the magical – chemical tradition of the ancient Orient (cf. Colpe, Problem Islam 52f.). 16  Cf. e.g. Diogenes Laertius VII 132 and 147ff.; also SCF II 299ff. with reference to Chrysippus. Cf. p. 401f. above. 17   The Cosmological Crisis in Classical Antiquity, in: Proc. Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy II, ed. J. J. Cleary (Lanham 1986), p. 1ff. 18  Cf. M. J. Osler (ed.), Atoms, Pneuma and Tranquillity. Epicurean and Stoic Themes in European Thought, Cambridge 1991, p. 155ff. 19  Regarding Leucippus cf. e.g. Jürß, Griechische Atomisten 115 and 118. 20  As stated by e.g. Alexander of Aphrodisias in his Περὶ προνοίας. The text was translated into Arabic by Mattā b. Yūnus (cf. H. J. Ruland, Die arabischen Fassungen von zwei Schriften des Alexander von Aphrodisias 1ff.).

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physical, they had hooks and eyes in order to connect during their free fall through the vacuum. Democritus had moved forward by separating the absence of parts from the absence of dimensions; his predecessors had not distinguished between the material and the geometric point.1 No theologian could be pleased that the corpuscles should be governed by coincidence, and consequently the Church Fathers regarded the atomists’ autonomous chaos simply as heathen denial of creation.2 Abū l-Hudhayl, on the other hand, was able to leave this attitude of refusal behind by replacing coincidence with a transcendental principle, namely God. This fundamental difference has always been emphasised by scholarship, not only within Islamic Studies but also by historians of philosophy. The reason for this was that Maimonides’ presentation provided a convenient summary, even though it was written from the opponents’ point of view (cf. Fakhry, Occasionalism 25ff.; also Schwarz in: Maimonidean Studies II 159ff., and III 143ff.). The abovementioned (p. 514, n. 134) article by Macdonald also relies on it. Just how much Maimonides had generalised only became apparent when Ashʿarī’s Maqālāt al-Islāmiyyīn (Istanbul 1929) appeared; it has since become the authoritative source. It was first discussed by O. Pretzl in: Der Islam 19/1931/117ff., and shortly afterwards by S. Pines in his frequently-quoted dissertation Beiträge zur islamischen Atomenlehre (Berlin 1936). Tertiary summaries have since usually relied on these studies, e.g., most incisively, A. Mieli, La science arabe (Rom 1938), p. 138ff., or, slightly confused, Tayeb Tisini, Die Materieauffassung in der islamischarabischen Philosophie des Mittelalters (Berlin 1972), p. 37ff., and Ḥusayn Muruwwa, Al-nazaʿāt al-māddiyya fī l-falsafa al-ʿarabiyya al-islāmiyya (Beirut 1978, 51985) I 725ff. Independently valuable are H. A. Wolfson, The Philosophy of the Kalam (Cambridge, Mass. 1976), p. 466ff. (incorporating an earlier contribution to the Festschrift E. Voegelin, p. 593ff.), and C. Baffioni, Atomismo e antiatomismo nel pensiero islamico (Naples 1982, p. 89ff. concerning kalām). Cf. also id., Valore ‘filosofico’ dell’atomismo del Kalām, in: AIUON 40/1980/243ff. (with a translation of the most important passages from the Maqālāt), L. E. Goodman in: Journal of Jewish Studies 31/1980/214ff., and D. Konstan in: Ancient Philosophy 2/1982/60ff.; textual material has been collected by Levey in: Chymia 7/1961/40ff. 1  Thus also Euclid; he postulates infinite divisibility and at the same time defines the point as indivisible. The development is demonstrated in Luria’s study Die Infinitesimaltheorie der antiken Atomisten, e.g. p. 124 and 127. 2  Cf. Lasswitz, Geschichte der Atomistik I 11ff.; after him Sorabji, Time, Creation and the Continuum 351. Similarly also the Jews (cf. Urban, The Sages 29f.).

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Unfortunately I have not been able to access Tawfīq Ibrāhīm’s Russian dissertation, Der Atomismus des Kalām und seine Stellung in der arabischislamischen Philosophie des Mittelalters (Moscow 1978); cf. Batunsky in: Religion 12/1982/372f. A fundamental and most original work is Alnoor Dhanani, Kalâm and Hellenistic Cosmology. Minimal Parts in Baṣrian Muʿtazilī Atomism (PhD Harvard 1991); I have been able to consult the printed version (The Physical Theory of Kalām. Atoms, Space, and Void in Baṣrian Muʿtazilī Cosmology; Leiden 1994) for the present volume as well as vol. VI (of the German edition). Of course the kalām was not concerned with Democritus or Leucippus, but rather with a centuries-old tradition that emerged thanks to their impulse. During late antiquity the system had undergone a number of changes that render the transition into the Islamic model more easily comprehensible. Epicurus had limited the shapes in which atoms could appear, as they possess no ‘qualities like those inherent in phenomena’.3 As they must have some physical size all the same, he distinguished the so-called minima (ἐλάχιστα) besides the atoms, which must be imagined as the smallest possible units free from any physicality. This opened up a new level of discussion; such minima were presumed not only in the context of bodies but also with reference to time, motion, and space, and now spoke of time, motion, or space quanta rather than of atoms in the traditional sense.4 The hierarchy of the problems worthy of discussion was informed by Aristotle’s criticism of old-style atomism in the sixth volume of his Physics; the focus there was on movement in the context of Zeno’s paradoxes. Naẓẓām, too, cited Zeno’s paradoxes in his criticism of Abū l-Hudhayl,5 and each of the early Muʿtazilites had his own explanation of movement. A debate between Dhanani and Pines has shown6 that the image the mutakallimūn of the fourth/tenth century – and presumably their early Muʿtazilite predecessors, too – had of the atoms recalls Epicurus’ minima. They were minute units, imagined to be indivisible, which occupied 3  In his letter to Herodotus in Diogenes Laertius X 54ff.; cf. Sambursky, Physikalisches Weltbild der Antike 152ff. 4  Cf. H. J. Krämer, Platonismus 310. In general cf. M. Gigante, Scetticismo ed Epicureismo; Naples 1981. 5  See vol. III 340 and 345f. Bīrūnī later inquired of Ibn Sīnā why Aristotle derided the atomists with Zeno’s paradoxes (Asʾila wa-ajwiba 17ff. = Ibn Sina Risaleleri, ed. Ülken II 19, 12ff.). In fourteenth-century scholasticism, too, the emerging atomism looked to Aristotle’s framework of the question; this explains some similarities with kalām (cf. Murdoch in: La science de la nature, Cahiers d’Etudes Médiévales II, p. 12). 6  Before him also Konstan in the article mentioned above.

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fields within space7 within the framework of a discrete geometry.8 These ideas presumably reached the Muslims via Iranian, rather than Syrian, intermediaries; there were atomists among the zanādiqa,9 and the phenomenon of motion was discussed in depth by them, too.10 They were probably familiar with atomism as a model contrasting with the κρα̃σις δι᾽ ὅλων that influenced the theory of mixture in the dualist religions;11 not only Naẓẓām but also the alchemists were aware that they faced a fundamental systematic decision.12 Translations of antique texts played no part in this at all; Aristotle’s Physics was not consulted explicitly until later.13 In his article Atomistika na bližnem Vostoke (in: Voprosy filosofii 1957, issue 3, pp. 112–116; summarised by Baffioni, Atomismo 5ff.) A. O. Makovel’skij tried to unearth someone in antiquity who had placed atomism in the service of religion: Ecphantus of Syracuse who, being a Pythagorean, regarded atoms as points rather than as bodies. Thus in his view they do not move because of their weight, but they are driven by a ‘divine power’. However, we have barely any information about him (cf. Wellmann in RE V 2215; van der Waerden, Die Pythagoreer 465). In addition Makovel’skij’s study looks at Islamic atomism indiscriminately and does not go beyond a sketch (cf. criticism in Baffioni, 11ff.). We must, however, bear in mind that Ecphantus probably also appears in the Turba philosophorum as one of the participants in the cosmological debate (Plessner, Vorsokratische Philosophie 64ff.) – A passage in Gregory of Nyssa’s text on the six days of 7  The question of whether under these circumstances the atoms have extension, can fill a space (taḥayyuz), is not being answered in the early period and would later, from Jubbāʾī and Kaʿbī onwards, lead to disagreements (see vol. III 243ff. above; cf. in detail and incisive Dhanani, Physical Theory of Kalām 97ff.; regarding the early period ibid. 133ff.). Consequently Abū l-Hudhayl had only the category state of being in the sense of: being in a particular place (III 253f. above). Regarding correspondences and differences between Epicurean and Islamic atomism in general cf. Dhanani 191f. 8  The term denotes the position opposing the continuistic geometry in Euclid’s sense to which Aristotle, too, adhered. 9  See vol. I 519 above. 10  Ibid. 437 and 442. Pretzl, too, has Iranian ‘gnostic sects’ as intermediaries in mind (loc. cit. 127ff.); also Dhanani 182ff. 11  See vol. I 468 and III 364f. above. 12  Cf. Jābir b. Ḥayyān, ed. Lory 161, 5ff.; regarding Naẓẓām see vol. III 392ff. above. There had been some overlap early on; Bardesanes, who actually is one of the ancestors of Naẓẓām’s kumūn theory (see vol. III 365f. above), believed at the same time that elements have atomic structures (Drijvers, Bardaiṣan 137; also in: JELO 21/1969–70/198f.). 13  Ibn Sīnā would later criticise the mutakallimūn in the physics of his Shifāʾ in the Aristotelian sense (see vol. III 255f. and 311 above; in detail Marmura in: ZGAIW 7/1991–2/183ff.).

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creation (PG XLIV 72 A 10ff.) shows that despite their dislike of the heathen hypothesis of coincidence the Church Fathers did not necessarily reject the atom as the ultimate physical unit; R. M. Frank brought this to wider notice (in: Islamic Philosophical Theology 93, n. 111). Over time, the way in which Democritus was regarded changed significantly; he would be seens as an oriental sage, and Clement of Alexandria, Athenagoras or Tertullian held him in great esteem for this reason (cf. R. M. Grant in: Wolfson Jubilee Volume I 382f.). Arabic tradition saw similar developments; nothing of Pseudo-Ammonius’ original teachings remains in his doxography (cf. U. Rudolph, Pseudo-Ammonios 148; in general Baffioni 25ff., and Daiber in: Proc. First Internat. Congress on Democritus 251ff.). Some texts do refer to his atomism in a general fashion, though (cf. Strohmaier, Demokrit über die Sonnenstäubchen, in: Philologus 112/1968/1ff.; Daiber, loc. cit. 261ff.; also Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 474ff.). A review of Epicurus’ theory of the atoms became known to the Arabs through the Placita philosophorum (I 3.18 = 102ff. Daiber); it was adopted in part into Ṣiwān al-ḥikma 4, 16ff. Dunlop/80, 11ff. Badawī. The Arabs appeared to rely on the Greeks when it came to terminology, too. Aljuzʾ alladhī lā yatajazza‌ʾ meaning ‘atom’ corresponds to ἀμερές;14 ijtimāʿ (ta‌ʾlīf) and iftirāq recall σύγκρισις and διάκρισις,15 mumāssa ἁφή, and mujāwara, παράθεσις.16 However, in one of Pseudo-Plutarch’s reports on Epicurus’ theories in the Placita philosophorum, atoms are called ajsām laṭīfa ‘subtle bodies’,17 which in the view of the mutakallimūn they precisely were not. They were jawāhir or, as was frequently added in explanation to the singular form, al-jawhar al-wāḥid or al-jawhar alladhī lā yanqasimu.18 Aristotle had already said of Democritus that he ‘turned the indivisible quantities (τὰ μεγέθη τὰ ἄτομα) into substances (οὐσίαι = jawāhir)’.19 The word jawhar itself again seems to point to Iranian intermediaries; in Middle Persian gōhr meant ‘substance’.20 14  Cf. e.g. Simplicius, In Arist. Phys. Z 2.938, 17ff. Diels = Usener, Epicurea 197 frg. 277. Diodorus Cronus used the term ‘partless bodies’ instead of ‘atoms’ (Furley, Two Studies 131f.). 15  See vol. III 246 above. Ijtimāʿ could probably also be linked to ἀθρόισμα (ibid. 242). 16  Vol. III 395 above. 17  P. 21 Daiber (= I 24.2). 18  Cf. Pretzl 122, n. 1. 19   Met. VII 13.1039a 10f. In that case the attribute alladhī lā yanqasimu would correspond to ἀδιαίρετον (cf. Met. V 3.1014 b 5, and De gen. et corr. I 1.314 a 21). Also Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 466. 20  Bailey, Zoroastrian Problems 89ff., also 124; cf. Endreß in GAP III 15.

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The term had long been known in Arabic; poets usually employed it to refer to someone’s sound origins, a healthy family.21 Walīd I spoke of the ‘substance’ of wine, documenting the philosophical sense in the late Umayyad era.22 The atomists were probably trying to distinguish themselves from a tradition, as demonstrated by their specifying the word with al-wāḥid and alladhī lā yanqasimu; we do not know whether Middle Persian gōhr was already used in this way.23 The mutakallimūn’s using jawhar in connection with ʿaraḍ ‘accident’ would seem to suggest otherwise. ʿaraḍ is a word found in the Quran with the meaning ‘something that offers itself’, the ‘Glücksgüter’ (Paret) or ‘chance goods’ (Arberry).24 The pair jawhar: ʿaraḍ occurs in Muḥammad Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ’s logical writings.25 The case of Ḍirār shows, however, that ʿaraḍ may also be used in isolation; he used ʿaraḍ to mean that which ‘offered itself’ to the eyes of humans, the quality that determined how he perceived a body. Frank demonstrated (in: Fs. G. Hourani 42) that ʿaraḍ in kalām never corresponds exactly to the ‘accident’ in the Aristotelian sense. Kalām tried to derive its meaning through etymology (Text XXI 17 and XXII 2; also vol. III 363 above). Cf. also Fārābī, K. al-ḥurūf 95, 3ff. § 56f. – The transition from ‘substance’ to ‘atom’ does not cause any problems as long as one regards al-jawhar al-wāḥid (alladhī lā yanqasimu) as a terminological creation by the atomists, with jawhar in the sense of ‘atom’ being merely the abbreviated form; the ‘individual substance (that cannot be divided further)’ 21  Thus Ḥassān b. Thābit 181 v. 4 ʿArafāt; ʿUmar b. Abī Rabīʿa 96 v. 8, and 97 v. 3 Schwarz; Ibn Qays al-Ruqayyāt 3 v. 15 Rhodokanakis; in the last three passages in the apparently stereotypical phrase al-jawhar al-muhadhdhab ‘the noble core’. The basic meaning is ‘jewel’; but it is used metaphorically as early as the Hudhaylite Dīwān (no. 93 v. 9 Kosegarten = 256 v. 38 Wellhausen; cf. Nöldeke, Briefe an Goldziher 214 and 216). gōhr in the sense of ‘descent’ as well as ‘jewel’ is also documented in Pahlavi (McKenzie, Concise Pahlavi Dictionary 36). 22   Dīwān 8 v. 5 Gabrieli/transl. Derenk 101; Wagner, Grundzüge II 39f. I am not entirely sure of Abū l-ʿAtāhiya’s meaning when he uses jawhar together with maʿdin (Dīwān 449 v. 39). 23  Pretzl assumed that the mutakallimūn found the word being used to mean ‘atom’ in Middle Persian (Der Islam 19/1931/122, n. 1). R. Azar’s remarks on the subject (Der Begriff der Substanz in der frühen christlich-arabischen und islamischen Gotteslehre [PhD Bonn 1967], p. 131) are pure invention and presumably inferred from Pretzl, p. 129. 24   ʿaraḍ (al-dunyā), sura 8:67 and 9:42; cf. Paret, Kommentar 203, and Lane, Lexicon 2008f. s. v. Māturīdī pointed out these passages (Tawḥīd 17, 2f.). Cf. also ʿāriḍ mumṭir in sura 46:24: ‘clouds drawing in and bringing rain’. 25  P. 11, 6 Dānishpazhuh. The term usually denoting ‘substance’ there is, however, ʿayn (cf. Afnan, Philosophical Terminology 99f.). The same text, as Dhanani has pointed out (Physical Theory 185), contains the oldest description of an atomistic model of a body in the sense of Muʿammar, although it is not indicated specifically as such.

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is precisely what an atom was regarded to be. This was how Pines looked at it; rejecting the alternative hypothesis – that jawhar might have meant an individual unit of substance (in analogy to ʿilm denoting an ‘individual act of knowledge’; or irāda ‘individual act of will’), i.e. the atom – after first presenting it (Atomenlehre 3f.). Later, however, the mutakallimūn would usually employ the abbreviated form only (Pines, 4; Frank, loc. cit. 39ff.). It would be interesting to explore how much atomistic terminology informed other areas of theology, or indeed other sciences. We may assume that it did when Jāḥiẓ uses the term ta‌ʾlīf with reference to the Quran; meaning not ‘authorship’ but ‘composition’ (see p. 128 above). Grammar, too, should be studied under this aspect: jumla meaning ‘sentence’, for instance (in more detail p. 536 below), or the transfer of the theory of motion onto phonology (ḥaraka ‘vowel’, as opposed to sukūn). Words, after all, were believed to be sequences of aṣwāt muqaṭṭaʿa, separately articulated sounds (= consonants), which either ‘moved’ or were at rest (cf. vol. I 441 and III 443f. above; also Text XVI 15, c, where we also find ta‌ʾlīf). The vowel is the minimum factor needed to distinguish two consonants (Bravmann, Phonetische Lehren 15). The early Greek atomists, too, Aristotle reveals, had looked to the alphabet script as a basis for their theory (Met. A 4 985b 13ff.; cf. Lactantius, Div. Inst. 3, 17, 24/transl. Jürß, Griechische Atomisten 321; more generally Sambursky, Das physikalische Weltbild der Antike 175f.). In Greek the letters are called, characteristically, ‘elements’ (στοιχεία); Mughīra b. Saʿīd’s letter speculation is conceived in the same spirit. Of course the questions of dependencies look altogether different when we decide to include Indian atomism in the comparison. Macdonald has searched for parallels here;26 scholars from outside Oriental Studies had already done so.27 Pines has devoted the most thorough study to the issue;28 however, this was over half a century ago. The reluctance among scholars is understandable; not only do Islamic scholars usually lack the necessary knowledge of Indological matters, but there are several systems within the Indian territory, and the tradition is rendered complex by the vague chronology. The context is fundamentally different in that here, as in the Greek world, God is not part 26  Cf. Isis 9/1927/330 and 342ff. 27  Cf. the instances in Pines, Atomenlehre 102, n. 2. A wider-ranging exploration of the Indian theory was undertaken by Horten. 28  Ibid. 102ff.

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of the system at all; in Vaiśeṣika’s system the atoms are eternal, non-generated substances.29 Pines also correctly points out correspondences: like in Abū lHudhayl’s system the atoms, unlike bodies, have no extension; they are transcendental and can be perceived by the senses only once they have combined with others.30 Like the Arabs the Indians employ the parable of the mountain and the mustard grain,31 and above all they ask a question that was also important to the Arabs: how can an atom touch others, and how many does it have to touch in order to form a body. As far as we can see, the Greeks were not interested in this at all, but it may have been important to the Iranians; certainly the transfer might have taken place in that environment. We are not able to prove this, but considering what we know about the exchange of ideas in the area, it does not seem improbable. We may say with some certainty that Islamic atomism was not the result of abiogenesis; it absorbed a variety of ideas and suggestions. This did not, of course, prevent it from combining and developing these entirely independently. We can see this most clearly in the Islamic thinkers’ approach to the question of touching (mumāssa). Eight atoms had to come together in order for a body to be formed, Muʿammar said; six was the number proposed by Abū l-Hudhayl, presumably in debate with him. These were based on divergent ideas of space: while Muʿammar had a cube in mind, Abū l-Hudhayl thought of the six directions that had already been familiar to Aristotle.32 Muʿammar may have thought of stacked atoms, Abū l-Hudhayl certainly of a grid structure. Still, this was abandoned in the end. While Hishām al-Fuwaṭī continued the first approach by transforming Abū l-Hudhayl’s smallest bodies into ‘molecules’ out of which bodies comprising 36 atoms would be formed,33 the trend was in an entirely different direction: away from perception and towards pure conjecture. This was Naẓẓām’s fault; he had shown that an atom cannot by definition have different sides with which it touches others.34 Consequently his pupil Ṣāliḥ Qubba defined the atom as a geometrical point that can touch only one other, and then has to be incorporated into the latter.35 The theologians of the next generation followed him. Iskāfī believed a body to be realised out of two atoms only, because ‘body’ simply means ‘something combined’;36 29  Potter, Encyclopedia of Indian Philosophies 79ff. 30  Cf. also Abhidharmakośa, transl. de la Vallée Poussin II 213: as a Buddhist dogma. 31  Cf. vol. III 247 and 322f. above; also I 356 and II 453. See also Dhanani 163ff. 32  See vol. III 73 and 243. 33  See p. 7f. above. 34  See vol. III 335 above. Also Dhanani 167ff. 35  Vol. III 461f. above. 36  See p. 99 above.

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Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī believed that one atom was sufficient as combination was inherent in it as potential.37 Iskāfī’s theory prevailed;38 no-one seemed to mind that his definition of bodies bid a clear farewell to physics. None of this was Greek, and it probably was not Indian, either; even if kalām absorbed an external stimulus at this point, it immediately proceeded along a path all its own. Even Muʿammar and Abū l-Hudhayl demonstrated lack of interest in the physical aspects of their respective systems by entirely ignoring the concept of vacuum; certainly the sources do not mention it at all.39 Of course, Aristotle had not believed in the existence of vacuum, either;40 atomists had no choice but to take his criticism into account. The Stoics shared his view, at least with regard to what was inside the world; they did, however, believe that there was a void beyond the universe.41 Strato of Lampsacus demonstrated through an experiment that it is indeed possible to dispense with the hypothesis of a vacuum: if one drops a pebble into a vessel filled with water, the pebble and the water simply change places.42 In Abū l-Hudhayl’s view space was presumably filled with air;43 the mutakallimūn deliberated on whether if there was no air at all the walls of a house would not have to touch.44 And as for Abū ­l-Hudhayl, he was not referring to the space in but to the place (makān) at which a thing was; the place is merely an accident of the thing. Aristotle had been of a similar opinion: space is not the extension (διάστημα) between the walls of a vessel, but the sum total of all places (τόποι).45 In a Muʿtazilite text referring to 37  See p. 156f. above. 38  At least among the Ashʿarites (see p. 99 above). Regarding Ṣāliḥī’s followers cf. Dhanani 57f. Further approaches by Kaʿbī (four atoms; see vol. III 245 above; also Dhanani 135), and Qalānisī (three atoms; cf. Gimaret in: JA 277/1989/242). In general also Mufīd, Awāʾil al-maqālāt, Appendix 77, 3ff. 39  Cf. also Pretzl in: Der Islam 19/1931/124f. 40  Cf. Lasswitz, Atomistik 106ff.; Dijksterhuis, Val en worp 22ff.; also Lettimck, Aristotle’s Physics 317ff. (also regarding John Philoponus’ commentary). 41  Cf. Aetius, Placita philosophorum II 9.2/147 Daiber; in general Sorabji, Matter, Space and Motion 125ff. Interestingly this question was also discussed in early kalām (see vol. I 427f. above). 42  Gatzenmeier, Naturphilosophie des Straton 96; in discussion with Gatzenmeier’s interpretation now Furley, Strato’s Theory of the Void, in: Festschrift Moreaux 594ff/. 43  See vol. III 259 above. Aristotle traces this idea back to Anaxagoras (Phys. IV 6. 213a 24ff.; cf. Pines, Atomenlehre 49). Regarding kalām cf. also Ashʿarī, Maq. 442, 15, but without more precise attribution. 44   Maq. 432, 14ff. 45   Phys. IV 4. 211b 14ff.; also Jammer, Problem des Raumes 16f. Regarding the later debate on this understanding cf. Sorabji in: Philoponus and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science 14f., and Furley, ibid. 130ff.

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Muʿammar46 ‘space’ is paraphrased in Arabic as al-amkina. All these ‘places’ we must imagine as being occupied by minima.47 ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān rejected the existence of a vacuum outright;48 implicitly he ruled out, too, that atoms could be spherical in shape.49 In his refutation of atomism Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī (d. 364/974) did not say anything about a vacuum, either,50 but of course circumstances had changed in the meantime. Aristotle’s arguments were not only known but also accessible in an Arabic translation of the Physics (by Isḥāq b. Ḥunayn, d. 298/late 910). Epicurus’ remarks on the vacuum might be read in the Placita philosophorum;51 this text had been translated into Arabic by Qusṭā b. Lūqā (d. 301/913). The five primal principles assumed by Muḥammad b. Zakariyyāʾ al-Rāzī (d. 313/925?) included a matter of an atomistic kind that was linked to a ‘substance of the void’ ( jawhar al-khalāʾ); to some degree this was a revival of Democritus’ ­theory.52 His contemporary Abū Hāshim (d. 321/933) tried to prove the existence of the vacuum to Kaʿbī by pointing out that animals cannot live in a deep well.53 Kaʿbī demonstrated the truth of the old theories by means of experiments, locking horns with Rāzī, too, in the process.54 The experiments awakened people’s curiosity; and they could frequently be interpreted the opposite way, too. We learn about them from Ibn Mattōya55 and Abū Rashīd.56 The latter expressed his opinion on the subject again in his K. al-naqḍ ʿalā l-aṣḥāb al-ṭabāʾiʿ; in his view, 46  Maqdisī, Badʾ II 121, 4 = Text XVI 49, f. 47  In this way the makān becomes a ḥayyiz (cf. Dhanani 65ff.). 48  Text XXV 100, b; the record is rather late. 49  As stacking without gaps would be impossible to achieve (see p. 34, n. 13 above). According to the mutakallimūn atoms were cube-shaped, at least virtually (see vol. III 243f. above; in more detail Dhanani 113ff.). 50  Cf. Endreß in: ZGAIW 1/1984/159. 51  Daiber, Aëtius Arabus 120 (I 7.34), 124 (I 12.5), 128 (I 18.3), and 131 (I 20.1); cf. also Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 135, 9ff. 52  Pines, Atomenlehre 40f., 47f., and 76; Baffioni, Atomismo 115ff.; Goodman in: Philosophical Forum 4/1972/26f. 53  Abū Rashīd, Al-masāʾil fī l-khilāf 50, apu. ff.; in general Mufīd, Awāʾil, Appendix 81, 6ff. Also Dhanani 87. 54  Cf. EIran I 360 a; also Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 624, apu. ff. 55   Tadhkira 116ff.; cf. Saʿīd Murād, Ibn Mattawayh wa-ārāʾuhū l-kalāmiyya wal-falsafiyya 379ff. 56   Masāʾil fī l-khilāf 47, 7ff. (also Biram, Atomistische Substanzenlehre 24ff.). Regarding the connection between the two sources cf. Daiber, Aëtius Arabus 363f.; for a more detailed analysis see Dhanani 76ff. M. Schwarz proved for a different passage from Ibn Mattōya that Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, the teacher shared by both authors, believed a vacuum to be essential (in: Isis 64/1973/384f.). The experiments were in part influenced by Aristotle, Phys. IV 6. 213a 25ff., where they are traced back to Anaxagoras; Heron of Alexandria was another spiritual ancestor (cf. Daiber in: Der Islam 60/1983/39). Cf. the discussion by John Philoponus (D. Furley, Summary of Philoponus’ Corollaries on Place and Void, in:

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a century after Abū Hāshim, assuming a vacuum was essential.57 The aṣḥāb al-ṭabāʾiʿ were probably the Baghdad Muʿtazilites; influenced by Kaʿbī they still followed Naẓẓām’s theory and did not see any merit in Abū Rashīd’s ideas.58 However, the latter would ultimately prevail, especially in the Ashʿariyya. In his article on Fārābī’s treaties on the vacuum Daiber reconstructed the situation (Der Islam 60/1983/37ff.). Regarding the Ashʿariyya ibid. p. 45; cf. also the material collected by Pines in Atomenlehre (47, n. 1, and 49; 80, n. 2 and 3), and in: REJ 103/1938/21, and Gimaret in La doctrine d’al-Ashʿarī (p. 63f.). Numerous translations are found in M. Schwarz’ study, arranged along similar lines, in: Maimonidean Studies II 170ff., although we must assume that Maimonides relied mainly on Ibn Sīnā for his conclusions; in his Physics he had described the theories of the Islamic atomists in some detail (Ṭabīʿiyyāt 185, 7ff.). The experiments are also described by Bīrūnī, although he did not believe in a vacuum (cf. his correspondence with Ibn Sīnā 47, 5ff., and 58, 4ff.; see Heinen in: Chelkovski, The Scholar and the Saint 54ff.). Regarding Ibn Bajja cf. Lettinck, Aristotle’s Physics 299f. Of course one may wonder whether the silence of the early sources genuinely reflects a lack of interest in the vacuum among the early generations, or whether it was not maybe the case that scholars simply followed Aristotle’s view that movement was possible in a filled space (in more detail Dhanani 82ff.); after all, air and water were regarded as elastic. Still, one might assume that the doxographers would note this view somewhere. Daiber does not explore this question; he does not mention the difference between the early and the late Muʿtazila at all loc. cit. The second point in which Abū l-Hudhayl thought along ontological rather than physical lines was the theory of the accidents. Lucretius had discussed the question of whether there are coloured atoms.59 This question would not have occurred to Abū l-Hudhayl as atoms are invisible. Colours are merely accidents manifest on the visible body that consists of atoms. Accidents normally manifest themselves on a body; they are what can be perceived. They are Sorabji, Philoponus and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science 130ff., and Sedley, ibid. 143ff.). Regarding its revival in later scholasticism see E. Grant, Much Ado about Nothing 77ff. 57   Masāʾil 48, 2; also Madelung in EIran I 367 b. The book is not extant. 58  Ibn Sīnā noted that Naẓẓām’s kumūn concept was not compatible with the idea of a vacuum (Shifāʾ, Ṭabīʿiyyāt II–IV, p. 105, 3). We must, however, bear in mind that Kaʿbī was an atomist (EIran I 361 a). 59  Cf. G. Müller, Die Darstellung der Kinetik bei Lukrez 57ff.; also Jürß, Griechische Atomisten 444ff.

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themselves entities: blackness, warmth etc.; in principle they could be separated from the body and occur ‘not in a place’ (lā fī makān).60 Abū l-Hudhayl probably believed this because he was familiar with Ḍirār’s teachings. There, too, accidents had been simply sensations, and they had been entirely selfsufficient, because there was no substance. Ḍirār had distinguished between constitutive accidents, which have to work together in order for a body to be formed at all (i.e. which have to be perceived together in order to know at all that we are looking at a body), and others that manifest themselves later on the body once it has been perceived. The latter accidents last only a moment, while the former may possess continued existence and, indeed, often do, as this is the only way to ensure that the world will not disintegrate into a series of fleeting and intermittent impressions. Among these are the colours, as without colours we would not see bodies at all.61 Abū l-Hudhayl did not have to fear this consequence any more; he now had the atoms that were ‘substances’. Colour, consequently, is secondary; it only becomes visible once the body has been ‘combined’. This ‘combinedness’ then, is a constitutive accident; ta‌ʾlīf or tarkīb would remain key terms even later, for instance in the disagreement between Iskāfī and Ṣāliḥī described above. This was not the case for ‘separation’; there would soon be arguments regarding it and its categorial affiliation. See vol. III 248f. above; on the issue in general also Schwarz in: Maimonidean Studies II 189f. As in the case of the divine attributes occasional attempts were made to determine how many accidents there were at all. This was at the same time the question of the aspects under which the world of phenomena is perceived. Quantity, for instance, was not an accident in the eyes of the mutakallimūn (ʿĀmirī, Amad ʿalā l-abad 132, 5ff. Rowson [1988]). An anonymous commentary of Ibn Mattōya’s Tadhkira lists 22 accidents (cf. Dhanani 16, n. 6); Baghdādī has 30 (Uṣūl al-dīn 40, 9ff.), but they both admit that further accidents were being discussed, but no agreement had been reached concerning them. Regarding the latter cf. e.g. the discussions in Abū Rashīd, Al-masāʾil fī l-khilāf § 87, 122–123 and 146. Massignon’s listing 21 ‘objective accidents’, together with their 21 opposites which he does not name (because in many cases these do not exist at all), is once again a selection of the previous list. The fact

60  See vol. III 259f. and 302 above; cf. p. 500 above concerning divine will. The separability was denied by philosophers in the Aristotelian tradition (Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr alzakhkhār I 106, 9). 61  See vol. III 246f. and 384 above; also vol. I 429.

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that accidents were believed to be numerically limited proves that we are looking at a concept of accidents that was altogether different from Aristotle’s. Epicurus had already made a distinction between primary and secondary ­qualities.62 In India, too, people agreed that qualities could attach only to agglomerations of atoms.63 The question, however, was whether qualities must be accidental. The dualists did not believe this; everything in the world is by nature either good or bad. Their Muslim opponents concluded from this assertion that they denied the existence of accidents altogether,64 which may have been rather rash;65 all the same, it can hardly be said that accidents occupied a central position in the dualist system. Naẓẓām, who deferred to the physical and ontological ideas of the dualists in many things, knew of only one accident: movement.66 This is due to his very broad definition of the concept, but he was not the only one: Hishām b. al-Ḥakam shared this opinion.67 Movement and rest had been at the centre of philosophical thought ever since Plato had regarded them as the chief characteristics of everything that existed.68 Speculation on these was linked to Parmenides’s conjectures concerning what was the same and what was different. During late antiquity these had found their way into Iran,69 fascinating the zanādiqa.70 The atomists, on the other hand, restricted the concept, using it not in the sense of ‘transformation, change’, but only to refer to a change of place and only in accordance with the principles of the discrete geometry they embraced. Consequently movement is discontinuous; the moving body passes from one particular ‘field’ to the neighbouring one, in such a way that it occupies one of them at any given moment,71 until it settles down to rest somewhere. Movement is always an accident, albeit not the only one. 62  See vol. III 47 above. 63   Abidharmakośa, transl. de la Vallée Poussin 39. 64  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī V 31, 9, and 11, 16/transl. Monnot, Penseurs 190 and 155. 65  Cf. Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq’s more specific remarks, ibid. 11, 17ff. = Ashʿarī, Maq. 349, 12ff. 66  See vol. III 391ff. above. 67  See vol. I 419f. above. 68   Sophistes 254 D. Regarding the different meanings of ‘movement’ or ‘motion’ in Aristotle cf. Physics V 4. 69  Perhaps Damascius may provide an example here (see vol. III 363 above); he returns to the Parmenid problem a number of times (cf. e.g. Dubitationes § 313). 70  See p. 517f. above. 71  Ar. shajala; note the correspondence with the terminology of grammar.

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Jahm b. Ṣafwān, who was not an atomist, regarded movement as a ‘body’, but was intending to express that it was contingent; everything apart from God was a ‘body’ in his view (Text XIV 15; cf. vol. II 570 above). If one wanted to avoid the term ‘accident’, one might use maʿnā instead (as e.g. Hishām b. al-Ḥakam did); ultimately it was a non liquet. The quick succession of theories on the subject that emerged within kalām72 leads to the conclusion that people were aware of being part of a tradition in which the axiomatic system, namely the discrete geometry, was hardly controversial any more. Aristotle, who had branded breaking movement into individual points a fallacy,73 was not considered at all; the nearest parallels are found with Epicurus and the sceptics.74 This was not about denying movement; while it was rejected as a process, it was recognised as a result. Diodorus Cronus had regarded it in the same way, unlike the older Eleatic – Megaric ­eristics.75 The difference of opinion within kalām appears rather like a matter of duty; tradition demanded that one must have an opinion on movement, at the same time providing the material out of which everyone could compose his own point of view. While it is possible to show how the concept of motion could fit into the respective context, physical questions such as how movement is triggered and why it continues appear to have been mostly i­gnored.76 The exception is, once again, Naẓẓām; he is familiar with concept similar to that of ­impetus,77 and in his theory of the ‘leap’ (ṭafra) he tried to grasp the problem of ­­acceleration.78 To the atomists, on the other hand, it was only important that movement was already inherent to the atom; this led to an argument about what would happen when two forces move an entity and the atoms have to be divided between them.79

72  See vol. III 43 above concerning Ḍirār, 81 concerning Muʿammar, 252ff. concerning Abū l-Hudhayl, and 351ff. concerning Naẓẓām. 73   Phys. VI 9. 239b 8; also F. Kaulbach, Der Begriff der Bewegung 2. 74  Cf. the instances in vol. III 252f. above. 75  H. J. Krämer, Platonismus 310f.; further instances vol. III 352, n. 7. 76   Iʿtimād; see vol. III 351ff. above. 77  Cf. vol. III 336ff. above. The scholastic Buridan explains acceleration as a chain of successive quantum leaps, but he understood this to mean that each minimum is a little bit faster (Wolff, Impetustheorie 226). 78  Cf. vol. III 79, n. 51 above concerning Muʿammar, ibid. 255 concerning Abū l-Hudhayl, ibid. 131 and Text XVII 19 concerning Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, Text XVIII concerning Murdār; p. 8 above concerning Hishām al-Fuwaṭī, and 84 for Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb. 79  The main witness besides Ibn Mattōya and Abū Rashīd is Ibn Sīnā (see vol. III 255f. and 337ff. above). In more detail Dhanani 176ff.

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This broadening of the horizon around the issue brought with it systematic shifts that, rather like the theory of vacuum, might previously have been virtual part of the solutions achieved. From Jubbāʾī onwards, accident atoms began to appear in the discourse.80 If movement impulses could be divided among several atoms,81 or if acceleration was explained by an increasing number of atoms being occupied by motion quanta,82 this could also mean that the accident movement became atomised.83 This is even clearer in the case of time atomism, which basically resulted from the discontinuity of movement; Abū l-Hudhayl appears to have noted this.84 It was also a precondition in the theory of human action,85 but it appears to have remained unreflected during the early period; the sources showing hardly any signs of its having been analysed.86 The situation had been similar during antiquity. Wherever the finite divisibility of line segments was presumed, time atomism was an almost automatic given,87 but it came to the surface in the works of only a few authors such as Diodorus Cronus and Epicurus.88 The mutakallimūn were cautious not least because time was not easy to categorise. Abū l-Hudhayl regarded it as a hypostasis, i.e. an accident without a substrate;89 this determined that it was not atomised by its bearer like movement. For one thing, this circumstance was expressed different linguistically. Every body, one might say, is in a particular state at every moment; ‘state’ (ḥāl) is frequently used in the texts in a context where we would expect waqt ‘moment’.90 Much later, in texts by Ibn 80  Cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 65f. 81  See above; particularly spectacular in Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’s solution. 82  Cf. vol. III 255f. above regarding Abū l-Hudhayl. This solution differed not only from Naẓẓām’s (see above) but also from Epicurus’; the latter had assumed that atoms in a body just beginning to move had to be directed uniformly before they could permit an increased velocity (cf. W. G. Englert, Epicurus on the Swerve and Voluntary Action 46f. and 59ff.). 83  Cf. Text XXI 13–14; 15, a–b shows how closely this was linked to the questions of kinetics. 84  Cf. Text XXI 13, d. 85  Cf., once again regarding Abū l-Hudhayl, vol. III 267f. above. 86  In general Schwarz in: Maimonidean Studies II 175ff.; also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 66f. 87  Thus in the Academy (cf. Krämer, Platonismus 350 after the text De lineis insecabilibis, ibid. 348). 88  Sorabji in: Infinity and Causality, ed. Kretzmann, 40 and 60 as well as 68ff.; assumed later by Gregory of Nyssa (PG XLIV 72 a 10ff.). Regarding India cf. Abhidharmakośa 229f.; it was believed that every moment was fundamentally different from all others. 89  See vol. III 260ff. above. 90  Cf. Texts XV 1, f; XVII 44, d; XXI 136, a etc.; also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 66. The meaning is frequently more general, ‘stage, phase’. Interestingly one could also use the word juzʾ here (Text XXIX 28). This view once more recalls Indian systems. There, too, it was not time that was being atomised but phenomena within time. Cf. A. von Rospatt’s dissertation

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ʿArabī91 and Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī,92 do we find the plural ānāt; the philosophers developed it with reference to Aristotle.93 Physical atomism and temporal occasionalism are not necessarily linked; Bāqillānī, a well-known exponent of the latter, had barely any interest in the atomism with which he was familiar thanks to Ashʿarī. In the structure of his model the doctrine of the momentary nature of the accidents was much more important.94 If we assume that certain accidents have no duration (baqāʾ),95 this means that the body in which they inhere will be perceived anew at every moment, even if they do not change from one moment to the next (= time atomism), and the conclusion suggested itself that not only they but also the body bearing them was created anew by God in every moment (= occasionalism). Greek models for this may be found in scepticism,96 but the Islamic approach differed as it focussed on divine omnipotence. The Muʿtazila had done some preliminary work in this field, first Abū l-Hudhayl,97 then Ṣāliḥ Qubba,98 and finally his pupil Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī:99 God can interrupt a continuous event in nature at any moment. Kinship with antiquity appears more clearly in the details, as the most popular example here as in Hellenistic sources is the fire which does not necessarily have to generate its effect of combusting something.100 However, they regarded it as the expression of a theoretical possibility; they were not sceptics but merely determined not to detract from God’s power to work miracles. It was not until Shaṭawī (d. 297/910), who had studied under ʿĪsā al-Ṣūfī and Abū Mujālid,101 that the idea was expressed that an accident could not exist for two successive moments by definition; Abū Qāsim al-Kaʿbī as well as Ibn Mumlak,102 a Muʿtazilite who had converted to Shīʿism, followed him. Ashʿarī103 and his followers, The Buddhist Doctrine of Momentariness (Stuttgart 1995). In fact it was believed in India that this momentary structure could be experienced by a yogi (ibid. 196ff.). 91  See p. 514, n. 133 above. 92  Cf. Schwarz in: Maimonidean Studies II 180. 93  Pines, Atomenlehre 26, n. 4. 94  As emphasised by Gimaret against Gardet in Ashʿarī 58, n. 15. 95  See vol. III 251f. above; also Dhanani 44ff. 96  Sorabji, Time, Creation and the Continuum 300ff. 97  See vol. III 299 above. His pupil Hishām al-Fuwaṭī tried a similar approach (see p. 11 above). 98  Vol. III 458f. above. 99  See p. 158 above. 100  Cf. Sorabji in: Penser avec Aristote 297. 101  See p. 162 above; regarding him also my Erkenntnislehre 332. 102  Ashʿarī, Maq. 358, 2ff.; also Schwarz in: Maimonidean Studies II 194f. Regarding Kaʿbī cf. also Wolfson, Philosophy 522ff. Regarding Ibn Mumlak see p. 275f. above. 103  Gimaret, Ashʿarī 91 and 125f.

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including the Māturīdites104 and other, later theologians, relied on this.105 The autonomous chaos of Democritean atomism revived in the power of a transcendental principle that obtains at every single moment. This can also be expressed as God’s potentia absoluta receiving its primacy before the potentia ordinata. Regarding these terms of late Mediaeval Christian theology cf. Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 606ff., and F. Oakley, Omnipotence, Covenant and Order. An Excursion in the History of Ideas from Abelard to Leibniz (Ithaca 1984), as well as W. Courtenay, Capacity and Volition. A History of the Distinction of Absolute and Ordained Power (Bergamo 1990). However, this must not be understood to mean that God performs miracles at every moment. The Latin texts, depending on when and where they were composed, allow of a twofold interpretation. God’s potentia absoluta may be seen as destructive to the degree that the potentia ordinata, the power to do that which actually happens, is in constant danger of dissolution from it; but at the same time the potentia absoluta might be a theoretical option for God to do things which he would never do in reality (cf. Oakley in his review of Courtenay’s book, Speculum 68/1993/739ff.). We do not possess original texts of the theories of Abū l-Hudhayl and his successors, but it is likely that the latter interpretation does a greater degree of justice to them – and, in Courtenay’s view, to the Latin texts, too. In the later period the concept of divine ‘custom’ (ʿāda) provided a corrective; it, too, was developed by the Muʿtazila first (see p. 712f. below; also Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 544ff.). It has already been stated that the concept of nature also played a part (p. 512 above), although the dividing lines are not entirely straight here, either. Shaṭawī as well as Kaʿbī were members of the Baghdad school in which a ‘nature’ – and thus an element of continuity – was attributed to things; they were thus unlikely to have been occasionalists. On the other hand, some heresiographers were of the opinion that Naẓẓām had already believed in a continual re-creation; he, too, would then be in the wrong camp. However, it is probable that in his case the wrong conclusion 104  Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 546, 16ff. 105  Cf. e.g. Bāqillānī, Tamhīd 18, 4f., and Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 36, 13ff.; in general Ibn alMurtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār 106, 10f. The jurists, too, adopted this axiom (for Sarakhsī cf. Brunschvig in: SI 52/1980/11; also vol. II 472 above). Baghdādī notes that the decision depended in part on whether one recognised ‘duration’ as a separate accident (Uṣūl al-dīn 42, pu.); in this case an accident could only possess continued existence if one allowed one accident (duration) to be inherent in another, which was ruled out on the axiomatic level (see vol. I 420 above).

The Image of God

was drawn from a remark by Jāḥiẓ (see vol. III 400f. above). The development in detail remains to be investigated. This is particularly true in the case of the Ashʿarites; there appears to have been much less agreement among them when it came to questions of detail than has usually been assumed. Ashʿarī himself appears to be firmly part of Muʿtazilite tradition (cf. the summarising account in Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad 202ff.). Lengthy deliberations on the subject of atomism are less frequent in the later period. Even Bāqillānī, whom a remark by Ibn Khaldūn appears to appoint the father of Ashʿarite atomism and occasionalism (cf. Gardet-Anawati, Introduction à la théologie musulmane 62ff.; Wolfson, Philosophy 40f. and 126ff.), only dedicates a few lines to the subject in his Tamhīd (p. 17, 17ff.), and does not even include much relevant information in his book on the prophetic miracles (Al-bayān ʿan al-farq bayna l-muʿjizāt wal-karāmāt). Regarding Juwaynī cf. Shāmil 142ff.; regarding Shahrastānī cf. his Masʾala fī ithbāt al-jawhar al-fard, edited by Guillaume following the Niāyat aliqdām (p. 505ff.). ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī demonstrates how little an occasionalist needed to be an atomist at the same time (Zubdat alḥaqāʾiq, cap. 55f.). An interesting instance of atomism outside of the Ashʿariyya is provided by the Shīʿite Maytham b. ʿAlī al-Baḥrānī (d. 679/1280) in his K. qawāʾil al-marām fī ʿilm al-kalām. He looks at the subject not only under the aspect of ontology (p. 51ff.), but also that of anthropology, explaining the resurrection of the flesh in this way (p. 141ff.; more details p. 622 below). In the latter context (!) he also furnishes proof of the vacuum. The text is now available in print (Qom 1398/1978; quoted here); but it had already been edited in a London MA thesis by M. G. Goriwala after a British Museum MS (cf. GAL2 S 1/713; Al-Baḥrānī’s Kitāb al-Qawāʾid, being a Treatise on Shīʿī Scholastic Theology, London SOAS 1952). Concerning the author cf. Mīrzā ʿAbdallāh Efendi, Riyāḍ al-ʿulamāʾ V 226f., and Ali al-Oraibi, Shīʿī Renaissance. A Case Study of the Theosophical School of Bahrain in the 7th/13th century (Diss. McGill University Montreal 1992, esp. p. 46ff.). The way in which a mystic could press atomistic ideas into service was demonstrated by F. Meier’s remarks on Bahāʾ-i Walad (p. 436ff.). As late as the end of the ninth/fifteenth century Muḥammad al-Tabrīzī al-Ḥanafī (d. 900/ 1494) wrote a Risāla fī l-jawhar al-fard (cf. Jubūrī, Baghdad Catalogue, Maktabat al-Awqāf IV 51f.; regarding the author cf. GAL2 2/267 S 2/287). Among the philosophers criticism of atomism already began with al-Kindī. He wrote a Risāla fī buṭlān qawl man zaʿama anna juzʾunlā yatajazza‌ʾ (cf. McCarthy, Al-taṣānīf al-mansūba ilā faylasūf al-ʿArab 30 no. 158); consequently he was regarded as a great authority on the field even

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a century later (Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ I 58, 12). However, his treatise does not survive. It is possible that the Muʿtazilite Abū Bakr al-Zubayrī concentrated on this text when he ‘shut the philosophers up’ with an argument in favour of Abū l-Hudhayl (see p. 280 above). The philosophers’ arguments can be read in Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī (see p. 525 above; also Maqālāt, ed. Khulayfāt, p. 135ff. and 183, –4ff.), and two generations later in in Ibn Sīnā’s commentary on Aristotelian physics (see vol. III 337ff. above). A philosopher would probably have marvelled even at the fact that in a system such as Abū l-Hudhayl’s atomism did not have much in common with physics, and that instead God appeared as a deus ex machina. However, strict supporters of divine omnipotence such as Ibn Ḥazm opposed it, too (cf. his Al-uṣūl wal-furūʿ I 150, 5ff.).

chapter 2

The Image of the Human Islamic atomism is not materialism. Rather, it is an attempt at tracing back the entirety of created reality to one single kind of substance; all the atoms are the same shape. Epicurus, as we have seen,1 had assumed this in the case of the minima only; the Muslims streamlined his system further, as it were. This tendency to standardisation reached its climax when Ṣāliḥī proposed the theory that a single atom might be a body; now not only was the atom the substance ( jawhar), but the substance was the body. However, this step came at a price, namely that more complex structures were now all the more difficult to explain. Previously it had been possible to assume that an accident divided between several atoms was at least attached to a common body, but now atom and body were the same (or, at least, might be), this was not possible any more. Jubbāʾī, who did not want to agree with Ṣāliḥī, had to admit that Abū l-Hudhayl, with whom he did agree, had split the accidents and thus presumed ‘accident atoms’.2 Jubbāʾī himself, however, allowed this only where it was strictly necessary, e.g. in the case of ‘cohesion’ (ta‌ʾlīf) or length;3 as he was aware that at the moment when he divided these accidents among (at least) two atoms, he was in breach of the principle of contradiction because he admitted that one and the same entity could be found in two places at the same time.4 Ashʿarī objected against it for this very reason.5 People realised that the problem existed on other levels, too. When one uttered a word it was a unit, but it was composed of several ‘atoms’, the consonants. Consequently serious discussions could be conducted on what would happen if in a group of people calling yā Zayd each letter were to be uttered by someone else. Once again it was Jubbāʾī who had an opinion, but it looks as though it was Shaṭawī who came up with this sophistry, the very man who had initiated occasionalism with his theory of the instability of the accidents.6 1  See p. 518 above. 2  See p. 529f. above. 3  Cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 303, 7f., with 315, 8ff. 4  Ibid. 303, 8. 5  Gimaret, Ashʿarī 78f. 6  Ashʿarī, Maq. 427, 8ff.; cf. Abū Rashīd’s argument that if a statement ‘generated’ knowledge, this could be due to its last letter only as the others would already have passed away (Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl, fol. 33 b). In Jubbāʾī’s view knowledge was one of the accidents that could be divided between several atoms (Maq. 315, 10).

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The question arises most explicitly on the field of anthropology, for it was quite obvious that a human – and indeed any living being – could not just be an agglomeration of atoms, however they were defined. A human was alive, and in much, if not everything, he did, he would be involved as a whole, not just with a particular section or ‘part’. Consequently it was not enough to say, like Abū l-Hudhayl, that life was an accident that joined the conglomerate of atoms that made up the external appearance of the human.7 On the contrary, this accident, too, as Jubbāʾī realised, had to be one of those that divided between several atoms,8 as the latter formed a particular structure, a ‘complex’ from which one could not easily remove something without harming the accident as well. This ‘complex’, the ‘whole’ had been called jumla since Abū lHudhayl, i.e. the same term that denoted the ‘sentence’, a ‘complex’ that went beyond one word only, in grammar.9 Still, this does not tell us everything, either, as beyond the human as a mere living being there was also the human as a person and an individual; a Shīʿite theologian in the second third of the fourth century, Abū Jaysh Muẓaffar b. Muḥammad al-Balkhī, entitled one of his works Al-insān wa-annahū ghayr hādhihī l-jumla.10 It had not been determined in advance in what human individuality consisted precisely. Muslim scholars were less inclined to speak of the soul than Christians. At the Last Judgment, when every human would be held responsible for himself, it would be his actions that were inalienably his, not as a whole but as every individual action he had performed in his life. This suited atomistic thinking. Actions, it seemed, were linked to the respective body as accidents; while they required a capacity to act (istiṭāʿa, qudra),11 it did not have to be permanent. It might have existed for a single moment each time, and presumably it was divided among all – or merely some – of the atoms of its bearer, similar to life. Once we assume the latter, it might become worthwhile to discuss whether a human could carry more than the weight of an atom12 with 7  See vol. III 245f.; this accident, too, could not have duration according to the later understanding (cf. e.g. Ghazzālī, Faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya 49, 3ff.). 8  Maq. 315, 9f.; the exception may have been those atoms that made up inanimate components of the human body such as hair or nails (vol. III 265 above). 9  P. 522 above, also vol. III 264f.; in more detail Gimaret 92ff., and Frank, Beings and Their Attributes 53f. and index s. v. al-jumla. 10  Najāshī 299, 8f.; regarding Abū l-Jaysh cf. vol. VI 317 (of the German edition). 11  Besides istiṭāʿa and qudra we also find quwwa, but this term has a wider range (Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān I 221, pu. f.; in general see the instances cited in the index of terms s. v. quwwa). Sometimes a distinction was made between istiṭāʿa and qudra, too, e.g. by Māturīdī (Tawḥīd 256, 8ff.), or the philologist Abū Qāsim al-Suhaylī (cf. the text in Mawrid 18/1989, issue 3/95, 7ff.); but Suhaylī also notes that the uṣūliyyūn did not do this. 12  Ashʿarī, Maq. 241, 6ff.; cf. p. 35 above.

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one single part ( juzʾ) of his strength (quwwa), or whether he would be able to move with a few units of movement spread out over the entire agglomeration of his atoms.13 Whichever conclusion one drew, the theory of the capacity to act became the touchstone that divided opinions.

13  See vol. III 254ff.

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2.1 Acting From the modern point of view such a separation of acting and the capacity to act is remarkable. Instead of the fixation on the pair istiṭāʿa: fiʿl we would expect different opposites, action vs. intent, for instance, or action vs. insight. These kinds of perspectives are indeed found in other areas; e.g. among jurists when they speak of intentio (niyya),1 or mystics when they lament that the scholars do not act in accordance with what they say.2 The theologians, however, were not interested in showing how action is generated within the network of human decision, but only in how God makes it possible. The Greeks, too, are known to have paid little attention to the will; they did not have an apposite word for it,3 and became aware of the issue only when Jewish and Christian ideas grew more prevalent.4 Proposing knowledge instead of will as the foundation of action, however, would have come across as too close to antiquity; a Muslim, after all, did not act in accordance with the order of the cosmos but the will of the creator.5 Zurāra b. Aʿyan may have been the first to use the word istiṭāʿa terminologically.6 He believed that humans possess the capacity to act from birth. This had been the understanding in antiquity, and among the Church Fathers: the capacity to act is part of human nature; consequently only compulsive actions require an explanation. Ḍirār thought along the same lines when regarding istiṭāʿa as one of the primary ‘accidents’ that constitute a human.7 Bishr b. alMuʿtamir considered it to be guaranteed as long as the human was healthy,8 and Naẓẓām believed it to be the same as the spirit of life (rūḥ).9 The Baghdad school adopted this view.10 Thumāma introduced the concept of will,11 and based on it Jāḥiẓ developed a psychological model of action that seemed 1  Thus perhaps already Abū Ḥanīfa (see vol. I 235 above). In general see p. 815 below. 2  Cf. Rosenthal, Knowledge Triumphant 246ff. and 316ff.; also Goldziher, K. maʿānī al-nafs 54ff. (which, however, quotes mainly philosophers). 3  Cf. Dirlmeier, Nikomachische Ethik, commentary 327f. 4  Roman jurists and the concept of voluntas were the exception. The subject has been discussed in detail by A. Dihle, Die Vorstellung vom Willen in der Antike (Göttingen 1984), regarding the jurists esp. p. 152ff. 5  Dihle 79ff. 6  See vol. I 373f. above. Thus already Tritton, Muslim Theology 66. In more detail p. 546 below. 7  See vol. III 48f. above. 8  Ibid. 125. 9  Ibid. 401f. and 409. 10  McDermott, Theology of al-Mufīd 167. In the Shīʿa, ʿAlī al-Riḍā would be called upon to witness this (thus Kulīnī, Kāfī I 160, pu., and already Kashshī 145 no. 229). 11  See vol. III 178 above.

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indebted in equal degree to contemporary asceticism and to antique ideas.12 The Basrans usually thought along different lines. Once again it had been Abū l-Hudhayl who set the standard; his ideas were even adopted beyond the Muʿtazila there. While he, too, believed that the capacity to act possessed continued existence,13 he did not regard it as permanent functionality but linked it to the individual action. This, after all, was the one for which one had to take responsibility; Abū l-Hudhayl was not a philosopher but a theologian trying to do justice to the spirit of the Quran. The question had been streamlined by the argument over free will, which had not looked at human nature as a whole either – neither within the doctrine of original sin as in Christianity, nor linked to the idea of the fall of the soul as in Gnosticism, nor under the aspect of the struggle between two eternal principles as in dualism.14 Rather, the Muʿtazila placed the idea of the just God at the centre of its doctrine, a God who rewards or punishes the decisions taken by the humans. God’s omnipotence was never questioned; the discussion covered only the extent of that which humans could determine all the same. It was within this framework that Abū l-Hudhayl shaped his ideas further, first with regard to his doctrine of the attributes. As we have seen he had stated that the assertion ‘God is powerful’ in the Quran contained the meaning ‘God has the power (qudra) to do a particular thing’.15 Consequently in the human context ‘capable of action’ (qādir) or ‘capable of doing something’ (qādir ʿalā shayʾ) could mean only: ‘He has the capacity to act (qudra) and perform a particular action’; terms were, after all, used univocally. The word qudra – like irāda etc. – could be pluralised; in that case there were qudar, individual ‘capacities to act’.16 On this level, the level of mere language usage, a further concern emerged: Abū l-Hudhayl observed that the Arabic verbal system classified an action under two aspects, the imperfective (yafʿalu) and the perfective ( faʿala). When perfective, the action is not really there any more – like movement which, once one takes note of it, has always passed. The capacity to act would by that time have fulfilled its function and was not actually needed any more. When imperfective, however, the action is not really there yet; the human is in the process of deciding. This is an internal, mental process preceding the action itself; and 12  See p. 118ff. above. 13  See vol. III 266f. above. 14  Regarding the latter cf. Jackson, Zoroastrian Studies 132ff. and 219ff. 15  Cf. sura 6:37, 6:65, 17:99, etc., where the corresponding sentences are all constructed following the pattern Allāhu qādirun ʿalā an yafʿala shayʾan. 16  Linked to one and the same person, in fact; cf. e.g. Text XXI 23, d, or Gimaret, Ashʿarī 65. Also Frank in: Le Muséon 82/1969/482, n. 102.

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this is also the place of the capacity to act which guarantees that the action can be performed at all. In our view, this model is once again missing the concept of a continuum; Abū l-Hudhayl, on the other hand, distinguished between a moment at which the capacity to act precedes the action and another one during which it would exist parallel to the action. In order to guarantee freedom of choice he, like all Muʿtazilites, had to insist that a human would possess the capacity to act a moment before the action. It must thus be defined as an accident and consequently created by God; the human does not possess the ‘nature’ in which it could exist from the very beginning. He receives it from outside himself; it is given to him separately for each action.17 This was the starting point for the determinists. Their spokesperson in Basra appears to have been Najjār above all, the first theologian to have transformed God’s willing consistently into God’s eternal will.18 He turned Abū l-Hudhayl’s model on its head: if God confers the capacity to act onto the human in every individual instance, why should he not wait to do so until the action is already in progress and taking place in accordance with his eternal will? Humans thus have the capacity to act, but only at the same time as the action; and a human’s doing good will be identical with God’s cooperation or support (tawfīq), while a human’s sinning will be the same as God abandoning him (khidhlān). Why should God remain neutral if he awards an ability in the first place? Humans do not actually wish for this, as is clear from their petitionary prayers. The capacity is thus only valid for one single moment during which a specific and concrete action takes place. And consequently the capacity to act does not have ‘continued existence’ as in Abū l-Hudhayl’s model, according to whose idea it had lasted for two moments, that of the action and that preceding it in which the decision was made.19 Najjār was a Ḥanafite and may thus have had links to Kufa, where the Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd had thought along similar lines.20 Bishr al-Marīsī in Baghdad agreed with him, too, although his approach to the question was less burdened with terminology.21 His true disciples were in central Iran; he did not prevail 17  Cf., for the entire subject, vol. III 267f. above; concerning the development from Naẓẓām onwards see Text XXII 157. It may not be beside the point to recall that istiṭāʿa ‘the capacity to act’ and ṭāʿa ‘work of obedience’ were derived from the same root and may well have been closely linked in Arab language perception. 18  See p. 178f. above. 19  See p. 172ff. above. 20  He even referred to and negated the idea expressed by Abū l-Hudhayl, that the capacity to act is not really necessary any more at the moment of the action itself (see vol. I 480 above). 21  See vol. III 200f. above; regarding the relationship of the two see p. 168 and 179 above.

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in Basra in the end.22 Like him they were Ḥanafites; the Kufan tradition of which they were part meant they approved of his anti-Qadarite commitment, although some thought him rather too extreme. It seems that some Muʿtazilite spirit was instilled in his system in eastern Iran once more: while a human possesses the capacity to act only at the moment of the action, he can still use it for either good or bad. He certainly performs a specific and consequently determined action, but whether it is good or bad depends on the context and the intention. Someone who prays may be worshipping Allah, or the sun. Ibn alRēwandī pointed this out; in the east the theory was projected back onto Abū Ḥanīfa.23 Najjār, of course, had opened a loop hole to free decision: a human may ignore the divine contribution and simply not act at all. In that way he would not to the opposite – that would be putting it too affirmatively – but at least he has an alternative (badal). Ashʿarī, who agreed with him overall, did not follow him in this.24 The model appears in so many variants because theological and juristic thought intermingled at this point, which does not make the texts any easier. The opposite of the capacity to act was the powerlessness (ʿajz) – an anthropological term. The opposite of action was omission (tark) – a legal term. The question of whether not-acting was a punishable offence might be discussed,25 for a jurist, unlike a natural scientist, was not bound by the rule that ‘ex nihilo nihil fit’.26 A jurist also had to decide whether partially performed actions were valid or not, for instance a prayer that was unfinished.27 According to Abū l-Hudhayl’s model, which was inspired by theology, this would have been a sequence of individual actions each of which had been completed. It is thus no coincidence that he did not discuss this problem, while his pupil Hishām al-Fuwaṭī did. Instead he came up with the question of what would happen if the capacity to act were to be replaced by powerlessness halfway through the action, when really it had already been performed ( faʿala), such as when the agent suffers a stroke.28 In many of these instances the category of human will might well have brought clarity, but Abū l-Hudhayl and those dependent on him were not able to delimit will phenomenologically: we perceive decisions, i.e. ‘capacities to act’.29 These decisions always refer to one alternative: good 22  See p. 183 above. 23  See p. 347f. above. 24  See p. 174 above, and Gimaret, Ashʿarī 147. 25  Cf. McDermott, Thology of al-Mufīd 158f. 26  Engisch, Vom Weltbild des Juristen 135. 27  Cf. p. 15 and 22 above. 28  See vol. III 267f. above. In general on the problem see Maq. 234, 12ff. 29  Cf. Frank in: La notion de liberté 39.

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or bad, action or omission. They exist within a framework bounded by the revelation and the law; freedom is only ever expressed in choice (ikhtiyār).30 The concept of freedom is thus closed to any chance of doing something new, unusual, unsolicited, as, indeed, is the concept of action. The action described in our texts does not produce anything; it is πράττειν, to use Aristotle’s terminology, rather than ποιει̃ν.31 It was aimed above all at observing the commandments, such as praying or fasting. If something happened as a consequence, was ‘generated’ (tawallada), it was primarily regarded under the aspect of responsibility humans have to assume for the consequences of their actions.32 Najjār rejected this causality; if the capacity to act is granted for one single event, nothing can be generated by this event.33 Humans will not produce bodies under any circumstances,34 as only God can do this. They all abided by this axiom, as long as they recognised the distinction body/substance and accident;35 if someone shapes a body he does not created it but only effects something about it, i.e. accidents such as length and breadth etc. And even the accidents are restricted. Later they would be listed: humans have power over 10 classes, God over 13. This became a convention; only with regard to God would additional areas be found from time to time.36 Only God is thus ‘creative’; even though khalaqa is used with reference to humans twice in the Quran it was usually avoided to use it to describe human action.37 Instead people said ʿamila, inf. ʿamal (πράττειν), or faʿala (ποιει̃ν), the infinitive fiʿl of the latter meaning not only ‘acting, effecting’, but also the ‘effect’.38

30  With regard to God there was also a distinction between irādat ḥatm, the (act of) will that decides something definitively, and irādat ikhtiyār, an (act of) will that leaves room for human decision and is limited to foreknowledge; cf. Kulīnī, Kāfī I 162 no. 3 (in the context of moderate determinism, however: the capacity to act exists only at the same time as the action). 31   Eth. Nic. X 8. 1178b 20f.; also Dihle, Vorstellung vom Willen 66. 32  See vol. III 269 above; but cf. ibid. 117. 33  See p. 172 above. 34  Cf. Text XXI 140, m above; also vol. III 269. 35  The exception being Aṣamm, who was familiar with the concept ‘body’ only but applied it differently (see vol. II 452ff. above). 36  Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār 126, apu. ff.; thus already Mānkdīm, ShUKh 90, 1ff. (cf. Gimaret, Théories de l’acte humain 39f.). Regarding Abū l-Hudhayl see vol. III 269f. above; for Jubbāʾī see Murtaḍā, op. cit. 107, 16ff.; he only found 12 for God. Taken together we arrive at the 22 noted on p. 527 above. 37  The concrete usage, rather than the appreciation of a theoretical possibility. Regarding the theological issue see p. 42ff. above. 38  See vol. III 84f. and 127f. above.

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In order to describe the process of tawallud only the word fiʿl could be used.39 The human capacity to act had an effect beyond its bearer, ‘generating’ an accident on a foreign object, such as the pain one causes someone else with a blow, or simply the movement of an arrow loosed off the bow. This last-named example in particular would be explored in increasing detail in the course of subsequent generations.40 It also allows us to pursue the intention of the idea: it was not about the distinction between causation by contact and transferred causation as it had been for Aristotle and his successors,41 but rather about the fact that these secondary events could not be controlled and, being actions, were still part of the human. ‘(Tawallud) is an effect ( fiʿl) the cause of which I caused’, one definition tells us; ‘I cannot refrain from it now, and I effect it by means of myself as well as by means of an object ( fī ghayrī).42 The arrow hits a human and kills him, but the victim may not have been the person one intended to hit but, perhaps, a hostage who is being put into the arrows way.43 This is not the only possible consequence; one might thus wonder if there are other things one has not caused, i.e. ‘omitted’.44 These are juristic questions, thought along casuistic lines and taken to extremes. The time that often passed between the primary and the secondary action was of great importance: when the arrow reaches its target, the archer might already be dead; is he then still the agent? What would happen, a jurist might ask, if a Zoroastrian who has sent off his hunting dog without saying bismillāh (which would ensure that the prey remained ritually clean even after being touched by a dog) becomes a Muslim before the dog has seized its game?45 While in comparison to this no 39  Cf. the definition given by Ashʿarī, Maq. 408, 13ff. 40  Cf. Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir (vol. III 126f.) > Abū l-Hudhayl (ibid. 269) > Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb (p. 84f. above) > Iskāfī (p. 98 above); also the Ibāḍite Abū Zakariyāʾ (transl. Revue Africaine 105/1961/138f.). In addition we frequently find the example of throwing a stone (cf. Text XXI 140, commentary); it had been discussed since Aristotle’s day (cf. Zimmermann in: Sorabji (ed.), Philoponus and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science 121f.). As for the archer, Ptolemy had already used him in comparison, but in the context of the mechanics of the heavens, which were entirely irrelevant in the context of the tawallud discussion (Tetrabiblos III 1 [Camerarius 107]). The Arabic translation includes Philoponus’ paraphrase, apparently as a supplement to the Greek original (cf. Lettinck, Aristotle’s Physics 330). Aristotle had simply referred to ῥιπτούμενα ‘projectiles’ (Phys. IV 8. 215a 14). 41   Phys. VIII 10. 267a 2ff.; regarding John Philoponus’ criticism cf. Sorabji in: Philoponus and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science 7f., and Wolff., ibid. 84ff. Abū l-Hudhayl, too, may well have rejected the central concept of a projectile being propelled by the air behind it (Text XXI 73, c). 42   Maq. 408. 15f. 43  See p. 98 above; this and other examples also in Pines, Atomenlehre 32. 44   Maq. 380, 6f. and earlier. 45  The game in fact becomes not clean (Gräf, Jagdbeute und Schlachttier 160).

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time elapsed between a blow and the resultant pain, a jurist might well bear in mind that a blow might have long-term consequences. Of course the Stoics, too, when they debated causes were mainly interested in the allocation of responsibility.46 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam may have still been aware of their distinction between main and ancillary causes,47 but Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, who was the first to explore tawallud in detail and may have introduced the term into the debate altogether, did not have anything to do with it. His theory is still rather generic; there is no reason to assume that the principle of responsibility was of particular relevance to him. He employed numerous examples that had the effect affecting not a separate object but the agent ­himself.48 In the context of a truly juristic approach one would furthermore expect a reference to tawallud being tied to intellectual maturity or mental capacity. However, even during Bishr’s lifetime Abū l-Hudhayl corrected his system in a way that pointed in this very direction: one can only ‘generate’ something one has under control, something of which one knows ‘how to do it’.49 The reason was that Bishr regarded sensory perception as mutawallidāt as well: seeing is generated by opening one’s eyes – even though one does not ‘know how to do it’.50 Abū l-Hudhayl, however, was not intending to aid a scientific concept of causation to prevail; on the contrary: he admitted that God could overrule causation; if one puts a flame to cotton, the cotton does not have to burst into flame.51 Someone who ascribed a ‘nature’ to things, however, might deliberate thanks to which natural force tawallud took place if it was not God who effected it; Thumāma reflected on this issue,52 and later there would be attempts at introducing the iʿtimād of bodies in this context.53 Iskāfī appears to have been the first to distinguish between ‘generating’ and causing: only unintentional consequences are ‘generated’, intentional ones are caused.54 This meant abandoning Abū l-Hudhayl’s criterion of ‘knowing how 46  M. Frede in: Schofield (ed.), Doubt and Dogmatism 225. Similar John Philoponus, In Arist. Phys. 195, 2ff. Vitelli; also Lettinck 130. 47  See vol. I 434f. above. 48  See vol. III 126 above. This argues against possible influence by the theory of transferred causation which would have explained the effect of a tool across spatial distance (Blumenberg, Genesis der kopernikanischen Welt 174ff.). 49  Vol. III 269 above. 50  Ibid. 128; also Dughaym, Falsafat al-qudar 172ff. 51  In Abū l-Hudhayl’s view this would not have been tawallud, either, for the same reason as in the case of sensory perception. 52  See vol. III 178 above. 53  This, at least, is how Ibn Sīnā presented it (cf. Pines in: REJ 103/1938/45ff. = Collected Works I 45ff.; Hasnaoui in: Jolivet/Rashed, Etudes sur Avicenne 108f. 54  See p. 98 above.

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to do it’, but not even Iskāfī was able to make a clear distinction between cause and condition;55 Carneades had already criticised this in the Stoics.56 The usual term for ‘cause’, if we may believe Ashʿarī, Maq. 389, 1ff., was ʿilla. The passage shows that no distinction was made between cause and reason, much less between Aristotle’s four αἰτιαι (Met. I 3). The question debated above all was whether the cause can precede its effect or not; betraying the influence of the theory of action and of atomism. Interestingly, ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān thought it necessary to point out that the capacity to act could not be the cause (Text XXV 87, b; cf. p. 41 above). The word sabab is found only comparatively rarely; it described the cause God employed, i.e. the secondary cause. Concerning circumstances as described by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār cf. Gimaret in: Ann. Isl. 21/1985/271.

55  Ibid. 56  Cf. Brochard, Les sceptiques grecs 152f.

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2.1.1 Aspects of the Problem of Free Will From the second half of the second century onwards the theologians were satisfied to look at freedom as a function of the capacity to act. Originally, on the other hand, freedom had been the choice between good and evil and as such an ethical postulate. The Qadarites had asserted that one must not ascribe anything evil to God;1 humans decide for themselves whether they want to sin or to follow God’s commandments. While Zurāra derived the term istiṭāʿa, which denoted the capacity to act, from the Quran, he did not have any predecessors to whom he could have referred. Of course the finite forms of the verb are found all over the Quran, as well as in hadith,2 but the step to it becoming a technical term – which had to go via the infinitive – had not yet been taken.3 Most of the passages were not suitable in any case; Zurāra selected only one.4 Not much later, but presumably in the Hijaz, Ibn al-Mājashūn used qudra instead of istiṭāʿa; humans are ‘empowered’ (maqdūr) by God to their actions.5 In this case the derived nature of this capacity to act is clearly expressed. While qudra is not found in the Quran at all, neither in the context of God or of humans, God’s qadar, his determination of destinies, is mentioned frequently; this was what Ibn al-Mājashūn regarded as the effect of God’s royal power (mulk) of which he gave a portion to humans, too.6 ‘Free will’ in our meaning of the term hardly ever occurs, neither as ‘free(dom)’ nor as ‘will’. In Kufa the term used was tafwīḍ, transfer of control to the human; the Shīʿites

1  See vol. I 29 and II 87f. and 106 above. The idea was rather obvious and is expressed e.g. in Ecclus. 15:11. 2  Cf. Conc. IV 39ff. 3  As far as I can see there is one instance only of istiṭāʿa in hadith (Muttaqī al-Hindī, Kanz alʿummāl I 124 no. 665); this is clearly a late dictum. 4  It had become of interest to jurists as it mentioned the conditions of the ḥajj. We should also be aware of the terminological use of istiṭāʿa in the quaestionesof Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya (Anfänge 17, 5; 20, 14; 34, 5; esp. 36f. § 41). The authenticity of the text is not guaranteed (see vol. II 745 and 770, n. 1 above), and the Quranic passages used as arguments differ entirely from those used by the Muʿtazilites (regarding the latter cf. Gimaret, Théories de l’acte humain 335ff.). The same is true of the instance in the alleged Risāla by ʿUmar II (Anfänge 160f.; regarding its authenticity see vol. I 155 and II 641 above). For the time being, the only conclusion we can draw is that the Qadarites used the word before the predestinarians did, but then the latter did not really require it. 5  Vol. II 778f. 6  Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s anti-Qadarite Risāla also uses qudra with reference to humans (p. 73, 12, and 77, 10), like istiṭāʿa elsewhere (p. 72, 10, and 77, 12; cf. Schwarz in: Oriens 20/1967/29f.), but the same restriction applies here as in the case of the abovementioned quaestiones (cf. vol. II 52ff.).

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favoured the middle course of lā jabr wa-lā tafwīḍ.7 The term takhliya ‘freeing, liberating’ was also used;8 however, it could also apply to inanimate objects.9 Ikhtiyār ‘(freedom of) choice’ may have been used by Jahm b. Ṣafwān, but he was a confirmed determinist.10 Apart from these instances the word appears to have been adopted by the Muʿtazilites later,11 but it never acquired crucial importance among them, either.12 The problem as such had been discussed for centuries. During antiquity the alternative of divine destiny vs. human decision had been debated using examples from Homer.13 The Stoics had tried to mediate – Chrysippus pointing out that ‘it is not simply predestination that someone does not lose his coat, but also linked to that his having looked after it’.14 Early Christianity proclaimed free will in order to take a stand against the prevailing pagan fatalism; the awareness of human corruption would weaken the tendency over time.15 John of Damascus kept foreknowledge and predestination clearly separate: πάντα μὲν προγινώσκει ὁ θεός οὐ πάντα δὲ προορίζει. Προγινώσκει γὰρτὰ ἐφ᾿ ἡμι̃ν, οὐ προορίζει δὲ αὐτά.16 The Muslims certainly learnt much from him; the Qadariyya is one of the few polycentric religious movements of the early period, found above all in Syria where Christianity had had roots for centuries. Even so, terminological parallels with John of Damascus do not occur until the Muʿtazila: ἐφ᾿ ἡμι̃ν/min jihatinā, κατεξούσιος/qādir, ἐξουσία/qudra.17 Later, Alexander of Aphrodisias’ treatise Περὶ του̃ ἐφ᾿ ἡμι̃ν would be translated into

7   See vol. I 400 above; thus also the Ḥanafites, e.g. in Abū Ḥanīfa’s not entirely authenticated letter to ʿUthmān al-Battī (ibid. 205f.; also Rudolph, Māturīdī 314ff.). Regarding the Qadarites cf. vol. I 480. 8   Cf. vol. I 234f. above concerning Abū Ḥanīfa’s letter (Text II 8, k), or Schwarz, loc. cit. 29 concerning Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s anti-Qadarite Risāla. Regarding Abū l-Hudhayl cf. Text XXI 92, d. 9   Cf. takhliyat al-shuʾūn in Hishām b. al-Ḥakam’s system (Text IV 46, a). 10  And thus probably applied the term to God (Text XIV 5); cf. Text 6, c. 11  E.g. Muʿammar (vol. III 92 above). 12  Cf. Gardet in: EI2 III 1062f. s. v. Ik̲h̲tiyār. 13  Cf. A. Lesky, Göttliche und menschliche Motivation im homerischen Epos 18ff. 14  SVF II 998; the ideas discussed by Lesky also originated in the Stoa. Sorabji speaks of ‘soft’ determinism in this context, that does not rule out normal behaviours (in: Schonfield, Doubt and Dogmatism 279ff.). 15  Pelikan, Christian Tradition I 279ff.; also Rosenthal, Muslim Concept of Freedom 14ff. In the West the change was brought about by Augustine. 16   De fide orthodoxa II 30; also H. Beck, Vorsehung und Vorherbestimmung 161, and Sahas, John of Damascus on Islam 111. Regarding the issue in Byzantine theology in general cf. Beck, loc. cit. 216ff. 17  Cf. Frank in: Islamic Philosophical Theology 94, n. 120.

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Arabic as Fī l-istiṭāʿa.18 This, however, was an entirely different tradition, and when Christians such as as ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī19 or Theodore Abū Qurra20 said ḥurriyat al-istiṭāʿa or simply ḥurriya when they meant free will, not even the Muʿtazilites went along with them. The Christians used ḥurriya to translate Syr. ḥērūthā that was already used by Ephrem.21 The emphasis in Islam was different, and had been from the very beginning. Those who employed the term ḥurriya in Islam were the jurists and the mystics. The jurists used it to denote the status of a free man as opposed to a slve, while the Sufis meant the freedom from ties with the world (Rosenthal, Concept of Freedom 7ff. and 108ff.). While the perspective of the two was very different, they had in common that they were concerned with independence in the interplay of forces in this world. This also applies to some degree to the style of Middle Persian texts which was influenced by the usage of the court; according to the Dēnkart someone who has a free will (āzāt-kām) is someone who can operate freely and will act nobly as a consequence (transl. de Menasce 223; in general cf. Jackson, Zoroastrian Studies 226ff.). It remains to be explored whether Christianity approached the concept differently from the very first because its early years were among the servile class where freedom could manifest itself only as inner freedom. – The discussion on the dependence of Muslim theology on the Christians in this matter to the end of the twentieth century has been summarised by Griffith in the article mentioned above, p. 90ff.; however that may have been, it is certain that Abū Qurra was familiar with the arguments Muslim scholars were exchanging at his time (cf. Griffith, ibid. 89, and the text edited by him in: Le Muséon 92/1979/30f.). The contribution of the Quran to this ‘separate way’ went much further than questions of usage. While we can say with good reason that it does not preach

18  Ed. by Ruland in his dissertation (Zwei Schriften des Alexander von Aphrodisias) 193ff.; incomplete also by ʿA. Badawī in: Commentaires sur Aristote perdus en grec et autres épîtres 80ff. The term ἐφ᾿ ἡμι̃ν was already used by Aristotle and Chrysippus (Hist. WB der Philosophie II 1068; Rist, Stoic Philosophy 129; Englert, Epicurus on the Swerve 94ff.). 19   Masāʾil 119, 6f. 20   Mayāmir, ed. Bāshā 9, –4. 21  Cf. Griffith in: Parole de l’Orient 14/1987/91f.

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the strict predestination Byzantine polemic believed to find there,22 God’s power to lead humans in any way he wants was confirmed frequently, certainly more frequently than in the New Testament.23 This did not yet fit into a systematic theological context, but when conjecture started, the first question asked was every time where this omnipotence ended, and not what humans were free to do. A human would always be a slave (ʿabd) before God, but he was a person, too: God spoke to him. Fatalism had become impossible with the Quran. This was the progress brought by the revelation; the human is not the plaything of an anonymous destiny any more. Before this background it was only consistent for the Qadarites to interpret the Quranic message to mean that God determines the good done by humans, but that he leaves them alone when they become entangled in evil.24 Their doctrine was not an ‘innovation’; the fact that they were active everywhere in the Islamic world shows that their ideas suggested themselves, and that the majority of scholars probably came from their ranks at first.25 They were moderate enough, after all; there was no question of indeterminism. While the Qadarite Risāla attributed to Ḥasan alBaṣrī distinguishes between foreknowledge and predestination just like John of Damascus,26 it also says ‘If you say you will not tether your horse … because only that which is predetermined for you will happen in any case … people would shake their heads at your action’.27 This sounded similar to Chrysippus. And should God’s foreknowledge be denied altogether occasionally this was not an attempt at eliminating God from the interplay of forces entirely; rather, it was in accordance with a widely held belief that also confirmed determinists like Jahm b. Ṣafwān or the champions of badāʾ among the Kufan Shīʿites. In that case God observes events rather than knowing it in advance. See p. 452f. and 492f. above. Regarding the arguments of these ‘extreme’ Qadarites cf. Anfänge 116f. The groups referred to were probably Khārijites (p. 128f., also vol. II 664 above). They would of course still be presented as a deterrent later (cf. Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 22  Cf. H. Räisäinen’s balanced study The Idea of Divine Hardening (Helsinki 1972); also D. Rahbar, God of Justice (Leiden 1960). Regarding Byzantine polemic cf. A. Th. Khoury Polémique byzantine 332ff. 23  On the subject in general cf. e.g. Ahrens, Muhammad als Religionsstifter 80ff.; Watt, Free Will and Predestination 12ff.; Jomier in: MIDEO 16/1983/31ff. 24  Cf. e.g. vol. II 54 above for Ḥasan al-Baṣrī. 25  The fact that the Christians thought along the same lines was emphasised by John of Damascus’ immediate successors at the very beginning of the Διάλεξις attributed to him (cf. Glei/Khoury, Schriften zum Islam 166f.). 26  Cf. the text in: Der Islam 21/1933/77, 4ff.; also Schwarz in: Oriens 20/1967/29. 27  Ibid. 75, 15ff.

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703f. no. 1307 and earlier; Ibn Taymiyya, Jāmiʿ al-rasāʾil 128, 10, and 177, pu. ff., or Nawawī, Sharḥ matn al-arbaʿīn 19, 9f./transl. Pouzet 94f.), but it was known that they had not prevailed (Bayāḍī, Ishārāt al-marām 276, 3ff., after Qurṭubī). Furthermore there had always been trends such as this among the Christians; Theodore Abū Qurra discussed them (cf. Griffith in: Parole de l’Orient 14/1987/104f.). Regarding early Judaism cf. Urbach, The Sages 257f. We should not omit to mention that according to the account in Ashʿarī, Maq. 93, 7ff., those Khārijites did not deny God’s foreknowledge so much as rather his will regarding human action; i.e. they believed there was no act of will on God’s part that accompanied human actions. Still, knowledge and will were originally hardly distinguished in the case of God (cf. e.g. Text IV 2 for Hishām al-Jawālīqī); only Faḍl al-Raqāshī appears to have had a keener eye in this context (cf. vol. II 194f. above). Regarding the question in general cf. Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II1 640ff. Circumstances favoured the opponents’ predestinarianism. Of course, the Umayyads did not invent it in the first place, as the Muʿtazilites would claim later, but it suited their divine right perfectly.28 It agreed with the Quran in that the will of a personal God was at its centre. In addition it was better able to tie in with pre-Islamic tradition. The Bedouin experience of being at the mercy of an overwhelming environment lived on in the conquerors; the transition to urban culture was a slow one in people’s heads. In the same breath a well-known hadith evoked the intangibility of the date of one’s death and the ‘means’ of life, the daily bread, and the predestination from the womb onwards; the subjects of ajal and rizq never left theology again.29 The prophetic dictum still shows in its diverse variants just how the angle shifted: at first only earthly happiness was regarded as predetermined, then salvation in the afterlife as well, and finally even the actions with which one gains the latter or gambles it away.30 When it came to actions, even the predestinarians would generally accept a barrier put up by God himself: the taklīf mā lā yuṭāq. The actions, after all, were not only willed but also commanded; it was thus not 28  See vol. I 24f. above. H. Q. Murad argues against this my political interpretation in: Festschrift Adams 117ff. 29  W. M. Watt pointed out repeatedly that it was in the emphasis of these two points where pre-Islamic understanding of life broke through (first in Free Will and Predestination 19ff.). Cf. his summarising study Islamic Alternatives to the Concept of Free Will in: La notion de liberté 15ff. Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 609f., disagrees with this view. 30  Cf. HT 1ff. Wolfson (Philosophy 602ff.) points to characteristic Jewish parallels, in which this last specific turn towards predestinarianism is still absent.

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admissible that God enjoined something upon a human that the latter was unable to fulfil because something else had been predestined for him. ‘God does not ask more of a human than he is capable of’.31 The prohibition of taklīf mā lā yuṭāq originated in the working environment. ‘The slave (mamlūk) must be given sufficient food and suitable clothing; he must not be given work (ʿamal) he is unable to do’ we learn from a hadith Ibrāhīm b. Ṭahmān transmitted from Mālik b. Anas (Mashyakha 136 no. 78 = Muwaṭṭaʿ 980, Istiʾdhān 40, with abridged isnād; further instances and variants cf. Conc. VI 54f.). The transition to the religious level had already been completed in the Quran; following the phrase lā yukallifu llāhu nafsan illā wusʿahā cited above we read in sura 2:286: ‘Lord, do not burden us beyond what we have the strength to bear (mā lā ṭāqata lanā bih)’. The context suggests that this was a request to God not to enjoin such a heavy burden of law upon the Muslims as on the Jews (cf. Paret, Kommentar 60 on the passage); it was not linked to free will. For all those who rejected determinism, however, referring to it would have seemed obvious; it is perhaps no coincidence that the Medinan Qadarite Muḥammad b. ʿAjlān appears in the isnād of the abovementioned hadith (as he does in Muslim 1284 = Aymān, cap. 10; regarding him see vol. II 760ff. above). The legend of Ghaylān contained a sentence in which an obligation fawqa l-ṭāqa was rejected emphatically due to God’s mercy (Text I 1, d). ʿAbd al-Wāḥid b. Zayd expressed himself against it explicitly (see vol. II 97 above). The Basran poet Abū Ḥayya al-Numayrī (d. between 158/775 and 180/796; cf. GAS 2/464) said of the Qadarites: ‘They teach that God does not enjoin anything on humans (ʿibād) that they are not capable of, and does not ask them for anything they do not find. They are right, by God, the Qadarites, but even so I do not share their opinion’, i.e., although he was no Qadarite he could not agree with the taklīf mā lā yuṭāq (Agh. XVI 308, 7ff.). The majority of Kufan Shīʿites thought along similar lines: while humans only do what is willed by God, taklīf mā lā yuṭāq must still be rejected (Kashshī 146, apu. ff.; also Biḥār V 70, –4ff.). Shayṭān al-Ṭāq came very close to the barrier, and Hishām b. al-Ḥakam was accused of disregarding it (see vol. I 400 and 372 above). The Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd actively accepted this when he argued with the Qadarites Hishām b. al-Ḥakam (ibid. 410). Concerning Christian theology see Theodore Abū Qurra, Mīmar IX 3, ed. Bāshā 10, 13f./transl. Graf, Arabische Schriften 225. This recalls the legal maxim ultra 31  Sura 2:286 with the parallels listed in Paret, Kommentar 60.

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posse nemo obligatur, or the dictum by Celsus the younger (ca. 100 CE): ‘Impossibilium nulla obligatio est’ (Dig. 50, 17, 185). A detailed discussion of the subject may be found in Brunschvig, Devoir et pouvoir. Histoire d’un problème de la théologie musulmane, in: SI 20/1964/5ff.; more briefly Daiber, Muʿammar 102ff. 2.1.1.1 The Predestination of the Date of Death The idea that death was inevitable was expressed insistently in the Quran as well as in pre-Islamic poetry, but while the poets of the Jāhiliyya spoke of the lot of death (maniyya),1 the Quran used the term (ajal) allocated by God;2 this word was adopted in hadith, too.3 The Qadarites, at least those in Basra, were at first not against it; both Ḥasan al-Baṣrī and ʿAmr b. Fāʾid al-Uswārī believed the date of death to be predestined.4 The Qadarite Risāla transmitted under Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s name does not touch upon the subject, although the author was presumably familiar with the prophetic dictum cited above that postulates predestination from the womb onwards.5 Christian theology, on the other hand, discussed the question. Jacob of Edessa (d. 89/708) felt compelled to write about it after an inquiry;6 at the same time Germanus, who became ecumenical patriarch in Byzantium in 715 at an advanced age, expressed his opinion on it.7 Earlier, maybe even during Muḥammad’s lifetime, Theophylact Simocatta, the secretary and prefect under Heraclius, had already done so.8 The locus classicus on the subject was found in the Church Father Basil’s (ca. 330–379) works;9 later it was treated stereotypically in the Ἐρωταποκρίσεις literature.10 What exercised the Christians was that death, which is predestined by God, may be harmful; they probably meant that it arrived too early for many people. The rekindling of interest during the seventh century may be linked to the deterioration of the quality of life in the wake of the Persian wars and the expansion of Islam; at a later stage the Quranic view may have become better known, 1  Caskel, Das Schicksal in der altarabischen Poesie 22ff.; Ringgren, Arabian Fatalism 16ff. 2   Sura 63:11, with the parallels listed in Paret, Kommentar 479. 3  Cf. Conc. I 22f.; also HT 85. 4  See vol. II 54 and 95 above. 5  Risāla 74, 17ff.; also HT 31. 6   See vol. II 499 above; in more detail Cook, Early Muslim Dogma 145ff. 7  Germanos on Predestined Terms of Life. Greek Text and English Translation by Charles Garton and Leendert G. Westerink (Arethusa Monographs VII. Buffalo 1979). 8  His text was edited and translated by the same authors as Arethusa Monograph VI (Buffalo 1978): Theophilactus Simocates on Predestined Terms of Live. The treatise is structured as a dialogue (in utramque partem disserere). 9    Homilia quod Deus non est auctor malorum; PG XXXI 333 B. 10   Germanos, intro. xxiv f.

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too. Jacob of Edessa’s answer is certainly as indeterminist as a Muslim’s would never have been: God does not determine the date of death in advance; after all, he might prolong the life of a just man in order to reward him for his piety. This idea was not surprising to those who had read the Old Testament.11 It was really self-evident; it was expressed both in the Shīʿa12 and in Sunni ­hadith.13 However, reservations quickly arose due to the ‘Qadarite’ consequences,14 as the Quran only asserts of the ‘term’ that it will not be extended. Consequently Islamic theology, where it followed Qadarite impulses, set a different emphasis; asking whether the term could be shortened through human intervention such as murder. A positive – pro-Qadarite – answer was easy for as long as God was believed to have no foreknowledge, as in that case he decided the term only at the moment where it came to an end. The argument has indeed come down to us in this combination.15 Qadarites who did not share this opinon could say that God would have advance knowledge of a murder, but that he would not predestine it as that would be ascribing something evil to God. In that case, as a controversy among Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s pupils shows, one would not necessarily have to regard the violent intervention of a human as shortening the term.16 Abū l-Hudhayl agreed with this view.17 After all, it was known from the prophet’s life that some of the murders in Medina were part of the divine plan; ‘God killed So-and-so’, as the people who carried out the executions had said.18 11  Cf. Is. 38:1ff. = II. Kings 20:1ff.; also Prov. 4:10 and 9:11. Maimonides believed the concept of ajal to be fundamentally un-Jewish (cf. Maimonides über die Lebensdauer. Ein unediertes Responsum hrg., übs. und erklärt von Gotthold Weil, Basel 1953; reprint Tel Aviv 1979 minus the German text). On the discussion of the subject in early Judaism cf. Urbach, The Sages 264ff. 12  Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 275, 3ff.; Majlisī, Biḥār V 141 no. 12. 13   Lā yazīdu fī l-ʿumr illā l-birr (Conc. II 371 b; also HT 86). 14  Cf. the discussion around the hadith (that did not become canonical!) Ṣilat al-raḥīm tazīdu fī l-ʿumr in Ibn Fūrak, Mushkil al-ḥadīth 141, –4ff. Regarding the hadith itself cf. Suyūṭī, Al-jāmiʿ al-ṣaghīr II 44, –4; the Muʿtazilites relied on it (Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XI 3, 9). Concerning the Qadarite context cf. Anfänge 49f. 15  In the anti-Qadarite text attributed to ʿUmar II (cf. Anfänge 171f.). It probably refers to Khārijites; the same thing was reported of the Maymūniyya in Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ III 287, 2f. after a Khārijite ʿaqīda from Iran (cf. vol. II 650 above). Cf. also Ashʿarī, Maq. 256, 6ff. 16  See vol. II 92f. above; also Anfänge 172, n. 1. 17  See vol. III 301 above. 18  Thus in particular in the case of the Jew Abū Rāfiʿ Sallām b. Abī l-Ḥuqayq (cf. the account in Ṭabarī I 1375ff., and Ibn Isḥāq, Sīra 714, 1ff., and 981, 10; also Buhl, Leben Mohammeds 277, and Mattock in: Ocasional Papers of the School of Abbasid Studies I 80ff.). Ṭabarī adopts this expression (I 1760, also with reference to a Jew). It may also refer to death in

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Not all the Muʿtazilites agreed; those from Baghdad in particular objected.19 They shifted the emphasis from God’s foreknowledge to his freedom: God is free to decide whether a term is shortened or not; the murderer would not be absolved in any case.20 After all one could hardly believe that he would have let all those who die together in a battle (i.e. are killed) die at this precise moment under other circumstances.21 In that respect there is a difference whether he stated the precise moment or not22 – apparently an idiosyncratic interpretation of the fact that the word ajal is sometimes, but not always, accompanied by musammā in the Quran.23 In Basra Abū l-Hudhayl was able to carry conviction in the long run; Jubbāʾī adopted his point of view, as did Abū Hāshim and later Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī.24 One might doubt whether in this view the murderer was really free, but it was still not determinism. Ever since Najjār, the determinists had regarded this case as being on a different level; they claimed that God does not only have foreknowledge of a murder, but that he wills it, too.25 Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq, too, wrote a treatise on the subject, preserved in Ibn al-ʿAssāl’s theological Summa (CGAL II 128; cf. S. Kh. Samir in: Aram 3/1991/171ff); his partner in the conversation was presumably a Muʿtazilite. Like the earlier Christian authors Ḥunayn adopts an indeterminist standpoint; God’s foreknowledge does not possess determining force in his view. The first Muʿtazilite to express an opinion on the matter appears to have been Ḍirār b. ʿAmr (cf. Catalogue of Works XV, no. 15).

battle, e.g. in the case of Abū Jahl (cf. the hadith Conc. V 267 b). ‘God killed’ meant ‘God judged’. 19   Biḥār V 142, 10f.; Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 144, 3ff. (here as in other sources Abū l-Hudhayl is presented as an exception). 20  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XI 3, 10ff.; the entire section p. 3–26 was translated by Abrahamov in: JSAI 13/1993/7ff. 21  See vol. III 301 above. The argument has a predecessor in Carneades’ criticism of astrology. Cook points out that it lost its meaning when it was transferred into a system that was based on divine predetermination (Dogma 146f.). However, this is only true if God has foreknowledge. 22   Biḥār V 139 no. 3. 23  Sura 6:2, and Paret, Kommentar 134 on the passage. 24   Biḥār V 142, 12ff.; regarding Jubbāʾī cf. Baghdādī, Uṣūl 143, 1ff. The Zaydite Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm shared this opinion (cf. Madelung in: Festschrift Löfgren 39f.). Regarding Qāḍī ʿAbd alJabbār cf. Anfänge 173. Concerning the details of the debate see Gimaret, Ashʿarī 424f. 25  Madelung, ibid. 40. Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 167 § 52, and Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 148f. § 278 appear to have presented the issue in an abridged form.

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2.1.1.2 The Availability of Sustenance The question of rizq was similar in many respects, although it does not appear to have had any Christian parallels. It was Islamic mysticism above all that provided the colour in the argument. The word rizq itself is pre-Islamic, derived by means of consonant abstraction from Middle Persian rōzīk > Syr. rōzīqā.1 The idea that ‘sustenance’ is not automatically available but depends on circumstances is also ancient Arabian in origin; the pastures depended on the rain, and spoils of war were a stroke of luck.2 Unfortunately there has not been a lexical study so far; all we have is the evidence of the Quran. God is al-rāziq and al-razzāq; the feeling of dependence is personalised.3 At the same time humans have been relieved of the ‘risk’, as ‘there is no creature on the earth whose provision does not rest with God’.4 Another aspect was added in the long run which shifted the ancient perspective: what is granted by God is good and rightful. Spoils were consequently only rizq if they had been taken from unbelievers, and in the case of theft serious reflection was required on whether one did not have to look for different categories. The problem was first formulated by the Syrian Qadarites, by Makḥūl and, in particular, by Ghaylān:5 was the power enjoyed by the Arab ruling class at the time a rizq, or was it mere presumption? The concept had clearly expanded; everything God granted could be rizq, even authority. The Quran had recognised that this led to social differences: God gives sustenance to whomsoever he will, and limits it, too’.6 However, a mawlā might well ask whether something that had originally been an affirmation of divine omnipotence had not become tangible ideology in the meantime.7 Thus the Qadarites came to the conclusion that they had to distinguish between the parts played by God and by humans, respectively. God provides the rizq, but humans acquire it, and they can do this in permitted or prohibited fashion.8 The political protest, however, did not last; under the Abbasids the Qadarites made peace with the state. Consequently rizq was not power 1  Siddiqi, Persische Fremdwörter 56 with instances; Jeffery, Foreign Vocabulary 142f. 2  Wensinck, The Arabic New Year 3; Clauss, Als Beduine unter Beduinen 103. The hadith informs us that God determines the rizq for a year in each laylat al-qadr (Wensinck, ibid.). 3  Cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 387; also McAuliffe in EI2 VIII 568 s. v. Rizḳ. 4  Sura 11:6. Regarding the etymology of ‘risk’ cf. Rosenthal, Gambling 173. 5  See vol. I 84 and 86 above; Anfänge 235f. 6  Sura 13:26, and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 261. The phrasing is not entirely unambiguous (Paret, ibid.). Cf. Reinert, Tawakkul 37. 7  Cf. W. Qadi, The Religious Foundationof Late Umayyad Ideology and Practice, in: Saber religioso 260f. after the central text in ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd b. Yaḥyā, Rasāʾil 207, 4ff. ʿAbbās. 8  Thus the Qadarites in the Masāʾil attributed to Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya (§ 11/ transl. Anfänge 50f.).

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any more but possessions – the possessions they owned as merchants. Their doctrine changed accordingly: there is rizq that comes to one, a gift from God as it were, for instance an inheritance or the part of the spoils of dhū l-qurbā, but one can increase one’s rizq through gainful employment, too.9 Or: rizq is that which one owns, not what one takes from someone else; someone who lives by robbing others does not use up his rizq – or rather, he does not use his own rizq but someone else’s.10 This was civic thinking, with the emphasis on the protection of personal possessions.11 This made it easy for the opposing side to focus on God’s authority: if someone lives on ill-gotten goods his whole life, he would never have received his own rizq, and where would that leave the care of God who even looks after every animal?12 The suggestion that something prohibited could not be part of rizq was rejected not only by Aṣmaʿī13 and the Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd,14 but later also by Ashʿarī.15 Ibn Ḥanbal called it unbelief when someone denied that God gave the loathed Turkish general Ashnās his rizq.16 Still, the predestinarians found themselves compelled to make a distinction: something prohibited can only be part of the rizq granted by God if it serves to provide bare subsistence, for instance in cases of stealing food, or possibly when trespassing upon state property. Thus on the one hand no-one will starve, but on the other the rizq granted (mallaka) to humans by God remains untouched.17 God distributes the rizq every day after the morning prayer,18 and if someone appropriates something prohibited that God had not intended for him, God will punish him by subtracting the same amount from what was

9  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 144, 12ff.; cf. Nāshiʾ, Awsaṭ 100 § 107. 10  Named as a tenet of the Muʿtazilites in Text XXI 154, a–d; also Gimaret, Noms divins 398. 11  The ancient, ‘Umayyad’ version of the question may have been explored once more by Ḍirār b. ʿAmr in his K. al-azrāq wal-mulk wal-ājāl wal-aṭfāl (Catalogue of Works XV, no. 15), if it really must be read as mulk rather than milk. 12  Cf. the carefully constructed example in Baghdādī, Uṣūl 145, 1ff. Malaṭī, Tanbīḥ 134, 9ff./176, 2ff. declares the extreme criticised here as being part of Qadarite doctrine. 13  Cf. Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 226, –4f. 14  See vol. I 481f. above. 15   Ibāna 64, 6ff. 16  Khallāl, Musnad 260, 4ff. 17  Text XXI 154, e–f, as doctrine of the ahl al-ithbāt. This distinction had not been made in Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya’s Masāʾil, where riches and poverty are simply decreed by God (§11, h/transl. Anfänge 50). 18  Majlisī, Biḥār V 147 no. 7, where this gives rise to the admonition that one must not go back to sleep after fajr. Regarding the distribution of rizq once a year see n. 2 above. The Qadarites appear to have assumed that the rizq was given to humans at birth (cf. Anfänge 176); the predestinarian hadith mentioned p. 551 above said the same, too.

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allocated to him.19 God thus preserves justice on a higher level; theft does not pay. Or maybe: theft is an everyday occurrence; where would it leave us if we denied God’s intercession to all those who live on ill-gotten goods?20 A Qadarite might wonder how with all this resignation one could still justify that stolen goods must be returned.21 However, all these opinions were supported existentially rather than systematically, and as in the ajal debate the two sides were often quite close,22 due to the static understanding they both had of society. The true opposition came from a different direction: it declared gainful employment and possession as fundamentally reprehensible, and at the same time cut its ties with the state. It is characteristic that it should have emerged within the Muʿtazila; its representatives felt that the old Qadarite ideals had been abolished by the trend to a more bourgeois life.23 It also went back to the original definition of rizq: rizq is what God provides; gainful employment is not necessary as God guarantees subsistence. This fitted well with determinist theology, too, and the opinion survived outside of the Muʿtazila, in the Khorasanian mystic school and in the Karrāmiyya. Benedikt Reinert’s study of the tawakkul ideal has shown how far the topic branched out there.24 Shaqīq al-Balkhī was the first to connect rizq and tawakkul.25 The question of whether prices are God-given or whether they are within human responsibility was discussed incidentally in this context, but the records are late; the earliest occurs in Nāshiʾ (Awsaṭ 102  § 114). A distinction was made between the varying availability of goods (for instance in the course of inflation) that depends on God, and the price determined by a human. The question concerned only the latter; the determinists would have been happy to let the market take its course, while the Muʿtazilites paved the way for an interventionist pricing policy. We must bear in mind that the ‘market’ did not exist; God took its place. Cf. Gimaret in: JESHO 22/1979/330ff., and Moh. Hashim Kamali, Tasʿīr (Price Control) in Islamic Law, in: The America Journal of Islamic Social 19   Biḥār V 146f. no. 1 and 6. 20  Thus Baghdādī, Tafsīr asmāʾ Allāh al-ḥusnā, probably with reference to the Seljuk attacks (Gimaret, Noms divins 399; also EIran III 409). 21  Thus the Zaydite al-Hādī ilā l-ḥaqq in his response to Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. alḤanafiyya’s Masāʾil (ʿImāra, Rasāʾil II 172, 12ff.). 22  Cf. e.g., once again concerning Abū l-Hudhayl, Text XXI 153–154 with commentary. 23  In more detail vol. III 142ff. above, and p. 796 below; they were the so-called ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila. 24   Die Lehre vom tawakkul in der klassischen Sufik 35ff., and index s. v. rizq; cf. also Gimaret, Noms divins 399f. 25  Reinert 40.

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Sciences 11/1994/25ff. Jurists considered the question under the aspect of hoarding foods and creating monopolies; in principle they, too, were in favour of the free market and consequently advocated speculation (cf. Talbi in: Cahiers de Tunisie 20/1972/277). Inna llāh huwa l-musaʿʿir, we already learnt in hadith (Conc. II 463b). A related question is that of the petitionary prayer with which, too – if it were to mean something – a human would influence predestination and, in particular, his sustenance. Once again a starting point was found in hadith: ‘Nothing will resist fate, except prayer’, we read (lā yaruddu l-qadara illā l-duʿāʾ, Conc. II 132b; for Shīʿite parallels cf. Kulīnī, Kāfī II 469f.). However, this discussion hardly ever goes beyond the confines of exegesis (cf. HT 86f.; Anfänge 154; a particularly characteristic example Kulīnī, Kāfī 470 no. 9). Only Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār includes longer systematic deliberations (Mughnī XX2 238ff.). Kindī knew that some denied the influence of prayer altogether; he himself believed it to be effective only if it was in accordance with the heavenly harmony (cf. d’Alverny in: Archives d’Hist. Doctr. et Litt. du Moyen Age 41/1974/146, after De radiis, a text that is extant only in Latin). Interestingly, ʿĀmirī discussed it together with magic (Al-amad ʿalā l-abad, cap. 12 in Rowson, A Muslim philosopher 122, 4ff.). 2.1.1.3 The Structure of Free Will Naẓẓām was the only one to develop an anthropological theory of free will. It is not very optimistic; a human can decide between good and evil only because his soul is trapped in his body. Free will is the result of earthly imperfection; in paradise, on the other hand, everyone will only ever do good.1 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam started from a similar position, but he was determinist to a much higher degree.2 Atomist systems, on the other hand, did not favour an anthropological concept; the connection with reality was lost and one would face pointless questions such as ‘is it possible to leave more than one action undone in one single moment (i.e. on one time atom)’,3 or ‘is it possible to do something later if one left it undone earlier (as, being a single omission, it would have been assigned to a single moment only)?’4 Abū l-Hudhayl tried to tidy things up by distinguishing between afʿāl al-qulūb and afʿāl al-jawāriḥ: unlike purely physical actions, several mental actions can take place together; 1  See vol. III 409ff. above. 2  See vol. I 433ff. above. 3  And not ‘to perform’. 4  Ashʿarī, Maq. 381, 15ff.

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consequently one can know and intend something at the same time, and also decide in favour of it.5 The aim of the decision, however, is set by the commandments; the only conflict of values occurs because commandments may be in competition due to precedence.6 Choice is influenced by ‘thoughts that come to mind’ (khawāṭir), that impel one either to good or to evil, and are consequently usually referred to in the dual form as al-khāṭirān in theoretical texts. It was debated whether they were essential components of a decision; while Abū l-Hudhayl and Bishr b. alMuʿtamir rejected this,7 Naẓẓām and Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir were in favour.8 This disagreement was due to the question of whether decisions and thought processes require a stimulus, or whether they can happen spontaneously.9 It could be asked in the form described because it was believed that such a ‘thought’ is not generated spontaneously in the soul, but is caused by outside influence, suggested by either God or Satan.10 Autonomous psychological processes were rejected, as was a freely acting nature. Naẓẓām, for his part, thought that admitting Satan’s ability to stimulate evil was according too much power to him. He believed that God sent the evil ‘thought’ as well; not, however, in order to tempt humans, but in order to provide freedom of choice; for this very reason the khāṭirān are indispensable.11 His pupil al-Jāḥiẓ would be the first to free himself from the model, instead developing a psychological theory in its own right, in which the ‘thoughts’ occur in the plural only, as khawāṭir or dawāʿī ‘motivations’, and external stimuli have been replaced by an interplay of forces within the human soul.12 There were parallels for this in contemporary mysticism. Muḥāsibī distinguished between three groups of ‘thoughts’: those that come out of the animal soul (nafs), others that grow out of reason and are thus sent by God, and finally those that come from Satan;13 Junayd agreed with him.14

5   See vol. III 268 above. 6   It was not until Muḥāsibī that this was explored systematically (Gedankenwelt 91f.). 7   See vol. III 138 and 274f. above; in Abū l-Hudhayl’s view the ‘thought’ was merely an accident. 8   Ashʿarī, Maq. 429, 4. Regarding Naẓẓām see vol. III 412f. above; he regarded the ‘thought’ as a body. 9   Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 26, 15f. 10  This was why Naẓẓām was able to regard the khāṭir as a body; otherwise he would have had to interpret it as a ‘movement’, i.e. an accident. 11  See vol. III 412 above. Not even his theory of free will is a purely anthropological concept. 12  See p. 118ff. above. 13   Riʿāya 44, 7ff. 14  Cf. his K. adab al-muftaqir, transl. Deladrière, Junayd 74ff.

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Later, ‘thoughts’ inspired by an angel were added, resulting in a fourpart system; this was embraced by Kalābādhī, Qushayrī, Abū Ḥafṣ alSuhrawardī, and Ibn ʿArabī; most Persian dervish orders followed them. Najm al-Dīn Kubrā established a five-fold system which included, in a further distinction, qalb ‘heart’ in addition to nafs. The Dhahabiyya order followed his system (cf. Meier, Fawāʾiḥ al-jamāl 128; Gramlich, Schiitische Derwischorden II 218ff.). The first to include the presumption that God might send an angel in order to give humans a ‘thought’ for good into a system may have been Abū Hāshim (cf. Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 27, 15f.; also Erkenntnislehre 334 and 337). Of course these are all instances of extending the original dichotomy, or rather, attempts at combining external and internal stimuli. As most of the early Muʿtazilites explored this dichotomy in some form, we must ask where it came from. It was not indispensable at the systematic level; ‘thoughts’ or suggestions have no place in ethics, and the theological model could have made do with the Satan alone. There is nothing corresponding in the Quran, not even the root kh-ṭ-r. While the verb occurs in hadith in the impersonal construction presumed here (yakhṭiru fī bāli fulān or yakhṭiru bayna l-marʾi wa-nafsihī; Conc. II 48 a), the noun khāṭir does not; certainly not in the dual form. F. Meier pointed out the contrast between λογισμοὶ εὔλογοι and λογισμοὶ ἄλογοι in Christian monasticism, by e.g. John Climacus (Fawāʾiḥ al-jamāl 127; Gramlich added further instances from the Church Fathers (Derwischorden II 218, n. 1137). In an article dedicated to the subject H. A. Wolfson (in: Festschrift Scholem 363ff. = Philosophy of the Kalām 624ff.) lists further parallels: the idea of yēṣer ha-ṭōbh and yēṣer ha-rāʿ in Rabbinical Judaism, Plato’s distinction between λογιστικόν and ἐπιθυμητικόν, and the ‘twin spirits’ (mainyū) in Yasna 30 v. 3. However, he paid too little attention to the fact that the khāṭirān are suggested to the human from the outside; of the parallels he adduces the first two are closer to the nafs – qalb dualism of mysticism, while the ‘twin spirits’ belong in a different, cosmological context (cf. Zaehner, Dawn and Twilight of Zoroastrianism 179). Shaked (in: Transition Periods = Studia Iranica, Cahier 5, p. 230f.) also considers Iranian influence, at least in the case of Naẓẓām. Baghdādī’s adducing the ‘Brahmins’ in two places (Uṣūl 26, 1ff., and 154, pu. ff.), probably refers to their applying pure ethics while not acknowledging any prophet; his claim has no basis in reality (cf. Wolfson, Philosophy 631f.). In a later passage (203, 13ff.) he assumes that according to the ‘Qadarite’, i.e. Muʿtazilite, view the khāṭirān were suited to establish a natural law.

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2.1.1.4 God’s Contribution The ‘thoughts’ belong to that part of the periphery of action located beyond the qudra, on which humans consequently have no influence. If this kind of external influence resulted in wrongdoing, present-day administration of justice would admit extenuating circumstances. At the time, this was not the case. A ‘thought’, if it appears in the form of a ‘whispering’ (waswās) of Satan, is only ever a test; the human’s subsequent decision gains a higher rank as a consequence. People were aware that ‘circumstances’ might extend even into the course of the action itself. Someone performing an action may have good or bad luck – or, as the personalising language of religious thought would put it: God may grant him success, or let him fail. In the eyes of Najjār, the determinist, the capacity to act was identical with divine tawfīq or khidhlān.1 Others expressed it even more bluntly: by means of khidhlān, God creates unbelief.2 But then even John of Damascus, who believed in free will, used the terms εὐδοκία ‘pleasure, delight’ and ἐγκατάλεψις ‘forsaking’; this pair of opposites became the model for the Islamic terms,3 although God’s ‘delight’ leaves more scope to human freedom than the divine ‘granting of success’; among the Muslims even the majority of the Qadarites had assumed that God himself effected the good deeds of humans.4 Ḍirār b. ʿAmr already used khidhlān, although he appears to have preferred maʿūna ‘help, assistance’ to tawfīq.5 He also was Najjār’s source for a further term to denote the limited scope of human action: kasb or iktisāb. The verb originally meant ‘to acquire’, but it had been used metaphorically to denote the performing of an action. The same is true of the Quran and also of Ḍirār. It was not meant to express human independence was restricted; on the contrary: kasaba/iktasaba expresses that he makes it his own in the sense that he performs it consciously – ‘deliberately’, as R. Frank put it.6 Something else appears to have been implied from the very first: the action was not indifferent; one acquires it for one’s account, with positive or negative effect.7 Muʿtazilites, too, employed the word; Nāshiʾ,8 for instance, or Jubbāʾī, who, 1  See p. 172 above. 2  Maq. 265, 6f. 3  Gedankenwelt des Muḥāsibī 190. 4  See p. 549 above. 5  Cf. his K. al-maʿūna fī l-khidhlān (Catalogue of Works XV, no. 13). We do not, however, know how he thought ‘help’ would occur with khidhlān, i.e. together with the latter during the same action. 6  In: MIDEO 15/1982/72, n. 1. 7  As demonstrated by M. Schwarz’ fundamental study in: Fs. Walzer 355ff.; cf. also Paret, Kommentar 22 on sura 2:79, and the commentary by Khoury, II 32, on the same passage: kasaba means ‘to commit’ as in ‘to bear responsibility for’. 8  Cf. Text XXXI 54, d; mainly with reference to knowledge (Text 64).

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applying the meaning explained above, said that humans acquire ‘benefit or harm, good or evil’.9 Ḍirār, however, did not leave it at that. Actions are not only free and consciously performed in this sense, but they are also God’s creation, for if they happen, this is not due only to human agency; rather, he makes use of the workings of nature everywhere. ‘Nature’, however, had as little reality for Ḍirār as it had for Abū l-Hudhayl: to him, there was only ever God at work.10 We have called this a synergism. This may mislead someone whose background is in Christian tradition, where synergism is ‘the interaction and concausality of divine grace and human contribution’.11 Ḍirār did not have grace in mind, although Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s luṭf theory did.12 Bishr, however, spoke of a theoretical possibility, while Ḍirār referred to a real and continual cooperation. This angered the younger generation of Muʿtazilites, among them Bishr himself: human actions cannot be created by God – which they would have to be if God were indeed involved in performing them. In all probability they were talking at cross purposes. In Ḍirār’s view, it was not the actions that were created by God: they were merely muktasab, performed by the human. Created by God was the outcome, the coming to pass, of the action. The misunderstanding was caused by the ambiguity of the word fiʿl, which could mean ‘action’ as well as ‘effect’; it had already caused confusion in more than one instance.13 The term kasb was not to blame for the rift,14 but Ḍirār was discredited within his own school from then onwards. Within the Muʿtazila, Shaḥḥām strictly separated khalq and iktisāb as a consequence. If God creates an action, the human, he believed, is compelled to carry it out. In other cases he ‘acquires’ it freely, without a divine act of creation being involved.15 Ḍirār’s model, on the other hand, was adopted by the opposing side, by Najjār and his followers. Being Ḥanafites, their inclination 9   Ashʿarī, Maq. 542, 2ff.; also Schwarz 375. Adopted by Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Furūq 112, 7f. Regarding some strictly indeterminist Zaydites cf. Maq. 72, 11f./Schwarz 357. Cf. also ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī’s usage of iktasaba Masāʾil 119, 6f.: one ‘acquires’ the afterlife by means of free will (ḥurriyyat al-istiṭāʿa). 10  See vol. III 48f. above. Nāshiʾ explicitly rejected this expansion (Text XXXI 54, e). 11   New Catholic Encyclopedia XIII 884 s. v. Synergism; cf. also RGG3 VI 561f. Both works point to Melanchthon in particular. As for the Middle Ages, Pelagianism and ‘Semipelagianism’ provide the best sources. The Oresteia already described the Gods as μεταίτοι ‘partially responsible’ (Lesky, Göttliche und menschliche Motivation 49). Proclus was familiar with the concept of συναιτία (cf. Sorabji in: Penser avec Aristote 302). 12  See vol. III 133f. above. 13  See vol. III 84, 128, 130, and 178, and p. 173 and 486f. above. 14  A similar shift had taken place there: if one ‘acquires’, i.e. performs, a glorious action, one also acquires the glory that is its effect (cf. Schwarz 360). 15  See p. 57 above. Regarding the development see also Wolfson, Philosophy 663ff.

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probably went in that direction anyway; the second letter Abū Ḥanīfa was said to have written to ʿUthmān al-Battī expounds how in every action the human and his intention (niyya) cooperates with God and his aid or refusal.16 They were certainly all in favour of the khalq al-afʿāl the Muʿtazilites rejected so firmly; it seems that this was the reason why they were called ahl al-ithbāt.17 However, with this deliberate re-evaluation they submitted to the Muʿtazilite categorial system, although they phrased it in a way in which Ḍirār would have been unlikely to express the matter: humans do that which is created by God.18 Consequently the two are not working together any more; the human accepts something granted him by God. God and human are thus not agents ( fāʿil) in the same degree. Of course no-one can contradict the statement that God is an agent due to his eternal capacity to act, while humans are agents due to a temporal capacity to act (biqudratin muḥdatha);19 this corresponded with the understanding that the latter, while being muktasib, should not be called muḥdith ‘generating anew’.20 Najjār’s pupil Burghūth, appears to have avoided using fāʿil altogether; God is khāliq only, and a human is muktasib.21 A re-orientation had begun that would be complete, as Schwarz demonstrated, only with Ghazzālī and during his time: namely that kasb/iktisāb did not denote the performance of an action any more but rather its acquisition by a human in the sense that it is attributed to him despite being created by God. The long time taken by the development may be explained by the fact that Najjār and Burghūth would not be considered ‘orthodox’ later, either. Ashʿarī, for all that he adopted a number of Najjār’s ideas,22 was just as much part of the tradition of the Basran Muʿtazila; consequently, some evening-out remained to be done. The Ashʿarites regarded determinism as ‘Jahmite’,23 as during the early generations they embraced

16  U. Rudolph has pointed out this connection (Māturīdī 39f. and 314ff.; also vol. I 235 above). The question of the text’s authenticity may be ignored in this context, considering Najjār’s chronology. It may be possible to discern a Murjiʾite preliminary stage in the works of Faḍl al-Raqāshī (see vol. II 195 above). 17  See p. 168f. above. 18  See p. 169 above. 19  Ashʿarī, Maq. 538, ult. ff., as the opinion of the ahl al-ḥaqq. 20   Maq. 549, 1ff., as the opinion of the ahl al-ithbāt. Of course the Muʿtazilites saw the difference, too; they said that humans, unlike God, require a tool (see p. 94 above regarding Iskāfī; with reference to the concept of kasb see Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Furūq 112, 8ff.). 21  See p. 186 above. 22  See p. 167 above. 23  The aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth ignored this aspect entirely in their criticism of the Jahmiyya (cf. Reinert, Tawakkul 27).

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human freedom of decision with more conviction than they are usually said to have done.24 Of course the ambiguity of the term also played a part. Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī thought, entirely predestinarian, that humans ‘acquire’ an action from a selection of actions that God offers to them.25 Ṭabarī said that kasb is mere ‘attribution’, ‘linking’ something (to a human; iḍāfa, istiḍāfa), but he mentions it in passing, without making it a dominant definition.26 This point had not been reached at the time. However, two generations later we read in the works of Ibn Khafīf, the influential Sufi shaykh from Shiraz, that iktisāb was created by God and not by humans.27 In the end the Muʿtazilites had no more arguments against this, not least because in Ḍirār they had expelled the man who had developed these idea in accordance with the Muʿtazilite spirit. We should also consider the deliberations of Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn alBayhaqī (d. 458/1066), half a century before Ghazzālī, in his K. shuʿab al-īmān (I 210, –8ff.). On the Christian side it was once again Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī who expressed an opinion on the issue, in his K. naqḍ ḥujaj al-qāʾilīn bi-anna l-afʿāl khalq Allāh wa-ktisāb lil-ʿabd (discussed by Pines in: Israel Acad. of Sciences and Humanities V 4, 1973, p. 119ff.; cf. Endreß, Works of Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī 78ff. no. 5.36 with a more detailed title). 2.1.1.5 Theodicy The Ashʿarites did not make life easier for themselves when they redefined the term kasb. However, when they became entangled in aporiai in due course, we see a repetition of what had previously befallen the Qadarites and Muʿtazilites and their approach, mutatis mutandis, when it came to theodicy. Zoroastrianism had been the original influence in this issue. Wolves, wasps, snakes and scorpions were part of the world of evil in Iranian eyes, while Muslims regarded them to have been created by one and the same God who also created lambs and bees. There are hadiths demonstrating that there were also early trends within Islam – and in particular in Iraq, where there was close contact with dualists – that regarded harmful animals as evil;28 consequently, early Muʿtazilite theologians for a time deliberated the question of whether 24  At least according to R. Frank’s interpretation (cf. his article The Structure of Created Causality according to al-Ashʿarī in: SI 25/1966/13ff.). Criticised by Abrahamov in: JRAS 1989, p. 210ff. 25  Cf. Gobillot in: SI 73/1991/37. 26  Schwarz 371 and 373. 27  In his ʿaqīda; cf. the supplement to the Sīra 292, 80f. Schimmel-Tari. 28  See vol. II 59f. above.

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and in which form these would go to hell.1 In the long run, however, it would become obvious that this was a dead end; after all, animals could not incur guilt. Good and evil are mixed in the world, and even a scorpion has its purpose, al-Jāḥiẓ asserted.2 God certainly did not create it with the aim of harming humans:3 that would mean that God himself performed an evil action. His own sins are what is harmful to a human; if something requires an explanation, it would be how sin came into the world. Of course sin, too, is part of the earthly state of mixture; Jāḥiẓ regarded this as one reason why we require free will.4 Even so, an explanation was needed of why God allowed sin to happen, and whether he was involved in it, simply because it existed. And even if one were to put the entire responsibility on the human, the question remained of the nature of the evil that befalls him that is not his fault, suffering with which God him. God must, after all, be just; it was, of course, based on this postulate that Leibniz coined the term ‘theodicy’.5 The Quran had rejected theodicy: God is not taken to account.6 The fact that he is just, however, is demonstrated only through his actions; he is the judge who punishes and rewards. ʿĀdil, on the other hand, is not a predicate of God; the noun ʿadl is not used with reference to God, either.7 The notion of justice is on the periphery of the 99 names of God; ʿādil does not occur there, either, although we do find al-muqsiṭ and al-ʿadl (which the grammarians interpreted as an infinitive with adjectival meaning),8 but not even these two words are included in all the lists.9 While Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s (?) Qadarite risāla says with regard to predestination ‘Our lord is too merciful, too just and too noble to afflict

1  See vol. III 94 above, after Text XVI 44. 2  Ḥayawān III 300, 3ff./transl. Souami 55f.; also Geries, Al-Maḥāsin wa-l-masāwī 44ff., and Ormsby, Theodicy 223ff. 3  Ibid. 301, 11ff./transl. 56. 4  Ibid.; cf. p. 558 above regarding Naẓẓām. 5  In his Essais de theodicée of 1710. 6  Cf. Zirker in: Festschrift Falaturi 409ff. A very characteristic passage in this context is the pericope of Moses and his unknown companion (sura 18:65ff.; cf. Schwarzbaum in: Fabula 3/1959–60/119ff., and Prenner, Muhammad und Musa 11ff. 7  Only in passing in sura 6:115: ‘The word of your lord has come to pass in truthfulness and justice’; this probably refers to the Last Judgment. – Daud Rahbar’s dissertation, God of Justice (Cambridge 1953; published Leiden 1960), does not start with the word justice despite a number of textual sources, but attempts to show that the God of the Quran is not an unpredictable tyrant. It is true that his justice is nearly always asserted in negative terms (Fakhry, Ethical Theories 14ff.). 8  One might also see it as an adjective of the form faʿl. The word was in fact used inflected with a feminine ending like an adjective, as well as uninflected (Lane, Lexicon 1974b). 9  Gimaret, Noms divins 56ff., also 341ff.; regarding hadith see Rosenthal in: IOS 10/1980/95f.

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his servants in this way’,10 it is not an actual topic, and justice is framed by mercy and nobility of spirit. As in the Quran, God is understood as the lord who is just because he does not permit himself any transgression. Being generous he may leave humans their own free will, and later – once again justly – reward or punish them, depending on their decision. His generosity and justice go hand in hand with his mercy, too, because he made it easy for humans to obey his commandments.11 However, justice always remains ‘that which one may rightly do’ (mā li-fāʿīl an yafʿaluhū); this is how Ibn Furāk would later define ʿadl in his K. al-ḥudūd.12 Where the word ʿadl occurs in early religious texts it usually has an entirely different meaning: it denotes earthly, social justice. Khārijites and Shīʿites13 but also Muʿtazilites14 used it to clothe their protest against authority; the mahdī would ‘fill the earth with justice’.15 A synonym used in this context was the term with which the Quran expresses that God decides with fairness at the Last Judgment: qisṭ, the pointer of the scales (al-mawāzīn al-qisṭ).16 It was also linked to humans: they had to ‘ensure justice’ (qāma bil-qisṭ), but they failed to do so.17 ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd adopted it in this meaning, as did the Syrian Qadariyya,18 but this approach did not bear fruit either; later, inṣāf would be preferred over qisṭ.19 The Muʿtazilite comination of ʿadl and tawḥīd made its first appearance in the title of a treatise by ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd,20 but we do not know how he approached the subject. Perhaps he started with sura 3:18: ‘God bears witness that there is no god but he […] upholding justice’, that was occasionally reproduced in later inscriptions.21 However, this passage has qisṭ instead of ʿadl 10  P. 74, 17. 11  Sura 2:185 and 4:28; see p. 658 below. 12  BSOAS 54/1991/11; the unusual phrasing of the definition is due to the fact that divine justice had to be subsumed under it as well. 13  Regarding Ṣāliḥ b. Musarriḥ cf. vol. II 522f. above; regarding the Shīʿa vol. I 305, n. 43 above. 14  Thus Bashīr al-Raḥḥāl (vol. II 375 above). 15  Vol. III 20 above. 16  Cf. sura 21:47. Without the reference to the scales cf. sura 10:4 with the parallels listed in Paret, Kommentar 217. 17  Concerning qama bil-qisṭ as the duty of humans cf. sura 57:25, in specific situations also 4:127 and 4:135; cf. also Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts 209f. 18  See vol. II 327 and 387 as well as I 121 above. 19  Cf. F. Rosenthal in: IOS 10/1980/93f.; also Arkoun in EI2 III 1236f. s. v. Inṣāf. In general M. Khadduri, The Islamic Conception of Justice (Baltimore 1984). 20  Catalogue of Works X, no. 1; also vol. II 349. 21  Especially in Iran, and by no means due to Muʿtazilite inspiration every time; cf. Leisten, Architektur für Tote 87, n. 100.

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once again, and consequently we still have no answer to the question of why the Muʿtazilites chose the other term; furthermore there is no explanation of why they were so determined to accord primacy to divine justice; after all, sura 3:18 is the only Quranic passage in which qāma bil-qisṭ is asserted of God. It is possible that here, as in the matter of theodicy, Iranian thought had some influence.22 Ahura-Mazda was regarded as truthful and just above all, as opposed to Ahriman as the principle of lies (drug).23 Justice was a fundamental category of earthly kingship as well there, and the mirrors for princes of the Islamic period adopted this.24 Justice (ʿadl) guarantees the even distribution of the burden (ʿidl), while ẓulm is disorder.25 Justice is at the same time a moral and a cosmic principle.26 It may be worth mentioning that qisṭ was also a unit of measure, a measure of capacity used for oil (cf. EI2 VI 119a). In this sense it was derived via Syr. qesṭā from Gr. ξέστης which in turn derived from Lat. sextuarius (cf. Brockelmann, Lexicon Syr. 679). In the sense of ‘justice’, on the other hand, it seems to be cognate with Aram. qushṭā (cf. Fraenkel, Aramäische Fremdwörter 205f.). Arab ears were of course unable to distinguish between the two. The unit of measure, furthermore, appears to have been in use in Egypt only. Even so, it is possible that the term had become too profaned to prevail against ʿadl. Abū l-Hudhayl took the next step, including divine justice in a prominent place among the uṣūl. He did not do this for the sake of his doctrine of the attributes, which was part of the chapter tawḥīd; rather, justice provided a convenient bridge to waʿd wa-waʿīd: he thought entirely in line with the spirit of the Quran when he regarded it in connection with eschatology. Like his predecessors in the Muʿtazila he understood this to mean that God would condemn grave sinners for all eternity; this was the doctrine people were most likely to have in 22  Cf. in general de Menasce, Muʿtazila et théologie mazdéenne, in: Fs. Madkour 41ff., esp. 45ff. 23  Dēnkart 309 de Menasce (§ 332); Zaehner, Dawn and Twilight 34ff.; Jackson, Zoroastrian Studies 99f.; EIran VII 562f. s. v. Druj-, and 577 s. v. Dualism. 24  Cf. Knauth, Das altiranische Fürstenideal 162ff.; Khalifeh-Soltani, Das Bild des idealen Herrschers in der iranischen Fürstenspiegelliteratur 103ff. 25  Regarding the Buyid era cf. in detail Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership 175ff.; also G. Hourani in: MW 70/1980/10ff. ʿIdl denoted the burden of a camel that would hang from one side of the hump and that had to have a corresponding one on the other side. The Christian ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī also emphasised that God had to treat everyone equally for the sake of his justice (Masāʾil 117, –6ff., and 120, 6ff.). 26  This is true of medieval thought in general; cf. Gurjevitsch, Weltbild 308f.

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mind when they referred to ahl al-ʿadl or ʿAdliyya.27 Abū l-Hudhayl differed from the Basran Murjiʾa, with whom he agreed in many other points, in this matter; in his eyes their belief in God’s freedom to forgive disturbed the equilibrium of the ‘scales’. However, there was even one of his fellow believers who laid himself open to this suspicion: Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, who assumed that God could have shown every human the right path through a sign of divine grace (luṭf).28 Abū l-Hudhayl countered him with the theory that in reality, too, God always does that which is most beneficial (aṣlaḥ) to humans. While this did not emphasise the doctrine of the attributes, it did focus on the image of God: he does good for his own sake.29 Naẓẓām took a step further: God can do only good, and he can be only just. Justice has the advantage of essence over injustice, and when God does what is most beneficial, he still preserves his independence to the extent that there are innumerable other most beneficial things that he does not implement.30 We must bear in mind that the rationalist optimism of which this was an expression only ever looked to the human, not to the cosmos; this distinguishes Naẓẓām from Leibniz. Naẓẓām does not have the best of all possible worlds in mind; he focusses on what is ‘most beneficial’, not on the optimum. The subject has been studied in comparative depth; cf. R. Brunschvig’s fundamental article Muʿtazilisme et optimum (al-aṣlaḥ), in: SI 39/1974/5ff. = Etudes I 233ff., that also discusses the later development (cf. p. 13ff./214ff. regarding Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār). E. L. Ormsby’s dissertation Theodicy in Islamic Thought (Princeton 1984) set out a wider scope. The anthology The Problem of Evil, M. M. and R. M. Adams (eds.; Oxford 1990) shows the English-speaking approach on the basis of analytical philosophy; cf. esp. A. Platinga (p. 83ff.) and M. M. Adams (p. 209ff.). The expansion of the scope of the question described took place surprisingly quickly. It is hardly possible to determine whether impulses from antique or Christian thought contributed – there are more than enough parallels,31 but the Quran, too, tells us that God wisely guides everything for the best. While the 27  Regarding ahl al-ʿadl see vol. I 461, n. 69, and II 99 above, as well as Text XXI 181, c; regarding ʿAdliyya Text IX 20, c. Among non-Muʿtazilites, ahl al-ʿadl originally had a different meaning (see vol. I 228f. and 306 above). 28  See vol. III 133f.; regarding the change of the term luṭf between Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir and Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār cf. Abrahamov in: JSAI 16/1993/49f. 29  Vol. III 299 above. The connection between luṭf and aṣlaḥ is made clear in Text XXI 99. 30  Ibid. 437ff. Khayyāṭ names this as the view of the majority at his time (Intiṣār 22, 4). 31  Ibid. 438 and 440, n. 26; Ormsby 10.

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predicate ʿādil is missing from the Quran, ḥakīm ‘wise’ occurs over 90 times,32 furnishing the corrective to a ruler’s authority.33 The Muʿtazilite concept would soon come across old problems. Thus it had always been a matter for debate whether it was lawful to kill the children of unbelievers together with the parents, and among Muʿtazilites and Qadarites in particular the consensus was that they were to be regarded as innocent;34 now they found themselves confronted with the question of how it could be that God, if what he has in store for humans is only what is most beneficial, could visit suffering or death on minor children. Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir discovered this dilemma; after all, he was also sceptical towards the aṣlaḥ theory as such.35 He probably came upon it thanks to deliberations in the Bakriyya;36 it would exercise the Muʿtazila greatly for over a generation, and did not let them rest entirely later, either.37 Another question, however, was much more central: to what extent is the wise God free at all? Can he do something that is not absolutely beneficial? Abū l-Hudhayl had admitted this in theory; Naẓẓām had to reject it in accordance with his opinion. Or, putting it more pointedly: can God do wrong? Can he lie, too – with the consequence that the revelation would not be altogether reliable any more? For a time it seems that every theologian felt the need to answer this; someone might even have had the idea to organise the variety of opinions in a fictitious ‘symposium’.38 The discussion had thus come back to the question with which everything had started: can we ascribe evil to God if 32  Gimaret, Noms Divins 271. 33  Cf. Khoury’s Quranic commentary, III 261f. Fontenelle noted that wisdom and power are the highest qualities humans most frequently ascribe to God (L’Origine des fables in: Œuvres Complètes III [Paris 1959], p. 191f.). 34  See vol. I 23f. and 29 above; II 122 (n. 27), 306 and 348. 35  See vol. III 134f. above. 36  See vol. II 133f. above. 37  Cf. the discussion in Hishām al-Fuwaṭī (p. 17 above) and ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān’s (p. 37) systems. Regarding the later development cf. M. T. Heemskerk’s study Pain and Compensation in Muʿtazilite Doctrine. ʿAbd al-Ǧabbār’s Teaching and its Adoption by Mānkdīm and Ibn Mattawaih (PhD. Nijmegen 1995); also G. Vajda, Le problème de la souffrance gratuite selon Yūsuf al-Bāṣir in: REJ 131/1972/269ff.; S. Schmidtke, The Theology of al-ʿAllāma al-Ḥillī 117ff.; A. Goldreich, An Unknown Treatise on Suffering by Abū l-Qāsim al-Kirmānī (Hebr.) in: Festschrift Pines I 169ff. (after MS Bodleian, Hunt. 162, fol. 201 b–202 a; this was the author of the heresiographical treatise in: MO 25/1931/35ff.). The Christian ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī is familiar with the issue only in the general form of why God allows pain at all (Masāʾil 108, 4ff.), which probably goes back to dualist polemic. 38  Baghdādī, Farq 185, –5ff./198, –4ff. > Isfarāʾīnī, Tabṣīr 82, 12ff./89, ult. ff.; also vol. III 135 above, and Text XXIX 19, commentary. Regarding the individual dogmas see also Ashʿarī, Maq. 554, 10ff.; discussed in vol. II 544 and vol. III 152f., 299, 438f. as well as p. 16f., 37, 87, 96, 189, 192, 352f. above.

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we trace sins back to him? And if not, is he even powerful enough to prevent sin? The thought experiment of the three brothers that Ashʿarī was said to have cited was not the only aporia with which people could not come to terms.39 Doubt arose as to whether one might ask such questions at all; they are inappropriate40 or maybe even meaningless,41 for the possibility that God could do evil is not ability in the positive sense of the word, it does not widen the scope of his omnipotence but is simply contrary to his essence.42 Which only meant that it was even less understandable why he allows injustice and suffering on earth.43 That, in turn, might lead to people inverting the usual perspective, blaming wrongdoing and evil not primarily on humans but rather quarrelling with God. Independent minds came to the conclusion that the tools of theology were not sufficient. However, most Muʿtazilites felt that this was an attack on their professional honour, which was the reason why the questions were ultimately regarded not only as inappropriate but also as heretical.44 This sucked the lifeblood out of the discussion; from the fourth/tenth century onwards the topic came up less frequently. According to Baghdādī, Jubbāʾī and Abū Hāshim already avoided definitive statements on the issue (Farq 188, 8f./200, –6f., and 189, 9ff./201, 12ff.). In the long run theologians were more reluctant to replace Allāh demonstratively with al-ḥakīm; even though divine wisdom was mentioned so frequently in the Quran, after the unsuccessful discussion on theodicy it never returned to the frontline of the divine attributes (cf. the discrepancy between Texts XXXI 55 and XXXV 1 and 87; also p. 382 and 388ff. above). Regarding the development in general see in general Wolfson, Philosophy 578ff. The discussion shows furthermore that evil continued to be regarded as real; Islamic theology knows no ontological weakening of evil of the kind undertaken by Neoplatonism or by Thomas Aquinas. One explanation of this may be that usually not even the Muʿtazila tried to question God’s omnipotence. Naẓẓām was the only one to reach the limits, and it is among his successors that we come 39  See vol. III 135 above; the Yemeni Zaydite Ibn al-Wazīr was still deliberating in (Īthār alḥaqq 232, 3ff.). An ironical version of these aporiai with reference to the Occidental discussion (Pelagius vs. Augustine) may be found in Borges, Geschichte der Ewigkeit 20ff. 40  See vol. III 152 above. 41  See p. 87 above. 42  Cf. also Wolfson, Repercussions 192ff. Regarding the problem as such see Barth, Kirchl. Dogmatik II1 599ff. 43  For Christian solutions cf. Barth 670ff. 44  See p. 382 and 391 above.

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across the idea that God only ‘makes’ evil in the sense that he gives it a name, i.e. by determining in the revelation what is good and what is evil (thus e.g. vol. III 463 above regarding Ṣāliḥ Qubba, although the idea had already emerged in the anti-Qadarite quaestiones traced back to Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya, e.g. § 20, also 77ff.). This is able to combine with the idea of rational or natural ethics, regarding which more on p. 637ff. below.

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Body and Spirit

The ethics of reward developed by the Muʿtazila for the sake of God’s justice directed all theological reflection onto action. This tendency was, in fact, suggested by the Quran; after all, the juristic focus of the Islamic idea did not really allow a different development. Consequently the first question to be asked was not ‘What is a human?’ but ‘How can a human prove himself?’ In the case of God, too, people refrained from reflecting on his essence, after all, but the concept of proving oneself meant that the relationship between God and human was very personal. The Judgment did not fall on the group but on the individual, ‘on the day when a man shall flee from his brother, his mother, his father, his consort, his sons’.1 Everyone will be ‘concerned with (his own) business’,2 and ‘every soul shall be paid in full for what it has wrought (during life on earth)’.3 ‘Everyone’ is ‘every person’ (kullu nafs); in the Quran the word nafs was much more likely to denote in the fullest sense the ‘person’ who bears responsibility for his or her actions than when used by the later atomists.4 The legal scholars adopted the word in this sense.5 And in the understanding of many, God, too, possessed a nafs, although they were reluctant to say what exactly they imagined it to be.6 However, even if they had an idea of the person, this does not mean they were able to define it, too. The theologians treated the word nafs depending on their respective systematic approach, and one does not gain the impression that they accorded it great significance. Someone who, like Ḍirār or Aṣamm, judged things only according to how they were perceived, could not approach the core of what makes a human. Ḍirār, indeed, regarded humans as a mere agglomeration of ‘accidents’ which apparently did not – and, considering the circumstances, could not – include the nafs.7 Abū l-Hudhayl, while not actively avoiding the word nafs, regarded life as the unifying principle that imbued humans with ‘cohesion’ (ta‌ʾlīf).8 He also, and as the first one, spoke of shakhṣ, the word denoting the ‘person’ in present-day Arabic, but for him it 1  Sura 80:34–36; also 70: 10–15. Cf. Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes 107. 2  Sura 80:37. 3  Sura 39;70. For parallels cf. Paret, Kommentar 58 on sura 2:281. 4  Cf. Rahman, ibid. 17 and 112; Seidensticker, Altarabisch ‘Herz’ 143f. Nafs is also sometimes used in a weaker sense as a simple counting term; cf. sura 4:1 with parallels in Paret, Kommentar 90. In more detail p. 578 below. 5  Cf. e.g. the distinction between qiṣāṣ fī l-nafs and qiṣāṣ fīmā dūna l-nafs (EI2 V 179b). 6  See p. 476 above. 7  See vol. III 48 above. 8  See p. 536 above.

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meant the ‘silhouette’, as it had done in pre-Islamic poetry, and he uses it to describe the body, not the soul. In fact, he did not know of the soul, certainly not an immortal soul, and probably not one that was an independent entity.9 He considered the unity of the person in his speculations concerning action, but not in those concerning physical movement; he was nothing wrong with the idea that if a human moves, only some of the atoms are in motion, as they would be in the case of an inanimate object.10 There were people among his circle who did not even integrate action into the person himself; they imagined that an action was performed by one part of the body only, and consequently only this part of the body would be punished.11 Humans were still a kind of puppet in this view; love poetry, too, for a long time did not describe the charisma of the beloved as such, but her appearance from head to foot. In general on the Islamic concept of the person cf. Massignon, Opera minora III 539ff.; pre-Islamic beginnings are discussed by J. Chelhod, La face et la personne chez les Arabes in: RHR 151/1957/231ff. For the Occident cf. the overviews in: Hist. WB der Philosophie VII 269ff., and Handbuch philos. Grundbegriffe II 1059ff. – Shakhṣ in the more advanced sense meaning ‘individual’ occurs in Nāshiʾ (Text XXXI 52, c) and in the Risāla fī tathbīt waḥdāniyyat al-bāriʾ attributed to Israel of Kaskar, but probably of a later date, that also mentions Nāshiʾ (§ 62 Holmberg). Khayyāṭ, on the other hand, employed the word in the same way as Abū l-Hudhayl (see p. 576 below). The latter’s definition of a human as ‘shakhṣ who has two hands and two feet’ (vol. III 265 above) probably only means that if one sees from afar a creature that moves on two legs rather than four, one knows that one is looking at a human. According to Epicurus knowledge (as insight) occurs by first perceiving something vaguely before giving it more concrete form through prolepsis, i.e. an image in the recollection (cf. the texts in Jürß, Griechische Atomisten 325ff.). Similar ‘definitions’ are found in pre-Islamic poetry, where they are intended as poetical circumlocutions: humans are among those who ‘walk on feet’ or ‘step on gravel’ (cf. A. Bloch in: AS 45/1991/190). Regarding the significance of the face (wajh) as a characteristic cf. Chelhod’s article cited above.

9   Ibid. 10  See vol. III 254 above. Damascius, too, believed that only one part of a living being moves, while the other is being moved (Dubitationes I 15 = p. 48). 11  Cf. Text X 12, commentary. Not even Naẓẓām was immune to this (see vol. III 403f. above).

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The most decisive progress was made by the two thinkers who recognised the concept of nature: Muʿammar and Naẓẓām. Muʿammar regarded the soul or person (nafs) as an element in its own right that inhabited the human but could not be located in a particular place, an individual entity (ʿayn) that requires an instrument – the parts of the body – in order to function. He was, however, an atomist like Abū l-Hudhayl, and consequently did not believe in the immortality of the soul; the latter only exists in union with the body.12 This was the point from which Naẓẓām continued. Following Hishām b. al-Ḥakam he focussed on a new concept: rūḥ, the ‘spirit’.13 He imagined it as a subtle body that mixed with the body like a gas (πνευ̃μα), permeating it throughout, all the way to the fingertips. On the occasion of death it dissolved the union and was able to continue to exist independently precisely because it was physical. Even more: like all the basic components of the world once it has been created it is indestructible for as long as creation exists. In connection with the body it ensures that the perceptions approaching the latter are bundled with the result that the human learns to regard himself as Ego. While the spirit is too subtle to be visible, it can be perceived in the body, in the physiognomy that displays the spirit of the individual.14 Naẓẓām was the first Islamic theologian to adopt Plato’s proof of the immortality of the soul, at the same time adopting the Platonic dualism of body and soul, which was at first an alien element in the world in which he lived, not least because the idea had taken on a Gnostic tint on its passage through Iran. The Shīʿite Hishām b. al-Ḥakam had not seen this as a difficulty; the soul, he thought, was of the nature of light, while the body itself was dead.15 Naẓẓām tried to mitigate: body and soul are interpenetrating bodies; consequently the human body is not dead but merely a ‘detraction’ (āfa) that, as it allows sin as an alternative, is at the same time the foundation of free will and of human dignity.16 In both of these approaches it might easily happen that the resurrection of the flesh could not be explained any more. It was imagined that at the time of death the soul would soar up high into the empyrean or the realm 12  See vol. III 91 above. Of course Abū l-Hudhayl meant the same thing when he regarded ‘life’ as the unifying principle; his attitude may have been reductionist, but was most pragmatic at the same time. 13  The word was also employed by Bakr b. ukht ʿAbd al-Wāḥid b. Zayd (see vol. II 127 above). Regarding Hishām b. al-Ḥakam cf. vol. I 432 above. 14  Vol. III 401ff. above. 15  Vol. I 432 above, with the sources listed there. 16  See p. 558f. and vol. III 407f. above. Popular beliefs also presumed that good or evil are the responsibility of the body and not the soul (Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, K. al-mawt 59 no. 75; cf. 45ff. no. 70).

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of light.17 In addition Naẓẓām had the bad luck that some believers in the transmigration of souls joined his circle of pupils and brought his model into disrepute.18 In the long run people would also disapprove of the materialism of his concept of the spirit.19 This applied not only to the rūḥ, as in Naẓẓām’s circle nafs, the ‘soul’, was similarly associated to nafas, the ‘breath’. See vol. III 380f. above. It suggested itself, and there were later supporters of this concept as well (such as Bāqillānī; cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Rūḥ 218, –4ff. where, however, nafas is replaced with nasīm). On the other hand it met with mockery and criticism, too (cf. the anecdote recounted by Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir 2I 123 bi, 357). – The idea that the soul does not die but ‘returns’ to its original state as a separate substance was presented above all by Aristotle’s Theology at the time (cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 267f.); it is also found in Kindī who cites Plato in this context (cf. Endreß in: Oriens 34/1994/186f.). Whether we believe that Hishām b. al-Ḥakam embraced it depends on our interpretation of rajaʿa in Text IV 26, a. In general cf. Cumont, After Life in Roman Paganism 91ff. Regarding incompatibility with the concept of the punishment of the grave see p. 589f. below. The result was that Abū l-Hudhayl and above all Muʿammar prevailed, despite the progress Naẓẓām had introduced. Abū l-Hudhayl’s reductionist idea that a human is nothing more than his visible and perceivable form returned in Abū Hāshim’s deliberations;20 his father Abū ʿAlī al-Jubbāʾī had embraced it before him when he described a human entirely anatomically as a ‘combined whole’ ( jumla muʾallafa).21 Even so, in when it came to details the understanding of the distinctive nature of animate existence had grown considerably. Muʿammar may have contributed to this, as his theory had worked like a catalyst in the meantime. There were theologians who interpreted his concept of person along atomistic lines and spoke of a ‘human atom’ that was located in the heart; among them were Hishām al-Fuwaṭī, Ibn al-Rēwandī, 17  See vol. III 405 above. 18  Ibid. 464f. 19  Cf. e.g. the deliberations by Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Rūḥ 257ff. (263, 15ff. is probably directed specifically against Naẓẓām). Regarding Avicenna’s criticism of the materiality of the soul cf. Marmura in: ZGAIW 7/1991–92/196ff. 20  Mufīd, Masāʾil Sarawiyya, in Al-ifṣāḥ fī imāmat ʿAlī 217, 8ff.; also McDermott, Theology of al-Mufīd 222. Cf. also Majlisī, Biḥār LXI 88, 6ff. 21  McDermott 223, once again after Mufīd; further instances in Gimaret, Ashʿarī 93. Cf. also p. 536 above.

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and Ibn al-Ikhshīdh.22 Others focussed on the factor of immateriality, for instance the Banū Nawbakht and Mufīd.23 Uswārī appears to have been inspired by Muʿammar to see the human’s core as being that part of the rūḥ that was located in the heart.24 Jāḥiẓ wrote a treatise on this theory;25 Kaʿbī may simply have adopted it.26 Overall it is noticeable how often we come across the title K. al-insān. Cf. Catalogue of Works XXI, no. 34 (Abū l-Hudhayl); XXII, no. 28 (Naẓẓām); XXX, no. 29 (Jāḥiẓ); XXXVb, no. 15 (Ibn al-Rēwandī); cf. vol. VI (of the German edition) 447 (Jubbāʾī) and 440 (Abū Sahl al-Nawbakhtī). Concerning the subject as such cf. M. Fakhry, The Muʿtazilite View of Man, in: Fs. Anawati-Gardet 107ff., and I. R. Faruqi, The Self in Muʿtazilah Thought, in: International Philosophical Quarterly 6/1996/366ff. However, both studies are in the main doxographical. Of course, nobody doubted that body and soul belong together in their earthly existence, but in this context, too, the phrasing and expressions varied. Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir regarded humans as a union of body (badan) and spirit (rūḥ);27 Khayyāṭ defined them as the ‘spirit united with this visible form (shakhṣ), probably following Bishr’s tradition: they both were members of the Baghdad ‘school’. Maqdisī, who recorded Khayyāṭ’s teachings, also associated Abū lHudhayl in this context.28 This does not quite agree with our picture; Naẓẓām was the first to refer to the ‘spirit’. However, Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir was also older than Naẓẓām and still used the term – but we know rather more about Naẓẓām. After all, Epicurus had already called humans τοιουτονὶ μόρφημα μετ᾿ ἐυψυχίας.29 The case is complex for another reason, too. In his K. al-Namir wal-thaʿlab Sahl b. Hārūn tells us that a human becomes human only through reason 22  Ibid.; regarding Hishām al-Fuwaṭī see p. 8 above; regarding Ibn al-Rēwandī p. 348, regarding Ibn al-Ikhshīdh also Maḥmūd al-Rāzī, Al-munqidh min al-taqlīd I 291, 3f. Regarding the latter in general see p. 279 above. 23  Mufīd speaks of a ‘simple substance’, but does not mean the atom (ibid.). Concerning the arguments see p. 348f. An atom was of course existing only in connection with the body, and consequently transitory. 24  See vol. III 456 above. Atomism does not play a part here. 25  Catalogue of Works XXX, no. 30, without specifying names. 26  Ṭūsī, Iqtiṣād 66, –4f. 27  See vol. III 125 above. 28   Badʾ II 121, 12ff., in the context of many more dogmas (112, 7ff.). 29  See vol. III 265, n. 11 above.

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(ʿaql); without it, he is a mere form (ṣūra).30 This added a further factor. Sahl may have had in mind Porphyrius’ definition in his Eisagog of the human as animal rationale; after all, he was the director of the bayt al-ḥikma.31 This was, however, translated into Arabic as al-ḥayy al-nāṭiq,32 not offering a direct link to ʿaql. Even so, intelligence was praised throughout early Islam, and not only by the Muʿtazila,33 meaning in particular practical good sense; the ability to act correctly. It is consequently not surprising that ʿaql was often interpreted as an infinitive only, as the current process of understanding, not as a permanent quality, and even less as a cosmic quantity;34 the case is entirely different from Gr. νου̃ς.35 The root ʿ-q-l only occurs in the Quran as a finite verb form, while rūḥ and nafs are also used as nouns and to some extent as technical terms.36 Thus while on the one hand intelligence – due to its practical value for salvation – was appreciated more than the ‘spirit’ during the time before Naẓẓām, on the other it was the word rūḥ that would become relevant for the definition of what made a human, human. ʿAql is an expression of rūḥ37 and consequently secondary. Of the rūḥ it could be said that it ‘flows’ through the entire body;38 the intellect, on the other hand, is located in the brain or the heart.39 Thus the theologians. The things with which they were concerned here were of course – much more than the doctrine of the attributes – of universal interest. Human imagination had always wondered what would happen after death, and what kept a human alive before death; there are sources in the

30  P. 47 (134), 8f. 31  See vol. III 234 above. 32   Īsāghūjī 72, 13, and 77, pu. f.; based on Gr. ζῳ̃ον λόγον ἔχον (cf. Hist. WB der Philosophie III 1178f. s. v. homo sapiens, and V 1171f. s. v. Mensch). 33  See p. 233 and vol. II 137f. above; in general also Chittick in: EIran II 195. 34  See p. 233f. and vol. III 271 above regarding Abū l-Hudhayl. 35  Cf. e.g. Philo or Origen; both regarded the human’s νου̃ς as an image of God (Crouzel, Théologie de l’image de Dieu 56f., 172, and 174). 36   Cf. the instances listed by S. Talaat, Die Seelenlehre des Korans mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Terminologie (PhD Halle 1929), and Mohamed Ali El-Jousou, La conception de la raison et du coeur dans le Coran et la tradition musulmane (Thèse 3. cycle, Univ. Paris VII, 1977). Briefly also Calverley in: MW 33/1943/254ff. 37  Thus probably already Hishām b. al-Ḥakam (see vol. I 432 above). 38  See p. 574 above, and Text XXII 135; also in Neoplatonic texts (cf. Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 297). 39  Galen was opposed to Aristotle here (for details cf. Gätje in: ZDMG 115/1965/289ff.).

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pre-Islamic period40 as well as instances in the Quran and in hadith.41 The doctrine of the soul was not central to the Quran, which was why it contains some passages that were greatly worrying to the systematists.42 They had no need to recognise hadith; much of what they found there they would have rejected as mere folklore. But they could not deny altogether that it had had some influence on the collective consciousness. The scope of the problem had probably changed continually, with separate local developments and social strata ensuring that different, occasionally even incompatible, opinions existed parallel to one another. In the Quran the main focus of interest, as we have seen, was on the ‘person’ (nafs) and his or her responsibility at the Last Judgment.43 However, when the ‘reckoning’ was delayed, the question resurfaced of what would happen to every individual at his death, and after his death until the last ‘dawn’, as the ‘person’ is mortal.44 It was suggested that the ‘spirit’ (rūḥ) would leave the body; the Quran tells us that God breathed it into Adam, i.e.: into every ­human.45 This re-established a duality that had been familiar to Semitic thought, for instance among the Nabataeans, of old: of a spiritual principle that is added from the outside and will be taken away once again at death, namely the rūḥ, and a physical self that, ancient belief had it, would be transferred onto the funerary stele.46 The two cannot be without each other,47 but the question is how 40  Cf. e.g. Muh. Ibrahim El-Shoush, The Nature of Authority in Arabia at the Advent of Islam (PhD London 1959), p. 9ff.; Jacob, Beduinenleben 142ff.; Henninger in: Fs. Spies 301ff. = Arabica Sacra 170ff.; Smith/Haddad, Islamic Understanding of Death 147ff.; Homerin in: JNES 44/1985/165ff. 41  In general on the concept of the soul cf. Calverley in EI2 VII 880ff. s. v. Nafs, and Marmura in ER XIII 460ff. s. v. Soul; briefly also Trotton in: BSOAS 34/1971/491ff. 42  See p. 587f. below. 43  See p. 572 above. In general Blachère in: Semitica 1/1948/69ff., and in response to this Chelhod, Le sacrifice chez les Arabes 106ff., who regards nafs in the Quran as the ‘principe pensant responsible des actes du corps’ (p. 108). Also Talaat, Seelenlehre 61ff.; Ahrens, Mohammed als Religionsstifter 98f.; Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 192. Seidensticker, Altarabisch ‘Herz’ 141ff. includes pre-Islamic usage. 44  Cf. sura 3:185, 21:35, and 29:57: kullu nafsin dhāʾiqatu l-mawt. 45  Sura 15:29, 32:9, and 38: 72; cf. Macdonald in: AO 9/1931/308ff. Regarding the development cf. Seidensticker in: Kashkūl 141ff.; in general Smith/Haddad, Islamic Understanding of Death 17ff. 46  Cf. Dussaud, La penetration des Arabes en Syrie 32ff.; concerning the pagan Arabs Abdesselem in EI2 VI 910f. s. v. Mawt. Ethnology distinguishes between the physical soul that is located in the blood, and a free soul that survives after death (H. Fischer, Studien über Seelenvorstellungen in Ozeanien 36f. and 43), or between an impersonal soul substances located within the human, and a personal individual essence that is able to exist in a different location from the body (ibid. 313 and earlier). 47  As emphasised by e.g. Mubarrad (cf. Böwering, Mystical Vision of Existence 245).

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they are connected. The rūḥ, seeing as it was breathed into the human, seemed to be related to breath;48 rūḥ and rīḥ associated each other.49 The same, of course, was true of nafs and nafas.50 The rūḥ coming from the mouth of God, as it were, raised the question of whether it was uncreated.51 It was transmitted from Wahb b. Munabbih that the nafs as well as the rūḥ were ‘placed inside the human’, i.e. presumably: insufflated, the nafs as the instinct through which one acquires the skills animals possess as well, and the rūḥ afterwards as the rational principle by means of which one can make practical as well as theoretical reasoned decisions.52 Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī would later regard nafs as the hot wind and rūḥ as the cold wind; the rūḥ is of heavenly origin and consequently reserved to humans, but the nafs is not.53 Naẓẓām’s recourse to Plato was thus not entirely unprepared, but we must take into account that most mutakallimūn, above all the atomists, were not thinking in scientific or medical terms in the sense we are presuming here; after all, their explanation death was not that the human body disintegrates in a ‘natural’ way, but that God creates death as an accident to combine with him.54 The psychology of the kalām made no use at all of the Quranic statements on the heart (qalb). Only asceticism and mysticism used it as a starting point (cf. Gardet in: EI2 IV 486ff. s. v. Ḳalb; also my Gedankenwelt des Muḥāsibī 32 and 35f.). While Abū l-Hudhayl spoke of afʿāl al-qulūb (see vol. III 268 above), Jāḥiẓ, whose psychology did come closer to the ascetic way of thinking (see p. 119f. above), did not allow the antithesis nafs: qalb (cf. vol. VI 323, n. 11 [of the German edition]). Concerning the linguistic aspect cf. Seidensticker, Altarabisch ‘Herz’ 68ff. – The liver, which might be regarded as the seat of the emotions in popular thinking or in medicine, was disregarded altogether (cf. M. Rodinson’s wellresearched article Kabid in: EI2 IV 327ff.).

48  A popular belief observed even in the recent past by Musil (Rwala-Bedouins 673). 49  Cf. e.g. Majlisī, Biḥār X 185, 13ff.; also vol. III 405, n. 41 above. 50  See p. 574 above. 51  Thus an unnamed group mentioned by Ibn Qutayba, Al-ikhtilāf fī l-lafẓ 69, 1f./250, ult. f. Rejected in the tradition Majlisī, Biḥār XIV 218f. no. 24f. 52  IS I1 7, 4ff. 53  Radtke, Tirmidhī 64 and 66. In more detail Radtke/O’Kane, The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism 138f.: the rūḥ is part of the cosmic spirit and was created 2,000 years before the body. 54  Cf. the clarification in Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 149, 10f.

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In due course the influence of extra-Islamic, above all antique, ideas increased. Plotinus had rejected the belief that the soul is generated simply by combining atoms;55 from the late third century onwards, this could be read in Arabic in Aristotle’s Theology.56 Doxographical information on the doctrine of the soul in antiquity could be found in the Placita Philosophorum,57 but also in the K. sirr al-khalīqa which referred to Nemesius of Emesa’s treatise De natura hominis.58 This was readily accepted among Christian Arabs. In a scholarly correspondence with Hārūn al-Rashīd’s court physician Bokhtīshūʿ the patriarch Timothy had defined the soul as the immortal rational nature of humans.59 Qusṭā b. Lūqā (d. before 311/923), who translated the Placita philosophorum into Arabic, later devoted an entire treatise to the difference between nafs and rūḥ; in his eyes, the former was immaterial while the latter was not.60 Compared to these, the Muslims were overall more reserved. As late as the beginning of the fifth/eleventh century Elias of Nisibis noted that unlike the ‘philosophers’ the Muslims believed the soul to be a mere accident. What he failed to mention was that there were by that time philosophers among the Muslims, too;61 we have already pointed to Kindī.62 A text entitled Risāla fī l-radd ʿalā man qāla inna l-insān talāshā wa faniya baʿda mawtih circulated under Fārābī’s name, an apocryphon greatly dependent on the Liber de Causis.63 Integration was most successful in ʿĀmirī’s (d. 381/992) K. al-amad ʿalā l-abad. He repeated Naẓẓām’s decision to adopt Plato’s proof of the immortality of the soul, but with greater competence and with sufficient familiarity with Phaidon,64

55   Enn. IV 7.3, 1ff.; the soul would then be a πάθημα τη̃ ς ὕλης only, not an οὐσία (7.3, 12f.). 56  P. 125, 1ff. Badawī. 57  Cap. IV 2–7 = p. 190ff. Daiber. 58  P. 542, 13ff.; also Weißer, Das ‘Buch über das Geheimnis der Schöpfung’ 63ff., also van Riet in: Festschrift Abel 254ff. 59  Bidawid, Lettres 19. 60   Al-farq bayna l-rūḥ wasl-nafs; ed. G. Gabrieli in: Atti Reale Acc. Naz. Lincei, Rendiconti, ser. 5, vol. 19/1910/622ff., and independently of him L. Cheikho in: Mashriq 14/1911/94ff. = Traités inédits d’anciens philosophes arabes musulmans et chrétiens, Beirut 1911, p. 117ff. 61  This statement was true of his partner in the conversation, the vizier al-Maghribī (cf. the text in: Mashriq 20/1922/430, 4ff.). 62  See p. 575 above. 63  Cf. Türker in: Araştırma 31965/1ff. 64  Cap. 8; cf. Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 271f. and 295ff.

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adding further arguments from the Islamic point of view.65 Ghazzālī, rather like the mutakallimūn of old, regarded the soul as a single atom ( jawhar), but unlike them he believed it to be immaterial.66

65  E.g.: otherwise the sinners could rest until the Last Judgment before their punishment, or: the souls of the martyrs would not be able to enter paradise immediately after death (ibid. cap. 17; cf. Rowson’s commentary 306ff.). 66  Frank, Al-Ghazālī and the Ashʿarite School 58 and 61.

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2.2.1 ‘Life after Death’ If a human dies without blood being shed, life leaves him through the nose. He dies ḥatf anfihī;1 the rūḥ leaves him in the same way it entered him. This may be accompanied by terrible agonies, as the rūḥ permeated the body all the way to the fingertips, and the angel of death has to drag it out with great effort.2 It was imagined to have human form;3 mediaeval paintings, too, show the soul that leaves the body looking like a homunculus.4 It was not possible to agree on what would happen to it afterwards, but that was probably not the intention, either; the entire area is not dogmatically fixed. However, the factual and entirely unspiritual attitude adopted by theologians such as Ḍirār and Abū l-Hudhayl appears very radical indeed; most people did believe that there was a soul and that it would continue to exist in some form.5 Some believed that the angel of death would take the rūḥ of the pious to heaven.6 The spirits of the believers are in paradise, those of the unbelievers in hell; there they await the resurrection in order to be reunited with their respective bodies.7 Still, heaven was not yet the place for the soul, and the angel of death is often given the function of announcing a human’s death only. Thus a well-known 1  Regarding the origin of this expression cf. Schaeder, Des eigenen Todes sterben, in: NAWG, Phil.-Hist. Kl. 1946–47, p. 24ff. 2  Described vividly in Muḥāsibī, Riʿāya 76, 9ff./transl. Gedankenwelt 132f. Also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 502. In general cf. also Macdonald in: Isl. Stud. 4/1965/72. [The text edited and commented there, which we shall consult more than once below, is identical with the one published by M. Wolff over a century ago entitled Mohammedanische Eschatologie; the author did not notice this correspondence. Concerning the text and its numerous manuscripts cf. GAL2 S 1/346. Our passage is found in Wolff 32, 5ff./Ger. transl. 5.]. 3  In general the rūḥ was regarded as a subtle body enveloped by a dense covering (Majlisī, Biḥār X 184, –4ff.). Sura 78:38 allowed the inference that it had human form if it was associated with a human, as the ‘spirit’ and the angels will stand in a row on the Latter Day (cf. the exegesis in Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 2XXX 22, –4ff., and Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān V 426, –6). 4  This was in competition with the idea that the rūḥ as the principle of life was located in a particular organ, for instance the heart (cf. Macdonald, loc. cit. 155f., and the original text 170, apu. ff. = Wolff 45, –7ff.). 5  To ʿĀmirī, the Muʿtazilites were the only ones who denied the immortality of the soul, while Shīʿites, Khārijites, aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth and aṣḥāb al-ra‌ʾy (sic! he was probably thinking of circumstances in Nishapur at his time; Al-amad ʿalā l-abad in Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 162, 7ff./Comm. 318). Cf. the stories from Ibn Abī l-Dunyā collected by L. Kinberg in: Oriens 29–30/1986/290ff.; in general also Smith/Haddad, Islamic Understanding of Death 51ff. The Shīʿites had Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq emphasise that the rūḥ would exist until the Last Judgment (Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ Iḥtijāj II 97, 15ff.). Ibn al-Qayyim lists arguments for and against the immortality of the soul, Rūḥ 40, apu. ff.). 6  Thus Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Mawt 46, 11f.; Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 1149f. no. 2166. Cf. also p. 594 below. 7  Ibn Rajab, Ahwāl al-qubūr 143, 5ff.

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hadith claimed instead that after death the souls (arwāḥ) gather together in the air, divided in good and bad, as ‘armies’ facing each other, as it were;8 sniffing one another like horses, and each additional soul has to find out in this way where it belongs.9 Being ‘breaths’, they are of course at home in the air, but they do not become absorbed in it, keeping a degree of independence.10 Another interpretation has them staying in earthly places, e.g. in graveyards,11 or in places that were regarded as earthly paradise or earthly hell,12 or in wells that were believed to be the entrance to the underworld.13 Both might even be combined: at night the souls of the unbelievers are somewhere in the east in the fires of hell, but in the morning they will be taken to Wādī Barhūt where the heat is greater than anywhere on earth.14 The souls of the believers, on the other hand, go to a garden in the West at night, and during the day they float

8  The angels, too, form ‘armies’: the ‘heavenly host’ (sura 48:4 with Paret, Komm. 451; cf. sura 9:40 and 26:28). 9  Cf. Text XXII 254, 11b, with the commentary. An Ibāḍite text from the mid-third century introduces this tradition with a simple yuqālu (Sīra of an unnamed scholar addressed to the imām al-Ṣalt b. Mālik, in: Al-siyar wal-jawābāt I 228, 4f.). However, the followers of ʿAbdallāh b. Muʿāwiya were said to have already referred to it in order to justify their belief in the migration of souls (Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-Shīʿa 35, 12ff. > Qummī, Maq. 48, 14ff.). In a Shīʿite tradition traced back to Muḥammad al-Bāqir, the statement is said to refer to sleep (Biḥār LXI 31f. no. 4). Later it would be regarded as proof of the affinity of the souls of persons loving one another, and the dictum put in the context of the myth from Plato’s Symposium (cf. Gutas in: Oriens 31/1988/50ff. and earlier. Shīʿite tradition also emphasises that the believers are as one body who are linked to each other and to God by their rūḥ (Biḥār LXI 148, no. 25). Cf. also Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Mawt 49 no. 65. Regarding the context as such see also Mach, Zaddik 172f. 10  They do not possess sufficient individuality to recognise one another’s appearance – they have to sniff each other. 11  Ibn Rajab, Ahwāl al-qubūr 154, 13ff.; Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 69, 8. Cf. also Mughīra b. Saʿīd’s necromancing spells vol. I 287 above. 12  Cf. p. 395 and 752 regarding Jerusalem, also Biḥār VI no. 8. Perhaps the ancient Ghassanid residence Jābiya in the Jawlān was also believed to be an earthly paradise; here, the souls of the believers were said to gather (Ibn Rajab 158, 5ff.; Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 69, 5f.; EI2 II 360 s. v. Al-D̲ j̲ābiya). These places were imagined as ‘Adam’s paradise’ (Biḥār VI 284 no. 4). 13  The good in the well Zamzam, and the bad in the well Barhūt in Hadramawt (Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Rūḥ 113, 5ff., with further dogmas). Barhūt was situated in a limestone cave the entrance of which was in the bank of an exceedingly hot and infertile wadi. The well exuded a nauseating smell, the water was brackish (cf. van de Meulen/von Wissmann, Hadramaut 163ff.; also Rentz in EI2 I 1045 s. v. Barhūt). This was the idea of hell in postexilic Judaism, a deep pit from which the stench of burning rubbish emanates (ER XV 130b). Ibn Ḥazm believed the Barhūt tradition to be Shīʿite (Fiṣal IV 69, 4f.; cf. also Biḥār 286f. no. 8), but Ibn Qayyim corrected him (Rūḥ 131, –8f.). 14  It grows cool at night; this refreshment would be too much of a good thing.

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in the air between heaven and earth.15 When the Turkish general Manjūtakin mentioned the deceased Fāṭimid caliph al-ʿAzīz in a speech in Damascus he said that his soul was now in the void, or somewhere in the air.16 If the ‘where’ of the sojourn caused difficulty, so did the ‘how’. After all, paradise was an earthly place; thus it made sense to consider whether the rūḥ, while it was unable to return to its own body, required another material sheath, as it had on earth. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUmar was said to have described the souls of the Muslims as white birds resting in the shadow of the throne.17 According to Ibn ʿAbbās, the prophet consoled his followers after the defeat at Uḥud by saying that the souls of their fallen companions were now inside the crops of green birds drinking from the rivers of paradise and eating of its fruit;18 green was the colour of paradise.19 The unbelievers were said to live inside black birds, as that seemed preferable in their case.20 All this is based on the idea of the soul bird which explained why the soul is able to move freely and to leave the earth. The idea was widespread and part of ancient Oriental beliefs; Innanas Gang zur Unterwelt presents the dead as ‘birds dressed in plumage’.21 Syrian steles show the eagle as bird of the dead – because it flies so high, and probably also because the escaping soul feeds on blood, like a predator.22 Because of this, Jaʿfar b. Abī Ṭālib was given the name Jaʿfar al-Ṭayyār fī l-janna or Jaʿfar Dhū l-ganāḥayn.23 As we have seen, the mutakallimūn did not understand these deliberations, but there were objections from less rationalistically inclined circles, too. In the 15  Kulīnī, Kāfī III 246f. no. 1 > Biḥār LXI 51 no. 33. 16  Bianquis, Damas et la Syrie I 222. 17  Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, Appendix 42 no. 164 (which probably should be read as ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUmar rather than ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAmr; cf. Mīzān no. 8794); also Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 180, 4. 18  Ibn Isḥāq, Sīra 604, apu. ff.; Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad 2IV 123f. no. 2388, and Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3VIII 384f. no. 8205, with parallels in the apparatus; Ibn al-Qayyim, Rūḥ 140, –5ff. 19  See p. 434f. above. In a variant traced back to Qatāda (Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3VIII 389f. no. 8215), the birds are white rather than green. 20  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 2XXIV 71, 12ff., with regard to pharaoh’s soldiers. 21  G. Roux, Ancient Iraq 91. Regarding Ancient Egypt cf. ER V 47 (the ba as a bird); regarding pre-Islamic Arabia Jacob, Beduinenleben 143f., and Homerin’s abovementioned article Echoes of a Thirsty Owl, in: JNES 44/1985/165ff.; in Hellenistic Judaism the Greek apocalypse of Baruch (cap. 10/transl. Kautzsch, Apokryphen und Pseudpigraphen des Alten Testaments II 454f.); for Hellenism see F. Cumont, After Life in Roman Paganism 157ff.; for the Islamic world Goldziher, Der Seelenvogel im islamischen Volksglauben in: Globus 83/1902/301ff. = Ges. Schr. IV 403ff.; further material may be found in Eisenstein, Zoographie 226. 22  Cumont, Etudes syriennes 56ff. While the human is alive the soul is located in the blood according to a widely-held belief (cf. the material collected by Daiber, Aëtius Arabus 459, n. 6). 23  Cf. EI2 II 372 s. n. D̲ j̲aʿfar b. Abī Ṭālib.

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Shīʿa Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq was said to point out that the souls would not live within green birds but in normal bodies.24 The aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth retained the concept in the long run with reference to martyrs only; the latter were the only ones in whose case people could be sure, based on sura 2:154 and 3:169,25 that they would immediately enter paradise in a spiritual way rather than waiting in limbo (barzakh) somewhere. While Ibn ʿAbbās may have regarded those killed in the battle of Uḥud as ahl al-janna because they believed in the prophet, they had now become representatives of a particularly prominent group of believers.26 Muqātil b. Sulaymān, linked to the warriors for the faith in Iran, wrote in his Tafsīr that the souls of the martyrs were transformed into green birds that seek their food in paradise and find their nest at night in the lamps of the divine throne.27 Sufyān al-Thawrī was more cautious: he thought they were like green birds sitting on the lanterns of the throne.28 However, he referred to Masʿūd who would become an authority for the belief that the souls did indeed live within the birds’ bodies ( jawf ).29 Later documents demonstrate that ‘within the birds’ bodies’ did not mean the belly but the crop (ḥawṣala),30 presumably a more decorous interpretation that guaranteed that the souls would be leaving their interim dwellings through the correct exit when the time came. The birds probably brought them up again in due course. Regarding the discussion of the hadith in later sources cf. Eklund, Life between Death and Resurrection 67ff. – Regarding the concept of the ‘martyr’ (shahīd) in Islam cf. Wensinck, Semietische Studiën 90ff., and E. Kohlberg’s article S̲h̲ahīd in EI2 IX 203ff.; regarding Christian parallels also Andrae, Ursprung des Islams 162f. The Muʿtazilites limited the term in that they used shahāda ‘witness(ing)’ to mean not the hero’s death 24   Biḥār LXI 50 no. 29. The souls are not independently existing intelligences in this view, either. 25  Cf. Paret, Kommentar 86. 26  It may be that in their case the green colour of the birds was meant to distinguish them from the ordinary believers from the first, but the latter are also sometimes awarded it (cf. the text in Macdonald 4/1965/171, –4ff., transl. 158 = Wolff, Eschatologie 46, –6ff./transl. 84. Green and white were presumably merely variants. 27  Nwiya, Exégèse coranique 100. It is possible that the emphasis was originally on the fact that dwelling by the divine throne set them apart from the other dead Muslims who were also already spiritually in paradise. 28   Tafsīr 40, 5ff. 29  Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ 1502f. = Imāra 121; Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3VII 386f. no. 8206ff., and 390 no. 8218. A corresponding tradition (Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 392 no. 8222) goes back as far as Suddī only, and does not mention Ibn Masʿūd. Further hadith parallels in Conc. IV 72 a. 30  Cf. Ibn al-Qayyim, Rūḥ 139, 6ff.

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as such but his determination and readiness for the sacrifice; they were thus focussed on the mental attitude (Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 143, 16ff.). As this was expressed mostly by perseverance, they could also call a ‘martyr’ someone who had drowned or died from dropsy (Ashʿarī, Maq. 258, 1ff.). Only Ḍirār and Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir disagreed (cf. Text XVII 55). This seemingly ‘pacifist’ or ‘civil’ interpretation appears to have had its theological roots in the fact that while the Quran explicitly praised death in war (most explicitly e.g. sura 3:139ff. following the defeat at Uḥud), such a death was not possible without the cooperation of the enemy, the ‘unbelievers’. Consequently they seemed to be part of God’s plan of salvation by ‘fulfilling his will’ (Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī VI2 299, 14ff.). In order to avoid this consequence it had to be emphasised, based on e.g. sura 3:143, that the believer ‘wished for death’ and thus agreed with it in his heart (cf. e.g. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tanzīh al-Qurʾān 80, 9ff.). This reservation was directed at the fact that God also wills a ‘sin’, i.e. the non-Muslims’ violence; it came from the determinist side. Among Islamic scholars it is documented for the Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd already (cf. Aḥmad al-Nāṣir, K. al-najāt 129, 9ff. Madelung), but the patriarch Timothy had already adduced it in illustration of the Jews’ part in the death of Christ (Apology, transl. Mingana 44f.). Someone who died in battle was not only ‘cleansed of guilt in his blood’ but also regarded as ritually pure, which was why his body would not, as is well known, be washed before burial (Baghdādī, Uṣūl 144, 9; also Grütter in: Der Islam 31/1954/161f.). The consensus had evolved gradually in Basra; Ḥasan al-Baṣrī and ʿUbaydallāh al-ʿAnbarī (regarding him vol. II 179f. above) had seen the matter quite differently (cf. Kohlberg in EI2 IX 204). With all this to consider, people forgot that Ibn Isḥāq had presented another abode for the martyrs to choose, once again on the authority of Ibn ʿAbbās: they rest in a green circular tent (qubba) on the banks of the river Bāriq that is located by the gate to paradise.31 The distinction is marked differently here: unlike the other believers, the martyrs are already in paradise, but they will move towards the centre only after the resurrection. They are present in body, and their souls did not have to be stuffed into birds. It was known from the Quran that it was possible to enter paradise bodily: Jesus had been carried to heaven directly from the cross, another, ‘similar one appearing’ to the Jews (shubbiha lahum; sura 4:157f.). The specific reason for this was that in the Quranic view 31   Sīra 605, 4ff.; also Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3VII 387f. no. 8209ff. Also Eklund 39.

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a prophet, being a witness to the faith, cannot fail. This idea could be transferred onto the martyrs, but was in fact transferred onto the other prophets, Muḥammad in particular. One hadith tells us that ‘after forty days the prophets will not be left in their graves but will arrive before God until the trumpet (of the Last Judgment) shall sound’.32 The Shīʿites went further still: All prophets and their legatees (awṣiyāʾ) would be assumed into heaven three days after their death at most (! like Jesus); the earth would not hold their bodies.33 Mufīd turned this into a dogma; this is why the imāms – for they are the ‘legatees’ – can perform miracles even after death.34 Still, he was also informed about opposition, for instance among the strongly Muʿtazilite Banū Nawbakht;35 someone embracing the ethics of reward in the style of the Muʿtazilites had to ensure equal treatment for all. The question was probably also linked to the prophets and imāms being free from sin (ʿiṣma).36 The claims made here with regard to individual groups were sometimes extended to all Muslims, too. ‘Death is resurrection. He who dies is thus resurrected,’ was transmitted from Anas b. Mālik.37 This is rather more than the soul’s ascension to heaven after death of which we heard earlier;38 resurrection includes the body. ‘To day shalt thou be with me in paradise’ Jesus said to the malefactor on the cross.39 When it comes to dying, humans behold the ladder (miʿrāj) on which Muḥammad, too, had journeyed to heaven, Ibn Isḥāq tells us – presumably in order that every human should do the same.40 Ṭāwūs b. Kaysān advised his son to look in his grave after his death, to see if he was still in there.41 Maybe he interpreted the wait as punishment; after all, the Muslims were ahl al-janna.42 Theologically this idea made good sense. At the 32  Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 285, 8f.; cf. also earlier 284, pu. f.: after 40 days the rūḥ returns to their body. Regarding Muḥammad also Abū Isḥāq al-Shīrāzī, Ishāra 31, –6f.; more details on the subject in f. Meier, Eine Auferstehung Mohammeds bei Suyūṭī in: Der Islam 62/1985/20ff. = Bausteine II 797ff. (based on two of Suyūṭī’s texts). Also p. 672 below. 33   Biḥār XXII 550 no. 1–3. 34   Awāʾil al-maqālāt 45, 6ff. § 47/transl. Sourdel 278f. 35  Ibid. 45, pu. f. 36  See p. 664ff. below. 37  Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, K. al-mawt 36 no. 35; Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ IV 64, 5/transl. Gramlich, Ġazzālīs Lehre von den Stufen zur Gottesliebe 146. With a different transmitter Ibn al-Faqīh, Buldān 45, 8f./transl. Massé 54, but the name may have been misspelt. See also p. 665f. and 672 below. 38  See p. 574 and 582 above. 39  Lk. 23:43. 40   Sīra 268, 5 Wüstenfeld. However, perhaps only the rūḥ of which this is asserted in sura 70:4 as well. 41  Rāzī, Ta‌ʾrīkh Ṣanʿāʾ 348, –4ff. 42  See p. 605 and 628 below.

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moment of death, the human steps out of earthly time; there is no waiting for him any more. Some (later?) Muʿtazilites were indeed said to have interpreted Anas b. Mālik’s abovementioned hadith in this sense. Māturīdī shook his head about them, as of course this did not really agree with the great and universal Judgment the Quran had announced.43 We shall have to look into the matter below. The separation of body and soul upon death, and the soul’s connection with the spiritual world, was compared to the experience of dreaming. ‘God takes the humans at the time of their death, and those who have not died, in their sleep’, we know from sura 39:42,44 and the temporary absence of the dream ego, its ‘journey’, had been interpreted as proof of its future reawakening.45 The reception of this passage encountered difficulties. According to it, not the soul was taken but ‘the humans’, i.e. al-anfus ‘the persons’; the word nafs very quickly acquired its own significance in the doctrine of the soul. Ibn ʿAbbās was consequently said to have concluded that the nafs leaves the body during a dream, while the rūḥ, the spirit of life, remains in the body, as breathing and snoring prove.46 The sleeper has no soul, Musil heard from the Ruwāla Bedouins.47 However, that which lives on after death was, as was universally agreed, not the nafs but the rūḥ, and consequently the statement about the anfus would soon be interpreted under the aspect of what was usually said of the rūḥ. It was believed that while asleep, the rūḥ united with the air;48 it meets the spirits (arwāḥ) of the dead and has the opportunity to interrogate them.49 Or: the soul experiences a journey to heaven in the dream (ʿurija bi-rūḥihī) during which it arrives before the throne;50 the same phrase was used to describe

43  Abū l-Layth al-Samarqandī, Commentary on the Fiqh absaṭ, ed. Daiber, Islamic Concept of Belief 194f. l. 787ff./Comm. p. 249. 44  Cf. also sura 6:60. 45  Cf. St. Schreiner in: Kairos 19/1977/116ff. The nocturnal journey (isrāʾ) in sura 17:1 was often interpreted as a dream (cf. p. 664 below). Concerning the idea of the dream ego cf. Fischer, Seelenvorstellungen in Ozeanien 243ff.; after death it is transformed into the spirit of the deceased (ibid. 286). Further references and literature in Mach, Zaddik 167f. Clearchus is said to have used this example to convince Plato of the immortality of the soul (Proclus, In Platonis Rem Publicam Comm. II 122, 22ff. Kroll); the scene is depicted in one of the Via Latina frescoes (cf. Boyancé in: Mélanges E. Tisserant IV 107ff.). 46  Ṭūsī, Tibyān VI360, 5ff.; cf. also D. Macdonald in: AO 9/1931/321 regarding Bayḍāwī. 47   Rwala Bedouins 398. 48   Biḥār LXI 36, –5ff. 49  Ibn Taymiyya, Sharḥ ḥadīth al-nuzūl 87, 8ff., after Ibn Manda, K. al-rūḥ wal-nafs, once again on the authority of Ibn ʿAbbās. 50  Ibid. 90, 1ff.

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a faint.51 Abū l-Hudhayl did away with the terminological inconsistencies by assuming that the nafs as well as the rūḥ leave the human when he is asleep, and that only life – an accident – remains with him.52 Dreams would soon be explained differently.53 If the soul continues to exist after death and is able even during its earthly existence to connect with the supernatural world, the question suggests itself of whether it was already there before the body was created? Junayd, as we have seen, believed in its pre-existence (see p. 314 above); mysticism usually proved this with sura 7:172, the so-called a-last-­covenant (cf. Ritter, Meer der Seele 264 and 340). The same idea is also found in the Shīʿa, albeit often limited to the prophet and the imāms (Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 86f., also vol. II 549 and p. 662 below). Ibn Bābōya embraced it without reference to the primordial covenant but instead applying to all humans (Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 48ff.). One tradition after Muḥammad al-Bāqir says that the spirits of the blessed were in paradise since its creation, and the spirits of the damned in hell since its creation (Biḥār VIII 284 no. 10), although of course this is primarily part of the context of predestination. Ibn Bābōya thus had no qualms to say that the souls are strangers in the world and imprisoned in the bodies (Fyzee 50). This was the weakness of the model; it was difficult to explain plausibly why the body was still required for the resurrection. 2.2.1.1 The Punishment of the Grave An important component in this collection of ideas that were not always easy to reconcile was the belief that humans would have to render an account of their life while still in the grave. If that were indeed the case the soul, without which consciousness can hardly be imagined, could not leave the body immediately; at the very least the soul would have to return once.1 The conclusion was called the punishment of the grave, or the chastisement of the grave (ʿadhāb al-qabr); occasionally also called an interrogation (musāʾala). Earthly

51  Ibn Ḥanbal, ʿIlal 309, 8ff., regarding a woman who was unconscious for seven days. Regarding the usage with reference to death cf. Seidensticker in: Kashkūl. 52  Text XXI 120, b–c, referring to the same Quranic verse; cf. vol. III 266 above. 53  Cf. e.g. vol. III 372 regarding Naẓẓām; in general also Gätje in: ZDMG 109/1959/258f. 1   Cf. Ibn ʿAqīl, Funūn 104, –6f.; also the tradition cited by Seidensticker in: Kashkūl 144f. Regarding the question see also Text XXIII 16.

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existence is not concluded until after this has taken place.2 The torment is caused by the grave being too small for the human;3 it becomes a punishment when the interrogation brings his unbelief to light. The interrogation concerns the core dogmas of Islam;4 one must answer above all professing Muḥammad’s prophethood.5 It is undertaken by angels appointed to this task. They are usually two who bear the unusual names Munkar and Nakīr,6 sometimes there is only one called Rūmān,7 and occasionally there are all of four angels, in which case Munkar and Nakīr are joined by a third one called Nakūr, with Rūmān being called their ‘master’.8 According to another tradition, six ‘figures’ (ṣuwar) accompany the deceased to the grave; they embody the fundamental Islamic commandments and approach him from the six points of the compass in order to test him.9 It is presumed that the deceased will be sitting upright; the burial niche in which he was placed offered enough space for this.10 If the interrogation ended well, the grave will become more spacious, and he will not be constricted any more. None of this is mentioned in the Quran. Later, sura 9:101 ‘We shall punish them twice’ would be adduced,11 but this probably did not have two separate, chronologically distant punishments in mind, but rather a doubling of the amount of punishment.12 It is asserted several times that the angels of death treat the wicked roughly, striking their faces and backsides,13 but this is clearly always linked to the Judgment and certainly does not take place inside the

2   Consequently it was usually assumed that the soul does not leave the body previously (cf. e.g. Ibn Rajab, Ahwāl al-qubūr 158, 3f.; also the Text in Macdonald in: Isl. Stud. 4/1965/75 = Wolff, Eschatologie 36, 1/transl. 63). 3   Ibn Rajab 73, apu. ff.; Biḥār VI 266, 6ff. 4   See vol. I 18 above. 5   Ibn Rajab 14, 6ff.; 15, 8ff. etc.; cf. also the hadith cited by Nagel, Der Koran 190, and Macdonald 73f. and 78ff.; Wolff, Eschatologie 71ff. 6   The two authoritative hadiths for this version are listed by Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 178, 19ff.; the angels names ‘Repellent’ and ‘Repulsive’ probably refer to their appearance. In general cf. Wensinck in EI2 VII 576 s. v. Munkar wa-Nakīr, revised by Tritton in EI2 I 186 s. v. ʿAd̲ h̲āb al-qabr; Smith/Haddad, Islamic Understanding of Death 35ff.; Gimaret, Ashʿarī 502f. 7   Cf. the text in Macdonald 138ff. 8   Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī II 436, ult. f. 9    Biḥār VI 234f. no. 50. 10  Cf. Grütter in: Der Islam 32/1957/168ff. 11  Thus in Fiqh absaṭ (52, 2f.); apparently also already Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (see vol. II 348 above) or Qatāda (cf. Bayhaqī, Shuʿāb al-īmān I 355, 6ff.). In general cf. Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XIV 441, 10ff. 12  Paret, Kommentar 212 on the passage. 13  Particularly clearly in sura 47:27; cf. also sura 8:50. Cf. Eichler, Dschinn, Teufel und Engel 105.

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grave.14 The concept described is entirely at home in hadith, which explains why the Khārijites rejected it to a man;15 they never went beyond the Quran.16 They found allies above all in Iran, where hadith would not gain a foothold until comparatively late.17 We hear of criticism among the Jahmites and the Najjārites.18 Among the Muʿtazilites the scripturalist Ḍirār was the most vocal,19 but Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ was also said to have expressed disagreement, unlike ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd who followed Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s lead.20 There were even discussions on the subject in Medina.21 The Ruwāla Bedouins were apparently not familiar with the concept as late as the twentieth century.22 Philosophers such as Ibn Sīnā or ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī interpreted it metaphorically, as the expression of the inner torments of the soul.23 The arguments of the earlier opponents are infused with rationalism; the punishment of the grave appears as a popular belief that does not stand up to reasonable scrutiny.24 In the Muʿtazila, however, Ḍirār was not able to prevail in this point, either. Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir and Abū l-Hudhayl did not share his negative attitude;25 Shaḥḥām denied that there was anyone at all within his school who did.26 Jubbāʾī followed his teacher and thus laid down the line of the Basran school.27 Of his successors the qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār explored the arguments of the opposing side in great detail,28 it is possible that they still found followers in Rayy where he taught. The argument within the Muʿtazila had for long 14  It is thus difficult to regard this, as Wensinck does in EI2 VII 557 a (= 2I 187 a), as references to the punishment of the grave. The same applies to the other Quranic verses adduced by Wensinck. 15  Ashʿarī, Maq. 127, 7, and 430, 10; Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 66, apu. f.; also vol. II 239 above. 16  See vol. I 43; II 652, 669, and 695 above. 17  See vol. II 551 above. 18  Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Baḥr al-kalām 83, ʿ5ff./transl. Jeffery, Reader 436f.; regarding Najjār himself p. 178 above; regarding the Jahmiyya already Fiqh absaṭ 52, 1f. (also vol. II 603 and 569f.). In general Ashʿarī, Maq. 473, ult. 19  See vol. III 56 above; also Cook in: JSAI 9/1987/178. 20  See vol. III 331 above. 21  See vol. I 393 above. The ‘Jahmite’ Ibrāhīm b. Yaḥyā probably made derogatory comments (see vol. II 772 above). 22  Musil, Rwala Bedouins 674). 23  Arberry, A Sufi Martyr 15. 24  Vol. III 56 above; also Baḥr al-kalām, loc. cit., and Mutawallī, Mughnī 56, 17ff., as well as Ibn Ḥazm, Uṣūl I 232, 8ff. 25  Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 66, pu. f.; Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid 129, apu., and 130, 6; Text XXI 166. 26  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 280, –5ff.; the beginning quoted with slight divergences in Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB VI 273, 8ff. Cf. also vol. III 56 above. 27  Ibn Ḥazm, ibid. 28   Faḍl 201, –4ff.; cf. also Mānkdīm, ShUKh 730ff. (also Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 248f.).

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concerned the actual time only; some presumed that the punishment of the grave would take place immediately after death, others that it would be before the Judgment, between the two blasts of the trumpet.29 The conservative trend originated in Iraq where hadith had gained influence more quickly than in Iran. People like Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir who intended to make kalām known to a wider public30 could not ignore popular beliefs entirely. Bishr al-Marīsī, who was a ‘Jahmite’, appears to have been among the last ones in Iraq to remain steadfast.31 Even Abū Ḥanīfa, whose tradition he followed, was said to have recognised the punishment of the grave according to the authority of his son Ḥammād.32 This may well be a retrospective projection onto Abū Ḥanīfa by his Iranian followers, with the aim of countering the Jahmite opposition.33 However, the Shīʿites in Kufa also favoured the dogma from an early time. They may have regarded the interrogation as a selection for the awaited rajʿa; the deceased must not only profess Muḥammad’s prophethood, as the Sunnites imagined, but also be able to name the respective imām.34 In this interpretation it was regarded one of the indispensable dogmas;35 Ibn Bābōya included it in his ʿaqīda.36 His pupil Mufīd knew that the idea was held by the Imāmite traditionists (ḥamalat al-akhbār) of his time, and embraced it without reservation; he does not, however, conceal that he did not find corresponding information in the works of the mutakallimūn.37 Among the Sunnites it was gravestones in addition to hadith collections that proved how deeply anchored the belief was in the popular consciousness, although the gravestones, as usual, are all found in Egypt. As early as 180/796 we find the petition to save the deceased from the punishment in the grave.38 After all, one had to expect torment only if the interrogation had an unfavourable outcome; people hoped to escape it by performing particular deeds such

29  Cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 504, n. 8; also Text XXI 166. 30  Cf. vol. III 118f. above. 31  Cf. Text XXI 166, addendum in the commentary. Regarding Yaḥyā b. Kāmil see p. 197 above. 32  ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Aḥmad al-Bukhārī, Kashf al-ashrār I 11, 19f.; possibly influenced by Fiqh absaṭ 52, 1f. 33  In Abū Ḥanīfa’s so-called Waṣiyya Munka and Nakīr are described as ‘real’ because of the hadiths that mention them (Wensinck, Muslim Creed 129 § 19). 34  See vol. I 319 above. 35   Biḥār VI 223 no. 23; VIII 196f. no. 186f. Also p. 399f. above. 36  Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 60. 37   Awāʾil al-maqālāt 49, 14ff./transl. Sourdel 282 § 51. Pazdawī’s classifying ‘all the Rāfiḍites’ as opponents of the punishment of the grave (Uṣūl al-dīn 163, 14) is probably a mistake. 38  RCEA I 45 no. 58.

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as serving with the fighters on the Byzantine border.39 The petition was often phrased as ‘illuminate his grave’ (nawwir ʿalayhi/hā qabrahū/hā),40 or wishing the deceased that his grave might become a paradise garden.41 The Shīʿite Ibn Ṭāwūs (d. 664/1266) had the names of the twelve imāms engraved on a gemstone that was to be placed in his mouth after death, to ensure that he would be able to answer correctly to the ‘two angels’;42 he does not seem to have been certain that he would be able to remember those names – which distinguished him from other Shīʿites as well as Sunnites. Ṭabarī thought the rūḥ did not return to the body for the punishment of the grave, but he did not receive any support for this idea from his fellow believers.43 A gravestone of 228/843 has the expression fitnat al-qabr ‘affliction in the grave’ instead of ʿadhāb al-qabr.44 The angels conducting the interrogations could accordingly be called fattānā al-qabr;45 they do not yet have names in this tradition. The names are clearly later concretisation, as Wensinck already stated.46 The Shīʿites did not call them Munkar and Nakīr, but rather Nākir and Nakīr; furthermore, in their view only the wicked would be visited by the angels so named, while the pious were found by two others named Mubashshir and Bashīr.47 The Karrāmiyya identified the two angels of the grave, who were not recognised everywhere in its Iranian homeland in any case, with the two guardian angels;48 Ibn Karrām wrote a K. ʿadhāb al-qabr that was still available to Baghdādī.49 When the Sunni side added Rūmān and Nakūr to Munkar and Nakīr,50 one Jahmite is said to have exclaimed ‘We reject even the two, and now you bring us four?!’51 Adducing the isnād to support the chronology allows us assume that this took place during the second half of the second/

39  See vol. I 122 above. 40  Ibid. I. 100 no. 125; cf. Grütter in: Der Islam 32/1957/170 with n. 69. 41  Ibid. I 97f. no. 121, and 161f. no. 204. 42  Kohlberg, A Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work 19. 43  Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 178, 13f. This brought him closer to Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī and Ibn al-Rēwandī (see p. 158 and 349 above). Regarding the question cf. also Maqdisī, Badʾ II 122, 7ff.; concerning the view customary later see Erkenntnislehre 299, and Daiber, Muʿammar 291, n. 7, and 292ff.; in general Gardet in EI2 V 236f. s. v. Ḳiyāma. 44  RCEA I 233f. no. 296. 45   Biḥār VI 215f. no. 5. 46  EI2 VII 577 a = I 187 a. 47  Mufīd, Sharḥ ʿaqāʾid al-Ṣadūq 45, 2ff.; Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Zīna II 167, –7ff. 48  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 246, 2f. 49   Ungenützte Texte 11. 50  See p. 590 above. 51  Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī II 437, 9f.

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eighth century; the remark was directed against the Damascene Walīd b. Muslim (d. 195/810). At this time the development had not yet been completed. Originally there had not even been two angels but only one, the angel, presumably: the angel of death.52 According to the Quran it guides the deceased directly to paradise or to hell;53 of course, this does not agree with the idea of a universal Judgment, as became clear only when people did not assume this judgment to be impending any more. Only then did grave and Judgment become separate; people faced a dichotomy with which they never quite came to terms theologically.54 They could not help wondering whether the ‘punishment’ in the grave and in the otherworld neutralise or supplement each other; the Quranic passage of the double punishment acquired retrospective meaning in this context.55 Sometimes the situation appears to have been imagined in such a way that the angels would bring the scales into the grave;56 in that case the reckoning would have taken place there, too. And there would not be a mere interrogation. The believer would be tormented in accordance with the measure of his sins, while the unbeliever would be tormented incessantly until the time of his eternal damnation had come,57 as ‘there encompassed the folk of Pharaoh the evil chastisement, the Fire, to which they shall be exposed morning and evening’.58 Muḥāsibī reported how when he visited a graveyard as a boy he heard wailing from a grave although the person buried had been dead for 20 years.59 As for good people, paradise will be opened to them while they are still in the grave, but they can only see it and may not enter.60 The situation could also be interpreted differently. The punishment of the grave is only

52  Wensinck, loc. cit.; also p. 582 above. 53  Cf. Eichler, Dschinn 106. 54  Ibn Qayyim consequently speaks of two resurrections, a greater and a smaller one (upon death, see p. 587 above; Rūḥ 91, 4ff.). 55  See p. 590 above. 56  Vol. II 570, n. 92 above. 57  Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Baḥr al-kalām 84, 6ff.; the punishment is only suspended on Fridays and during Ramadan, as these are high holidays. 58  Sura 40:45f.; cited in support by Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 178, 15ff., with the remark that they will not merely be ‘exposed to’ fire in the otherworld but actually inside it; similar Mutawallī, Mughnī 56, 9ff. Cf. Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān IV 525, pu. ff., also Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 242, 12f. Further material in Gimaret, Ashʿarī 503; regarding the original meaning of the verse T. Andrae, Ursprung des Islams 161. 59  Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 1144f. no. 2155. Similar stories were also narrated in the Christian Middle Ages in corroboration of purgatory (cf. Le Goff, La naissance du purgatoire 124 and 241ff.). 60  Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad III 4, 1f.; Biḥār VI 263 no. 107; J. Macdonald in: Isl. Stud. 4/1965/75/ = Wolff, Eschatologie 36, 8f./transl. 64.

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assigned to certain, lesser transgressions; it is due, one could consequently say, to the deceased not having observed the proper purity laws when urinating.61 The most ancient layer can be glimpsed where the torment has not yet become a punishment and is expressed as a feeling of constriction only, which did not even have to be caused by an angel, and it was not necessarily the result of pondering one’s own sins. According to a well-known hadith, the deceased is tormented by the tears (yuʿadhdhabu) his relations shed over him; this is probably linked to the idea that this prevents the soul from departing the body and from life, or that it simply grows sad itself.62 Even later texts sometimes distinguish between oppression and punishment.63 Ultimately, however, the two were always harmonised in one form or another: the oppression precedes the interrogation and the punishment based on the latter; oppression befalls all humans, but punishment only sinners. In fact the primal fear of the oppression of the constricted space of the grave64 has been personalised through the recourse to the world of angels, and included in an ethics of reward with the reference to the guilt incurred by the sinful human. This transformation was apparently inspired mainly by Judaism: the OT already includes the concept of the angel of death,65 and the Babylonian Talmud even has a reference to the idea of the punishment of the grave (ṣaʿrā de-qabrā, ḥibbūṭ ha-qeber).66 This probably also means that in Islam the two ideas, oppression and punishment or torment with or without an agent, had existed together from the first. The former variant continued to exist for some time, as demonstrated by the response to the frequently posed question of how someone who had been publicly displayed after his execution on the cross:67 that the 61   Conc. I 234a, quoted in Mutawallī, Mughnī 56, 14f.; also Macdonald 82. Regarding the Shīʿites see Ibn Bābōya (Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 60). 62  Cf. F. Meier’s detailed exploration in: Der Islam 50/1973/207ff.; exegetes frequently changed ‘tormenting’ into ‘punishing’ here, too. Regarding the motif cf. Stith Thompson, Motif-Index C 762.2. 63  Thus Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 178ff. § 326 and 327; cf. also Wensinck in EI2 VII 576b. regarding Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī. 64  The grave is dark to the dead (Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ, Janāʾiz 23 = p. 659 no. 71); consequently it must be illuminated (see p. 593 above). 65  As pointed out by Eichler (Dschinn 104f.). 66  Macdonald, loc. cit. 74f., and especially Cook in: JSAI 9/1987/179; Enc. Jud. VIII 464. We shall have to bear in mind that the texts of the Old Testament do not originally include the idea of a universal Last Judgment (see p. 623f. below). – Cook rejects the view presented in EI2 I 187 b that the Jewish parallels on this point are post-Islamic. He does, however, consider Islamic influence possible in the case of the Karaites who rejected the punishment of the grave. 67  Which could in some cases take years; see vol. I 330f. and III 511f. above.

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air would have compressed his chest.68 The missing angel did not appear to constitute a problem.69 Originally the punishment was presumably directed mainly at the unbelievers: the pre-Islamic pagans70 and the Jews,71 after all, the interrogation was originally concerned with whether the deceased was a Muslim or not.72 It was hoped that the deceased might be spared the punishment of the grave if a sura was recited by his grave.73 After all, he can hear what is said by his head.74 One might think that the Ancient Egyptian conversation with the dead influenced these traditions (cf. J. Spiegel, Die Idee vom Totengericht in der ägyptischen Religion, Leipzig 1935; Ringgren in ER V 205f. s. g. Judgment of the Dead). We should also ask whether they imagined the otherworld as being underground, as the Ancient Egyptians as well as the OT did (cf. ER XV 129f. s. v. Underworld). In order for a more detailed comparison to be possible, all the preliminary studies still require to be undertaken. The Islamic material was presented for the first time by R. Eklund, Life between Death and Resurrection according to Islam (Uppsala 1941), p. 16ff.; cf. also Smith/Haddad, The Islamic Understanding of Death and Resurrection 36ff.

68   Biḥār VI 266 no. 12; slightly differently Ibn al-Faqīh, Buldān 45, 9ff./transl. Massé 54. 69  Cf., on the other hand, the report that when opening a grave the corpse was found with a nail through its head (Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, K. al-qubūr 90 no. 72). Clearly the angel had done a good job in his case. 70  The animals are able to hear them groaning (Ibn Abī Shayba, Muṣannaf III 374, –4ff.). 71  Ibid. 375, 3f. 72  See p. 590 above. 73  Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya III 81, 12ff. Cf. the Ruhuna fatiha on Turkish gravestones. 74  See p. 349 above; also the story from Spain recorded by Fierro in: RSO 66/1992/21f.

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2.2.2 The ‘Spirits’. Angels, Jinn, Devils In Islamic theology God is not ‘spirit’. While philosophers such as Fārābī and Ibn Sīnā resorted to Aristotle to try to understand God as the νου̃ς who imagines himself,1 this idea could not have been expressed satisfactorily in the language of early kalām.2 ‘Spirits’ were substances ( jawāhir), and substance as the carrier of accidents was always physical.3 While the spirit in the sense of rūḥ was the foundation of life, God has life of himself. On the other hand, on earth only those beings that have a spirit or a living soul are animate; only animals and humans, the dhawū l-arwāḥ. Plants do not belong in this category; there is no pure anima vegetativa, a soul that does not imply at least movement and sensory perception, as postulated by Aristotle.4 Animals and humans are, however, joined by angels, jinn, and devils; they, too, are not pure spirits but possess bodies, which are made of subtler material than those of humans. Once again only the philosophers would be able to imagine that there could be separate spiritual entities, called mufāriqāt, that were not tied to any substance. Fārābī wrote a brief treatise on the subject;5 in this term he included human souls, those intelligences and souls that accompany the heavenly spheres and imbue them with motion, and finally being as such. This was the expression of an entirely different world view; to a mutakallim it must have seemed like sheer madness. Fārābī demanded that these entities should not only be incorporeal but also immortal, that they have knowledge of themselves and that they enjoy a greater state of bliss than material beings (ibid. 2, –6ff.). The mutakallimūn were not familiar with the being as the supreme concept (see p. 216 and 484ff. above), and would have understood the intelligences and souls of heavenly bodies – not entirely without justification – as merely the gods of antiquity; in their view, the heavens were not populated (cf. Mufīd, Awāʾil al-maqālāt 118, 4ff.). Among them it was Ghazzālī who, already influenced by the philosophers, introduced his idea of muṭāʿ based on sura 81:21 which introduced an angel guiding the universe (Mishkāt al-anwār 91, 7ff.; regarding the question of authenticity cf. Watt in: JRAS 1949, p. 5ff., and Lazarus-Yafeh, Studies in Al-Ghazzālī 1  Gardet, Pensé religieuse d’Avicenne 71ff.; Chahine, Ontologie et théologie chez Avicenne 24f. and 82f. 2  Cf. Text XXI 63, commentary. Concerning a possible exception cf. vol. II 516 above. 3  See vol. III 285 above. Origen, too, explored these ideas (Περὶ ἀρχω̃ ν I1; cf. Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 32f.). 4  Gimaret, Noms divins 232; see vol. III 266. 5  Risāla fī ithbāt al-mufāriqāt, in: Rasāʾil al-Fārābī 1ff.

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280f.; regarding the concept itself see Landolt in: AS 45/1991/41f.) Fārābī’s younger contemporary, the Ismāʿīlite Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī, provided proof of the existence of a spiritual substance ( jawhar rūḥānī) that was not physical and consequently had no extent; in his view the nafs belonged in this category (cf. M. Alibhai, Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī and ‘Kitāb Sullam al-najāt. A Study in Islamic Neoplatonism, PhD Harvard 1983, p. 18ff.). Fārābī makes no reference to angels and devils in this context, although this does not mean that he did not believe in them at all; only the Dahrites were as radical as that.6 He certainly thought about the jinn whom he believed to be immortal beings without their own intelligence.7 After all, they were mentioned in the Quran, as was Satan and the devils, and an angel – Gabriel – had had ‘God’s permission’ to let the Quran descend into Muḥammad’s heart.8 The existence of angels was among the oldest articles of faith;9 the early miʿrāj narratives are full of visions of angels.10 All the same, we can sense that the rationalists, among the theologians as well as the philosophers, had doubts in some instances. Speaking of jinn meant touching on superstition; Jāḥiẓ makes this clear to the readers of his K. al-ḥayawān.11 Every Muslim was aware that the belief in ‘spirits’ had pre-Islamic origins; a relief in Palmyra shows them as armed men.12 Some Muʿtazilites were said to have denied their existence;13 Tanūkhī had these assure him that their children were not afraid of ghosts.14 Up to Abū Hāshim the angels did not play a systematically emphasised part anywhere in Muʿtazilite theology.15 While no-one went as far as the Karaite Daniel al-Qūmisī who regarded them as a metaphor of the forces of nature

6   Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān II 139, 3; cf. also, rather vaguer, Ashʿarī, Maq. 441, 3f. 7    Masāʾil mutafarriqa (in Rasāʾil al-Fārābī) 3, 6. 8   Sura 2:97; cf. Eichler, Dschinn, Teufel und Engel 148f. Fazlur Rahman, on the other hand, points out that the intermediary of the revelation in the Quran is not presented as an angel as such but as a spirit or a messenger (Major Themes 95ff. and 131. 9   See p. 395 above. 10  Cf. e.g. Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 72, 5ff., and earlier regarding Ḍaḥḥāk b. Muzāḥim; also I 88, 12ff. 11  VI 248, ult. ff. (= Text XXII 233 and the following). 12  Cf. Henninger, Arabia sacra 118ff.; in general Wellhausen, Reste 2148ff., F. Meier in: AS 33/1979/157, and Piwiński, Mitologia Arabów 53ff. 13  Damīrī, Ḥayāt al-ḥayawān I 206, 5; probably also Maq. 441, 3f. Regarding Naẓẓām see vol. III 412 and 451 above. 14   Nishwār al-muḥāḍara II 342, 4f. In a certain sense this was in accordance with the Quran, where the jinn lose their relevance after Badr (cf. Welch in: JAAR 47/1979/733ff.). 15  Regarding Abū Hāshim see p. 559 above.

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employed by God,16 hierarchies of angels such as that of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite would not be found until later, among the Ismāʿīlites,17 or in the works of Suhrawardī or Ibn ʿArabī,18 although they are hinted at in the Quran.19 The omnipresence of angels known to us from Essenism or Jewish ­apocalyptic20 has always remained foreign to Islam, as – even more – has the idea that they cooperated in the creation of the world.21 Their coming to the aid of God and the prophet at Badr was ridiculed in the anti-Islamic treatise circulated under Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ’s name.22 The Muʿtazilites saw no reason to fall out among themselves over the issue; if they agreed on an opinion this was usually against the traditionalists. In that context, Satan was a more interesting figure. In a legend preserved by Ṭabarī the devil boasts of being able to enter humans because they are hollow rather than ṣamad like God.23 Some thought this plausible; after all, food enters the bellies of humans, and a foetus occupies its mother’s abdominal cavity.24 In that case a human would be possessed by the devil. ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd thought the devil caused epileptic fits in this way,25 and Abū l-Hudhayl agreed.26 Later, however, the preferred explanation was that given by the physicians: the falling sickness is caused by an excess of black bile.27 This was a natural process due to God’s influence, according to the Muʿtazilites; Satan had nothing to do with it. Jubbāʾī decided in favour of this idea.28 Consequently Satan influences humans only by means of his whisperings (waswās);29 in the Quran, too, he has only indirect influence.30 He does, of 16  Thus Qirqisānī in Nemoy, Karaite Anthology 30f.; also Sirat, History of Jewish Philosophy 38. Qūmisī was a pupil of Benjamin al-Nihāwandī, who had accorded the angel Metatron a central position (see vol. III 477 above). 17  Cf. Madelung in EI2 VI 219 s. v. Malāʾika; an early instance vol. I 435 above. 18  However, Junayd had already invoked the different classes of angels in a prayer (Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya X 285, 7f./transl. Deladrière, Junayd 173f.). 19  E.g. in the muqarrabūn; cf. Macdonald in EI2 217a s. v. Malāʾika. 20  In more detail Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus 2422ff. 21  Jesus played a similar part in the eyes of some of Naẓẓām’s pupils (see vol. III 477f. above). See also p. 419 and 429 above. 22  See vol. II 34f. above. 23   Tafsīr 3I 459, 16ff./transl. Cooper I 215; see p. 419 above. 24  Ashʿarī, Maq. 435, 1ff. 25  Text X 1; cf. vol. II 342 above. 26  Text XXI 168, b; cf. vol. III 285 above. 27   Maq. 435, 7f. 28  Text XXI 168, a. 29  Cf. Eichler 66ff. 30  He is never the autonomous opposing principle as Zoroastrianism has it (cf. Rahman, Major Themes 123ff.). He is not allowed to enter Adam’s paradise, either, as some exegetes

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course, have to know the thoughts of humans; he must look straight into their hearts, as he plants temptation ‘in the human breast’.31 He thus becomes the cause of sin; the Qadarites in particular were quite pleased with this.32 It was not particularly difficult to imagine how this could be done; Satan does not enter the human’s visceral cavity or his breast only, but also his heart, and thus knows what occurs within it.33 Hishām b. al-Ḥakam was only one of those who criticised this; the Satan can approach the heart only through a medium, such as perhaps the air.34 This is, of course, possible; after all one can communicate a message over a greater distance by speaking into a hollow lance.35 When it comes to the thoughts of humans, however, the devil can recognise them from their demeanour;36 consequently he is dependent on speculations just like they are.37 This last assertion has also been called a Muʿtazilite dogma; it seems that with Muʿammar, Naẓẓām, and Hishām alFuwaṭī all agreed with Hishām b. al-Ḥakam.38 Satan can disguise himself, but it is entirely doubtful whether he can assume a different appearance ­altogether.39 It is not even certain whether one can see him at all.40 Consequently the Muʿtazilites could not bring themselves to agree with the assumption that he transformed into a serpent in paradise.41 What was certain in the eyes of the anthropomorphists was that Satan could not assume the Prophet’s form, otherwise one could not have relied on the revelation at all.42 The Kufan Shīʿites imagined that Satan tempted Bayān b. Samʿān and other ghulāt by appearing to them ‘from the horn to the navel in the most beautiful human form possible’ (Kashshī 304, 6f., after Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq). supposed (see vol. II 313f. above; regarding the Sālimiyya cf. Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 219, 12). Regarding the idea of Satan in the Quran in general cf. Eichler 44ff., and Awn, Satan’s Tragedy and Redemption 18ff. 31  Sura 114:5 together with the sources listed in Paret, Kommentar 531. 32  See vol. I 138 as well as II 54, 158, and 265f. above. 33   Maq. 436, 8, and 437, 3f. 34  Text IV 50, b–c; cf. vol. I 431f. 35   Maq. 435, 15ff.; Satan has the function of a radio operator, as it were. Note that Musaylima was said to have used spears to make noises in the air in order to copy Muḥammad’s miracles (Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XV 273, 4ff.). 36  Text IV 50, d. 37   Maq. 437, 1ff. 38  Text XVI 62; also p. 9 above. Muḥāsibī, too, shared this belief (cf. the text in Gedankenwelt 58). 39   Maq. 437, 15f., and 441, 5ff. 40  Ibid. 435, 9ff. 41  Ibid. 441, 7ff. 42  Cf. the hadith in Qushayrī, Miʿrāj 97, 3.

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In that case he would have appeared like God, according to the image Dāwūd al-Jawāribī had of him (see p. 412 and 434 above). The horn had probably disappeared during the transformation, and in the Islamic imagination he did not have cloven feet in any case. The false paradise maidens who appeared to ʿAbd al-Wāḥid b. Zayd’s followers, however, did have horses’ hooves (see vol. II 114 above). If doubts were expressed concerning Satan’s visibility, it was not because he was imagined as a pure spirit, but because his body was too subtle. This was also true of the angels; we would see them if the rays emanating from our eyes were stronger.43 Or, to put it slightly more Aristotelian: we do not see them because they are colourless.44 They consist of light, Satan, on the other hand, of fire, like the jinn.45 In addition they are ṣamad, i.e. solid;46 they have no digestive system. It is consequently not surprising that God has them appear to humans; he can do this for instance to give a prophet certainty of his mission.47 After all, Muḥammad said that Gabriel looked like Diḥya al-Kalbī.48 Of course this gave rise to new problems. While it was entirely desirable that an angel should affirm a prophet’s mission, it was not advisable at all that Satan and the jinn should advertise their cause in a supernatural fashion, too. Consequently Naẓẓām – and apparently many other Muʿtazilites – denied that the jinn can serve humans or know secret things, as in that case it would be impossible to distinguish them and their miraculous powers from the prophets.49 Similarly Satan, Jubbāʾī thought, could not be capable of carrying greater loads than a human;50 otherwise people would be too inclined to worship him. Worship (ʿibāda) of Satan was considered a questionable collocation. The Bakriyya had used the phrase that a sinner ‘served’ Satan (see vol. II 128 above), but they were criticised, e.g. by Iranian predestinarians (ibid. 630); service, ʿibāda, was rightly only God’s due. 43  This was Kaʿbī’s view (cf. Mufīd, Awāʾil al-maqālāt 48, 2ff./transl. Sourdel 280 §49). 44  Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār 151, ult. f.; regarding the meaning of colours when seeing see p. 159 and 462f. above. 45  Sura 38:76; concerning the jinn cf. sura 15:27 and 55:15. Cf. Wensinck/Gardet in EI2 III 669a s. v. Iblīs. 46  Ibn Taymiyya, Tafsīr sūrat al-ikhlāṣ 19, 12, and p. 412 above; developed by Ḥākim alTirmidhī, Jawāb kitāb min al-Rayy in: Drei Schriften, ed. Radtke 199, 4ff. 47   Maq. 440, 10ff. 48  Cf. EI2 II 274 s. v. 49  See vol. III 451 above. 50   Maq. 437, 13f.

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The fundamental question was whether Satan was free at all. Qadarites had to assume this; the extremists among them were even said to have claimed that God did not create Satan.51 Predestinarians were able to look at it differently: Satan was Satan from the very first.52 In other words: he had not even sinned of his own free will when he ‘refused and waxed proud’, as sura 2:34 said. This introduced another aspect: was the Satan a fallen angel as Jewish and Christian traditions demonstrated,53 or was he ‘one of the jinn’ as sura 18:50 stated? In context the latter statement was certainly intended to provide the explanation for Satan refusing to prostrate himself before Adam; the angels had obeyed, but he had defied the command.54 There were good as well as evil jinn; like humans they would still be ‘tested’ and had to decide in favour of their salvation. Some Muʿtazilites believed as a consequence that they were subject to the law and thus had a free will; Hishām b. al-Ḥakam agreed.55 The case was not as clear when it came to the angels. Hishām b. al-Ḥakam would have liked to prove the same thing for them by means of exegesis;56 after all, the Quran reported that Hārūt and Mārūt had engaged in sorcery in Babylon and harmed humans with it ‘with God’s permission’ (sura 2:102). In one of his opuscula Abū Qurra has no doubt at all that his Muslim interlocutor recognises the angels’ free will.57 Still, it was not easy to comprehend that angels should be able to do evil; after all, that was why there were jinn. On the whole the Quran did not regard them as decision-makers; they are ‘mere officials’, and the Hārūt – Mārūt pericope ‘originated in the Midrashim and had not been adapted to the Islamic paradigm’.58 Ḥasan al-Baṣrī consequently tried to change the vocalisation in the passage named in order to turn the tow ‘angels’ into two (Chaldean) ‘kings’; he refused to regard Satan as an angel, too.59 While this was consistent thinking, it did not catch on. The reading malikayn instead of malakayn remained aberrant, and Aṣamm, who usually based his ideas on Ḥasan’s, was of the opinion that angels could certainly 51  Vol. II 58. 52  Ibid. 632. 53  Before the fall he is sometimes called ʿAzāzīl (see p. 430, n. 14 above). 54  Cf. Meier, Bausteine I 629, with further material on the issue. 55  See vol. I 437f. above; regarding the Muʿtazilites cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 440, 4ff. The standard instance was sura 55:33, where humans and jinn are addressed at the same time and the verb istaṭāʿa ‘to be able to’ made an appearance (cf. Text IV 50, a, with the commentary). Regarding the individual kinds of jinn cf. Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān IV 190, 4ff.; regarding the part they played in the Quran see Eichler, 8ff. 56  Text IV 50, e. 57  Op. 32, l. 177ff. in: Glei/Khoury, Schriften zum Islam 138f. 58  Thus Meier in: AS 33/1979/153 = Bausteine I 581. 59  See vol. II 52 above.

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sin. Even so, he did not count Satan among them.60 ʿAmr b. Fāʾid al-Uswārī refused altogether to count him among angels or jinn;61 Muqātil b. Sulaymān appears to have thought along similar lines.62 The question of free will had thus receded into the background once again. In time, the philologists would take part in the discussion of what distinguished the angels from the jinn: they were interested in the etymology of the word. If one started with janna ‘to conceal, to cover up’, the boundary between jinn and angels remained open, as both of them, it had to be admitted, are usually ‘concealed’ from human eyes.63 It looked different, of course, when one focussed on the jinn confusing the minds of humans, making them majnūn ‘crazy’;64 this was not to be expected of angels. Angels do not enter into humans in the way that jinn are able to – although the reason why the latter can do this applies to angels as well, namely that they have a subtle and consequently invisible body.65 Because of this materiality they are both mortal, too. This gave consolation to humans; on a gravestone from Fusṭāṭ we read that even the angels who are close to the throne must die.66 The question of the etymology of jinn has not yet been settled; there is a wealth of material for the various hypotheses in Meier, Bausteine I 585 and 617ff. – The diminished significance of angels and their being under orders resulted in a marginal debate on the question of whether it might be that humans should be ranked above them. Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq was said to have spoken on the subject referring to ʿAlī: ‘God placed reason (only) into the angels, but not desires, while humans were given both. Someone whose reason vanquishes his desires is better than the angels …’ (Furūzānfar, Aḥādīth-i Mathnawī 118f.). After all, according to sura 2:34 the angels had had to prostrate themselves before Adam. The question was particularly pertinent in the case of the prophets as they were intermediaries of the revelation just like the angels. Malak meant ‘messenger’, and the lexicographers were aware of the common Semitic 60  Ibid. 459. 61  Ibid. 83. He does, however, share his abode and his creed with the jinn. 62  Thus at least according to Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar I 244, 11f.; Muqātil’s Tafsīr only says about sura 18:50 that the jinn, of whom Satan is one, are a ‘tribe’ of angels called jinn (II 589, 9). 63   Maq. 441, 14ff. 64  Regarding ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd cf. Text X 1. In general Dols, Majnūn. The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society 214ff. 65   Maq. 435, 1ff. 66  RCEA II 140f. no. 600 from 255/869; thus already Muqātil b. Sulaymān (cf. Nwiya, Exégèse 70).

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meaning (cf. the dictionaries; also Wensinck in: AO 2/1924/184f.). For a moment there was doubt whether Adam ought to be regarded as an angel or a prophet (IS I1 12, 3). According to the Imāmite view the prophets ranked above the angels as a matter of course: as God had addressed the prophets in the pre-existence, they had also been created earlier (Majlisī, Biḥār XXVI 335ff.). The debate about precedence is also known to Judaism (cf. Urbach, The Sages 155ff.); it was frequently decided in favour of Moses, and in the epistle to the Hebrews in favour of Jesus (1:4ff.). In Islam the controversy was probably started by groups who raised certain humans above all others, namely the Shīʿites because they accorded the imāms a special rank (Maq. 47, pu. f.), and later the mystics because they did the same with the saints (Maq. 289, 5f. = 439, 11; in general ibid. 439, 12ff., and Ibn Ḥazm, Uṣūl I 257ff.). Usually, it must be said, the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth and the Ashʿarites were of this opinion, too (cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 457 with instances). The Muʿtazilites, on the other hand, all set the angels above the prophets (Ashʿarī, Maq. 226, 10f.; Ṭūsī, Tibyān IV 398, –5). Jāḥiẓ wrote on the subject in this vein (Catalogue of Works XXX, no. 46), as did, in great detail, Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb (cf. Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 199, 6ff.) In a certain sense they could refer to Ḥasan al-Baṣrī; he had upheld the honour of the angels (see vol. II 52 above), and Aṣamm followed him in this with the qualification that they were set beneath the prophets only if they committed sins (ibid. 459) – which did not happen, except in the case of Hārūt and Mārūt, where Ḥasan had consequently read the relevant Quranic passage differently. The Shīʿite Faḍl b. Shādhān had consequently criticised Ḥasan for his tafḍīl (Najāshī 217, –5f.). Mufīd similarly criticised Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Baṣrī, Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s teacher, for his tafḍīl al-malāʾika (ibid. 287, 12f.), and a generation later the sharīf al-Murtaḍā composed two treatises on the subject (Rasāʾil II 155ff.). On the Muʿtazilite side they were opposed by al-Ḥusayn b. al-Faḍl al-Bajalī, even though he paved the way for the Ashʿarites in Nishapur (Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 166, 5f.; regarding him see vol. II 681f. above). The Muʿtazilite position was not quite so easy to defend as the prophets’ ʿiṣma became more prominent. Aṣamm had not yet believed in it (vol. II 459 above), but this soon changed in the Muʿtazila as everywhere else (see p. 664 below). Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī who, being an Ashʿarite, gave precedence to the prophets in any case, formulated the issue the other way around: if the prophets are ranked above the angels, we must assume the former to be free from sin (Schöck, Adam im Islam 126).

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Eschatology Proclaiming a Last Judgment had been central to Muḥammad’s message. God, the prophet had said, would personally demand a reckoning of every human, and the human would have to stand up for himself taking responsibility for everything he had done on earth.1 He would be handed a scroll on which all his actions were inscribed, and depending on the balance he would take it with his right or his left hand. Good and bad actions would be weighed carefully against each other.2 All this was proclaimed in the knowledge that the prophet stood alone at the time; he had to rouse every one whom he addressed individually. The pagan Meccans, on the other hand, thought in communalist categories,3 and the prophet’s followers would soon do so, too – as soon, in fact, as they started forming a community and experienced political success. Now they saw themselves as the chosen who would enter into paradise collectively – unlike the unbelievers, who would all be doomed.4 The prophet would ‘precede them to the cistern (ḥawḍ)’; while he gave them to drink there, he would send the unbelievers away ‘like you chase a stray camel (from the watering place)’.5 The grave inscription of ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. al-Ḥārith b. al-Ḥakam from the early second/eighth century already mentions the cistern as a meeting place;6 to the believers of the time, joining the prophet appears to have been as important, if not more so, than the vision of God. Gravestones repeatedly emphasise that the deceased will meet Muḥammad in paradise (cf. RCEA II 174 no. 648 and earlier). The vision of God is quite separate; it would either happen subsequently or had already happened during the Judgment (see p. 460f. above). We should probably imagine the scene as showing the believers – and the unbelievers who are sent away – longing for a drink, because they had been standing in the sun during the Judgment (cf. e.g. Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ 184, –5f.; Ibn Taymiyya, Wāsiṭiyya, 1  See p. 513 above. 2  Cf. Gardet in EI2 III 465 s. v. Ḥisāb; in general also Brandon, The Judgment of the Dead 136ff. 3  Cf. Isutzu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān 55ff. 4  More detail p. 627ff. below. 5  Cf. the hadith ana faraṭukum ʿalā l-ḥawḍ with its variants (Conc. V 119b); also Ashʿarī, Maq. 473, 10f. 6  R CEA I 21 no. 24. Regarding ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. al-Ḥārith b. al-Ḥakam cf. Khalīfa b. Khayyāṭ, Ta‌ʾrīkh 475, 3 s. a. 103, and Eisener, Zwischen Faktum und Fiktion 244.

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transl. Swartz in: Humaniora Islamica 1/1973/119; Wolff, Eschatologie 123). The prophet waits for them at the cistern because he is already in paradise: he does not lead them there, but has arrived before them; in this sense only does he ‘precede them’. The context suggests that they will perform the ablution by the cistern, too (Muslim 217f. = Ṭahāra 37–39); entering paradise is like entering a mosque. There are as many jugs and ewers (abārīq) by the cistern as there are stars in the skies (Conc. I 1); they could be used in either way. Further details in the article Ḥawḍ in EI1 III 286 (A. J. Wensinck), which includes (286ff., A. B. M. Husain) a description of what a ḥawḍ might look like in the real world. The Shīʿites changed the concept according to their preferences: by the cistern the Quran and the holy clan, the so-called thaqalān (after sura 55/31), will meet with the prophet (see vol. I 340 above). ʿAlī will give his ‘friends’ a drink of water, and send his enemies away (Ibn Bābōya in Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 66f.). This had already been laid out in the alleged aṣl of Sulaym b. Qays al-Hilālī; Ibn Bābōya adopted the text in his ʿaqīda (cf. Fyzee 123). The Khārijites and many early Muʿtazilites argued against the existence of this cistern, as they argued against the punishment of the grave (vol. II 239 and 403 above), while ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd followed Ḥasan al-Baṣrī in allowing it (ibid. 348). Ibrāhīm b. Adham affirmed it emphatically in a prayer (al-ḥawḍ ḥaqq; Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 72, 21/ transl. Gramlich I 259). Soon, however, doubts arose regarding whether Muḥammad’s companions, who had not been canonised at the time, had missed the targets the prophet had set them. ‘Do you not know what they got up to after your death?’, a voice asks the prophet at the cistern as he requests a special status for himself and his community (umma) from God.7 In the long run, people came up with restrictions; the cistern, for instance, was said to be available to only those who had missed out on earth, or who had deliberately abstained from the goods of earthly life.8 The image was disturbed even more by other elements of the eschatological drama. By requesting a special status for his followers, Muḥammad makes use of his prerogative of intercession (shafāʿa), which takes place during the Judgment. He alone of all the prophets will dare to prostrate himself before God’s throne and put in a good word on behalf of his community. This, too, was thought along communalist lines, as a punishment would be out of the 7  Cf. the variants in Muslim, Faḍāʾil 25ff. (no. 2291 and 2293ff.), and Conc IV 371 b. The voice represents God (see p. 689f. below). 8  See vol. I 115 above.

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question under these circumstances. Those who do not have to submit to the reckoning (man lā ḥisāba ʿalayh) will enter paradise directly through a gate on the right.9 Variants demonstrate that soon a preceding torment in hell would be presumed for the sake of justice; Muḥammad would come and rescue his people from the fire.10 On the other hand the communalist aspect was also emphasised: as he had previously done by the cistern, Muḥammad gathered his community under his banner (liwāʾ) before the intercession and then guided them to the gate of paradise.11 The collective preferential treatment remained unchanged, for even if there had been restrictions, the intercession would still have applied to whole groups: the Meccans, the Medinans, the people of Ṭāʾif,12 and it became effective on the day of the resurrection itself. There was no idea of a longer stay in purgatory at the time, and when people began to believe that it should be extended, they looked back rather than forward: at the punishment of the grave during which the sinner can see hell and is tormented by fear.13 The shafāʿa represented a share in the power; one might imagine that Muḥammad did not even prostrate himself but actually sat next to God on the throne.14 It was thus the Islamic counterpart to Christian redemption; the concept is yet another piece of evidence that God was imagined as a terrestrial monarch. The idea is copied from earthly reality; the pre-Islamic Arabs were able to estimate the value of intercession exactly.15 Interestingly, it was linked to Muḥammad in a poem by ʿAbbās b. Mirdās written in the year 8;16 later it would be mentioned in this form in the inscriptions in the Dome of the Rock.17 All the more interesting, then, that the Quran itself presents a slightly different picture. While it, too, presumes that intercession ‘with God’s permission’ is

9   The authoritative hadith has been translated in its standard version according to the individual collections as well as, with a commentary, in Huitema, De voorspraak in den Islam 22ff.; cf. e.g. Muslim, Īmān 327. Regarding the development also Smith/Haddad, Islamic Understanding of Death and Resurrection 25ff., and Schöck, Adam im Islam 138ff. 10  Muslim, ibid. 322 and 326; Huitema 30. 11  Cf. the version in Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad I 281, 20f./2IV 187f. no. 2546; Wolff, Eschatologie 100 and 127f. 12  Huitema 34. 13  See p. 594 above. Origen also assumed purgatory to take place before the resurrection (Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 219). 14  See p. 451 above; thus already Mujāhid (cf. vol. II 720 above). 15  Cf. Farrukh, Bild des Frühislams 56ff. 16  Ibid. 48. 17  See vol. I 12 above.

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possible,18 and can be performed by the angels,19 the prophet himself has not yet risen to God’s presence; he never assumed for himself the overly exalted status accorded him by hadith – and by the early poem mentioned. And most importantly: in order to lend authority to his threat of a Last Judgment, he had to ensure that all those who did not recognise him should have no hope of intercession. When it came to this point there were no ifs or buts; the day would come ‘when there will be neither actions nor friendship nor intercession’.20 The affair of the ‘Satanic Verses’ had taught him that there might be idolatry hidden within intercession.21 We can safely say that ‘all in all the Quran was not well-disposed towards intercession’.22 It did not support an absolute freedom from punishment for the believers, either; ‘there is not one among you’, they are told, ‘who would not have to go down (to hell)’.23 Fazlur Rahman’s inference that the Quran de facto rules out intercession (Major Themes 31f.) probably follows an argument that is too modern, and possibly also too apologetic. E. Riad offers a more balanced view in Shafāʿa dans le Coran in: Or. Suec. 30/1981/37ff.; the article explores the concept in pre-Islamic times as well. – J. W. Bowker pointed out that the ambivalent attitude towards intercession is also found in Judaism; Muḥammad’s role is similar to Abraham’s there (Intercession in the Qurʾān and the Jewish Tradition, in: JSS 11/1966/69ff.). However, his conclusion that this for-and-against was familiar to Muḥammad, making him waver as well, seems improbable; surely this would have been a reason for Muḥammad to make his own position quite clear. This was the starting point for dissension in later theological reflexion. Rigorists like the Khārijites could not accept the shafāʿa;24 they rejected hadith ­altogether. The ascetics did not think much of it, either; someone who relied

18  Sura 2:255, 10:3, etc.; cf. Huitema 15f. 19  Sura 40:7f.; later they were imagined to line up by the bridge of hell aiding the believers across with their intercession (see vol. II 190 above). 20  Sura 2:254. 21  Cf. p. 665 below. It is probably no coincidence that sura 53, which had originally included the ‘Satanic verses’ (following v. 20), limits the shafāʿa considerably shortly afterwards (in v. 26). 22  Wensinck, Muslim Creed 180f.; cf. also id. in EI1 IV 268ff. s. v. S̲h̲afāʿa (EI2 IX 177ff., with additions by D. Gimaret and A. Schimmel). 23  Sura 19:71. Regarding the interpretation cf. Huitema 52f. 24  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 34, 4; Barqī, Maḥāsin 140 no. 186.

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on intercession did not really have to lament his own sins.25 The Muʿtazilites followed suit,26 disliking one hadith in particular according to which intercession was supposed to benefit grave sinners (ahl al-kabāʾir).27 Over time they succeeded in shifting the emphasis: intercession was recognised, but only for the good,28 and then only in the sense that they shall be more exalted in paradise than they would have deserved according to their actions only.29 The boundaries were not entirely clear in any case. ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd as well as Ḥasan al-Baṣrī had recognised intercession;30 and the same was transmitted of other Basran Qadarites, too.31 Conversely, the Medinan Quranic exegete Muḥammad b. Kaʿb al-Quraẓī rejected the shafāʿa because it was a means of neutralising predestination.32 The Kufan Shīʿa, on the other hand, regarded intercession as dogma,33 but they had ʿAlī or the respective imām in mind rather than the prophet.34 Some Shīʿites placed their dead in the grave lying on the left side, in order that they might accept the register of their actions immediately with their right hand.35 Some are even said to have broken the right arm to ensure that the deceased should not make a mistake.36 One could thus go to hell for simple clumsiness rather than guilt incurred. On the other hand the register of actions always emphasised that the reckoning was individual; the believer, as we know from sura 69:20, is aware from the first that he will have to face the Judgment one day. Muḥāsibī was thinking of this when he postulated anticipation of the reckoning as everyone’s daily conscience-searching exercise.37 Fundamentally speaking everyone can intercede as long as he is worthy; someone, for instance, will do it on behalf of the Tamīm among whom there were so many Khārijites.38 The punishment of 25  Regarding Ṭalq b. Ḥabīb cf. vol. I 159 above. Once again Origen provides an apposite comparison: even Peter and Paul must pass through the purifying fires before they achieve resurrection (Sweetman I2 219). 26  Ashʿarī, Maq. 474, 3; also vol. II 403 above. 27  Huitema 35f. 28  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 207, 10ff.; regarding Jubbāʾī ibid. 208, 16ff. 29   Maq. 474, 3f.; cf. p. 85 above, and Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 311f. 30  See vol. II 348 above. 31  Ibid. 72. 32  Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 223, 1ff.; regarding Muḥammad b. Kaʿb see vol. II 770 above. 33  Majlisī, Biḥār VIII 196f. no. 186f.; Mufīd, Awāʾil al-maqālāt 52, 4ff./transl. Sourdel 274f. 34  See vol. I 319 above. 35  Jāḥiẓ, Burṣān 357, 7ff.; normally the dead were buried lying on their right side (cf. Grütter in: Der Islam 32/1957/169). 36  Malaṭī, Tanbīḥ 124, 11/163, 11f.; also a verse by Maʿdān al-Shumayṭī in Pellat in: ORiens 16/1963/103 v. 3. 37  See p. 222 above; in general Deladrière in EI2 VII 465 s. v. Muḥāsaba. 38  Huitema 37f. Cf. the hadiths in Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 203, –4ff.; also Conc. III 152 a.

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the grave, too, was individual eschatology; the iudicium particulare juxtaposed to or preceding the universal judgment in this case.39 The individualist view would become widely accepted; after all, it had the Quran on its side, and without it the Muʿtazilite ethics of reward could not endure. Even so the dogma of intercession survived within Sunni Islam, but it changed its appearance to the effect that the expectation for a grave sinner, as long as he remained a Muslim, was no more and nothing other than purgatory. The Muʿtazilites had to accept defeat on this front; their puritanism, which expected eternal punishment in hell for the ‘transgressors’, was felt to be too radical by the majority. Of course they had had the Basran Murjiʾites, who differed from them in this point only, as a thorn in their side forever.40 In order to distinguish the two, the Muʿtazilites were often called aṣḥāb al-waʿīd. Thus e.g., to cite one instance among many, Ṭūsī, Tibyān III 220, 12. It was known that the doctrine of the eternal damnation of sinners had originated in Basra (Ibn Ḥawqal, Ṣūrat al-arḍ 2291, ult.). Regarding the arguments cf. e.g. Pseudo-Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, Uṣūl al-ʿadl wal-tawḥīd, in ʿImāra, Rasāʾil I 129, 8ff.; Mānkdīm, ShUKh 666ff., or Vajda in: SI 11/1959/29ff. (after Dāwūd al-Muqammiṣ); in general Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 300ff. In the early period it was often emphasised (see vol. II 308 above) that this doctrine had Khārijite roots; it was said that Nāfiʿ b. al-Azraq had already embraced it and had been criticised by Ibn ʿAbbās for it (Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3X 294, 3ff. no. 11906). However, the Khārijites at the time had thought in entirely communalist terms (see vol. I 23 above), and it might happen that the grave sinners – within their own community! – were spared eternal damnation (e.g. the followers of Najda b. ʿĀmir; cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 86, 5f., and p. 628 below). For the same reason the Shīʿites could not agree with the Muʿtazilites in this (cf. Madelung in: Le Shîʿisme imâmite 16, 10, 23, 27). Abū l-Maʿālī described this as the only fundamental discrepancy in the dogmatic structure of the two schools – only after Imāmite theology had come into line with the Muʿtazilite system, of course (Bayān ul-adyān 34, 11ff./transl. Massé inL RHR 94/1926/55). Finally we must point to the Jews, too; among them there was a widelyheld belief that none of their number would remain in hell forever (F. Weber, System der altsynagogalen Theologie 327ff. = Jüdische Theologie 342ff.); after all, they believed in the collective resurrection of the righteous (see p. 615 below). 39  See p. 532 above. Similar in early Christianity; cf. Werner, Entstehung des Dogmas 698. 40  See vol. II 196ff., III 208, and p. 141 above.

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Concerning Christianity see the general remarks in Borges, Geschichte der Ewigkeit 88f. The doctrine of purgatory essentially goes back to Augustine, but unlike Islam he evolved it in the discussion with the ‘merciful ones’ who believed that all humans would be saved (cf. Le Goff, La naissance du purgatoire 92ff.). It was accepted by the Roman Church only; regarding the final form of the tripartite system of paradise – purgatory – hell cf. ibid. 299ff. In the present context the development in the Eastern Church discussed by Le Goff is particularly relevant. The opposition against the idea of eternal damnation began among the Church Fathers, e.g. Diodorus of Tarsus and Theodore of Mopsuestia (cf. Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 218f.; regarding Diodorus in detail H. G. Weis in: Paul de Lagarde und die syrische Kirchengeschichte 219ff.). The question remained controversial in the east in particular, as demonstrated in a letter by Jacob of Sarūj (early sixth century) to his younger contemporary Stephan bar Ṣudaylē, a monk in Edessa and known mainly as the author of the ‘Book of Holy Hierotheos’. Jacob tries to talk Stephan out of the belief that a sin committed within time could not be punished for eternity (cf. Guillaumont in: Annuaire EPHE 88/1979–80/369; regarding the views of Bar Ṣudaylē cf. The Book of Holy Hierotheos 133ff. Marsh). Isaac of Niniveh later supported Bar Ṣudaylē’s position (RGG 3III 406); the Ṣābians, too, thought along the same lines (Maqdisī, Badʾ I 197, 10ff.). Job of Edessa, on the other hand, argued against a time limit on the punishment in hell (Book of Treasures 292f.; regarding him see vol. III 324 and 361f. above). At his time, Diodorus of Tarsus had probably been already translated into Arabic, although his text Περὶ οἰκονομίας is more likely than Περὶ προνοίας, which contained his deliberations on the issues discussed (cf. my Gedankenwelt 171). Possible correspondences or even influences remain to be researched. The idea of collective salvation remained alive in chiliastic movements. The expectation of a mahdī gave it a militant trait: the ‘final victory’ over the forces of evil was to be the compensation for disappointed hopes. Among Sunnites the motif of the wars of the end of time (malāḥim); the term is derived from Hebr. milḥāmōt, the Jehovah wars of the Old Testament.41 The Manichaeans had believed in a ‘Harmageddon’ at the end of time, during which Jesus would return and the righteous would be victorious over the wicked.42 Irenaeus 41  This included other signs of the apocalypse as well (cf. EI2 VI 216 and 247 s. v. Malāḥim or Malḥama. 42  Lieu, Manichaeism 21f.

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expected, perhaps rather less militaristically, that before the kingdom of God the Father there would be a kingdom of the Messiah during which the righteous shall be resurrected to a new physical existence on earth;43 he probably took his inspiration from the revelation of St John.44 Among Shīʿites we find the motif early on in the special form of the rajʿa. However, here – as in the case of the punishment of the grave – it is not always possible to determine with certainty whether this ‘return’ was regarded an intermediate phase (before the Judgment) or the final stage. In the end they would gradually abandon the idea altogether. See vol. I 355ff. above. The development per se is easy to follow. The K. alirjāʾ describes the rajʿa as ‘resurrection before the hour of judgment’ (Text II 1, t); Ashʿarī and Baghdādī presumed this, too (Maq. 46, 6f.; Farq 39, 12/54, –4, and 44, –4/59, 2f.: rajʿa ilā l-dunyā qabla l-qiyāma). It was also believed that the faithful followers of ʿAlī and the imāms would be invited into paradise after the Last Judgment, as reward for their loyalty (vol. I 318 above). The resurrection thus comes about gradually, but the earthly paradise established by means of the victory over the forces of evil can seamlessly merge into the bliss of the afterlife. It is essential, however, that the rajʿa should take place on earth, as the ‘return’ in the true sense of the word. Ibn Bābōya tried to demonstrate that this was possible – and had, indeed, happened before (Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 62ff.; cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 46, 8f.). Mufīd adds clearly that the revenants would die again in the end and then be resurrected for good (Awāʾil al-maqālāt 89, 3ff.). The Druze were the only ones left later to still believe in the eternal earthly existence; they retained the exclusiveness of the early Kufan Shīʿa to the greatest degree (cf. Hodgson in EI2 II 634a; Abu Izzaddin, The Druzes 116). A ‘martial ode’ edited by W. Schmucker shows how they imagined the battle at the end of time (Eine drusische ʿAskarīya; in: Fs. Wagner II 507ff.).

43  McDannell/Lang, Heaven. A History 51f. 44  Regarding corresponding Jewish ideas cf. Goitein, Mediterranean Society V 406.

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613

The Earthly and the Heavenly Paradise

While the theory of the rajʿa appears like an exotic aberration in retrospect and seen with the eyes of the majority, we must not overlook the fact that paradise – as long as it was not part of the categories of political utopia – was believed to be located on earth. How else could the prophet meet his community by the ‘cistern’? And when he guided them to paradise, they would first have to gather on a wide plain1 in preparation for the Judgment.2 Muḥammad’s pulpit in Medina, people thought, was in the same place where the ‘cistern’ would be found later.3 The graves of saints were regarded as part of paradise, and people wished to be buried near them.4 This was particularly true of some places, Jerusalem for instance; God, it was frequently imagined, would erect his throne here on the Latter Day.5 Like the Christians of the Middle Ages, the Muslims imagined hell to be situated within the earth.6 Of course this earth would become a new and different earth in some way at the end of time; when the heavens split7 or shatter,8 when the sun is shrouded in darkness,9 the earth, too, will be replaced by another one.10 But it will remain an earth. Only an earthly paradise, in fact, could offer the believers all those delights described in the Quran.11 It was not their location that was new, but rather their duration. If the blessed remain in paradise forever (khālidūna fīhā abadan) it implies that they are immortal; the Quran took a stand against the consciousness of transience that had imbued the worldly way of life of the Jāhiliyya with pessimism.12 Zoroastrianism has a similar concept: humans will live forever in

1  Fī ṣaʿīdin wāḥidin; cf. Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ 184, –5. 2  The idea of the ṣirāṭ bridge, on the other hand, has a life of its own (cf. p. 624f. below). 3  Cf. Busse in: WI 28/1988/107. 4  Leisten, Architektur für Tote 80f. 5  See p. 441 above. 6  Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān IV 201, 5; Saleh, Vie future 45; also p. 583 above. Among the Ruwāla Bedouins, on the other hand, it was considered whether it might be on the sun – presumably because of the heat (Musil, Rwala Bedouins 674). In general A. E. Bernstein, The Formation of Hell. Death and Retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds, Cornell Univ. Press 1993. 7  Sura 82:1. 8  Sura 84:1. 9  Sura 81:1. 10  Sura 14:48; also Wolff, Eschatologie 103. 11  Thus also Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes 111, with slight modernist exaggeration. 12  T. Isutzu has explored the details of this (Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān 45ff.); also G. Müller, Ich bin Labīd 97ff. Cf. also Gimaret, Noms divins 185; D. Semah, Al-daymūma wal-istiḥāla. Ḥawl wasāʾil al-taʿbīr fī l-shiʿr al-ʿarabī al-qadīm in: Karmil 1/1980/83ff.

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a new world.13 Death has been overcome; according to a well-known hadith it will be slaughtered in the form of a ram at the end of time, between paradise and hell.14 Paradise thus offers more intense enjoyment,15 for all enjoyment wants eternal duration. However, eternity in the actual sense of the word was not what was imagined here.16 Only the theologians and philosophers discovered the concept; Kindī distinguished between ‘enduring’ (bāqī) and ‘eternal’ (azalī).17 Paradise is really only ‘enduring’; only God is eternal (qadīm) in the sense of beyond time.18 Paradise and hell are not beyond time, as events take place within them. The blessed receive their ‘provision at dawn and evening’;19 pharaoh’s army ‘shall be exposed (to the fire) every morning and evening’.20 The Talmud, too, focussed mainly on the fact that the ‘righteous’ would not die. They will ‘inherit the earth’; the collective and political entity Israel will endure forever (cf. Neusner, Twentieth Century Construction of Judaism 185ff.). [Regarding the development of words meaning ‘eternal in German’ cf. W. J. Vogt in: Beiträge zur Geschichte der deutschen Sprache und Literatur 58/1934/1ff.; regarding Latin cf. G. Zuntz, Aion Gott des Römerreiches 47ff.] In Arabic even qadīm originally meant simply ‘old’ (vol. III 90; also p. 94 and 426 above). Regarding lam yazal or al-azal cf. Frank’s article in: MIDEO 22/1995/243ff. In addition the Quran itself includes one passages that sows doubt concerning the eternal duration of paradise and hell. Sura 11:107f. tells us that the blessed as well as the damned will be ‘therein dwelling forever, so long as the heavens and earth abide’. Much thought has been devoted to this phrase.21 It meant, of course, that they will not die as long as the world exists, but Qummī concluded 13  Boyce, Zoroastrians 27f. 14   Conc. V 517 b; also Saleh, Vie future 55f. Also in Muqātil b. Sulaymān (Nwiya, Exégèse coranique 106). Shīʿite versions in Majlisī, Biḥār VIII 345ff. no. 1ff. 15  And also because activities forbidden on earth are permitted there, for instance the consumption of wine. 16  Cf. vol. II 314 and 568, and III 58 above. 17   Cf. his treatise Fī l-falsafa al-ūlā, in: Rasāʾil al-Kindī I 113ff./transl. Ivry, Al-Kindī’s Metaphysics 67f. with commentary 143ff. 18  See p. 94, 155, and 486 above. 19  Sura 19:62 with parallels in Paret, Kommentar 328. 20  Sura 40:46; cf. p. 594 above. 21  Mainly, however, because of the following phrase ‘as long as your lord wills no different’ (cf. Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XV 481, 2ff.). The predestinarians understood this to mean that God would rescue grave sinners from hell after all (cf. Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf 633, 2ff., concerning the passage).

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in his Tafsīr that ‘abiding forever’ had to refer to a transient earthly paradise in which the souls of the believers dwell before they are reunited with their bodies in the resurrection.22 Only the souls, to be sure; this distinguished him from those who believed in the rajʿa, and from those who embraced the transmigration of the soul, believing that a human will pass through several existences on earth before he can enter into the heavenly paradise or the subterranean hell.23 The rajʿa like the stages of the migration of the soul are part of history; paradise, on the other hand, is absolute future. During antiquity it had been located in distant places, on islands or mountains; with the increasing influence of Judaism, it had become projected into a distant time. Islam, heir to both of them, thinks more along the lines of Judaism; world maps do not have paradise or hell marked on them;24 ‘purgatory’, too, is defined in purely chronological terms, even though it is not allocated a specific location.25 The main characteristic of paradise is that it marks not only the end but also the beginning; Adam had already stayed there. A new horizon opened up when Ḍirār b. ʿAmr stepped onto the scene with the view that paradise and hell had not yet been created at all.26 This presumed that the two were a world of its own kind; everything else, everything earthly would first have to pass. This made it easier to understand why they were eternal (and that consequently the punishment in hell could endure forever); an earthly paradise possessing eternal duration would have been linked too quickly to the idea of the eternal duration of the world. Jahm b. Ṣafwān had already emphasised before Ḍirār that eternity and time were incompatible, but he had construed the case differently. In his eyes the entire creation was one episode in God’s eternal existence beyond all being; consequently not even paradise and hell could have eternal duration. Some of his followers went a step further, suggesting that both did not yet exist; they may have laid the groundwork for Ḍirār.27 The question could not be decided based on the Quran alone: while it tells us that paradise and hell are ‘ready’ for believers and 22  P. 314, apu. f.; quoted in Majlisī, Biḥār VI 285 no. 5. 23  See vol. III 465ff. above. 24  Despite occasional localisation (see above and the information in Miquel, Géographie humaine II, index p. 689). 25  The barzakh does not belong in this context (cf. EI2 I 1071f. s. v.). 26  See vol. III 57f. 27  See vol. II 568. This is not necessarily the case as they presumably lived in eastern Iran. They may not have been entirely isolated; Ibn Ḥazm attributes the same theories to certain Khārijites (Al-uṣūl wal-furūʿ I 172, 3f.). In Iraq and in Kufa this role as trailblazer might recall Abū Ḥanīfa, but the theory is not reliably documented in his case (vol. II 569 above). Aṣamm may have shared Ḍirār’s ideas (ibid. 462).

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unbelievers (uʿiddat),28 it contains no information concerning the time of readiness. Abū l-Hudhayl and Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir, the two opponents of Ḍirār’s synergism, did not join him in this issue, either,29 Abū l-Hudhayl imagining that with the end of all movement the blessed will enter into a new, unearthly and consequently eternal status of paradisiacal bliss.30 In the next generation, however, Ḍirār’s theory did find followers,31 ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān providing a detailed explanation,32 and even Abū l-Hudhayl’s own premises resulted in the corresponding conclusion: God addresses the word ‘perish!’ (ifna) to everything that is; consequently paradise and hell, if they already existed, would have to pass away together with everything else.33 Among the Shīʿites, Hishām b. al-Ḥakam’s pupil Yūnus b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān adopted this theory.34 Ma‌ʾmūn is said to have demanded obedience from the ahl al-ḥadīth in this point, too, during the miḥna.35 Opposition was raised by these very ahl al-ḥadīth and by the exegetes. While a descensus ad inferos in the style of Christ had not been ascribed to Muḥammad,36 he was said to have made a journey to heaven during which he beheld paradise and hell.37 This could not be upheld now, and neither could the immediate reception into paradise of the martyrs. How could the Quran say that pharaoh’s men would be ‘exposed’ to the fire every day? Surely ‘exposed’ was possible only as long as they were not in the fire for good, namely during the period before the Last Judgment.38 And where had Adam dwelt? Was his paradise not the same into which his descendants would ultimately be received? There was considerable uncertainty concerning this last-named point in particular. After all, the Quran offered a selection of names for paradise: janna, firdaws, ʿAdn, dār al-salām, jannat al-ma‌ʾwā, jannat al-naʿīm, jannat

28  Sura 3:131 and 133; also 18:102 and 48:6. 29  Cf. Text XVII 56; also vol. III 116, n. 6 above. 30  See vol. III 276ff. above. 31  Regarding Hishām al-Fuwaṭī see p. 16 above. 32  See p. 21 above. 33  Kiyā al-Harrāsī, Uṣūl al-dīn 108 b ff.; in general cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 326ff., and Saleh, Vie future 79f. 34  See vol. I 457f. above. 35  Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb al-madārik I 418, 10; cf. vol. III 513 above. The claim is not supported by Ma‌ʾmūn’s official missive. 36  The earliest indications of this Christian dogma are found, interestingly, in Syriac sources (Pelikan, Christian Tradition I 150). 37  An argument allegedly by ʿAlī al-Riḍā presented by Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 72, pu. ff. 38  See p. 594 above.

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al-khuld;39 establishing some distinction was the obvious course of action.40 Adam had, of course, had to leave his paradise; clearly, it had not been a ‘garden of eternal dwelling’ ( jannat al-khuld). Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ and ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd distinguished between the two, but they do not appear to have drawn the conclusion that there was no paradise during the interval, and ultimately this would not be the belief of the majority, either. Regarding Wāṣil and ʿAmr see vol. II 313f. above. The same argument would later be employed by the qāḍī Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-Ballūṭī (273/886– 355/966; regarding him see p. 309 above) in Spain; resulting in him being suspected of being a Muʿtazilite (Fierro, Heterodoxía en al-Andalus 141). In the Shīʿa the point was as controversial as it was in the Sunna: separation of two distinct paradises in a tradition after Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in Majlisī, Biḥār VI 284 no. 2f.; rejection of Ḍirār’s theory ibid. VIII 119 no. 6, or 196f. no. 186 (in the catalogue of dogmas quoted on p. 399 above). Mufīd decided against Ḍirār, too: while there may not be humans in paradise now, there are angels there (cf. the Responsum, ed. McDermott in: MUSJ 51/1990/123, 11ff.). He does not mention the question in his Awāʾil almaqālāt; Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB I 108, pu. ff., also leaves it unanswered. In his discussion of the Jahmiyya the Ibāḍite Abū ʿAmmār concentrates on this single point (Mūjaz II 130ff.); similar Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar I 74, 1ff., after Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzī. From the Sunni point of view also Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Iʿtiqādāt 242, 6ff. Regarding the older sources cf. my article in: Festschrift Abel 108ff. Jahm’s view of the transience of the otherworld was less isolated in the early period than appears in retrospect. Among the Khārijites Abū Ismāʿīl al-Biṭṭīkhī (see vol. II 694f. above) followed him, perhaps also Yamān b. Riʾāb (ibid. 673). That all delights must come to an end was, after all, the fundamental conviction of pre-Islamic ‘pessimism’; after his conversion the poet Labīd could link this seamlessly to the statement that everything but God is vain (Ibn Isḥāq, Sīra 243, ult. ff.). The Quran, correspondingly, asserts that ‘All things perish, except his face’ (sura 28:88); Yamān b. Riʾāb appears to have referred to this (vol. II 673 above). The concept was distressing only in the case of paradise; no-one who feared hell would have opposed the idea of its ending. Shaʿbī was said to believe that hell passes 39  Cf. Kulīnī, Kāfī VIII 100, 3f. (after Muḥammad al-Bāqir); Wolff, Eschatologie 189ff. Also Horovitz in: Scripta Universitatis atque Bibliothecae Hierosolymitanarum. Jerusalem 1923 (reprinted in Paret, Der Koran 60ff.); Saleh, Vie future 15; Gardet in: EI2 II 447a. 40  Cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 335f.; also vol. III 57f. above.

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more quickly than paradise (Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XV 484 no. 18581); Muqātil b. Sulaymān imagined that after 20,000 years all the inhabitants of hell would be burnt together with the fires of hell (Al-Sawwaf, Muqātil ibn Sulaymān 247). In his view the unbelievers are thus not punished forever, but will be annihilated in the end; Thumāma had similar ideas (see vol. III 179f. above). Ibn Masʿūd claimed that hell would be altogether empty in the end (Ṭūsī, Tibyān VI 68, 12f.) There were arguments concerning whether God when he ‘blots out … whatsoever he will’ would also blot out the otherworld; Ibn Masʿūd, together with the later Murjiʾites, appears to have been on the side of those who believed this possible (Ṭūsī VI 263, –5ff.) He probably had mainly hell and its inhabitants in mind. Certain Shīʿites, Kufans like him, were said to have believed that paradise and hell would be laid waste at the end of time (Ibn Ḥazm, Uṣūl I 180, 1f.). Ibn Taymiyya and his pupil Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya would later adopt this idea (Saleh, Vie future 55ff.; cf. vol. II 569 above).

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619

The Extent of the Reality of the Otherworld

As the majority of the Muʿtazilites interpreted the otherworld as a new beginning, the path was now clear for a sublimation of the delights of paradise, but they appear to have hardly taken this path at all. They imagined the paradise that would come into existence at the end of time as a new earth; most of them even accorded the animals a place there.1 Abū l-Hudhayl may have thought that movement would come to an end in paradise at some point,2 but until that point even he believed movement to continue along the lines of previous occupations. Criticism did not change this.3 The Jahmiyya agreed in nearly everything; the paradise God granted humans in their view was transient, but that may have been the reason why it contained a bounty of delights. We do not read anywhere that Jahm or his followers replaced the vision of God, which they rejected, with any other spiritual pleasures. The warriors for the faith expected the houris’ embraces as their reward;4 even a Khāriijte such as Ṣāliḥ b. Musarriḥ said it quite openly.5 There were virtually no dissenting voices, not even later;6 the Quranic statements were simply too concrete.7 And indeed, if the resurrection of the flesh was taken literally, they were entirely consistent. Quranic promises regard nafs the ‘person’, not the soul.8 Antique influence might have had a restraining effect, but it was much less pronounced in Islam than in Christianity. Celsus had attacked Origen directly in this matter,9 and among the early Christians there had been those – such as the Gnostics – who had refused to profess the resurrection of the flesh.10 Even John Philoponus had rejected it. Church Fathers such as Gregory of Nyssa, Synesius of Cyrene or Aeneas of Gaza discussed the subject.11 In Islam, on the other hand, this objection came far too late – only when the philosophers became an independent group, in fact. During the early period the available texts 1  See vol. II 60, III 94, and p. 39 above. 2  See p. 508 above. 3  See vol. III 280f. above. 4  See p. 472 above. 5  Text VIII 7, q. 6  Cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 336. 7  Cf. Henninger, Christliche Glaubenswahrheiten im Koran 80ff.; F. Rosenthal, Love in Paradise, in: Festschrift Pope (= Muslim Intellectual and Social History, no. XVI), p. 247ff. Also Azmeh, Rhetoric for the Senses, in: JAL 26/1995/215ff. 8  Rahman, Major Themes 112. 9  Cf. the reconstruction of his Ἀληγὴς λόγος in Rougier, Celse 384f. and 409ff.; Origen, Contra Celsum V 14 and VII 28/transl. Chadwick 274f. and 417. 10  Werner, Enststehung des Dogmas 684ff. 11  Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 219.

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were limited at best to Pseudo-Ammonius’ fictional doxography in which the author appears to assume a simple continued existence of the soul without, however, turning this opinion into a matter of principle.12 Naẓẓām seems to have imagined that the soul will rise to the empyrean after death, but the heresiographers did not elaborate on this.13 Walīd II – of all people – doubted the existence of the paradise maidens,14 but it was certainly not a dogmatic statement on his part. The female mystic Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya believed that the desire for the houris destroyed the true love for God,15 but the men did not, on the whole, see it like that. When it comes to philosophy, Ibn Sīnā is, of course, the prime example; J. Michot has dedicated a monograph to him (La destinée de l’homme selon Avicenne, Leuven 1986). Michaud speaks of the ‘au-delà imaginal’ (p. 193 and 220), but Ibn Sīnā’s theory was overall rather complex (ibid. 177ff.). ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī was part of his tradition (cf. Arberry, A Sufi Martyr 15). The Ismāʿīlites preceded him; regarding e.g. Abū Yaʿqūb alSijistānī cf. Madelung in: Festschrift Yarshater 140 and 135, and Walker, Early philosophical Shiism 135f. A Shīʿite gnostic like Salmaghānī (executed 322/934) claiming that hell consisted in not accepting his doctrine, and paradise in following him (Yāqūt, Irshād I 302, ult. f.) is on a rather different level and follows ancient Kufan tradition; similar to ideas among the Druze and some Ismāʿīlites such as Sijistānī it was linked to the belief in the transmigration of the soul (cf. Walker in: Festschrift Adams 219ff.). The philosophers may have learnt from the Christians, too; Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī denied the physical existence of hell and claimed hell consisted only in the torments humans felt (cf. the treatise edited by M. Schwarz in: Festschrift Baneth 77, 7ff.). ʿĀmirī, on the other hand, accepted eschatology on the whole (Al-amad ʿalā l-abad in Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 164, 3ff.; ibid. p. 324 includes a translation of the parallel section in ʿĀmirī’s Iʿlām bi-manāqib al-Islām 135ff.). In general see Gardet in EI2 II 45 – s. v. D̲ j̲anna.

12  Cf. cap. XVI 5–11 Rudolph (Comm. 176f.), XVII 14–18 (Comm. 187ff.) XX 16 (Comm. 194f.). 13  See p. 574 above; regarding parallels in the Christian world cf. McDannell/Lang, Heaven 80ff. 14   Dīwān no. 68 v. 6 ʿAṭwān, but only according to Maʿarrī, Ghufrān 436, i.e. a source in which we are not entirely safe from random additions (see vol. II 14 above). 15  Cf. Badawī, Shahīdat al-ʿishq al-ilāhī 64ff.

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Christian polemic pounced on the subject with great gusto. Indications of this occur in hadith and early tradition;16 Jacob of Edessa criticised the coarse sensuality of the Muslims,17 as did Theodore Abū Qurra18 and Byzantine ­theology.19 Over time the Muslims would defend themselves, for instance the ‘Murjiʾite’ Ḥumayd b. Saʿīd,20 or, around the same time, ʿAlī b. Rabban al-Ṭabarī who had been familiar with the Christian position since the time before his ­conversion.21 When a Christian emphasised the spiritual character of his idea of paradise, stating ‘There will be no eating or drinking, and no intercourse’, a Muslim theologian was said to have answered, ‘What a desolate affair!’22 Sensuality was a great asset particularly when converting pagans; according to the chronicle of Nestor the Muslim Volga Bulgars emphasised especially this aspect of their faith when the envoys of Vladimir visited to ask for information before his ultimate conversion to Christianity.23 Jesus’ ruling out marriage in the otherworld had been in the face of the communis opinio of the time; the view of Jewish apocalyptic on the matter had been different.24 Within early Christianity, above all in Judaising circles, the anticipation of sensual pleasures in the otherworld was widespread.25 While the connection that Tor Andrae discovered between the Quranic descriptions and the hymns of Ephrem the Syrian was based on a philological misunderstanding,26 it cannot be said in any case that the Quran was an exception in its sensuality.27 The Church Father Lactantius was convinced that the saints would beget numerous offspring in 16  Cf. Aguadé in: WO 10/1979/61ff.; also vol. II 150 above. 17   Book of Treasures 288ff. 18  See vol. II 499 above. 19  Cf. Khoury, Polémique byzantine 304ff.; a general bibliography on the subject may be found in Khoury, Der Koran I 210f. 20  Cf. Catalogue of Works XXXI b, no. 9; regarding him see p. 149f. above. 21   K. al-dīn wal-dawla 133, apu. ff. = 2201, 5ff./transl. Mingana 157. Cf. also the anti-Christian treatise edited by D. Sourdel in REI 34/1966 (p. 31, 12ff./transl. 22), and Ibn Ḥazm, Uṣūl I 225, –6ff.; in general Fritsch, Islam und Christentum 136ff. 22  Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ III 192, 1ff. 23  L. Müller, Helden und Heilige 34; thus also the interlocutor of Manuel II Palaiologos (Dialogue II 3.6–8 Förstel), and the Liber Scalae Machometi, cap. XXXVff. (§ 86ff. Cerulli). 24  McDannell/Lang, Heaven 24ff. 25  Hanson, Allegory and Event 151f. after Origen. 26  Cf. Andrae, Der Usrsprung des Islams und das Christentum 146ff., as well as E. Beck in: OCP 14/1948/398ff., and MIDEO 6/1959–61/405ff.: paradise is described as a garden with vine bowers, but the feminine plurals do not refer to maidens, as Andrae believed, but rather to grapes. 27  It is not, however, necessary to postulate holy groves and ritual prostitution in pre-Islamic times as G. Lüling did (Über den Ur-Qurʾān 174ff.).

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the otherworld.28 During the Renaissance stories of paradise mentioned kisses and embraces;29 Swedenborg had marital pleasures in mind as well. Even the angels, he thought, engaged in intercourse; they are potent at all times and never weary.30 The result of the philosophers’ interpreting bliss as a more spiritual experience was that the soul, as the primary bearer of such experiences, would enter into heaven immediately after death.31 As we have seen,32 this idea was not as foreign to early Islam as might be claimed later. In the Quran there was at least one passage that presumed that the ‘transgressors’ would receive their punishment immediately after death.33 In that case one could not, of course, continue to claim that paradise and hell did not yet exist. However, this was not an approach that found much support among the theologians. The abovementioned Muʿtazilites34 are probably not representative. Ibn Ḥazm reports similar views from an older contemporary, Ibn Masarra’s follower Ismāʿīl b. ʿAbdallāh al-Ruʿaynī, who had clearly been influenced by antique philosophy.35 The mutakallimūn, on the other hand, adhered to the idea – which was much more characteristic of the Quran – that the resurrection was a ‘reprise’ (maʿād). This word, although the scripture uses it once only (sura 28:85), displaced the other Quranic terms baʿth and qiyāma in the theological speculation, although both the latter occur much more frequently. This is partly due to the fact that the associated verb aʿāda ‘to repeat’ had central significance for the proof of God’s omnipotence: God not only gives the creatures existence at the beginning, but he ‘repeats’ them after they have rested in the grave, and this ‘repetition’ (iʿāda) cannot be doubted, as we are looking at the first creation with our own eyes every day.36 28  Cf. H. J. Vogt, Das sichtbare Reich Gottes, in: 16. Forschungsgespräch Salzburg, p. 80. 29  McDannell/Lang, Heaven 124ff. 30  Ibid. 186 and 219f. 31  Cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 254f. 32  P. 574 and 587 above. 33  Sura 6:93; cf. Schreiner in: Kairos 19/1977/166ff. 34  P. 587 above. 35   Fiṣal IV 80, –6ff., and 199, 10f.; also Uṣūl I 142, 7f. (cf. 144, 6f.); also Asín-Palacios, Ibn Masarra 135f./transl. 114f. Regarding his circle ibid. 122ff./102ff. > Fierro, Heterodoxía 167f. – In Christian theology this theory of the ‘resurrection in death’ is embraced mainly by Gisbert Greshake; cf. G. Greshake/J. Kremer, Resurrectio mortuorum (Darmstadt 1986), p. 165ff., and G. Greshake/G. Lohfink, Naherwartung – Auferstehung – Unsterblichkeit (Freiburg 3(86), p. 82ff. K. Rahner adopted it as well (Über den ‘Zwischenzustand’, in: Schriften XII 455ff.). 36  Cf. sura 10:4 and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 217; also O’Shaughnessy, Muḥammad’s Thoughts on Death 46ff., and Gimaret, Noms divins 196f. The argument that the second creation is easier than the first was already found in early Christianity

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The question now concerned the relation between the original and the copy. It is not the entire world that is created anew but only humans, or all living beings,37 and it is their bodies that are created anew, as their souls may have survived in another place.38 The atomists believed that the atoms that had lost their cohesion and thus their dimensionality when the body decayed (or, they might say, when the accident ‘passing away’ or ‘death’ was added to it), would once again be granted the accident ‘cohesion’ by God.39 We are looking at the scientific version of the idea that God will collect the bones of the dead, as Ezekiel described in his vision.40 However, the body alone is not the person; even if the existence of a ‘human atom’ was presumed,41 it did not necessarily convey individuality. The unmistakeable characteristics of a human were due to ‘accidents’: the colour of his eyes, the pitch of his voice, etc.; if he was to be recognisable in the otherworld, these would have to be ‘repeated’, too. Of course, Abū l-Hudhayl emphasised, God can only ‘repeat’ those accidents that he created himself the first time. This ruled out the actions, as they were attributable to the human himself, and were now the object of the reckoning.42 This, too, would not remain uncontested in the long run.43 People also deliberated on how those who would have to remain in hell for a limited time after the Judgment would be restored upon being received into paradise. Hishām b. al-Ḥakam assumed that they would remain in a kind of stupor, because the splendour and the bliss would be beyond their comprehension (see vol. I 438 above). On the whole, however, this problem was more fascinating to the traditionists than the theologians – and not at all to the Muʿtazilites (cf. Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 345, 1ff.). This class of the damned were called the Jahannamiyyūn (ibid. 344, ult.; Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XV 482, 9; numerous instances in Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl alsunna 1094ff.). Later the view took hold that the jahannam was reserved (Werner, Entstehung des Dogmas 689; O’Shaughnessy, Creation and the Teaching of the Qurʾān 85). 37  This is slightly blurred in the Quran as it always uses the word khalq which may refer to the ‘creatures’ as well as the ‘creation’; but cf. O’Shaughnessy, Creation 76. 38  See p. 582 above. 39  See vol. III 247f. and 275; clear also in the works of the abovementioned Shīʿite Baḥrānī (seventh/thirteenth century). ʿĀmirī presented it from the point of view of a philosopher (Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 162, 7ff.). 40  Ez. 37:1ff. 41  See p. 575 above. 42  See vol. III 275 above; also Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 269f. 43  Cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 298f., and Ashʿarī 505f. Regarding the subject as approached by Hishām al-Fuwaṭī see p. 9f. above; in general also p. 527, and Texts XXIX 3 and XXXI 12.

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to Muslims; unbelievers would go to different hells. The Quran, after all, offered several names to choose from (cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 328). In Judaism the doctrine of the revelation had the least support. Theodore Abū Qurra reports that the Samaritans did not believe in it at all (Mīmar fī wujūd al-khāliq 203, –5f./transl. Monnot in: RHR 208/1991/56). Qirqisānī, too, debated with people who still thought like that in his day. They based their arguments – and rightly so – on the Old Testament, but they also employed the rational argument that upon the death of a human the four elements return to their origin and cannot be joined together again later (Anwār 243ff.; esp. 245, 9ff.). This sounds ‘Dahrite’, but it seems that in their debates with the Dahrites the Muʿtazilites barely touched on this point. When in the late third century the traditionalists began to write against the Jahmiyya, they focussed all their energy on the point of whether the paraphernalia required for the staging of the eschatology, i.e. the scales, the cistern, the bridge, had to be understood literally or metaphorically. They opened an entire new front here; the problem acquired its full explosive force only once hadith and Quran had become inextricably entwined thanks to exegesis. The cistern, for instance, is not mentioned in the Quran at all. The scales had earlier been interpreted metaphorically by broad consensus, as symbolic of justice; e.g. by Mujāhid or Ḍaḥḥāk b. Muzāḥim,44 a number of Basrans,45 and allegedly also Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq.46 The latter provides the link with the Kufan Shīʿites;47 besides them Muḥāsibī mentions the Murjiʾites and the Khārihites as like-minded.48 The Basran Ibāḍites can probably be counted among the last-named; they usually referred to Ibn ʿAbbās in this.49 The exegesis carried conviction not least because the Quran referred to the ‘scales’ a number of times with reference to the earthly existence, where the context almost demanded a metaphorical interpretation.50 Similarly the ‘bridge’ across which one walks into paradise 44  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XII 311 nr. 14334; Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ II 399, 2f. 45  See vol. II 82 and 175 above. 46  Majlisī, Biḥār X 187, 2ff. 47  Here we even find allegorical exegesis: the ‘just scales’ in sura 21:47 are the prophets and their legatees, the imāms (Biḥār VII 250 no. 9, and 251, 10, after Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq). 48   Riʿāya 244, 2f. (if we might read yuʿaṭṭilūna rather than yughalliṭūna here). 49  See vol. II 239 above, which discusses other eschatological details. 50  Thus e.g. Ibn Qutayba with regard to sura 42:17 (Tafsīr gharīb al-Qurʾān 392, 1); further instances in Paret, Kommentar 154f. on sura 6:152. When referring to the otherworld, the plural mawāzīn is always used (sura 7:8f., 23:102f., and 101:6–9); sura 21:47 has al-mawāzīn al-qisṭ.

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was a ‘straight path’ (ṣirāṭ mustaqīm) along which one was guided by God;51 it was only afterwards, in the hadith, that it was combined with the Zoroastrian idea of the chinvat bridge.52 Zarathustra precedes his followers across this bridge,53 just as Muḥammad does when he guides his community from the ‘cistern’ into paradise.54 Ḍirār denied the ṣirāṭ bridge,55 and presumably the ‘cistern’, too; after all, he did not recognise hadiths as having any authority.56 The muḥaddithūn saw no other option but to respond to this with more hadiths.57 Only in Iran, however, was this matter-of-fact approach maintained for longer; the hadith movement had only a weak basis there at first. In Iraq, on the other hand, ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd was only the first not to follow suit.58 In the Muʿtazila Ḍirār was the last one to offer pronounced resistance for reasons of principle. His position, however, shared the weakness of the scripturalist arguments he used and thus had to compromise wherever the Quran furnished an instance (as e.g. in the case of the scales);59 he could not simply reject the entire concept in one fell swoop. The sources tell us nothing about Abū l-Hudhayl and Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir; they probably both kept their own counsel as they did on the question of the punishment of the grave.60 Jāḥiẓ, while stating that human actions could not be treated as bodies that can be weighed, avoids committing himself to this position.61 Kaʿbī belonged with the opponents, while Jubbāʾī did not;62 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār performs remarkable contortions.63 Ashʿarī condemns the opinions anonymously via the ahl al-ḥaqq 51  Cf. e.g. sura 2:142 with the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 35; also the concordance s. v. ṣirāṭ, and Ahrens in: ZDMG 84/1930/48. The transition to the later meaning was facilitated by sura 37:23. 52  Cf. Duchesne/Guillemin in: Festschrift Massé 108f.; in general Nyberg, Religionen des alten Iran 180ff., Cursetji Pavry, The Zoroastrian Doctrine of a Future Life 53ff., 69ff., 79ff., Zaehner, Dawn and Twilight 302f., and Tafazzoli in EIran V 594f. s. v. Činwad Puhl. The idea that the human’s actions are weighed after death is also found in Mazdaism (Cursetji Pavry 80ff.). 53  Yasna 11, v. 10f. 54  See p. 605 above. 55  Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Qalāʾid 130, 11f. 56  See vol. III 55f. above; Ājurrī, Sharīʿa 353, –6ff., says that this was a reason to reject the ‘cistern’. 57  Qushayrī, Ta‌ʾrīkh Raqqa 110, 1f. 58  See vol. II 348 above. 59  See vol. III 56 above. 60  See p. 590 above. 61   Khalq al-Qurʾān in: Rasāʾil III 292, 6f.; regarding the argument cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 318f. This may have been why Ḥafṣ al-Fard ascribed the ability of transforming accidents into bodies to God (see vol. II 819, n. 25 above). 62  Cf. Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ II 399, 2f. 63   Faḍl 204ff.

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and ahl al-bidaʿ; it was probably too difficult to draw clear boundaries.64 When describing the theory of the ahl al-ḥaqq he used the phrase that ‘the scales have one pointer and two pans’; Ṭabarī used this phrase as well.65 There are mentions of the scales on Egyptian gravestones, but not frequently.66 Links with Zoroastrian eschatology were limited. Seeing as they worshipped fire the Zoroastrians were unable to imagine that it would be employed as punishment – and thus polluted – in hell. One of them surprised Jāḥiẓ with the theory that Islam had hellfire only because it was so hot in the prophet’s homeland (Ḥayawān V 69, 2ff.). Jāḥiẓ fired back with the assertion that Zarathustra believed in a cold hell because people in Balkh, where he was born, and in Azerbaijan, where he lived, were greatly troubled by winter (ibid. 67, 2ff.).

64   Maq. 472, 8ff.; also 473, 9ff. regarding the cistern: ahl al-sunna wal-istiqāma vs. ahl al-ahwāʾ. 65   Tafsīr 3XII 311, 9. He says explicitly that he believes this view to be correct (311, pu. ff.). 66  Cf. e.g. RCEA I 157f. no. 200 for the year 215/830; the instance in vol. II 813 above is also Egyptian. In general regarding the issue cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 317ff., and Gimaret, Ashʿarī 511ff.

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Faith Faith (īmān) and bearing witness (shahāda) give the community its individual appearance.1 ‘O you who believe’ (yā ayyuhā lladhīna āmanū) is the constant form of address for the prophet’s followers, and every inscription on a grave of the first centuries contains a profession of the faith in some form. A Muslim who recites the formula lā ilāha illā llāh ‘shall be snatched from the fires of hell’, a hadith assures us, and no subsequent interpretation can hide the fact that this was meant as an absolute;2 as long as one does not associate other gods with God, one will go to paradise even if one steals and fornicates.3 There is a relation of mutual loyalty between God and those who believe in him. God cares for the humans, and they are grateful to him;4 humans do good, and then God is grateful for it.5 Unbelief is ingratitude.6 This Quranic approach was received in various ways. The Umayyad caliphs, ‘commander of the faithful’, as they called themselves, demanded the loyalty due to a representative of God (khalīfat Allāh);7 when Ibn al-Ashʿāth’s uprising collapsed, Ḥajjāj insisted that his Kufan sympathisers should accuse themselves of being infidels.8 Khārijites and Shīʿites, on the other hand, limited the faith community to their own circle. No paradise without the belief in ʿAlī, the Shīʿites said,9 and the Khārijites asserted: everyone who is not one of ours is a ‘polytheist’ (mushrik).10 This was a harsh word; one might think that pagan Mecca still lived on in the Muslims. No-one except the Khārijites ever applied 1   Regarding witness cf. M. Arkoun, L’Islam, morale et politique 29ff. 2   Cf. Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 213, pu. ff. (= Conc. VII 270a) with the subsequent commentary. 3   Ibid. 223, 11ff. (= Conc. VI 283b). The preceding hadith, too, only demanded that one must ‘have God before one’s eyes’ when reciting the profession of faith (see p. 398 above). Of course both these prophetic dicta do not explicitly rule out that the sinner must spend a certain time in hell; but people at the time certainly did not notice that. 4   Nagel, Der Koran 201f. 5   Sura 2:158; cf. sura 4:147. Also Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts 120f. 6   In more detail vol. II 261f. above; also I 318. Regarding the semantic environment of kufr cf. Izutsu, ibid. 119ff.; in addition M. Waldman in: JAOS 88/1968/442ff., who also looks at the historical aspect. 7   See vol. I 30 above. 8   See vol. II 48 above; Sayed, Ibn al-Ashʿāth 237 (read ‘soll er’ instead of ‘sollen’; cf. Ṭabarī II 1096, ult. f.). 9  See vol. I 318 above. 10  See vol. II 262f. above.

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this term to Muslims. Even they themselves found it difficult to maintain this position; believing themselves to be purer than the others became increasingly difficult when they uncovered sinners in their own ranks. The ideal of a community of saints was shattered by the incompatibility of a sense of community with holiness. Najda b. ʿĀmir’s followers saw themselves compelled to show solidarity even with those among their fellow believers who were liable to a ḥadd punishment.11 The Ibāḍites grew used to distinguishing between kufr and kufr niʿma, disrupting the union – already secondary – between unbelief and ingratitude.12 The Nukkārite Hārūn b. al-Yamān thought that while all sins lead to unbelief, venial ones would be pardoned.13 The Najdiyya refused to comment on whether God would punish his chosen people at all; but he would certainly not punish them for eternity, and not in the fires of hell.14 He does not, however, spare the mushrikūn; after all, they are not even Muslims. The Khārijites made these distinctions on one side only – concerning unbelief. ‘Faith’ and ‘Islam’, on the other hand, remained essentially convertible. This was an axiom that not even their opponents questioned, although the consequence they drew was entirely different: whoever professes Islam as his religion is a believer. It took the Muʿtazila and, presumably, its introduction of the concept of fāsiq, to achieve a shift within this idea.15 While the Quran had provided a number of terms describing a grave sinner,16 it was the Muʿtazilites who established the new three-valued coordinate system. They were the first to regard the fāsiq as a separate category – the Muslim who is not muʾmin – and they were the first who dared to assert that a Muslim might be damned forever. The Khārijites had only ever said this of the kāfir (or the mushrik), and the others, who regarded themselves as representatives of the great majority, the whole community of Muslims ( jamāʿa), had believed the strength of faith to be so great within every Muslim that he might come in contact with the fire at best temporarily.17 They regarded the Muslims as ahl al-janna,18 and even if they had to go to hell for their sins, they would not become ahl al-nār but merely jahannamiyyūn.19 11  Ashʿarī, Maq. 91, 3f. 12  See vol. II 261ff. above. 13  Wilkinson, Imamate Tradition 165; regarding Hārūn al-Yamān see vol. II 244 above. 14  Ashʿarī, Maq. 91, ff.; Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 190, 9ff. 15  Cf. in detail vol. II 298ff. above. The process is presented in an abbreviated form here; in particular, the interimistic nature of the term munāfiq will not be discussed again (cf. ibid. 262 and 300f.). 16  Cf. Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts 156ff. 17  See p. 609f. above; also the hadiths in Ibn Khuzayma 190, 17ff., and 206, 11ff. 18  Regarding this term see vol. I 25 above. 19  See p. 623 above.

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This attitude to life, which was expressed in hadiths over a long time, was expressed as a theory by Abū Ḥanīfa; in his letter to ʿUthmān al-Battī he targeted the Muʿtazilites without naming them specifically.20 What troubled him was that with their emphasis on sin they gave such great prominence to the actions of humans; he could not countenance them questioning the primacy of the act of faith. He pointed to the situation of the early community: Muḥammad had demanded faith from his followers even before God had given the commandments. Abū Ḥanīfa, mutatis mutandis, did what Maḥmūd Ṭāhā attempted in the twentieth century: he distinguished between the Meccan and the Medinan periods.21 He did not devalue actions, but he accorded them independent significance. They do not constitute faith, but they perfect it, as it was put by people in his circle.22 Faith as such is the same everywhere, whether it is an angel expressing it or the humblest of humans: it is agreeing with the true doctrine of the one God.23 If it overlaps with actions anywhere, it will be within dīn, ‘religion’, the order willed by God and the morals informed by religious understanding. An exhaustive study into the concept of dīn has yet to be undertaken. Regarding dīn as the ‘order willed by God’ cf. Nagel, Staat und Glaubensgemeinschaft I 13ff.; regarding dīn as ‘custom, morals’ cf. Farrukh, Bild des Frühislams 86ff.; regarding dīn in the Quran see Jeffery, Foreign Vocabulary 131f., and Izutsu, God and Man in the Koran 219ff.; regarding its usage in general W. C. Smith, The Meaning and End of Religion 80ff., 20  See vol. I 222ff. above. This does not mean that the Murjiʾites relied on the hadiths mentioned or supported their arguments with them. While Ibn Khuzayma claims this (Tawḥīd 224, pu.), it applies at best to people like Muqātil b. Sulaymān, not to Abū Ḥanīfa. In another context Ibn Khuzayma consequently qualifies his claim – albeit, due to the context, with a negative expression (which might once again indicate Muqātil; 212, –6). In addition, it does not mean that the ‘birth of purgatory’ in Islam came with Abū Ḥanīfa. It is true that the idea of a temporary punishment in hell became thinkable only thanks to the Muʿtazilites establishing the fāsiq as a separate category, but the development took its time. It was not even entirely completed with Ibn Shabīb or Muḥāsibī (see p. 143f. and 230 above; in general also p. 609f.). 21  Regarding Maḥmūd Ṭāhā cf. A. A. An-Naʿim’s translation of his manifesto The Second Message of Islam (Syracuse 1987) 124ff.; also R. Schulze, Islamischer Internationalismus im 20. Jh., p. 377ff. (with further reading), and several MA theses (J. Rinnert, Germersheim/ Mainz; J. Rogalski, Berlin; I. Stümpel, Freiburg); also A. Œvermann, Die ‘Republikanischen Brüder’ im Sudan. Eine islamische Reformbewegung im zwanzigsten Jahrhundert. Frankfurt 1993). 22  See vol. I 231, n. 11 above; also Text IV 62, b, regarding the Shīʿite ʿAlī b. Mītham. For criticism see vol. I 209 above. 23  Ibid. 202; in more detail vol. II 740 above.

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and F. Jadʿān, Miḥna 294ff. The dīn of Jews and Muslims is mentioned in the so-called community rules of Medina; it probably denotes the way of living based on religion, the ‘law’ (cf. Serjeant in: BSOAS 41/1978/26f., 2a). Accordingly, each tribe has its own custom: kullu qawmin wa-dīnahum (cf. Kister in: JESHO 15/1972/72 = Studies, no. II). The Arabs have their dīn (cf. von Grunebaum in: Arabica 10/1963/15), but so do individuals (cf. the letter said to be from ʿUmar to Abū Mūsā al-Ashʿarī in: JSS 29/1984/69, translated as ‘your conduct’ by Serjeant; also vol. I 155 above). In the Umayyad era people feared that with the increase in clients the rule of free men would vanish and their dīn would change (Ṭabarī II 627, 14f.). Someone intending to elucidate his political opinion would say he was ʿalā dīn ʿAlī or ʿalā dīn ʿUthmān (Ṭabarī II 342, 6; 350, ult.; 659, 8; Agh. XIV 231, 10; similar also Y. Nevo et al., Ancient Arabic Inscriptions from the Negev 7). The religious convictions of the Shīʿites were thus dīn as well (Barqī, Maḥāsin 168, –8); one of ʿAlī al-Riḍā’s followers said: nadīnu llāh bi-ṭāʿatikum (Majlisī, Biḥār XXIX 265, 2). This expression is clearly influenced by the Quran; the noun as well as the cognate verb are found there (the latter in one place only, sura 9:29), and it also uses the phrase dīn allāh (sura 3:83; besides dīn al-ḥaqq in sura 9:29, and in the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 199). The collocation lived on, e.g. in Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s works (cf. Māturīdī, Ta‌ʾwīlāt ahl al-sunna I 176, 3 regarding Ḥasan’s Tafsīr) or those of the Ibāḍite Sālim b. Dhakwān (Text II 2, c). Later, dīn Muḥammad would be found besides dīn Allāh, such as when tombstones say that someone died ʿalā fiṭrat al-Islām wa-dīn Muḥammad al-nabī (cf. RCEA II 245 no. 752). It is only then that it may be translated as ‘religion’ without qualms. The Quran prepares this step especially in sura 5:3, which has God assure the Muslims: ‘Today I have perfected your dīn for you … and I have approved Islam for your dīn’. Here, too, dīn is the order that satisfies God, the observance of rites; but it is also Islam and that which distinguishes Muḥammad’s community from all others. This is why an ancient formula calls Islam ‘our dīn’ (see vol. I 17 above). Before Islam, however, there was the dīn Ibrāhīm in Mecca (cf. Rubin in: JSAI 13/1991/99ff.). Anthropomorphists may have imagined that the dīn Allāh like the Quran emanated directly from God (vol. I 243 also p. 412f. above). And we must always bear in mind that ‘religion’ can never denote something subjective or private in this context, but only ever an objective and public code of behaviour (thus Frank in: MIDEO 15/1982/73, n. 72). This applies even when Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī’s K. al-furūq says that unlike milla, which denotes religion (sharīʿa) as a whole, dīn is that which each individual follower abides by (181, 9f.; regarding the relation see also

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Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Iʿtiqādāt 107, 4ff., and Gardet EI2 II 294 b s. v. Dīn). According to the K. al-ʿālim wal-mutaʿallim Abū Ḥanīfa also distinguished between dīn and sharīʿa: all prophets have the same dīn, but not the same sharāʾiʿ (p. 5f.). Consequently different religions were not called adyān, as in modern usage, but milal; Shahrastānī devoted some thought to it at the beginning of his K. al-milal wal-niḥal (25, 12ff./48, 2ff.; cf. Gimaret’s translation Livre 165ff.). The situation in the Quran is less clear because dīn has the additional meaning ‘judgment’ there, especially in the phrase yawm al-dīn, but also on its own (cf. Paret, Kommentar 524 on sura 107:1). This is a loan word from Aramaic that had entered Arabic in pre-Islamic times (cf. Horovitz, Koranische Untersuchungen 62). Thus in Īshōʿbukht’s Syrian law book, dīnā denotes the applied civil code as opposed to nāmōsā, the ideal law (cf. Sachau, Syrische Rechtsbücher III, Einleitung). – We must also bear in mind that Old Iranian daēnā > Middle Iranian dēn also means, among other things, ‘religion’ (cf. Nyberg, Religionen des alten Iran 114ff., and M. Shaki in EIran 279ff.). This dēn inhabits the human like a beautiful girl (cf. Dēnkart, transl. de Menasce 236f. = § 225), and meets him in this form in the afterlife again (Cursetji Pavry, Future Life 28ff.; Boyce, Zoroastrians 27). Because of this Nöldeke declared Ar. dīn ‘religion’ a loan word and attempted to separate it from dīn ‘custom, morals’ (in: ZDMG 37/1883/534, n. 2; also Jeffery, Foreign Vocabulary 132 and W. C. Smith, Meaning and End 98ff.). However, this has not remained uncontested (cf. Gardet in EI2 II 293 b). In the context of a synchronous approach such as that by Izutsu in the abovementioned study, or Y. Y. Haddad in: MW 64/1974/114ff., the issue is irrelevant anyway. Of course the Arab philologists who were aware of the overlap did not want to admit any dependence (cf. Abū Hilāl, Furūq 181, –5ff.). The word dīn never became a theological term, probably because it was not unambiguous. Dīn meaning ‘religion’ was part of faith, while dīn meaning ‘custom, morals’ was part of actions. The Muʿtazilites could easily claim the term as their own; after all, dīn also comprised the ritual obligations, which were actions.24 Abū Ḥanīfa, on the other hand, focussed on the substance of the faith. Of course the two were difficult to separate in any case, in living reality as in the revealed text with which everything started, the Quran. To begin with, Muḥammad had demanded agreement above all; rational recognition of his message that had been found to be true. He had brought ‘knowledge’, while 24  Thus e.g. Mānkdīm, ShUKh 708, 1f.

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his opponents only had ‘opinions’ to offer.25 Faith had been a matter for the head, and in a certain sense the heart, too, as the trust in things that were in the future and could not be seen (ghayb).26 Later, though, when a community with a firm dīn had become established in Medina, it became important ‘to believe and to do what is right’ (āmana wa-ʿamila l-ṣāliḥāt) – faith as the duty of the limbs, as obedience;27 ṭāʿa meant ‘obedience’ as well as ‘act of obedience’, and the name adopted by the religion, islām, originally meant the submission to God’s will, too.28 The only passage that lists tenets of faith in the form of a catalogue, sura 2:177, has ‘dogmas’ next to ritual customs.29 Abū Ḥanīfa brought clarity by ‘equating’ īmān ‘faith’ with taṣdīq ‘believing to be true’;30 actions could thus only be signs of faith. With this infinitive he raised a verb from the oldest layer of Quranic revelation to the status of a term; in sura 75:31f. ṣaddaqa is the opposite of kadhdhaba in the sense of ‘believing (in the revelation)’ vs. ‘declaring (it) to be a lie’.31 Whether Abū Ḥanīfa was aware that this recourse to the Meccan phase was precisely in keeping with his theory is difficult to say; exegesis did not usually approach the Quran from a historical angle, but looked at it as an intellectual unit. Still, it was part of a tradition; as Ringgren pointed out following Ahrens, the emphasis on the theoretical and intellectual aspect had already been characteristic of the concept of faith in Eastern Christianity.32 Islam acquires a trait here that has defined 25  Cf. my Erkenntnislehre 13; also Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes 101. 26  Cf. Macdonald/Gardet in EI2 II 1025f. s. v. G̲ h̲ayb; Gaudefroy-Demombynes in: Mél. Massignon II 245ff.; Berque. Le Coran 751. 27  Regarding these different aspects of the Quranic concept of faith cf. Ringgren in: Oriens 4/1951/1ff.; also Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts 184ff. In general on the various ways in which faith can be defined see Pelikan in ER V 250ff. s. v. Faith; regarding Islam Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 361ff. 28  The sentence inna l-dīna ʿinda llāhi l-islām in sura 3:19 may be translated as ‘Als (einzig wahre) Religion gilt bei Gott der Islam’ (Paret; Arberry agrees: ‘The true religion with God is Islam’), or ‘The (correct) religious behaviour with God is the submission to his will’ (W. C. Smith, On understanding Islam 47); cf. sura 2:128 and 131f. If aslama meant ‘to convert to Islam’, it was not identical with āmana ‘to believe’ (cf. sura 49:14; cf. Jomier in EI2 IV 171b. s. v. Islām). 29  See p. 395f. above. There, however, the referent was not īmān but birr ‘piety’. 30  See vol. I 222f. above. Regarding the meaning in general cf. W. C. Smith, loc. cit. 148ff. and earlier; critically R. M. Frank in: JAOS 106/1986/313ff. 31  Regarding the problems raised by the passage cf. Paret, Kommentar 495f.; for parallels see Ringgren, loc. cit. 10f. Regarding kadhdhaba as the oldest term describing the attitude of an unbeliever cf. Waldmann in: JAOS 88/1968/444f.; in his translation of the Quran Berque translates kafara as ‘dénier’, too. Regarding kadhdhaba in general WKAS I 94f.; regarding ṣaddaqa also R. Würsch, Avicennas Bearbeitungen der aristotelischen Rhetorik (Freiburg 1991), p. 21, n. 104. 32  Ibid. 12ff.; also Ahrens in: ZDMG 84/1930/58ff.

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its appearance to this day: faith and knowledge co-exist in harmony; faith does not ‘search for’ understanding as Anselm of Canterbury did. The idea that a religious experience might have more certainty than another insight (credo ut intellegam), or that another insight might have to be sacrificed to faith, a sacrificium intellectus (credo quia absurdum), always remained foreign to kalām.33 Of course this should not be over-emphasised. Islamic mysticism shows that it was possible to think along different lines. The task given to humans was amenable to reason, but reason was not the guiding principle. This kind of antique thinking was outdated; Judaism had raised obedience to God’s decrees to the rank of a principle.34 This was obedience not only in one’s actions, but also in the trusting acceptance of a truth and promise imparted; this was the reason why faith could be seen as bearing witness. Even the Murjiʾa grasped this; not, however, in Kufa, but among those theologians who lived in Basra with the Muʿtazilites. They looked for the inner attitude that gave meaning to actions, namely the heart’s share, and found it in virtues such as humility before God and love for him.35 Faith thus became devoutness, based on recognising one’s creaturehood. The words used were strangely un-Quranic;36 it seems that the ascetic climate in the city had to be taken into consideration.37 At the same time this was an attempt at overtaking the Muʿtazila on this side; when it came to the rational subjects, such as the profession of the oneness of God and the recognition of God’s justice, on the other hand, they agreed with each other. Compared to taṣdīq the extent of meaning was immense: the term had been existentially unfurled.38 The faith now contained ‘elements’ (khiṣāl), and one might wonder whether they all had to be realised in order to guarantee its continued existence.39 Still, the Basran Murjiʾites were not swayed: faith is indivisible.40 Of course this meant that partial transgression, pride instead

33  Cf. W. C. Smith, On understanding Islam 153f. 34  Cf. Dihle, Vorstellung vom Willen in der Antike 24ff., also 79ff. 35  See vol. II 198, 200, 210 above; also vol. I 220. Reflected also in Text XIV 1, b. 36  Regarding ‘humility’ see vol. II 198 above; regarding ‘love’ cf. Rahbar, God of Justice 180f., and p. 418 above. The Quran emphasises entirely different expressions of faith, above all fear and gratitude (cf. Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts 184ff.). Cf., on the other hand, the fides caritate formata of St Thomas Aquinas (Summa theologica II 2, quaestio 4 art. 5). 37  In Basra in particular the love of God acquired particular relevance in the context of the burgeoning mysticism (see vol. II 114 and 117 above). Ṣāliḥī would later regard it as equal to humility (Text XXXI 44, d). 38  Ḥalīmī later adopted this into his K. shuʿab al-īmān (cf. the chapters I 496ff.). 39  Cf. Text II, 6, f; 11, c; 15, d; 17, d etc. 40  See vol. II 197 and 200 above. According to Text II 6, g, Abū Ḥanīfa had asserted this as well, although it may simply be the heresiographer’s interpretation.

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of humility for instance (as in the case of Satan), led to unbelief.41 Muʿtazilite theory was more flexible at this point; actions could be balanced against each other.42 However, the Muʿtazilite concept of justice based on actions also implied that faith did not exist as an independent entity. This reduction was possible because – unlike Christianity – Islam is not a ‘religion of redemption’; it was possible to speak of the ‘triumph of morals over religion’.43 The Murjiʾites alone transformed the chapter de fide into a separate didactic play, while the Muʿtazilites were concerned with the asmāʾ wa-aḥkām in this context, the legal consequences attendant on the respective salvational status.44 Basran Murjiʾite tradition survived for a long time, even on the fringes of the Muʿtazila itself. In the second half of the third century they virtually held the reins in Iraq;45 it was Jubbāʾī who brought about the change. Still, the two positions were not ‘idealtypically’ opposed; people did not think in either – or categories here as they did when it came to the doctrine of the attributes or the khalq al-Qurʾān, but adjusted continually. Nobody, after all, rejected actions, and nobody claimed that ‘believing (something) to be true’ was irrelevant; the argument was never as embittered as that fought by the Christians during the reformation. Not much was written about these subjects, either; titles such as K. al-taṣdīq or K. al-īmān are comparatively rare in early kalām.46 Even the question of whether one could believe without rationally accounting for the substance, i.e. the issue of taqlīd, became virulent only occasionally, such as with Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir or Thumāma.47 There was fundamental agreement concerning the fact that even the minimum acceptance of the tenets of faith was sufficient for someone to become a Muslim; Ibn Kullāb illustrated this using the well-known hadith about the female slave who raised her eyes to heaven, thus professing the

41  See vol. II 210 above. 42  See p. 73 above. The problem facing the Muʿtazila, on the other hand, consisted in whether the actions that went beyond the obligatory level, the opera supererogationis (nawāfil) should be included in the calculation or not. Based on old ascetic tradition, the answer was positive (see vol. III 310 above regarding Abū l-Hudhayl); but later the idea would be rejected (cf. Mānkdīm, ShUKh 708, 3ff., regarding Jubbāʾī and Abū Hāshim). 43  Leuze, Christentum und Islam 281. 44  See vol. II 299ff. above. 45  See p. 137ff. above, especially Ibn Shabīb’s definition of faith (p. 144). 46  Cf. the index of book titles. Abū ʿUbayd and Ibn Abī Shayba both wrote a K. al-īmān, as did Ibn Taymiyya, but none of them was a mutakallim. 47  See vol. III 118, 154, 180 above; also p. 745 below.

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existence of God.48 Add to this the profession of Muḥammad’s prophethood, and the shahāda was complete. Looking at things in this way suggested itself in areas where the approach was not academic, but rather practical and missionary. The result was once again basically Murjiʾite, but overall different. In eastern Iran Jahm b. Ṣafwān, presumably encouraged by the circumstances of the mission, limited faith to the recognition of the one God. In his view this recognition took place in the heart; the profession of faith one expresses with one’s mouth was not constitutive of the act of faith. Faith is a gift from God; one experiences it as conversion. Instruction comes later; one learns the substance of the revelation through catechesis. The Murjiʾites represented the rights of the neophytes in eastern Iran; the Arabs’ firm conviction of the faith, grown out of receiving the revelation, had no meaning for them.49 The Basrans had seen this differently; to them faith was always also belief in that which ‘the prophet brought from God’.50 They sometimes interpreted knowledge of God per se as a rational preliminary stage, as the natural religion they shared with the pagans.51 Like Jahm they thus believed that the pagans were excluded from the true act of faith, but in Jahm’s view the reason for this was that faith was a gift of divine grace. Unlike the Basrans Jahm was a pure determinist.52 On the other hand, his teachings were easily compatible with Abū Ḥanīfa’s taṣdīq. While there is no proof that he had personal contact with Abū Ḥanīfa,53 the first of the Kufan jurist’s pupils visited eastern Iran only one generation after Jahm’s death. Through them, Jahm’s impulse returned to Iraq as a Ḥanafite dogma, observable particularly in the case of Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣāliḥī,54 and to some extent also earlier in the case of Najjār.55 Ibn Taymiyya regarded Ashʿarī, who agreed with Ṣāliḥī in this point56 and referred to Najjār in many others,57 as following Jahm.58

48  Cf. Text XXXIII 23, commentary; besides the recognition of the existence of God there is the belief in the resurrection (Ibn Khuzayma, Tawḥīd 82, 9ff.). 49  Regarding all this see vol. II 558ff. above. 50  See vol. II 197f. and 201 above; regarding the expression cf. Text II 17, commentary. 51  Ibid. 197; also 825. Cf. also p. 403f. above. 52  See vol. II 559f. 53  Ibid. 557. 54  See p. 154 above. 55  See p. 177 above. He speaks of the ‘elements’ of faith, like Abū Shamir, all the same, and includes the revelation among them (ibid.). 56  Cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 472ff.; the definition of faith was recorded by Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad 150, 3f. and 16f. 57  See p. 167 above. 58   Īmān 114, –7ff.

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Ibn Taymiyya disliked that there was no room for the outward profession of Islam (iqrār, qawl) beside the inward agreement; in his view, Ibn Kullāb’s decision had been much better.59 And indeed, many other Murjiʾites included the profession of faith in the definition: Ibn Shabīb al-Baṣrī,60 Bishr al-Marīsī,61 and even Najjār.62 The decision was probably tied to the respective location. In places where people did not speak enough Arabic to pronounce the shahāda without mistakes, it became a problem; from an early time the Ḥanafites in eastern Iran and Central Asia considered whether prayers and Quranic recitation might be performed in a language that was not that of the revelation.63 Where, however, Arabic speakers were among themselves, the profession of the faith could simply take the place of the taṣdīq, for instance among the Iranian Khārijites who appear to have had specific celebrations of the profession of the faith, a ‘confirmation’ rite for adolescents who were joining the community.64 Ibn Karrām would later emphasise firmly the precedence of the profession of the faith over the taṣdīq; he lived in Nishapur, a long way from the border. And furthermore: he was a Sufi, and to him the profession was not the simple legal testimony as which it had been regarded so far. His point seems to have been that humans had already professed their faith before God in the pre-existence; the taṣdīq was virtually an innate consequence.65 Māturīdī rejected this theory, but returned to the taṣdīq, which in his view applied to the prophetic revelation as well as to knowledge of God.66 He believed it to be inner agreement with all the tenets of the faith, and expressed in the profession.67 The question of the requirements of the faith, the minimum of necessary substance, was also discussed most intensively in eastern Iran. This is where it had its Sitz im Leben; the text that provides the most in-depth information is the Fiqh al-absaṭ.68 In Iraq it was asked in slightly different terms, inquiring whether a human needed to know the tenets of the faith and the law summarily only. 59   Taṣdīq + qawl (ibid.; cf. p. 219 above). In Ibn Taymiyya’s eyes this was the madhhab al-salaf; in this sense also Text XXXIII 43 A. 60  See p. 143 above. 61  Text XX 29, b. 62  See p. 167 above. 63  See vol. II 553 above; in general Paret in EI2 V 429. 64  See vol. II 668f. above; also 645f. 65  Ibid. 684. The opponents always interpreted this theory as minimalist (cf. e.g. Zayn al-Dīn ʿĀmilī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-īmān 80, ult. ff.). 66   Tawḥīd 373, 8ff. 67  Madelung in EI2 VI 847 a. Cf. also Ḥakīm al-Tirmidhī’s theory analysed by Radtke in Tirmidhī 80ff., or Junayd’s definition of faith in Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya X 265, –7ff./transl. Deladrière 61ff. In general Massignon, Passion 2III 161ff./transl. III 148ff. 68  See vol. II 603 above.

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However, the examples cited in anecdotal illustration of the dissension show just how theoretical the discussion was here; they are not very realistic and in part made up.69 The Muʿtazilites – and before them the Ibāḍites – were much more interested in discovering which truths of the faith could be recognised even by pagans;70 they were looking at the question under the aspect of compatibility with reason. Everyone was also concerned with the point at which insight and understanding became transformed into responsibility. As a result there was a kind of ‘cross-school’ consensus in Iraq regarding the possibility of a natural law or natural theology. In the Muʿtazila the idea was explored particularly deeply by Naẓẓām,71 but also by Abū l-Hudhayl,72 and maybe already by ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd;73 following Murjiʾite tradition by Najjār,74 and by Abū Thawbān.75 The story of Ma‌ʾmūn’s dream narrated by Ibn al-Nadīm expresses it paradigmatically.76 Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir went so far as to believe that even the eternal duration of the punishment in hell could be proven.77 This step met with scepticism, but the line continues via Iskāfī78 and Jubbāʾī to Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār and his school.79 Māturīdī, too, insisted that ethical evaluations are part of ratio; ‘orthodox’ criticism was mostly limited to the Ashʿarites.80 This was adopted even by the Ḥanbalites.81 Ibn Taymiyya had no qualms to point out that many jurists from the various schools embraced natural ethics; only Ashʿarī broke ranks because he wanted to polemicise against the Muʿtazila.82

69  See vol. I 232f. above. 70  See vol. II 201 above; also I 412ff. and II 265. 71  See vol. III 414 and 429 above. 72  Cf. Text XXI 46, b. 73  If the relevant text is genuine (X 6, c). 74  See p. 177 above. 75  Text II 23. Does this tendency among the Murjiʾites go back to Abū Ḥanīfa? (cf. vol. I 234f. above). 76   Fihrist 303, –4ff.; also Endreß in: Festschrift Falaturi 151f. 77  See p. 71f. above; similar also ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān (see p. 45f. above). 78  Cf. Text XXIX 23. 79  Gimaret, Ashʿarī 444. Regarding ʿAbd al-Jabbār in general cf. G. F. Hourani, Islamic Rationalism (Oxford 1971), and Abdalla I. Mohammed’s (unpublished) PhD thesis The notion of good and evil in the ethics of ʿAbd al-Jabbār. A philosophical study, with a translation of ‘The Determination of Justice and Injustice’, sections 1–12 (Temple University Washington 19830; also Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 124ff. Regarding the Shīʿites cf. Schmidtke, The Theology of al-ʿAllāma al-Ḥillī 99ff. 80  Ibid. 444ff.; Rudolph in: ZDMG 142/1992/76 and 86. 81  Cf. e.g. Ibn ʿAqīl, Funūn 400ff. no. 363. 82   Radd ʿalā l-mantiqiyyīn 420, 16ff.

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As so often in Ibn Taymiyya’s case, this was acutely observed but sounded rather one-sided at the same time. Fundamentally the Islamic world experimented using three models: a) ethical norms co-exist with God, and he has to abide by them (thus in the view of some Muʿtazilites and many philosophers); b) God is above the ethical norms and does not have to abide by them (thus the Ashʿarites); c) God decrees the ethical norms and abides by them (thus the Māturīdites). The question of the degree to which moral responsibility had existed even before the revelation had central significance in this context. It was frequently linked to deliberations on the juristic ‘blanket clause’: whether everything that is not explicitly prohibited should be regarded as permitted (ibāḥa aṣliyya), and consequently things upon which a prohibition was imposed in the revelation, such as e.g. food taboos, should be regarded as permitted in the preceding time (see vol. II 343 above, and especially Schacht in EI2 III 661; also A. Kevin Reinhart, Before Revelation. The Boundaries of Muslim Moral Thought, Albany 1995). Later the additional question emerged of whether the legal qualification of a circumstance was furnished by the ratio legis (ʿilla) and consequently rationally founded, or whether it came directly from God or the prophet as the respective ‘law-giver’ (shāriʿ; cf. A. Hasan, Analogical Reasoning in Islamic Jurisprudence 151ff.). We cannot go into details here. Aristotle had, of course, demonstrated already that ethics could be explained rationally. The Muʿtazila developed an idea under the heading of istiḥqāq that is familiar to us from the Nicomachean Ethics: that actions may be evaluated as good or evil inasmuch as they deserve praise or criticism.83 The Church Fathers had also agreed with this.84 In the case of Islam it was important, in addition, that the idea of a natural religion was found in a much-read ancient text: in Kalīla wa-Dimna, precisely in the preamble Burzōya had written to accompany the text.85 Burzōya says that he, after passing through scepticism, intended to abide by that on which all religions agree, and which thus precedes them, as it were. Interestingly this comprises mainly ethical principles: do not kill, do not steal, do not lie, etc.;86 83  Hourani 29f., 39, and 144ff.; also Reinhart, Before Revelation 153ff.; cf. Text XXI 149 and 155, i. Cf. Eth. Nic. III 1. 1109b 30ff. 84  Wolfson, Philosophy of the Kalam 616ff. Of course the perspective shifted: Aristotle had subjected actions to the evaluation of society, while Christians and Muslims left the evaluation to God. However, we are looking at the criterion here, and that was the same in both cases. 85  Cf. vol. II 32f. above. 86  P. 86, 5ff.

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furthermore there is asceticism which grows out of the belief in life after death. It may be that what we are looking at is the same train of thought that would become relevant during the Islamic period in the enlightened religion of the Dahrites and the zanādiqa; Bashshār b. Burd includes similar ideas,87 as would Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī after him.88 Judaism invoked the so-called Noachic commandments at this point, seven ethical maxims drawn up after the Flood that were thus applicable to all humans even before Moses received the Torah on Mount Sinai.89 The focus here was on Abraham’s actions; his place in the chronology was between Noah and Moses.90 The Muslims, who were familiar with the concept of an Abrahamitic religion (millat Ibrāhīm) thanks to the Quran,91 traced the commandment of circumcision (which is not mentioned in the Quran) back to this time.92 The latter, of course, does not really fall under the purview of ethics. It is also interesting that nowhere in the Islamic text is the concept of conscience developed as a factor that goes beyond the revelation. All the same, this is a separate problem. Judaism did not employ this category, either; the modern Jewish religious philosopher Isaiah Leibowitz calls conscience an atheist category.93 Christianity, on the other hand, can call on St Paul in this matter,94 although he had been in a rather different situation. He had had to prove that the pagans, too, carry the law in their hearts; the Stoic concept of συνείδησις was perfect for him in the context. He employed the idea of natural law as a weapon against Jewish legalism.95 Furthermore, in Christianity, too, the concept of conscience took centre stage only with the pietists and the enlightenment in the eighteenth century, i.e. with the shift towards individualisation that took place at the time. 87  See vol. II 16 above. 88   Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 156, 2ff. Here, as indeed in Burzōya’s text, eschatology is counted among these fundamental elements. This may be specifically Iranian; the Muʿtazilites may have felt encouraged by it to expand natural theology to include the eternal duration of the punishment in hell. 89  Westermann, Genesis I 628ff.; A. Lichtenstein, The Seven Laws of Noah (New York 1981). 90  Urbach, The Sages 317ff. 91  See p. 658 below. 92  As a fiṭra; cf. EI2 V 20 a s. v. Khitān, and vol. II 438 above. 93  A discussion of the issue may be found in Z. Falk, Law and Religion 66ff. The Old Testament does not have a corresponding term, but the phenomenon of the ‘inner voice’ is sometimes covered by the word lēb ‘heart’ (Eckstein 107ff.). 94  Cf. Rom. 2:14f. Also H.-J. Eckstein, Der Begriff Syneidesis bei Paulus (PhD Tübingen 1983); also Dihle, Vorstellung vom Willen 91f.; in general Chadwick in RAC X 1025ff. 95  Cf. A. Verdross, Abendländische Rechtsphilosophie 253ff.; in general H. Räisäinen, Paul and the Law (Tübingen 1983).

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This was elaborated in H. D. Kittsteiner’s Bielefeld professorial dissertation (Die Entstehung des modernen Gewissens; Frankfurt 1991). T. E. Huff ascribes significant, and possibly too significant, importance to the concept of conscience in The Rise of Early Modern Science (Cambridge 1993), p. 107ff.; he quotes secondary sources on the subjects in n. 63. Cf. also M.-D. Chenu, L’éveil de la conscience dans la civilisation médiévale Paris 1969). With regard to Islam briefly Hofheinz in: Wuqūf 7–8/1992–3/461ff. As for natural ethics, there were two subjects in which the extent of the question became especially clear to Muslims: the prohibition of killing and the usefulness of lying. The prohibition of killing appeared mainly under the heading īlām al-ḥayawān ‘animal cruelty’, as slaughtering was, regarded rationally, a case of violence ( jawr), while the revelation accorded it in the form of sacrifice a place as an act of worship. This question had already exercised the Jews, who had thought it through under a wider aspect, based on the example of the sacrifice of Isaac. It is consequently not surprising that ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd was said to have focussed on this very issue, too (vol. V 172ff. [of the German edition]). Naẓẓām, too, would later discuss the issue in some detail (vol. III 442 above), and Ibn al-Rēwandī and Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq exploited the discrepancy between reason and ‘law’ in this context to the full (see p. 326 and 360f. above). Regarding the reaction to it recorded by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār cf. Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 172ff.; Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī summarises the Muʿtazilite deliberations on the question after sura 5:1 (Mafātīḥ al-ghayb XI 126, 6ff.). There was interest in the subject elsewhere, too. Ibn ʿAqīl records a debate between an Ashʿarite and a Muʿtazilite, which he witnessed in the library on Ibn Abī ʿAwf Street in Baghdad (Funūn 548ff. § 480; regarding the street cf. Ṣāliḥ A. al-ʿAlī, Baghdād madīnat alsalām I2 77). Regarding the Ibāḍiyya cf. Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ II 301, –4ff. A purely rationalist view of the circumstances is presented by Muḥammad b. Zakariyyāʾ al-Rāzī, Sīra falsafiyya (Opera philosophica 103, 14ff. Kraus; see also vol. III 466 above). Maʿarrī felt compelled to emphasise that the animals slaughtered in paradise for the feasts of the blessed do not feel pain (Risālat al-Ghufrān 263, 4ff.). When Archbishop Etienne Tempier issued his famous prohibitions to fight ‘Averroism’ at the University of Paris in 1277, no. 20 condemned the theory that natural law forbade the killing of animals (Daniel, The Arabs and Medieval Europe 278). – Of course animal cruelty could take forms other than slaughter; it appears to have excited more attention in Islam than in Medieval Christianity (cf. Bousquet in: SI 9/1958/31ff.). Some aspects,

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however, belonged in the category of ‘enforced labour, service’ (sukhra), that was used in the Quran (cf. Text XIX 8, b; cf. vol. III 180 above). Donaldson wrote on the evaluation of lying in: MW 33/1943/276ff. He arrived at the conclusion that due to Greek influence the philosophers were stricter. This may be true; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār considers a lie to be bad (qabīḥ) only if it neither brings benefit nor prevents harm (Mughnī VI1 66, 10ff.; XVII 280, 4). However, the Christian philosopher Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī agreed with this in his Tahdhīb al-akhlāq (§ 205 Ḥātim; Périer, Yahyâ ben ʿAdî 112). ʿAlī was said to have determined that every kind of lie was culpable, except for those that benefit a Muslim or defend an action in accordance with religion (dīn; Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Kātib, Burhān 120, 4f.). Abū l-Hudhayl considered a lie under duress to be harmless (Text XXI 165). Jāḥiẓ wrote on the subject (Ḥayawān I 4, 2ff.), but also noted that honesty is always praiseworthy, with a critical look at Abū Jahjāh al-Nūsharwānī who was of the opposite opinion, that a lie might well be good in certain cases (see vol. III 68 above). The problem differs from the one mentioned first in that it was not mentioned in the Quran; sura 16:106 does, however, exculpate those who renounce their faith under duress. The result of these discussions was a classification of the commandments into revealed and rational ones; this was in fact a continuation of the steps the Basran Murjiʾites had taken in their theory of the twofold knowledge of God. People were sensible enough not to place further expectations into natural law, not in Islam, and not elsewhere. Saʿadyā, who was strongly influenced by Muʿtazilite thought, arrived at the same conclusion; the revelation rests on the natural insights, supplementing and specifying them.96 Thomas Aquinas was of the same opinion; he emphasised that reason might err in both respects if it became accustomed to sin.97 His antagonist was Duns Scotus, but his voluntaristic image of God did not gain a foothold in the West. In Islam, the development took place in the opposite direction, the Ashʿarites gaining more and more ground compared to the supporters of natural law over time.98 This is astonishing in view of the fact that faith and knowledge were not usually separated.99 However, among the rationalists in particular there had always been some who toyed with the idea of a confrontation: if reason and revelation

96   Amānāt III 3 = p. 118, 11ff./transl. Rosenblatt 145ff. 97   Summa theologica I2, quaestio 99, art. 2 ad 2. 98  Cf. Leuze, Christentum und Islam 296ff. 99  See p. 632f. above.

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agree, they argued, the latter is really superfluous.100 This approach breathed the spirit of the enlightenment, but it was not meant entirely seriously; the Muʿtazila put an end to it, weakening its own position in the process.101 Unlike Christianity, the law in Islam had a positive connotation due to the wider revelation, i.e. the Quran and the prophet’s sunna. God’s sovereignty was central, even to the Muʿtazilites with all their emphasis on free will;102 even they regarded justice less as something innate in human natural feeling and more as that which God does.103 Being on the forefront against dualism forced them to emphasise repeatedly that God created good and bad.104 And in the legal discourse, where an autonomous and intuitionist definition of good and evil would have seemed to suggest itself, most of them insisted (due to the specific nature of the sources) that ijtihād, which was based on the categories of good and evil – but not exclusively on them – could never lead to rational certainty.105 For after all, humans do not have the ‘nature’ in which these categories might have their roots;106 humans are simply made up out of atoms and accidents.107 Reason is a gift of divine grace, just as Jahm had said of faith. It is interesting to observe how Jahm’s idea, which agreed with Muʿtazilite thought on the whole,108 acquired anti-Muʿtazilite emphasis in this point: if it is God who creates faith, then humans and their actions do not create faith – although faith is, after all, an action. This theory went nearly as far as the khalq al-afʿāl.109 Ḍirār b. ʿAmr noticed this,110 as did Ḥafṣ al-Fard in one form or another.111 The Muʿtazilites were at a loss: humans determine their own actions, but faith, one might say, was a different matter after all.112 Especially Murjiʾites believing in free will found themselves in difficulties here. Only determinists like Najjār remained in harmony with themselves. 100  See p. 360 above. 101  By presenting Ibn al-Rēwandī as a heretic, among other things; he had argued exactly like Saʿadyā. 102  See p. 539 and 542 above. 103  Text XVI 67, n, and commentary; cf. the definition by Ibn Fūrak on p. 566 above. It is not, however, entirely certain whether the text referred to does indeed reflect a Muʿtazilite position (see vol. III 99 above); Naẓẓām saw things from a slightly different point of view (ibid. 437ff.). 104  Thus e.g. Jāḥiẓ (cf. Geries, Un genre littéraire arabe 48ff.; cf. p. 127 above.). 105  See p. 736 below; Naẓẓām being once again an important exception. 106  Frank emphasises this aspect in: Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 2/1992/35. 107  See p. 512ff. and 536 above. 108  Thus e.g. Ṣāliḥī; see p. 635 above. 109  Which Jahm embraced (see above). 110  See vol. III 57 above. 111  See vol. II 818 above. 112  See vol. III 137 above, with reference to Text XVII 52. also p. 85 above.

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Even they, however, found themselves in a rather precarious position when the non-createdness of the Quran became the subject of the anti-Muʿtazilite self-image. After all, the Quran contained the formulas with which people professed their faith; how, if the Quran as a whole was uncreated, could these acts of faith still be created? This was a doubtful conclusion, and it was an entirely different perspective; while it interfered with Najjār’s position, it was by no means a rehabilitation of the Muʿtazila. Still, this may be the explanation of why an ascetic named al-Ṣūrī, presumably a man from Tyrus (about whom we no nothing else), came up with the theory during Ibn Ḥanbal’s day in Baghdad that faith was created only ‘insofar as it was movement and act’ (ʿalā l-ḥaraka wal-fiʿl), but uncreated as formula (qawl, presumably referring to lā ilāha illa llāh in sura 37:35).113 Ṣūrī was not alone; he is mentioned together with a certain Anṭākī in another place, and we hear that the theologians in Raqqa agreed with his view.114 Ibn Kullāb and Muḥāsibī still believed that the act of faith was created, while Ibn Ḥanbal believed it to be uncreated.115 Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī made the same distinction as the unknown ascetic; he might have learnt it from him. The Ḥanafites of Khorasan, Transoxiana and Turkestan, too, would later agree to this compromise,116 and even Ibn Saḥnūn in distant Qayrawān embraced it.117 Ashʿarī also noted that the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth did not want to commit themselves in this issue;118 he, however, distanced himself from Ibn Kullāb and followed Ibn Ḥanbal instead.119 He pointed out, among other things, that God is also called muʾmin in the Quran; God’s attributes, however, are no more eternal than he is. It was irrelevant that muʾmin should perhaps be understood differently, and was indeed frequently interpreted differently.120 The question was discussed in detail and with reference to further early authorities by Abū l-Layth al-Samarqandī in his Bustān al-ʿārifīn (in the margin of Tanbīh al-ghāfilīn 183, 12ff.; cf. also vol. II 635, n. 56 above). It would become urgent again later when Ibn Taymiyya polemicised against a certain ʿUthmān b. Marzūq and his followers, who had described faith – in keeping with Ibn Ḥanbal – as uncreated (Majmūʿ al-fatāwā VII 680ff.) 113  Ibn Baṭṭa, Al-ibāna al-kubrā, Cairo MS, ʿAqāʾid 181, p. 411. 114  Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 147 no. 307. 115  Bayāḍī, Ishārāt al-marām 253, –8ff. 116  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣira 93, 6ff. 117  Mālikī, Riyāḍ al-nufūs I 355, 4ff./I 454, 1ff. 118   Maq. 293, 14f. 119  See p. 86 and 219 above, after his Masʾala fī l-īmān; in more detail Allard, Attributs divins 193f., and Izutsu, Concept of Belief 207ff. 120  Cf. also Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 191, 21ff.; and Gimaret, Noms divins 359ff.

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Murjiʾite as well as non-Murjiʾite sources confirm that the createdness of faith was sometimes imagined in very concrete terms: God creates a dot of light in the heart that shines into the limbs and causes them to perform good actions (Fiqh absaṭ 57, 8ff.; Pseudo-Māturīdī, Risāla fī l-ʿaqāʾid 16 § 23; Kulīnī, Kāfī II 214, no. 6; Biḥār XLIX 196 no. 12). This could be linked to the opening of the breast mentioned in the Quran (thus Kulīnī, ibid., after sura 6:125). One might also connect it to the idea of πνευ̃ηα: faith is a rūḥ that spreads out over all humans, and will grow back together in the end (Biḥār LXIX 193 no. 9 and 195 no. 11). God, people calculated, had created 49 parts each of which could be split into ten; humans were given different amounts of these (Kāfī II 44f. no. 1). Kufan Shīʿites often imagined that the believers were created from the material of paradise (Biḥār LXVII 77ff.; also vol. I 319 above). If one equated faith and actions in the Muʿtazilite manner, one would be led to the assumption that each limb had its own faith (Kāfī II 34, 2ff., and 39, 2ff.). This strange statement probably meant that with its actions each limb amassed its own hoard of faith; there are other parallels as well for the way in which the unity of the person was being ignored here (see p. 573 above).

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Sin and Penitence

Just as faith was imagined as a dot of light within the heart, so it was believed that sin caused a black mark on a human’s heart. It will disappear if one repents, or it may spread until it darkens the entire heart.1 This was probably an idea originating with ascetic circles; it presumed that faith may disappear altogether as the result of evil actions.2 In such a case the human would have become accustomed to sin or, as the Quran said, God would have sealed his heart.3 Some Muʿtazilites did indeed believe the two to be the same,4 although the Quranic statement had referred on the unbelievers alone; the ascetics transferred it onto the sinners.5 At this point a corrective was required, and penitence (tawba) was apposite. This, too, was a genuinely Quranic term; it occurs as a verb as well as a noun and a participle.6 However, the Quran did not speak of the practice of penitence; indeed, transgressions were not interpreted primarily as incurring moral guilt at all. Wherever it showed how wrongdoing should be corrected in a concrete way, it was from the legal point of view; reparation was not achieved by penitence but by atonement.7 Penitence came into its own in the context of the relationship between humans and God. The point in such a case was not for the human to perform a particular action, but rather to change his behaviour altogether: to return to God. This was the corollary of the original eschatological kerygma: penitence as μετάνοια before the imminent Judgment.8 This explains why God then does the same thing: he turns back toward the human in his mercy. The idiosyncrasy of Quranic usage has always been pointed out: namely that the verb tāba may be used to refer to God as well as to humans.9 It does not describe a 1  Kulīnī, Kāfī II 271 no. 13; Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd 504 no. 1441; Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 113, –7ff./transl. Gramlich 377, and WKAS II 1395 b s. v. lumẓa, each with further instances. 2  We must bear in mind that Ibn al-Mubāraks text speaks of nifāq, and is thus focussed on an attitude rather than an action. 3  Cf. Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes 19f.; the expression is Biblical (cf. Horovitz, Koranische Untersuchungen 30). 4  Ashʿarī, Maq. 259, 5. 5  Thus already Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s Risāla (cf. Anfänge 60); structured into a system by the Bakriyya (see vol. II 128 above). 6  Cf. the lexical studies by S. Wilzer in: Der Islam 33/1958/71ff. and, independently, by Denny in: Journal Am. Acad. of Religion 47/1979/649ff. Regarding the words Aramaic roots see Ahrens in: ZDMG 84/1930/27, and Jeffery, Foreign Vocabulary 87. 7  Thus of course especially in the Medinan suras; cf. e.g. 4:92, 5:89, or 58:3f. 8  This eschatological connection is still present in some early exegeses of sura 6:158; cf. e.g. Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XII 252 no. 14212. 9  Wilzer 72; Jeffery 95; in detail Rahbar, God of Justice 155ff., with the list of instances ibid. 437ff. It is important that the word takes a different preposition in these cases: ilā for humans, and ʿalā for God.

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one-sided process but a relation, namely that between master and servant. When one of them ‘turns back towards’ the other, the other one will, too: the human in penitence after turning away in pride (tawallā),10 and God in magnanimousness in order to receive him again.11 The contrition one feels after an individual transgression is something else altogether. The Quran describes it with a different word: nadam ‘remorse’.12 With these two terms, tawba and nadam, God’s word had expressed the existential as opposed to the legal level. The fuqahāʾ continued to be in charge of atonement, while the theologians focussed on the troubled relationship between human and God. The individual transgression lost its relevance in this context; as a consequence they used the word tawba much more frequently than nadam. This also explains why there was no parallel to the elaborate system of penitence of the early Christians in Islamic theology;13 we would have to compare it to the casuistry of the fiqh. We should arrive at the same result if we examined the aspect under which the term for sin was chosen. The Quran contained a range of vocabulary expressing individual transgressions: dhanb, ithm, khaṭīʾa, jurm, junāḥ, ḥaraj, ḥūb.14 However, only the jurists retained these,15 while the theologians left all these words aside, speaking instead of maʿṣiya ‘disobedience’. As this infinitive occurs only once in the Quran,16 the term had to be defined first; but the finite verb is used frequently with the meaning that the human ‘rebels’ against God – or the prophet, i.e. the divine revelation he embodies.17 This attitude was not fitting for the ‘servant’; it gave God the right to punish him and thus, as people put it at the time, an ‘argument’ (ḥujja) against him.18 In the Quran this once again referred mainly to unbelief – in

10  Cf. e.g. sura 75:32f., and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 496. 11  Cf. also Nagel, Der Koran 282f. 12  Wilzer 74. 13  Regarding the latter see the texts in C. Vogel, Le pécheur et la pénitence dans l’église ancienne (Paris 1966), and F. Peters, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam II 286ff.; also J. Grotz, Die Entwicklung des Bußstufenwesens in der vornicänischen Kirche (Freiburg 1995), and the literature listed vol. II 305, n. 1 above. 14  Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts 242ff.; Ringgren in: Temenos 2/1966/98ff.; also Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 194ff.; in general EI2 IV 1106ff. s. v. K̲ h̲aṭīʾa. Regarding ḥūb, which occurs only in sura 4:2, cf. Paret, Kommentar 90. 15  Cf. e.g. Aṣamm’s and Bishr al-Marīsī’s usage of ithm (vol. II 470 and III 516 above). 16  Sura 58:8f. 17  Cf. the concordance. In general also J. D. Woodberry, Sin in the Quran and the Bible, in: AlMushir (Rawalpindi) 13/1971, issue 3–4/1ff. M. A. Rauf’s PhD thesis The Qurʾānic Concept of Sin (London 1963) was unfortunately not accessible to me. 18  Cf. e.g. vol. I 234 and 483; also p. 405 above.

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accordance with the historical situation at the time. Transferring it onto the sinner suggested itself; we do not even need to assume Khārijite influence. Penitence must not be put off against one’s better judgment; that would be obduracy (iṣrār). The Khārijite Najda b. ʿĀmir, who was lenient in his evaluation of sin among his community,19 believed excommunication to be a suitable response in such a case.20 It would be treated severely later, too.21 The Quran already made clear that someone who converts on his deathbed will not be accepted any more: ‘But God shall not turn towards those who do evil deeds (and persist in them) until, when one of them is visited by death, he says, “Indeed now I repent” (innī tubtu l-ān)’.22 The test case was pharaoh. When ‘drowning overtook him’ in the sea of reeds, he had pronounced the formula and called himself a Muslim,23 but the exegetes had no doubt that his conversion was too late;24 the Muʿtazilites pointed out that an act of faith compelled by circumstances had no value.25 Still, the passage was not unambiguous at all;25a Abraham Geiger and H. Speyer interpreted it differently.26 Ibn ʿArabī preceded them in this; he, too, thought that pharaoh was saved by his faith in articulo mortis.27 At least the Muslims were frequently accorded this chance.28 The reservations people felt in the early period were more likely to be due to the opposite situation: that someone had been a Muslim for most or all of 19  See p. 610 and 628 above. 20  Ashʿarī, Maq. 91, 6f.; Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal IV 190, 5f. 21  Cf. vol. II 129f. regarding the Bakriyya; II 258 and 261 regarding the Ibāḍiyya; III 312 regarding Abū l-Hudhayl. 22  Sura 4:18, with the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 92. The Quranic passages relevant to the timing of tawba were already collected by Muqātil b. Sulaymān (Tafsīr khams-miʾat āya 149, pu. ff.). 23  Sura 10:90. 24  This is probably how the legends preserved by Ṭabarī are to be understood, according to which Gabriel tried to stop pharaoh from speaking by filling his mouth with mud, in the function of the angel of death, as it were (Tafsīr 3XV 190 no. 17858ff.). 25  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mutashabbih al-Qurʾān 369f. § 331, and Tanzīh al-Qurʾān 178, –9ff.; Ṭabrisī, Majmaʿ al-bayān III 131, 23. Mufīd is not familiar with a divergent interpretation (Awāʾil al-maqālāt 60, –6ff./transl. Sourdel 289 § 65). Abū Muqātil al-Samarqandī’s K. alīālim wal-mutaʿallim already presumed that penitence had to be performed before one’s final illness or the hour of death (79, 2f.). Regarding Syria see vol. I 118f. above. 25a  Cf. sura 10:91f. 26  Speyer, Biblische Erzählungen 290f.; differently Paret, Kommentar 228. 27   Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam 201, 4f. Jalāl al-Dīn al-Dawānī defended this idea in his treatise Īmān firʿawn Mūsā; while al-Qāriʾ al-Harawī expressed criticism in Farr al-ʿawn min muddaʿī īmān firʿawn (cf. Ibn al-Khaṭīb’s edition, Cairo 1383/1964). Cf. in detail D. Gril, Le personage coranique du Pharaon d’après l’interprétation d’Ibn ʿArabī, in: Ann. Isl. 14/1978/37ff., and C. Ernst, Controversies over Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Fuṣūṣ: the faith of Pharaoh, in: IC 109/1985/259ff. 28  Cf. the discussion of the issue in Muḥāsibī, Fahm al-Qurʾān 471, 5ff.

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his life, but returned to his original faith on his deathbed – which probably happened frequently in a time of numerous opportunistic conversions. How was this to be evaluated? It was clearly apostasy. It is safe to assume that this was the origin of the hadith of the khawātīm, the last actions that determine a human’s fate: One of you acts in the way of those aspiring to paradise, until there is only a cubit left between him and (paradise), but then the ‘book’ gets in his way, and he acts like those destined for hell, and thus finishes in (hell). Another one of you acts in the way of those destined for hell, until there is only a cubit left between him and (hell), but then the ‘book’ gets in his way, and he acts like those aspiring to paradise, and thus finishes in (paradise).29 The question was, of course, how great was a ‘cubit’ – and maybe it was shorter in the case of someone destined for hell than in the opposite case. Apostasy was certainly self-destruction even at the last moment, while conversion, as we have seen, required a certain period of deliberation. One cannot wait forever to ask forgiveness in other circumstances, either.30 Once actions were regarded as predetermined, as in the hadith cited above, the length of time until death became, of course, irrelevant. Thus its message was understood to be a different one: the fact that it is impossible to perceive faith from the outside;31 one cannot see where someone will ‘end up’ (muwāfāt).32 Apostasy is always a shock, and while conversely there is always joy at everyone who finds the way to Islam, this cannot be foreseen, either. There were only three persons whose penitence would not be accepted, Muqātil b. Sulaymān said: Satan, Cain, and someone who killed a prophet.33 Zurāra tried a different distinction: an ignorant person may show remorse even on his deathbed; a learned man, however, not. He claimed to have heard this from Muḥammad al-Bāqir.34 Apostasy was an insult to the conviction of the truth of the faith imbued with which the original community had acted. The collective Islamic consciousness 29  HT 1; cf. also 17. 30  God grants the sinner seven hours only (Majlisī, Biḥār VI 41 no. 77), or even only three (see vol. I 103 above). 31  Cf. vol. III 58 above. 32  Cf. Ibn Fūrak’s deliberations in Gimaret, Ashʿarī 479f.; also p. 14 above. 33   Tafsīr khams-miʾat āya 152, 8ff. 34   Biḥār VI 32 no. 43.

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reacted harshly: apostatising from truth deserves death. The Quran had not expressed it in these terms. While it touches on the problem of those who ‘became unbelievers after they had become believers’, it is not certain that this did indeed refer to apostates,35 and they are threatened with punishment in the otherworld – ‘anger from God’.36 They are thus fundamentally equal to other unbelievers. Change only came with hadith, because by then people had seen how the continued existence of the community could be endangered by political defection and revocation of the oath of loyalty, by ridda; the same word was used to describe apostasy. Just as the political rebels had been fought and slain, someone who rejected salvation after previously converting deserved capital punishment.37 ʿAlī was said to have put apostates to the fire: in that way there would be nothing left of them. As late as 225/840 a certain Ghannām received the same treatment,38 but it is possible that he had been put to death in a different way before, as resistance had emerged in the meantime: only God punishes by fire.39 The overall preference was to behead apostates;40 ʿUmar II is said to have suggested this.41 The only question was whether they should be given time to repent. ʿUmar II thought: yes, three days;42 but the Quran appeared to be against this.43 Clarification was also needed to define where exactly apostasy began. Subsuming every kind of heresy under apostasy suggested itself, but of course one had to know with certainty what was ‘truth’ and ‘true belief’, and where grave sin became unbelief.44 This process of definition has never been completed in Islam; there never was a relevant normative authority.45 There was only one sin of which the Quran said that it would not be pardoned: shirk, the ‘assuming an associate (for God)’ or polytheism. It is the only one that will certainly be punished by God; 35  Cf. Paret, Kommentar 74f. on sura 3:86. 36  Cf. sura 16:106 and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 292. Regarding the problem of the punishment for apostasy cf. Peters/de Vries in: WI 17/1976–7/1ff., and J. Kraemer in: IOS 10/1980/36ff. 37  Cf. vol. V 227 (of the German edition). 38  Ṭabarī III 1302, 18. 39  Cf. the material I collected in K. an-Nakṯ des Naẓẓām 50ff.; in general Heffening in: EI1 795ff. s. v. Murtadd, and Kraemer in: IOS 10/1980/44. 40  After the hadith man ghayyara dīnahū fa-ḍribū ʿunuqahū; cf. Conc. V 32 a. 41  IS V 259, 1. In 152/769 a Christian was executed in this way and burnt afterwards (Michael Syrus, Chronique 476c, 13ff./transl. II 527 Chabot). 42  Loc. cit. 43  Sura 3:90, once again presuming the later interpretation of the text. 44  Regarding these matters cf. Fierro, Heterodoxía en al-Andalus 179ff.; also vol. I 416f. above, and p. 748ff. below. 45  This did not, of course, prevent heretics being put on trial (see p. 767f. below).

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punishment for other sins is at his discretion.46 The Murjiʾites, at least, adhered to this rule,47 but again, the question was in what shirk consisted. Once ancient Arab polytheism was no more, it referred to the Hindu or the Christian beliefs in the eyes of many. The Muʿtazilites applied the term to those who believed in independent attributes or an uncreated Quran besides God.48 The Khārijites believed it applied to the attitude of all those Muslims who did not follow their doctrine;49 while they occasionally used the term muwaḥḥidūn ‘those professing unity’ not merely to denote their own fellow believers but also nonMuslims, such as the Jews, who were clearly monotheistic.50 To the mystics, on the other hand, shirk was every kind of worldliness; the attitude of those who did not align their lives with God only.51 Furthermore attempts at classifying other sins together with shirk already occurred in hadith: ‘Among the gravest of sins (kabāʾir) are polytheism and disobedience against one’s parents’,52 or ‘… polytheism, disobedience against one’s parents, and bearing false witness’,53 or ‘… polytheism, disobedience against one’s parents, murder, and bearing false witness’.54 This was probably meant rhetorically at first, as hyperbole, perhaps in order to ensure that manners and morals as well as the ‘intergenerational contract’ had a chance to survive in a changing world. However, the more emphasis was added, the more the original intention was lost in a list of transgressions. In the end the prophet was quoted as having spoken of seven things that led to perdition (mūbiqāt), although disobedience against one’s parents is now noticeably absent: polytheism, witchcraft, murder, misappropriation of the property of orphans, usury, turning one’s back on the enemy (al-tawallī yawma l-zaḥf), and slandering honourable women.55 There are numerous parallels with varying, albeit only slightly, substance.56 Sometimes attempts were made at emphasising 46  Sura 4:48 and 116; regarding shirk in the Quran cf. Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Terms 130ff. 47   K. al-ʿālim wal-mutaʿallim 66, 8ff.; cf. Schacht in: Oriens 17/1964/108. Cf. also vol. II 197 and 202 above; Text XIV 26. 48  Cf. W. Björkmann in: EI1 IV 408ff., and Gimaret in EI2 IX 484ff. s. v. S̲h̲irk; also p. 796 below. 49  See p. 627 above. 50  Vol. II 265 and 691 above. 51  See p. 408 above. 52   Conc. V 516a. 53  Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ, K. al-īmān 143. 54  Ibid. 144; cf. Conc. V 516b, and the additions in Gramlich, Ġazzālīs Lehre von den Stufen zur Gottesliebe 52. 55  Ibid. 145; cf. Conc. VII 123a, and Gramlich 52; also EI2 IV 1107 b. 56  Cf. e.g. Muqātil b. Sulaymān, Tafsīr khams-miʾat āya 149, 6f. (without shirk!); regarding the Shīʿa Kulīnī, Kāfī II 276f. no. 2, and 285ff. no. 24; in general ibid. 276ff., and Majlisī, Biḥār LXXIX 4ff., Gramlich 53f.

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particular sins especially: fornication, for instance,57 or the omission of a prayer,58 but a fixed catalogue was never achieved. Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī tells us that the record stood at eleven mortal sins,59 while Dhahabī’s K. al-kabāʾir includes as many as seventy. Cf. also Bayhaqī’s list in Shuʿab al-īmān I 266, –4ff., or Ibn al-Miʿmār, K. al-futuwwa, transl. Taeschner, Zünfte und Bruderschaften im Islam 120. Anathema formulae in Khārijite ʿaqāʾid are also informative, although political judgments were more relevant there (cf. e.g. the material in Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ, vol. III). What remained was a term: kabīra, the ‘grave sin’; mūbiqa was abandoned. Both words had roots in the Quran, but kabīra had been presented more clearly.60 Its opposite war ṣaghīra, the ‘venial sin’;61 the hadith also used the word lamam.62 In one instance we find the word al-muḥaqqarāt, ‘things one does not take seriously’. However, the context is important: it makes clear that it was important to be wary of these, too.63 Regarding the development of the category of kabāʾir cf. Stehly in: REI 45/1977/165ff.; regarding the definition see Ibn al-Miʿmār in Taeschner 119. Concerning the theological questions cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 488ff.: Ashʿarī rejected the distinction between grave and venial sins, as every sin is disobedience against God; al-Jubbāʾī’s school, on the other hand, believed that God forgives the venial sins as long as one does not also commit grave sins; grave sins, however, he can only forgive if one is penitent. The Muʿtazilites of the time before Jubbāʾī also took into consideration 57  According to Jāḥiẓ, some of Bishr al-Marīsī’s follower regarded zānī as a separate category (Qalhātī, Al-kashf wal-bayān in: Ḥawliyyāt Tūnis 18/1980/211, 6ff.). 58  Kulīnī, Kāfī II 279, 1; described as worse than fornication ibid. 386 no. 9. In the case of fornication the physical urge was regarded as an extenuating circumstance. 59   Qūt al-qulūb II 148, 6f./transl. Gramlich III 214. 60  The root w-b-q is found as finite verb (IV) in sura 42:43, and as a noun of place in sura 18:52, but in an unclear meaning in this case (cf. Paret, Kommentar 315 on the passage). Kabīra, on the other hand, is used in its later meaning, especially in the plural (cf. sura 4:31; 42:37, and 53:52. Regarding mūbiqa in the works of Ḥasan al-Baṣrī cf. Ṭabarī, Ta‌ʾrīkh II 146, 3. 61  In sura 18:49 as the opposite of kabīra with the meaning of ‘something small included in the catalogue of sins’. 62  After sura 53:52; cf. HT 91f. Also among the Ibāḍites (cf. vol. II 259 above) and in Shīʿite texts (Kulīnī, Kāfī II 278 no. 7). 63   Kāfī II 287 no. 1.

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whether one committed a sin deliberately (see p. 72 above regarding Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir); Saʿīd b. Jubayr had already regarded this as significant, too (Ibn Taymiyya, Īmān 278, 14ff.). Ashʿarī’s view was anticipated by the Bakriyya (see vol. II 129 above); it was also attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās (Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3VIII 244 no. 9202, and 246 no. 9210; also the material in Gramlich, Ġazzālī 51f.). It presumed, of course, that one had to define sin as disobedience. Still, as we have seen that this was more or less the communis opinio; if sin is defined as ‘ignorance of God’ ( jahl billāh) in some places (e.g. vol. II 671 above), this is an exception. – Texts on the subject of ‘grave and venial sins’ within neighbouring religions may be found in F. Peters, Judaism, Christianity and Islam I 264ff. Christian theology based its distinction on I John 5:16f. The word lamam in sura 53:52 (alladhīna yajtanibūna kabāʾira l-ithmi wal-fawāḥisha illā l-lamam) is usually rendered by modern translators in the same sense in which it would be used in hadith. Arberry has ‘lesser offences’, Kramers ‘lichte vergrijpen’, Blachère ‘vétilles’, Berque ‘fautes légères’, while Bell differs slightly with ‘(unless) by inadvertence’. However, the Muslim exegesis on which they relied had misunderstood the passage from the very first; as kabāʾir al-ithm and fawāḥish had been mentioned previously, it was assumed that the phrase illā l-lamam exempted the lesser offences. Dictionaries followed suit. WKAS II 1304a 6 tells us what the passage actually meant: ‘those who avoid grave sins and shamelessness or only rarely commit them’. Lamam did not originally denote something minor, but rather something that happened in passing, a rare or brief visit, a fleeting touch (ibid. 1303b; regarding the root in general see also Eilers in: Festschrift Singer 105ff.). Paret comes close when he translates, albeit hesitantly, ‘occasional infringements’ and explains in the commentary that one might consider a literal meaning ‘(mere) impulse’ (p. 462). It is interesting that this development completely ignores one group of transgressions that was put into particular relief in the Quran: those whose punishment was named explicitly as ḥadd. Even so, this was different: the fact that God himself determined the punishment (as ḥaqq Allāh) did not necessarily imply that the respective transgression was worse than others. Theft is consequently rarely mentioned among the grave sins.64 The consumption of wine, too, is not greatly relevant in this context. The question that remained to be resolved was whether being punished on earth, as God had so specifically 64  Dhahabī has it at place 23.

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demanded, meant that the punishment in the otherworld had also been settled. The Medinan Ibn Abī Dhiʾb admitted that he did not know the answer.65 The Khārijites in particular deliberated on the question as in their community every publicly recognised transgression resulted in temporary excommunication. They thus had to find out whether the ‘sin’, and with it the excommunication, would be cancelled if the prescribed punishment had been meted out, or whether separate ‘penitence’ was necessary.66 The decision was taken in favour of the latter option, as ‘penitence’ was understood as the declaration of repentance in which one promised to mend one’s ways.67 Overall, this was not the case: penitence was linked to the condition that the culprit would right the wrong done and determine not to commit the sin again, but it did not presuppose publicity.68 After all it was not the case that every sin had legal relevance as well; one could make amends for something without having to face punishment. This touches on, in modern terms, the difference between justice and the law on the one hand and morals on the other; later jurists explored the issue.69 Discretion was recommended in these cases; sin should remain a secret between the sinner and God.70 Of course the penitent sinner himself might decide to make his actions public, such as the tawwābūn in the Shīʿa,71 Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb and his purification in the Tigris,72 and in a certain sense also Bishr al-Marīsī with his immersions in a canal.73 Apart from these, however, people were only ‘outed’ in the fight against heresy, where public recantations might be forced; Ibn ʿAqīl’s case became particularly well-known.74 This was, in fact, once again a measure safeguarded by law, the so-called istitāba that applied to heresy particularly.75 In one place in his Risālat al-ghufrān Maʿarrī presumes that someone would have the qāḍī confirm his tawba in writing, after having performed it before him and the ʿudūl – he means it ironic, probably with reference to a heresy trial.76 The wording

65  See vol. II 770 above. 66  Ibid. 245 and 669f. 67  It was not clear whether, if the culprit refused, he would be executed after his punishment (ibid. 266f.), but the case was probably very theoretical indeed. 68  Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 199 § 361; cf. Majlisī, Biḥār VI 35 no. 51f. 69  Cf. Johansen in: WI 28/1988/264ff. 70  Cf. Text XXI 160, f, with commentary. 71  Halm, Der schiitische Islam 29ff. and 53ff. 72  See p. 79 above. 73  See vol. III 193 above. 74  Cf. Makdisi in: EI2 III 700 s. v. Ibn ʿAḳīl. 75  See p. 649 above; Kraemer in: IOS 10/1980/41ff. 76  P. 248, 1ff. and –4ff.

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of the document Ibn ʿAqīl had to sign is known to us; it was confirmed by the court witnesses.77 The relation between internal and external was involved in another way, too. The Khārijites, and indeed people of the early generations in general, understood sin mainly as being sinful actions; those were the ones demanding the ḥadd punishment. They are externally visible, and they are judged publicly. This is the concept the Muʿtazilite Aṣamm adhered to: a sinner is recognisable because he is reviled everywhere.78 Sin was troublesome to humans as well as to God; in the eyes of the Muʿtazilites the sinner is a fāsiq, a wastrel. Consequently public sin is indeed worse than private sin: the former encourages others to copy the action.79 Still, it was known that there were transgressions that were not actions: thoughts that might not appear on the surface at all. The Quran had mentioned them: Satan’s pride,80 or the Meccans’ arrogance.81 Obduracy was one of them, as the Khārijites had seen: through it, every little sin grows greater.82 The Basran Murjiʾites discovered that pride cancelled out faith not only in the case of Satan, but also in the case of humans.83 Sins in the mind thus become the root of all misdemeanours;84 mystics like Muḥāsibī worked towards increasing sophistication of the analysis.85 As in the case of shirk – itself a sin in the mind – the boundary to unbelief could be crossed, namely when one believed a sinful action to be permitted.86 Even those who would not normally burden a Muslim with an eternity of punishment in hell became implacable in this context.87 There was little leniency when it came to doubt, too. While there were some theologians who regarded it as a constructive frame of mind – Naẓẓām, for 77  Makdisi, Ibn ʿAqīl 426ff. 78  See vol. II 193 above. 79  Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd 475f. no. 1350 after Awzāʿī. 80  Sura 2:34. 81  This attitude usually appears to be less a sin and more a lack of reason; cf. e.g. sura 7:99. Inversely, despair – being a lack of trust in God – might appear to be the attitude of the unbelievers (sura 12:87). 82  See vol. II 261 above regarding the Ibāḍiyya and Text VI 8, e regarding the Bakriyya; also Kulīnī, Kāfī II 288 no. 1. 83  See vol. II 210 above. 84  Cf. e.g. Kāfī II 289 no. 1 concerning greed, pride, and envy, with instances from salvation history. 85  Cf. my Gedankenwelt 48ff. regarding complacency, and 39ff. regarding eye-service (riyāʾ), the latter being located on the boundary between the two areas. In the same context we find the stronger emphasis on intention (niyya; cf. Gedankenwelt 144ff., and Sweetman, Islam and Christian Theology I2 200f.). 86   Kāfī 280 no. 10, as part of a catalogue that includes sinful thoughts as well as sinful actions. 87  Ibid. II 285 no. 23.

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instance, and Jāḥiẓ88 – most of them, even in the Muʿtazila, thought differently. In the sermon he gave in Medina in 130 the Ibāḍite Abū Ḥamza had already condemned not only those who fornicate and steal, but also those who doubted this damnation.89 Murdār used the same formula when speaking not of sins of action but of heresies, and taken to a further level: an anthropomorphist or a predestinarian is an unbeliever, as is he who doubts this fact, and as, indeed is he who doubts this doubt, i.e. who does not express a clear opinion of it.90 Religious certainties, after all, were accessible to reason, especially to a Muʿtazilite.91 Uncertainty was consequently regarded as acceptable, doubt, on the other hand, was not, as it was an expression of indifference rather than of tolerance.92 The question of whether penitence was a necessary condition for sins to be forgiven was measured against the scope granted to God’s omnipotence. Even those who were quite generous in this respect still admitted that penitence prevented obduracy.93 The Muʿtazilites, of course, did not doubt the necessity at all, logically emphasising just as much that God had to accept a human’s penitence.94 As the ‘return’, the ‘turning back towards’ was a mutual process,95 they did not regard exceptions as possible on either side. This was anathema to the voluntarists; but as usual they insisted on the theoretical possibility; God would not actually break the promise he had given in the Quran; a repentant sinner does thus have grounds for hope.96 The only case in which they had wavered for a while was murder; the Basran ascetic tradition that believed forgiveness to be impossible in this case also had its roots in the Quran.97 One might, of course, wonder it penitence for a single sin was useful at all, for penitence, after all, was μετάνοια. This was its fundamental character, as Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ had emphasised once again, not only in keeping with the ascetics, but also 88  See p. 120, and vol. III 414 above. 89  Ṭabarī II 2011, 15f.; cf. vol. II 736 above. 90  Cf. Text XVIII 4, g–h; similar Text XXXIV 1, a regarding Qāsim al-Dimashqī. With this further level also found in later Ibāḍite texts, such as ʿUmar b. Jumayʿ’s Muqaddimat altawḥīd (30, 2f., and 110, 6f.). 91  See p. 632 above. 92  ‘He who doubts is doomed, but he who asks is exculpated’ (Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ III 91, apu. ff., after the Khārijite Abū ʿUbayda al-Tamīmī). 93  Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 198f. § 360. 94  Ibid. 200 § 363; Ṭūsī, Tibyān III 218, –5ff.; Ḥalīmī, Shuʿab al-īmān III 131, –4ff.; also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 490ff. 95  See p. 643f. above. 96  Ḥalīmī III 123, –7ff.; regarding the expression see also vol. II 423ff. above. 97  See vol. II 130 above. Muqātil b. Sulaymān had already limited this to the murder of a prophet (Tafsīr khams-miʾat āya 152, 8ff.).

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in an entirely correct interpretation of the scripture.98 As Jubbāʾī and his pupils added, it also had to include the resolution not to commit this sin again.99 The more difficult this was, the greater the merit. Interestingly the Basran ascetics and their Syrian pupils could not agree on whether it was better if one still felt the temptation after repenting, or not.100 Abū Hāshim concluded with Muʿtazilite clarity that someone who had been castrated could not swear off whoring any more.101 For ascetics and mystics penitence might become a permanent attitude, the only one truly appropriate to a believer.102 Puritans like the Ibāḍites or some circles of the Muʿtazilites might agree with this. In that case it did not really make sense to distinguish between a greater and a lesser tawba; the Ibāḍite Maḥbūb b. al-Raḥīl argued on the matter with his fellow believer Hārūn b. al-Yamān.103 On the other hand one spoke of greater and lesser sins, and a Muʿtazilite would quickly think of offsetting these against one another. While the Quran had not actively encouraged this kind of quid pro quo,104 one could infer that ‘surely the good deeds will drive away the evil deeds’.105 This tendency increased in hadith,106 and when it came to kalām, some Muʿtazilites finally formalised it as the so-called iḥbāṭ, the ‘cancellation of punishment’.107 This, however, went too far for most people, although one idea that did meet with widespread agreement was that suffering afflicting a human was not for nothing; that one would receive ‘compensation’ for it.108 Fever, the Shīʿites thought,

98  Vol. II 305 above; also Ḥalīmī III 128, 12ff. Wāṣil wrote a book on the subject of tawba (Catalogue of Works IX, no. 5), as did Murdār after him, who was also an ascetic (Catalogue of Works XVIII b, no. 14). 99  Mānkdīm, ShUKh 789, ult., and 791, 9f. 100  Cf. Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ in Gramlich, Stufen zur Gottesliebe 98. 101  Baghdādī, Farq 176, ult. ff./191, 11ff.; also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 490 with further instances. 102  In more detail Gramlich, Derwischorden II 280ff. It found its expression in mental crises, such as in the case of Ibrāhīm b. Adham (see vol. II 612 above), of Shaqīq al-Balkhī (ibid.), Bishr al-Ḥāfī (see vol. III 113f. above), Muḥāsibī (who wrote a K. aḥkām al-tawba; cf. Catalogue of Works XXXIIIb, no. 12). 103  Wilkinson, Imamate Tradition 165. 104  Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes 109. 105  Sura 11:114. 106  Gramlich, Stufen zur Gottesliebe 109f.; also the examples given in Ibn ʿAqīl, Funūn 541f. § 471. 107  See p. 73 above. Regarding Bishr al-Marīsī cf. Text XX 28. 108  Regarding the Muʿtazilite form of this theologoumenon cf. Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Dhakhīra 239ff.; also vol. III 278 and p. 568 above; furthermore Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 162ff., and Schmidtke, Theology of al-Ḥillī 117ff. Hishām b. al-Ḥakam did not recognise this (I 373).

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was the share the believer had in the fires of hell;109 they probably meant that he would be spared a certain amount of the punishment in the otherworld. A child dying before its parents paved the way to paradise for them; going before them, as it were.110 This idea is frequently found expressed on gravestones,111 and while people dared not wish for a total amnesty, they did hope that the early loss would ‘weight the father’s mother’s scales (in favour of good)’.112 Iḥbāṭ, however, was more than this: it was a kind of binding and complete bookkeeping;113 Jubbāʾī even considered a transfer of units of reward from the account of one person to another.114 In this way the puritan rigorism in under whose banners the Muʿtazilites had first gathered was hollowed out by their principle of absolute divine justice.

109  Majlisī, Biḥār LXII 104 no. 35. 110  Ibid. XVI 15f. no. 14f. 111  Cf. RCEA I 151 no. 192, and 188f. no. 235; II 170 no. 642. 112  Ibid. II 178f. no. 653. A different angle is found in the moving text from Fusṭāṭ in RCEA II 162f. no. 631, in which the death of a drowned child is understood simply as being predestined. On the subject in general see A. Gilʿadi, Children of Islam. Concepts of Childhood in Medieval Muslim Society (Basingstoke 1992), p. 94ff. 113  Especially in the form of taḥābuṭ (see p. 73, n. 35 above). 114  Cf. Shahrastānī 58, 11ff./128, 8ff.; Gimaret, Livre 283, esp. n. 83. Similar also al-Ḥakīm alSamarqandī, Al-sawād al-aʿẓam (Pers.) § 35 = p. 119. These paroxysms of thought also took hold of Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, as demonstrated in Heemskerk’s book; cf. e.g. p. 170ff. or 183.

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The Prophet

Only a prophet could have brought the Quran – this was clear to the Arabs from the very first. What exactly prophethood was remained to be defined. The Quran left no doubt that the prophet was only a human.1 At the same time, however, he had been chosen, not only as the bearer of the revelation but also as the leader of his community. People tried to imagine how he had been chosen: this is where the legend of the opening of the breast belongs.2 Still, it did not clarify his position compared to the other prophets who had gone before him; they, too, had all been chosen. A hadith allows us to observe how the idea that there must not be any ‘ranking’ was pitched – in keeping with the prophet’s wishes: even Jonah, the least glorious of the prophets, that is,3 should not be placed beneath him.4 This was inspired by sura 2:136 lā nufarriqu bayna aḥadin minhum, a general expression repeated on a gravestone of the year 228/843.5 All the same, this modesty never stood a genuine chance as Muḥammad’s special position was at the same time proof of his community being the chosen one.6 We have seen the two linked in the motif of Muḥammad’s intercession during the Last Judgment.7 He carries the ‘banner of praise’ (liwāʾ al-ḥamd) in his hand,8 while Adam and ‘all the others’ (man dūnahū) gather under it. The other prophets have to look out for themselves; even Abraham, from whom Islam got the name millat Ibrāhīm, after all,9 now has to admit that he lied three times ‘in Islam’.10 Muḥammad, on the other hand, was sometimes imagined sitting next to God on the throne during the shafāʿa,11 exalted 1  Cf. in detail Welch in: Hovannisian/Vryonis (eds.), Islam’s Understanding of Itself 22ff. 2  See p. 432f. and 439 above. 3  In the Quran God says to Muḥammad: ‘Be not as the man of the fish’ (sura 68:48), for Jonah’s actions were ‘blameworthy’ (sura 37:142). In general see St. Schreiner, Muhammads Rezeption der biblischen Jona-Erzälung in: Judaica 34/1978/149ff. 4  Cf. the hadith in text XXII 254.10a, and the instances in the commentary. A hadith of similar substance may be found ibid. 10 c. 5  RCEA I 230f. no. 292; cf. also 233f. no. 296. 6  Whether Friedmann (in: JSAI 7/1986/178f. = Prophecy Continuous 51f.) is correct in diagnosing an underdeveloped sense of identity in the hadiths mentioned remains to be researched further. Of course sura 2:253 had already said: ‘Some we have preferred above others (among the early prophets)’. 7  P. 605ff. above. 8  Cf. Text XXII 254, 10b. 9  Sura 2:130, and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 31. 10  Cf. the version of the shafāʿa hadith in Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad 2IV 187, 5 and –4ff.; in more detail p. 664 below. 11  See p. 450f. above.

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in a fashion that recalls Christian motifs. The event acquires the significance of an emblem.12 Another event presented in this fashion was the miʿrāj – this, too, closely related to a Christian motif of exaltation, the ascension. It takes Muḥammad into God’s presence where he will be confirmed in his calling;13 during the ascent he passes his predecessors who are not merely historical figures, but live on as the rulers of the spheres.14 In this function they have replaced the angels – and ultimately, of course, the celestial gods of antiquity, too,15 but although this is an exaltation, it also points to their subservient position. Muḥammad uses his audience with God to negotiate a lower number of prayers in determined, repeated attempts.16 He does this for his community’s benefit for ‘God desires ease for you, and desires not hardship for you’.17 At the same time he positions himself as the successor of Abraham who, when Jehovah intended to destroy the city of Sodom, had tried to obtain pardon for the sake of an ever-decreasing number of just men.18 Muḥammad is acting on the advice of Moses who, in the opinion of the Muslims, had made life hard for his people with his numerous dietary laws. The last one whom Muḥammad meets is once again Abraham;19 by rising beyond him he raises the millat Ibrāhīm to a new level as well, as it were. His subsequent conversation with God appears like a new covenant. In the long run a third emblem was discovered with which to express this last idea: the mīthāq.20 Being ‘light of the light’ Muḥammad was created before all the world; he promises to be faithful to God on behalf of all humans. This part should really have been played by Adam as the ‘father of humanity’

12  I am adopting the term used by Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 53ff. 13  See p. 433ff. above. 14  Cf. the material listed in Abū ʿAwāna, Musnad 116, 11ff. > Qushayrī, Miʿrāj 27ff.; Andrae, Person Muhammeds 41; Busse in: JSAI 14/1991/1f. and 19f. Models are found in apocrypha such as the journeys to heaven undertaken by Isaiah, Enoch and Baruch (Busse 6 and 21ff.). 15  On the subject cf. Wolfson in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 16/1962/67ff. = Studies in the History of Philosophy and Religion I 22ff. 16  Abū ʿAwāna 119, 6ff.; cf. Busse 10, and Schrieke/Horovitz in EI1 III 583 b = EI2 VII 99 s. v. Miʿrād̲ j̲. 17  Sura 2:185; cf. sura 5:6 and 22: 78. 18  Gen. 18:20ff.; regarding the parallel cf. Brinner in: Studies in Islamic and Judaic Traditions II 72f. 19  Thus in the majority of versions; the order in which the prophets are named is not always the same. 20  The Quran uses mīthāq to render OT berīt (Horovitz, Kor. Untersuchungen 51). The concept was not unknown to the pre-Islamic Arabs either (cf. J. Pirenne in: Festschrift Henninger 213).

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(abū l-bashar).21 The last prophet’s taking the place of the first one appeared to imply that the religion Muḥammad brought with him was the first and the oldest, too; not only the millat Ibrāhīm but even the fiṭra that was given to all humans. It is possible that Basran ideas were particularly responsible for this development, as speculation concerning the fiṭra was at home there; Ḥasan al-Baṣrī linked it to the concept of the a-last covenant.22 The idea of Muḥammad’s pre-existence is documented in the same circles, namely in the works of Qatāda who was Ḥasan’s pupil.23 Applying this third motif to Muḥammad is probably of a later date than the other two. One indication is that it regards Muḥammad as the last of the prophets without reservations; this concept – it, too, of an emblematic nature – underwent a certain development, although the self-image of Islam was closely linked to it. We have already mentioned it;24 it was dependent on sura 33:40, the well-known phrase of the khātam al-nabiyyīn. Muḥammad was the ‘seal of the prophets’, because people were anticipating the Last Judgment. Once the expectation of an imminent judgment had waned, time had to be filled differently; people began to believe that Muḥammad’s son Ibrāhīm would also have been a prophet (nabī) if he had lived longer.25 Some even tried to assume themselves the role meant for Ibrāhīm; they, too, could accept Muḥammad as the ‘seal’ only in that he affirmed his predecessors’ message, but not as the final conclusion of their line.26 This idea was soon given a new form: ‘(God’s) word reached its end with him (Muḥammad)’, the K. al-irjāʾ tells us, for instance.27 If the ‘seal’ thus combined with the lexical meaning it has usually retained to this day, we should bear in mind that the earliest instances were found in official texts (of which the K. al-irjāʾ is one, in a sense);28 those who held the rule 21  Regarding the part he played in the mīthāq (after sura 7:172) cf. HT 33f.; in general C. Schöck’s PhD thesis Adam im Islam, 166ff. and 187ff. Ibid. p. 138ff. also on the part played by Abraham in the traditions on shafāʿa and miʿrāj Miʿrāj (including an analysis of the isnāds). 22  HT 105f. 23  See vol. II 163 above, with exegetic arguments. Ḥasan himself was believed to have vocalised a certain Quranic passage (sura 18:51) divergently for this reason (cf. Bergsträsser in: Islca 2/1926/40); this, too, may have been inferred from Qatāda’s Tafsīr. On the development in general see Rubin in: IOS 5/1975/62ff.; also Schöck 151f., and p. 323 as well as 510 above. Concerning the back story in the Old and New Testaments cf. J. Habermann, Präexistenzaussagen im Neuen Testament (Frankfurt 1990). 24  See vol. I 29ff. and 136 above. 25  Ibn Māja, Sunan I 484 no. 1511; also Friedmann, Prophecy Continuous 59ff. 26  See vol. I 35 above. 27  Text II 1, e: tammat bihī kalimatuhū. 28  See vol. I 34 above.

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firmly in their hands, namely the Sunnites, first saw in Muḥammad the unique and unmatched phenomenon that embodied the identity of the victorious community. The way in which the prophet’s success flowed into the history of his people was described in the ‘mission topos’ (which in turn found a place in the K. al-irjāʾ).29 Eschatology had moved to a distant future in the eyes of those who established the ‘Arabian Empire’. In the shafāʿa hadith, too, Muḥammad is accorded the honorific khātam al-nabiyyīn (Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad 2IV 188, 8). The meaning of this is made clear by Jesus immediately before, when he refuses to intercede himself: ‘Assuming a product were in a sealed container, would it be possible to reach the contents without breaking the seal?’ (188, 6f.). In other words: The way to Jesus’ message is through Muḥammad; one cannot understand Jesus correctly unless one is a Muslim. ‘Seal’ in this context means ‘affirmation’ rather than ‘conclusion’; Muḥammad is seen as the one with the closest contact to God. However, towards the end of the Umayyad era we read in ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd b. Yaḥyā’s writings (Rasāʾil 211, 10ff. ʿAbbās) that God had ‘sealed’ religion, in that it was not possible to ‘find an exchange (against something else) within the sunnat Allāh’. He is quoting sura 33:62 in order to support the new exegesis; by sealing, ‘God’s procedure’ (sunnat Allāh) is fixed in the form in which Muḥammad had proclaimed it anew (regarding the passage cf. Paret, Kommentar 401). The hidden axiomatic foundation comes to light when we look at the Shīʿa, where no expectations rested on the great community, and everything depended on the charisma of a single leader. At first there were some Shīʿites who believed in the revelatio continua and consequently used the term ‘prophet’ quite generously. Kuthayyir called Ḥasan’s sons ‘little prophets’;30 Mufaḍḍal al-Juʿfī was said to have called all those who were killed with Abū l-Khaṭṭāb ‘prophets’.31 Muʿallā b. Khunays used the word to describe Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, whose income he managed.32 Ḍirār wrote against this tendency.33 The idea persisted, albeit in a modified version, in the doctrine of the imāms; indeed, 29  See vol. I 17 above. 30  Cf. Buhl, ʿAlidernes Stilling, in: Danske Videnskabernes selskab Forh. 1910, p. 375. 31  Kashshī 324, 1ff.; cf. also vol. I 284 and 31, n. 23 above. 32  Kashshī 247, 3; this is a tendentious tradition. Regarding Muʿallā see vol. I 372 above. 33  Catalogue of Works XV, no. 25; cf. vol. I 466, n. 1 above. The Ṣābians, too, used the word nabī in the wider sense: to refer to anyone who is physically and psychologically without blemish (Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 384, 20). Regarding the Ismāʿīlites c. Walker, Early philosophical Shiism 116.

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some ‘Rāfiḍites’ were said to have believed even later that the imāms are granted revelations and can abolish laws.34 As a result all three motifs: shafāʿa, miʿrāj and mīthāq were developed by Sunnites and Shīʿites alike, but the Shīʿites usually added ʿAlī to the picture. ʿAlī intercedes;35 ʿAlī and the imāms were the first together with Muḥammad to have said ‘yes’ to the a-last covenant;36 during the miʿrāj the prophet learns that ʿAlī is his true successor.37 The name shīʿa was thought to derive from shuʿāʿ, the rays emitted by the divine light out of which the bodies of the imāms materialise.38 The Shīʿites also enjoyed pointing out that Muḥammad had said to ʿAlī, ‘Your relation to me is the same as that of Aaron to Moses’,39 and as Aaron as well as Moses had been prophets,40 the Sunnites added the sentence ‘However, there will be no more prophets after me’ to this hadith. Conc. VI 422 a. The parallels were listed by ʿAlī al-Ḥusaynī al-Mīlānī in: Turāthunā 7/1412, no. 2/37ff.; also Friedmann, Prophecy Continuous 58f., and Kister in: Rippin (ed.), Approaches 95. The frame story that is added may be merely an attempt at softening the statement (cf. Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 341, –4ff.). Regarding the addition see vol. I 157 above, and Friedmann 56. It is more than doubtful whether this allows the conclusion that the Shīʿites really inferred ʿAlī’s prophethood from this at the beginning; after all, it was known that Aaron died before Moses (cf. EI2 III 231f. s. v. Hārūn b. ʿImrān). Massignon regards the word as an attempt to transform ʿAlī into Muḥammad’s adoptive brother, in order to cover up the fact that there was no case for legitimation through descent at all (Opera minora I 516). Fundamentally different, on the other hand, was the attitude of those who asked after the sources because they did not have a high opinion of hadith: the Khārijites, Jahm b. Ṣafwān, at first also the Muʿtazilites. The Khārijites had an entirely different emblem, the hijra; they performed an exodus like the 34  Ashʿarī, Maq. 51, 3f.; the report is not specific enough – and probably also tendentious – to have wider informative value. 35  See p. 609 above. 36  See vol. II 549 above; cf. also vol. I 341 and 533, as well as p. 589 above. In detail also Biḥār LIII 46ff. no. 20 (without the imāms). 37  See p. 439 above. 38   Biḥār XXV 23 no. 39 after Thumālī. Regarding ʿAlī’s pre-existence cf. vol. I 273 (Ḥasan b. Ṣāliḥ b. Ḥayy); regarding pre-existence in general see Biḥār XXV 1ff. 39  See vol. I 285 above and V 99 (of the German edition). 40  Cf. sura 19:51 and 53.

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prophet had done.41 This expresses their dissident spirit; characteristically the early Qadarites, too, adopted this motto;42 but it found no support in the greater community43 in which the force of the two poles of the hijra, Mecca and Medina, was combined. It is thus no surprise that the exaltation of the prophet that soon began was not supported by the Khārijites. In their opinion, entirely in keeping with the Quran, the messenger remained in the shadow of his message. They were suspected of rejecting Muḥammad’s intercession with the argument that he would have to look out for himself during the Last Judgment.44 They did not speak of miʿrāj, either;45 we have no information concerning the other topics.46 Some among Jahm’s followers even denied Muḥammad’s nocturnal journey (isrāʾ).47 They were also expected to oppose the idea of mīthāq, but we do not know to whom this referred in p ­ articular.48 Among the Muʿtazilites it was Ḍirār whose scripturalism was closest to their views. However, as usual the Muʿtazilites made some concessions to the other side over time. We have already noted this in the context of the shafāʿa.49 In the case of the miʿrāj they distinguished between Muḥammad’s journey to heaven as such and his nocturnal journey to Jerusalem. They did not recognise the journey to heaven but allowed the nocturnal journey,50 as indeed it had a basis in scripture.51 Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār regarded it as no less than a miracle, while he cast doubt on the hadiths that reported of the journey to heaven.52 Others probably did not always make such a clear distinction. During the period discussed here neither isrāʾ nor miʿrāj played a part in the speculations concerning the miracles worked by the prophet (which had been of interest to the Muʿtazila since Naẓẓām). We may assume that some Muʿtazilites explained 41  See vol. I 9 and 474 and II 645 above. 42  See vol. I 107 and 145 above. 43  Not any more, at least, after ʿUmar took the hijra as the basis for the calendar. Regarding lā hijrato baʿda l-fatḥ see vol. I 107, n. 37, above; also the literature listed in vol. I 8, n. 8. 44  Barqī, Maḥāsin 140, 11f.; see also p. 608 above. 45  Majlisī, Biḥār XVIII 380, 1 (after Ibn Shahrāshūb). 46  An early Khārijite, Yazīd b. Unaysa, believed a new prophet would come; presumably Muḥammad’s ‘sealing’ of the message had a different meaning to him. 47  Text XIV 19, x; also vol. II 568 above. 48  Ibn Manda, Radd ʿalā l-Jahmiyya 53ff., also earlier p. 47ff.; unfortunately Ibn Manda jumps straight into the refutation without mentioning these people’s theory with a single word. 49  See p. 608 above. 50  Nasafī, Baḥr al-kalām 66, apu. ff./transl. Jeffery, Reader on Islam 423ff.; cf. also the commentary on Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-fiqh, MS Manchester 156 (= 305), fol. 170a, 4ff. 51  Sura 17:1; see p. 433 above. 52   Tanzīh al-Qurʾān 225, 2ff. It also lacks the authentication from eye-witnesses.

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the nocturnal journey as a dream, as Ḥasan al-Baṣrī was said to have done.53 This probably explains why non-Muʿtazilite sources sometimes claim that the Muʿtazilites – like the Iranian Jahmites mentioned above – did not recognise either the isrāʾ or the miʿrāj.54 Of course the miʿrāj could also be regarded as a dream if one did not wish to reject the hadiths outright, which meant that the prophet would not actually have left his sleeping quarters in either case. As we have seen on p. 435f. above, it was possible to express this as the prophet having performed the miʿrāj (and the isrāʾ?) in spirit; cf. also vol. II 568, n. 81 above. After all, the ‘spirit’ (rūḥ) returns to heaven while the human sleeps (see p. 588f. above). It seems that subsequently the Muʿtazilites only reacted when it came to this question. When they intended to emphasise Muḥammad’s special position they employed an entirely different theologoumenon, the theory of the prophet’s being free from sin (ʿiṣma); but it was a long way to this ‘dogma’. The aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth set no great store by it at first. The shafāʿa tradition was aimed at highlighting the weaknesses of all the prophets who had funded a community before Muḥammad.55 Abraham, as we have seen, had lied three times;56 Moses had killed someone although there had been no blood feud between them;57 Adam had been driven out of paradise because of his disobedience.58 And even Muḥammad, the shafāʿa hadith continues, had incurred guilt at various times. This was known from the Quran; the difference between him and his predecessors was only that his guilt had already been forgiven.59 After all, sura 93:7 says that God had found him ‘erring’ before guiding him; before his calling 53  Abū Ḥayyān al-Andalusī, Al-baḥr al-muḥīṭ VI 6, 1f., with reference to sura 17:60; cf. p. 432 and 435f. above. This is also the opinion of most modern interpreters (cf. Lohmann in: MIO 14/1968/290). 54  Cf. Biḥār XVIII 380, 2f.; also Tadhkirat al-madhāhib 127, 9, and Qushayrī, Miʿrāj 25, ult. 55  Thus also Schöck, Adam im Islam 139f. 56  See p. 658 above; also as a separate hadith (cf. Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 31, 1, with the respective note; also Goldziher in: Der Islam 3/1912/241f. = Ges. Schr. V 265f.). The three lies refer to sura 37:89 (cf. Paret, Kommentar 416) and sura 21:63, and to the story – not mentioned in the Quran – according to which Abraham pretended that his wife Sarah was his sister (Gen. 20:2). 57  Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad 2IV 188, 3; cf. Ex. 2:12. 58  Ibid. 187, 9f. 59  Ibid. 188, 8f. (qad ghufira lahū mā taqaddama min dhanbihī wa-mā ta‌ʾakhkhara) after sura 48/2: li-yaghfira laka llāhu mā taqaddama min dhanbika wa-mā ta‌ʾakhkhara. The formula is also evoked in gravestone inscriptions (cf. RCEA I 21 no. 24).

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Muḥammad was said to have eaten meat sacrificed to a pagan deity, for which a Ḥanīf criticised him.60 And then of course there were the ‘Satanic verses’, and the marriage to his adoptive son Zayd’s wife.61 Jesus and his mother were the only ones over whom sin was believed not to have held sway.62 The extent to which the ‘emblems’ ignore Muḥammad’s earthly existence is indeed remarkable. Muḥammad as a politician or, even more surprisingly, as a law-giver, plays no part – quite unlike nowadays.63 His death was not glorified either, and much less his burial. Graphic descriptions of the body’s decay were the only thing that might be felt to be tactless.64 While one could imagine that the prophet had performed the miʿrāj 200 times during his life,65 there was to be no resurrection for him. It was said that ʿAbdallāh b. Saba‌ʾ had tried to convince people of it during ʿUthmān’s caliphate based on the example of Jesus and on the verse sura 28:85 (which was interpreted entirely differently on other occasions), but this is probably a legend – dating from a time when it had long been clear that he would have been wrong.66 Even if people believed that Muḥammad was raised to heaven immediately after his death, this did not necessarily apply to him alone, and furthermore it was always controversial.67 He was different from Jesus. In the latter’s case the ascension was a conclusion and (in the eyes of his followers at least) together with the resurrection, compensation for the depressing circumstances of his death. The Quran, in fact, 60  Thus after a hadith discussed by Kister in: BSOAS 33/1970/267ff. (= Studies, no. VI). In general cf. Andrae, Person Muhammeds 127ff.; regarding the approach to sura 93:7 see Birkeland, The Lord Guideth 28ff. and 41ff., also Stieglecker, Glaubenslehren 472f., and Paret, Kommentar 513. [In detail Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder 77ff. and 90ff.]. 61  That the ‘matter’ with Zayd’s wife was regarded as a problem is made clear by the K. al-irjāʾ as well as ch. 101 of John of Damascus’ De haersibus (Text II 1, v; Sahas, John of Damascus on Islam 91; regarding its authenticity see p. 703, n. 27 below). Regarding the ‘Satanic verses’ cf. Paret, Kommentar 461 on sura 53:19ff., and the literature listed there; also Busse in: Fs. Singer 477ff. On the wider context see also Rubin in: BSOAS 42/1979/13ff., and in The Eye of the Beholder 156ff. The relevant traditions have been collected and studied with regard to their isnāds by Nāṣir al-Dīn al-Albānī, Naṣb al-majānīq li-nasf qiṣṣat al-gharānīq (Damascus 1952). The event also led to a limitation of the shafāʿa (sura 53:26) where the verses were retracted (sura 53:21ff.) in the Quran; cf. p. 608 above. Is the K. al-irjāʾ referring to this already (with sura 17:74 in v)? 62  HT 111f.; when it came to Jesus his inferiority compared to Muḥammad was consequently explained differently (see p. 661 above). 63  Possibly in the ‘mission topos’ (see above). The anchoring of the law in the sunna nabawiyya is also a later process. 64  See vol. III 107 above. 65  Thus the Shīʿite Ṣabbāḥ al-Muzanī (see vol. I 405 above); cf. also Amir-Moezzi in: Arabica 41/1994/130f. 66  The transmitter was Sayf b. ʿUmar; cf. Ṭabarī I 2942, 6ff. Also Madelung in EI2 IX 420b. 67  Regarding the context see p. 586f. above; cf. also p. 672 below.

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presents the events surrounding Jesus’ death as though he had been exalted directly from the cross;68 paleo-Christianity had at first experimented with this idea as well.69 The adoption of material from the Old Testament in the Isrāʾīliyyāt led to the prophetic tradition losing even more of its magic. The Quran had been very tactful about David’s sin with Bathsheba, mentioning David’s repentance only.70 Muqātil b. Sulaymān, on the other hand, was familiar with the story of the letter sealing Uriah’s fate.71 In the case of Solomon, too, the early exegetes had no qualms about supplementing the hints provided in the scripture; what mattered to them was that, as they learnt from the Quran, Solomon was penitent.72 In this sense Muqātil also accepts the ‘Satanic verses’ or the ‘affair’ of Zayd’s wife: these things happened, but the prophet did not incur guilt.73 The offensive marriage had been permitted by a revelation, and in the case of the ‘Satanic verses’, Satan had shown his power.74 God looks after the purity of his revelation, one might say; for this very reason Hishām b. al-Ḥakam thought that ʿiṣma was not needed in the prophet’s case.75 Even Khārijites were able to approach the idea that the prophets had temporarily been idolaters.76 Not everyone agreed. There were said to be some Khārijites who would have liked to omit the Joseph sura from the Quran;77 maybe this means that they simply did not recite it any more. They considered it to be a bawdy love story, their verdict presumably influenced by the fact that Joseph, a prophet, showed himself willing to sin;78 the quṣṣāṣ were wont to present the scene in gaudy colours.79 Ḥasan al-Baṣrī, another puritan, was believed to have read sura 93:7 differently in order to avoid the horror that God found Muḥammad ‘erring’ 68  Cf. sura 4:158; also 3:55. 69  Cf. G. Bertram in: Festschrift Deissmann 187ff. 70  Cf. Speyer, Biblische Erzählungen 375f. and 378ff. regarding sura 38:20ff.; in general Busse in: JSAI 17/1994/144ff. 71   Tafsīr III 640, 1ff.; cf. also Johns in: MIDEO 19/1989/225ff., and Gilliot in: JA 179/1991/71. 72  After sura 38:30ff.; cf. Gilliot, ibid. 71, and Johns, Solomon and the Horses, in: MIDEO 23/1996. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī would later try to salvage Solomon’s ʿiṣma, and consequently argued differently (Mafātīḥ al-ghayb XXVI 205, 2–129ff.). 73  Gilliot 72ff. 74  Busse correctly emphasises this in the article mentioned in n. 61 above. – In Basra the tradition concerning the ‘Satanic verses’ went via Qatāda and entered other Tafsīrs from there (cf. Hermosilla in: Al-Qanṭara 12/1991/271f.). 75  See vol. I 441f. above; this idea may be the basis of a tradition after ʿAlī al-Riḍā (see vol. III 168, n. 27 above). 76  See vol. II 697 above. 77  See vol. II 645 and 653, n. 64 above. 78  Cf. sura 12:24. 79  See vol. II 645 above. Regarding Muqātil’s exegesis cf. Gilliot 70f.

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(ḍāllan).80 Of course this was another matter altogether; as we have seen, Muḥammad was not necessarily deserving of the same treatment as the other prophets. He required God’s ‘protection’ to ensure that the revelation reached the world in its true and unaltered form; ballagha l-risālata maʿṣūman, ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd b. Yaḥyā says.81 His ritual purity was also very important to people: one hadith tells us that the dream of adolescence never happened to him.82 The motif that someone admired as a leader or a ruler was maʿṣūm ‘protected’ already occurs in ancient Arabian poetry, although it did not refer to being without sin here. Nābigha said of the Ghassānids that they were without fault (āfāt). This was not something they owed to God, however, but rather due to a biological disposition, as it were.83 The perspective changed with Islam; in his first speech after taking office Abū Bakr was quoted as having said that God ‘chose Muḥammad before the people of all the world, and freed him from his faults (ʿaṣamahū min al-āfāt)’.84 The opening of the breast was the decisive event: it transformed Muḥammad into a new human.85 It seems that the predicate maʿṣūm was first used of the caliphs. It is documented for ʿAbd al-Malik, and the finite verb was used of ʿUmar II;86 for Ma‌ʾmūn it appears to have been part of the ruler’s self-image.87 In his letter to al-Mahdī ʿUbaydallāh al-ʿAnbarī described the scholars as khulafāʾ maʿṣūmūn.88 Muḥārib b. Dithār, on the other hand, stated that ʿUthmān and ʿAlī, who may have transgressed (dhanb), were ‘no prophets’.89 It might be that this was how the Shīʿites began to apply the concept to the imāms; after all, imām means ‘leader, ruler’. They were certainly not the ones who originally invented it; Kumayt does not yet use the term at all.90 Moderate Zaydites believed the ʿiṣma was impossible to prove,91 but Sulaymān b. Jarīr thought this remarkable, as in his view ʿiṣma 80  He read ḍāllun instead, with the result that ‘an erring person found you and was guided (by you) to the right road’ (Qurṭubī, Tafsīr XX 99, 9f.). According to Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Shifāʾ 726, 1, it was not Ḥasan al-Baṣrī but Ḥasan b. ʿAlī. 81   Rasāʾil 265, ult. ʿAbbās. 82  See vol. II 747 above. 83  Cf. Bravmann’s article in: Le Muséon 88/1975/221ff. 84  Ṭabarī I 1845, pu. f. 85  Birkeland, Legend of the Opening 48ff.; also Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder 59ff. 86  Cf. in detail Crone/Hinds, God’s Caliph 103f.; also the hadith in HT 70. 87  See vol. III 483 above; probably also ibid. 195. 88  Crone/Hinds 98 and 103, after Wakīʿ, Akhbār al-quḍāt II 98, 7f. – That the caliphs are not only maʿṣūm but also ʿiṣma, a ‘sanctuary’ for their people (ibid. 38f.) or a ‘protection’ for the faith (ibid. 82, n. 154) is a matter of course and belongs in a different place. 89  Text II 4, v. 25f.; also vol. I 171 above. Cf. the usage of nabī among the Ṣābians (n. 33 above); ʿAnbarī accords this predicate to the scholars, too (Wakīʿ II 98, 8). 90  Crone/Hinds 104. 91  See vol. I 276, n. 8 above.

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was closely linked to leadership.92 Of course the postulate of the omniscient leaders embraced by more radical sections, especially the Rāfiḍa, was moving towards the concept of ʿiṣma; their focus was on infallibility. The term itself, however, played no noticeable part here at first, either.93 The Muʿtazilites jumped onto the bandwagon. It is not entirely clear why they should have done so. Perhaps it was due to their theory of government; in their eyes the caliphs were above all the teachers of their community and as such the successors of the prophet.94 Abū l-Hudhayl seems to have brought epistemology into it as well; he needed persons ‘under God’s protection’ as guarantors of reliable tradition.95 We may assume that in his view the prophet was part of this category. He was not looking for absolute freedom from sin, however; not even for infallibility: rather, for reliability and integrity. Even this was cast into doubt by later ascetics within the school when it came to Muḥammad: he was, they thought, a worldly man who had sacrificed much to his political considerations.96 They did not ascribe grave sins to him – Aṣamm had refrained from it, as had Naẓẓām and Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir,97 finally also Abū Hāshim.98 Further distinctions were added: prophets never sin consciously, i.e. they may err but they do not act against God’s law;99 or: they can sin before their calling, but not afterwards.100 Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir appears to have assumed that the prophets might commit venial sins but did not de facto do so, as even the smallest transgression would have weighed heavily in their case.101 This was as good as stating total freedom from sin; the last remaining step to be taken was to replace the moral explanation with an anthropological one: they cannot sin because it would be against their nature. Even in the Imāmiyya no-one went as far as this before the Sharīf al-Murtaḍā; his predecessors Ibn Bābōya and Mufīd had sought their points of view among the Muʿtazila’s 92  See vol. II 539 above. 93  See vol. I 322ff. above. 94  See p. 789f. below. 95  See vol. III 288 above. 96  Unlike Jesus; ibid. 437 as well as p. 103f. and 383f. above. 97  Text XIII 23; see p. 73 above. 98  Gimaret, Ashʿarī 458. 99  The key term was sahw ‘carelessness’; already Naẓẓām (see vol. III 449 above); but rejected by Jāḥiẓ whose epistemology only recognised deliberate sins as being sins (see p. 115 above; also ʿUthmāniyya 81 7ff.). 100  Thus Jubbāʾī, allegedly also Abū l-Hudhayl (Gimaret 458f.). Cf., however, Ṭūsī, Tibyān V 263, apu. ff., according to which Jubbāʾī concluded sura 9:43 to mean that Muḥammad had committed a sin, as the passage referred to an event after the calling. Cf. Gimaret, Une lecture muʿtazilite du Coran 414f. 101  See p. 73 above.

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precepts.102 Ibn Qiba, who had lived a century earlier,103 had even written openly against the ʿiṣma in his K. al-inṣāf.104 Sharīf al-Murtaḍā defended his theory in a separate text as well, the K. tanzīh al-anbiyāʾ. A text in which ʿAlī al-Riḍā and ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Jahm (?) argue about the ʿiṣma in Ma‌ʾmūn’s presence expressed the same spirit, but it is probably fiction (Biḥār XI 72ff. no. 1; also 78ff. no. 8). Cf. also the remark in ʿAbd al-Jalīl al-Qazwīnī, Naqż 493, 8f., that during his day, i.e. under Seljuk rule, all the Ḥanafites from Nishapur to Uzkand and Samraqand, and also in Turkestan, Ghaznīn and Transoxiana, recognised the prophet’s ʿiṣma. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī listed the individual positions summarily and with scholastic classification following sura 2:34 (Mafātīḥ al-ghayb III 7, 4ff.; also Goldziher in: Der Islam 3/1912/239ff. = Ges. Schr. V 263ff.). Regarding the later development cf. Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 184ff. The Muʿtazilites also had to consider their doctrine of free will; they could not go so far as to claim that God’s ‘protection’ prevented the prophet from sinning. ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī had already pointed out this pitfall to his Muslim opponents: Jesus, although he lived without sin, was granted freedom of action when he became a human.105 Or, as the Jewish authors of the tenth and eleventh centuries said: Humans are free to sin, but due to his foreknowledge God will chose only someone to be a prophet of whom he knows that he will not be ­disobedient.106 After all, God sent his messenger ‘with the guidance and the religion of truth, to ensure its victory’ (sura 9:33); he must not get in the way of the divine plan. ʿAbd al-Malik had included the verse in the inscriptions in the Dome of the Rock;107 and it has repeatedly been struck onto coins since that time.108 It was usually interpreted differently then: the sign of the true prophet is his success. The discrepancy between prophecy and sin was not noticed, either, but there was never any doubt that a prophet would have been chosen by God with great care. If he is free from sin, like Jesus, this is because

102  Cf. in general Madelung in EI2 IV 182f. s. v. ʿIṣma. 103  Regarding him see p. 276 above. 104  Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 36, n. 55; regarding the book cf. Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 225, 6, and Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 120. 105   Masāʾil 220, 10ff. 106  Cf. M. Zucker in: Tarbiz 35/1965–6/149ff. 107  By the north gate; cf. Busse in: Das Heilige Land 109/1977/11. 108  Cf. e.g. Spuler, Iran in frühislamischer Zeit 137f.

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he is fortified with the Holy Spirit,109 and if he sins, like Adam, it is because his ‘contumacy’ is the paradigm for sin per se, and consequently part of the divine plan of salvation.110 This agrees with the fact that most of the early Muʿtazilites – and maybe already Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ – regarded prophethood as a proof of divine grace;111 Jubbāʾī shared this opinion.112 This appears to have been the interpretation of ‘goods in trust’ in sura 33:72; the explanation being the same as those proposed by the abovementioned Jewish theologians (who were probably referring to Islamic theology in any case).113 The origins of this idea were probably ancient and not limited to any one school; in the account of Muḥammad’s experiencing his calling that Zuhrī heard from ʿUrwa b. al-Zubayr, Khādija confirmed her husband’s election with the words ‘You fulfil the amāna’.114 Determinists like Bishr al-Marīsī or Najjār concluded that prophethood overcomes a human ‘like law enforcement’;115 and Hishām b. al-Ḥakam used this as the explanation why even with a sinful prophet the revelation remains credible.116 On the other hand one had to ask whether the prophet himself was obliged to do something for the amāna. He has to be prepared for it, Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī said: in his upbringing and education (tahdhīb).117 This did not mean that he resisted being chosen; this is an idea that would only be expressed later by mystics,118 but we can understand why someone as convinced of free will as the Muʿtazilite ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān embraced the theory that a prophet earned his prophethood through his actions.119 Above all, he was expected to

109  After sura 2:253; cf. the text in Kulīnī, Kāfī II 282, 13ff., where ʿiṣma is not presupposed in principle. 110  After sura 20:121: ‘And Adam disobeyed his Lord, and so he erred (from the right road)’. Cf. HT 165, and in detail Schöck, Adam im Islam 89ff., which points out that Adam was not regarded as a prophet continuously at this early stage of the tradition. He, too, however, is chosen (cf. sura 3:33; Schöck 133ff.). In general cf. Kister in: IOS 13/1993/147ff. 111  Text IX 20. 112  Gimaret, Ashʿarī 458. 113  Cf. vol. II 313 and Text IX 20, which refers to sura 6:124. 114  Ṭabarī I 1147, 17 = Ṭabrisī, Tafsīr V 514, 5; cf. also Ṭabarī I 1151, 6. As far as I can see there is nothing pertinent included in the Tafsīr collections regarding sura 33:71; but then the exegesis is particularly complex in this context. 115  Text IV 51. 116  See p. 666 above. Heretically rephrased and referred to ʿAlī this idea is found in the Shīʿite texts of Mughīra b. Saʿīd (cf. Maq. 8, 3ff./transl. Halm, Gnosis 91f.). 117   Khatm al-awliyāʾ 415, apu. Yaḥyā = Sīrat al-awliyāʾ 103, 13 Radtke. 118  Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, fīhi mā fīh 66, 16ff./transl. Arberry, Discourses 78. 119  See p. 46 above. The first to express this idea may have been a certain Abū Maysara (cf. Saksakī, Burhān 33, –5ff.). In general Maq. 227, 6ff., and 448, 8ff.

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have a keen intellect – keener than his contemporaries120 – in order for him to be rhetorically superior121 or able to present new cultural achievements to them.122 This was not specifically Muʿtazilite at heart any more; similar ideas were transmitted from Saʿīd b. Jubayr.123 The philosophers, Fārābī and especially Ibn Sīnā, gave it a new twist: revelation is the result of an illumination conveyed by the ʿaql al-faʿʿāl, but prepared by the prophet’s own spiritual training.124 Muqammiṣ thought that if the prophet did not have to earn his position, everyone could become a prophet, after all.125 Ibn Ḥibbān al-Bustī believed the prophet’s office was characterised by revealed knowledge and exemplary actions in equal measure (ʿilm wa-ʿamal). Because of this he was suspected of being a heretic in his home country.126 A fellow lawyer from Spain had a similar experience when he drew the conclusion that women, too, could be prophets. Ashʿarī had flatly ruled out such a possibility. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 456. The Spanish theologian was the Mālikite Muḥammad b. Mawhab al-Tujībī from Cabra (d. 406/1015); he mainly had Mary in mind (cf. Ḥumaydī, Jadhwat al-muqtabis 85 no. 146; also Fierro, Heterodoxía 168f., and in: BSOAS 55/1992/241). She specifically came to mind because like Muḥammad she had received a divine message at the hands of an angel – in her case, too, it was Gabriel; cf. Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī, Sīrat al-awliyāʾ 400, 6ff., and 445, pu. f. Yaḥyā = 88, 11ff., and 124, 2f. Radtke (with commentary by Radtke/O’Kane, The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism 162f.), also Gramlich, Wunder der Freunde Gottes 75f. There was furthermore a (non-canonical) hadith according to which there had been four female prophets. However, the word used was nabiyyāt, which meant that Ashʿarī could easily retreat onto the position that the ‘messengers of God’, who were ranked above the ‘prophets’, had only ever been men (he also referred to sura 12:109; cf. Ibn Fūrak, Mujarrad 174, 10ff.). Regarding the distinction between nabī and rasūl Allāh cf. W. A. Bijleeld, ‘A Prophet and more than a Prophet’ in: MW 59/1969/1ff.; Watt in: Der Islam I 222f., and Welch 120  Thus the Muʿtazilite Ibn Munajjim in his K. al-Burhān, §53. 121  Ibid. § 57, of course because of iʿjāz. 122  See p. 362f. above; also p. 710 below. 123  Via a Qadarite intermediary (Saʿīd b. Abī ʿArūba); see vol. II 73 above. 124  Cf. Fazlur Rahman, Prophecy in Islam 30ff.; Madkour, La place d’al-Fārābī dans l’école philosophique musulmane 181ff.; Gardet, La pensée religieuse d’Avicenne 120ff. and earlier; also Michot, Destinée de l’homme 118ff. 125   ʿIshrūn maqāla XIII 2ff. = p. 256ff. 126  Dhahabī, Mīzān III 507, –8ff. s. n.

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in: Hovannisian/Vryonis (eds.), Islam’s Understanding of Itself 43ff. It remains to be researched whether it was relevant also in cases where the Kufan Shīʿites or the Ṣābians spoke of ‘prophets’ (see p. 660 and 661, n. 33 above). ʿAbbād also suggested that Muḥammad might have remained a prophet beyond his death (p. 46 above). This seemed to imply, especially if one did not believe in an immortal soul, that he was not resting in his grave but had been raised to heaven after his death (see p. 586f. above). In this context the theory, as B. Radtke emphasised repeatedly (cf. e.g. AS 48/1994/914f.), played a part in the thirteenth/eighteenth and fourteenth/ nineteenth centuries in the mysticism concerned with the so-called ṭarīqa Muḥammadiyya, and was the subject of controversies there, too. In a mystic’s eyes, Muḥammad’s continued existence and the indelible character of his mission might, of course, be a corollary of his pre-existence. Kharrāz had already assumed that the prophet had possessed his wilāya even before his calling (K. al-kashf in: Rasāʾil 32, 6). A comparative study of the Quranic and the Biblical image of the prophet was undertaken by L. Hagemann in Propheten – Zeugen des Glaubens (Würzburg 1985).

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4.2.1 The Quran The main reason why Muḥammad’s earthly existence did not become condensed into ‘emblematic’ situations was that there was a special symbol of Muslim identity of that time: the Quran. The words of the scripture have much greater importance to Muslims than they do in Christianity; they occupy the same place in the consciousness of the believer that the example of Jesus has for a Christian.1 What the representation of the crucifixion or of Christ teaching is to the one,2 the calligraphy of a Quranic verse is to the other. Islam is the ‘faith of the book’ par excellence; unlike Jesus, to Muḥammad it was a matter of course that a prophet should legitimise himself with a scripture. This explains why the Quran refers to itself; it contains more than a few passages of metatextual character.3 Muḥammad recognises the Quran as a text to be recited (qurʾān), while the New Testament is the Gospel, the ‘glad tidings’ determined by their contents, and presumably not in Jesus’ own words.4 The Quran’s argument, furthermore, is strongly theological, in dialectical debate with opponents who refuse to recognise the revelation, i.e. the ‘book’; it is not only guidance for actions but also for rational thinking. During the 1980s/90s research has attempted to frame the development in terms of canonisation. Cf., introductory, G. T. Sheppard in ER III 63ff. s. v. Canon; in detail e.g. W. C. Smith in: M. Levering (ed.), Rethinking Scripture (Albany 1989) 29ff., Graham, Beyond the Written Word (Cambridge 1987) 50ff., and in particular R. Fernhout, Canonical Texts, Bearers of Absolute Authority. Bible, Koran, Veda, Tipiṭaka (Amsterdam/Atlanta 1994; I am grateful to H. Daiber for bringing this work to my notice). The decisive step before Islam was taken by Mani; he, too, felt inspired by God to compose a ‘scripture’ or scriptures.

1  This has repeatedly been found in comparisons of faiths, thus e.g. W. C. Smith in: Fs. Hitti 52 (= On Understanding Islam 238f.), K. Cragg, Call of the Minaret 272f., and in detail Zirker, Christentum und Islam 71ff., also Leuze, Christentum und Islam 57; the first instance was probably N. Söderblom (cf. A. Schimmel in: F. Whaling, The World’s Religious Traditions, Edinburgh 1984, p. 133). From a slightly different angle and with reference to Islamic theology F. Meier, Bahāʾ-i Walad 313, n. 79, and 443, n. 26, and Zwei Abhandlungen über die Naqšbandiyya 147. 2  Cf. e.g. the early Christian apse mosaic in St Pudenziana in Rome. Regarding the historical background of the portrait of Christ cf. A. Desrumeaux, Histoire du roi Abgar et de Jésus (Leuven 1993), p. 37ff. 3  Cf. Nagel, Der Koran 326ff.: ‘Der Koran über den Koran’. 4  In the Gospels the word εὐαγγέλιον is found only in the Gospel of St Mark, and not apparently in its original version, either (cf. Theol. WB zum NT 724ff. s. v.; in general M. Hengel, Die Evangelienüberschriften, Sitz.-Ber. Ak. Wiss. Heidelberg, Phil.-Hist. Kl, 1984 no. 3). The denotations ‘Bible’ or ‘New Testament’ are, of course, absent entirely.

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In addition, in the eyes of the Arabs the revelation took place at the very moment when myth changed into history;5 their emergence from the age of ‘ignorance’ (χρόνος τη̃ ς ἀγνοίας = jāhiliyya) into the bright light of global importance was more abrupt than all others. Arabic, until then an unimportant ‘third-world’ idiom, became the language of the rulers, and the Quran was the first great prose text composed in this language. While the Christians used the Old Testament, and soon the New Testament, too, in translation – and with the exception of fragments the words of Jesus had not been written down in the language in which he had spoken them in any case – the Islamic revelation was a unity in its linguistic form. This was the starting point for several paths of theological reflection, each from a different angle: at first the Quran appeared Arabic, then eternal, and finally linguistically unmatched. The first of these was evident and incontrovertible; the last two aspects would be agreed bindingly only after lengthy discussion. They did not build on each other; the Muʿtazilites did not regard the Quran as eternal but would over time come to profess its matchlessness. Those who regarded it as uncreated did not have to prove its matchlessness; it is no coincidence that the Ḥanbalites were less concerned with iʿjāz than the Muʿtazilites. Only in the eyes of later centuries – and in the unreflected understanding of present-day Muslims – would everything blend together. The first aspect had already been pointed out as significant in the Quran itself, in one of the metatextual passages mentioned. The revelation, it says, came down to Muḥammad as ‘Arabic recitation’ (qurʾānan ʿarabiyyan),6 distinguishing the Arabs, who had watched salvation unfolding from the sidelines so far, above all peoples. A prophet, it was well-known, had to speak the language of his people;7 after all, his message had to be suited to the understanding of his audience.8 One might ask whether seen under this aspect, Muḥammad’s message was universal in character at all. After the rapid expansion of Islam the answer was self-evident, and could also be inferred from passages such as sura 34:28 and 7:158. This was, in fact, the point at which the question became urgent. The conquests themselves had not been undertaken for primarily missionary motives; which is why the caliphs did not take part in them, and why the warriors themselves often returned to the Hijaz.9 Those who 5  As emphasised by Berque, Le Coran 790, following a general remark by E. Jünger. 6  Sura 12:2 and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 246. 7  Later emphasised by Theodore Abū Qurra (cf. the text, ed. Dick, in: Le Muséon 72/1959/4, 11ff.). 8  Expressed in Bilawhar wa-Būdhasf 51, 9ff./transl. Gimaret 97f. 9  A. Noth points this out in: AS 43/1989/134). Regarding Muḥammad’s own claim to universality cf. A. Welch, Muhammad’s understanding of himself. The Koranic data, in: Hovannisian/

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did settle in the conquered regions tended to remain among their own kind. The society of the victors did not stoop to have dealings with the vanquished; those among the latter who converted did so of their own accord,10 and if they wished to gain entrance to the community of Muslims they had to learn Arabic. Arab identity and Islamic universalism only gradually found a mutually balanced position. This explains that people regarding Islam from outside, as enemies, had only contempt for this Arabian component in particular.11 Two further aspects must be taken into account. Firstly, the Quran was not merely scripture but also a fundamental component of the liturgy; qurʾān means ‘recitation’.12 All those taking part in divine service had to worship in Arabic; there was no Targum of the kind the Jews had.13 Islamic liturgy never developed its own poetic forms such as for instance hymns, certainly not within the framework of the official ritual.14 The result was a ‘coranisation de la mémoire’;15 familiarity with the Quran could be assumed among educated people, and it would be referenced everywhere.16 The first scholars of Islam were the ‘Quran reciters’; they not only knew the text by heart but were also experts at performing it, and even interpreted it. It was because of their needs that grammar acquired such great relevance; the language of the Quran would become the universal standard. Secondly, Muḥammad had repeatedly challenged his opponents to ‘bring a sura like it’.17 This was basically a gesture that was part of prophethood; Vryonis, Islam’s Understanding of Itself 47ff.; also Zirker, Christentum und Islam 78. Regarding the subject in general see vol. I 30f. above; the recognition of earlier revealed religions and their subsequent legal freedoms are given their particular meaning here. 10  See vol. I 39ff. above. The situation was different only with regard to those Arabs who lived beyond the Arabian Peninsula in Syria and in Iraq, and were united with their brethren ‘beyond the limes’; they were among those directly addressed by the Quran and were consequently force to convert, if needed, e.g. the Taghlib under ʿAbd al-Malik (vol. I 11). 11  See vol. II 34 above. 12  Cf. the sources listed by Graham in: WI 23–24/1984/365ff.; for a basic overview id., Beyond the Written Word, passim, and Neuwirth in: Wild (ed.), The Qurʾān as Text 82ff. 13  This was only found in exegetic lessons (see vol. II 93 above). Eastern Iran may have been an exception, but we do not know to what extent the permission to recite the Quran in Persian applied to the liturgy (ibid. 553). 14  Cf. Shahid in: Prédication et propaganda 35f. 15  The phrase was coined by P. Nwiya. 16  As especially emphasised by W. al-Qāḍī; cf. her study of Bishr b. Abī Kubār al-Balawī (Beirut 1985), and the articles in: Cameron/Conrad (eds.), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East I 215ff. (Princeton 1992), Fs. Wagner II 162ff. (Beirut 1994), and Shareef/Hawting (eds.), Approaches to the Qurʾān 285ff. (London 1993). Also A. M. Zubaidi in: CHAL I 322ff., and St. Humphreys, Qurʾānic Myth and Narrative Structure in: Clover/Humphreys (eds.), Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity 271ff., esp. 276ff. 17  Cf. sura 2:23 and the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 14.

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challenges of the kind are found in Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Nahum.18 In the same way Muḥammad suggested to the Jews to wish for their own death,19 but in the present case the gesture, being ‘the Quran on the subject of the Quran’, referred to the very text of the revelation. It was probably Muḥammad’s reaction to the polemic of Medinan Jews,20 intending to show them that his revelation was incontrovertible, based on his conviction that every prophet before him had already presented a revealed text as a sign of the covenant between God and humans.21 He said ‘sura’ rather than ‘Quran’ as the revelation had not yet been concluded and become a ‘book’, which once again drew attention onto the linguistic form; here was a starting point for the future iʿjāz dogma. A more detailed study is needed to determine how this happened. To Muḥammad the most important thing was that what he presented was new as the revelation in its Arabic form (and only in this form!). Qatāda understood the challenge to have been that Muḥammad had demanded his opponents bring a piece of Quran that was just as true as his.22 Even Ṭabarī said that the challenge was for the text to be just as clear; he rules out entirely that it could equal the Quran’s structure and rhetorical form.23 It was impossible not to notice that the Quran was less coherent than the other revealed texts.24 If one looked at it from outside the weaknesses were immediately visible. Ibn alMuqaffaʿ pointed out that the impression of linguistic perfection was achieved by familiarisation; once the Quran had been established as the norm it appeared to be the norm.25 Iranian kuttāb, ‘heretics’ in the eyes of Arab Muslims, pointed out the mistakes and contradictions in the text; Jāḥiẓ was angered by this,26 and Ibn al-Rēwandī collected their arguments.27 This was presumably mainly an expression of Shuʿūbite ideas, but fundamentally it was a position that might have been found elsewhere, too. Celsus had already asserted with emphasis that the philosophers expressed themselves more clearly than the 18  Zimmerli, Ezechiel I 134. 19  See p. 367f. above. 20  Wansbrough emphasises this context, but following his axiomatic assumption he locates the Jews elsewhere (Quranic Studies 79). 21  Cf., with slightly different emphasis, Radscheit in: Wild (ed.), The Qurʾān as Text 119f. and 123 after D. Künstlinger in: RO 4/1926/245; more general id., Die koranische Herausforderung. Die taḥaddī-Verse im Rahmen der Polemikpassagen des Korans, e.g. p. 81f. and 102f. 22  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3I 373 no. 491 about sura 2:23. 23  Ibid. 375, 2ff. 24  Cf. sura 25:32 with Ṭabarī 2XV 158, pu. ff., which presents this argument by the Jews against Muḥammad. 25  See vol. II 39f. above; cf. also vol. III 308. 26   Rasāʾil II 192, 7f., and III 278, 3f. 27  See p. 378f. above.

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gospels,28 but a countermove that pushed language so firmly into the limelight would not have been likely in Christianity. It was admitted that the gospels had been written by simple people in colloquial Greek.29 Linguistic perfection was something expected from pagans; Augustine said of Vergil that the letter never wrote a single line that was not admirable.30 The decisive steps were not taken until the third/ninth and fourth/tenth centuries. At the beginning of this period Thumāma expressed the opinion that the Quran’s conviction lay in its inner cohesion and the absence of all contradiction,31 he probably meant something shared by many at the time: he was expressing a criterion aimed at the contents. Abū l-Hudhayl tried to render the prophet’s own situation psychologically plausible, possibly using the word taḥaddī ‘challenge’ that would become a key term later.32 It does not occur in the Quran or the canonical hadith; later, Jāḥiẓ used it, as did Ibn al-Rēwandī,33 and Ibn al-Munajjim in K. al-burhān,34 by which time it had already become established. Murdār (a Persian!) still rejected all claims of the Quran’s linguistic matchlessness.35 The first one to invoke a miracle was Naẓẓām, but he does not explain the opponents’ powerlessness as fundamental and permanent rhetorical inferiority, but as a momentary lapse (ṣarfa) from their usual competence, effected by God.36 The special character of the Quranic diction to him was its occasional tendency to indulge in allusive language,37 which is indeed a rhetorical criterion but not one that might not also be found elsewhere. Jāḥiẓ adopts Naẓẓām’s ṣarfa theory, even going beyond it; he thought about the composition (naẓm) of the Quran.38 His book is not extant, but some of his other texts are among the earliest extant originals. While these are only fragments and sporadic remarks, it is possible that more in-depth study might bring us

28  Origenes, Contra Celsum VI 1/transl. Chadwick 316; regarding the context cf. Rougier, Celse 391f. 29  Arnobius, Adversus nations I 58; he regards this as proof that they had not been falsified. In general see E. Norden, Antike Kunstprosa 5521ff. 30   De utilitate credenda VI 13; cf. P. Brown, Augustine of Hippo 37. However, Augustine and his teacher Ambrosius also made attempts to present the rhetorical beauty of the gospels (Norden, ibid. 526ff.). 31  See vol. III 178 and 182 above. 32  See vol. III 308 above. 33  See p. 128 and 368–71 above; also Text XXXV 70, c. 34   § 63. 35  Text XVIII 12; cf. vol. III 150 above. 36  See vol. III 446f. 37  Cf. Text XXII 215. 38  Cf. the title Catalogue of Works XXX, no. 22.

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further enlightenment.39 For fundamentally ontological reasons his contemporary ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān as well as his teacher Hishām al-Fuwaṭī still rejected the idea of raising the Quran to the status of an affirmatory miracle for the prophet.40 Kindī did not do this, either, but he crossed a boundary when he emphasised the brevity and precision of the Quran’s language.41 Over the course of these deliberations the consensus emerged that Muḥammad’s opponents in this matter were not Jews but rather pagan Meccans; they were believed to be capable of greater rhetorical and linguistic connoisseurship. This was due to people having grown used to comparing the language of the Quran with that of ancient Arabic poetry;42 and while ahl alkitāb such as the Jews of Mecca might have much to say about the substance, they had no understanding of poetry.43 The opponents’ Shuʿūbite impetus appears to have encouraged the theologians to link the Quran ever more closely to Arab identity. Interestingly, the word iʿjāz became a term only when it was used to denote the Quran’s rhetorical matchlessness. Earlier, people had said more generally that the Quran was muʿjiz, ‘superior, incapacitating’, as it struck its opponents dumb;44 this appears to have been the way in which Naẓẓām used the word.45 The qualities that resulted in this superiority remained disputed; there was only general agreement.46 What matters is that now the element of imitation dominated the debate, which had been a secondary motif while people had believed that Muḥammad was documenting the new covenant with God by means of the scripture sent down to him. Once the linguistic aspect came to the fore, the question soon arose of which quantity (qadr) of Quran in the form of ‘recitation’, i.e. in a spoken text in a particular situation, could be muʿjiz.47 The prophet, as we have seen, did 39  See p. 127f. above. In this context one must research whether he did indeed believe in the stylistic iʿjāz, as Audebert, Ḫaṭṭābī 62, claims. 40  See p. 10 and 47 above. 41  Cf. Walzer in: Oriens 10/1957/209 = Greek into Arabic 181. He is more or less on the same line as Naẓẓām. 42  Regarding the state of debate cf., using the example of the Masāʾil Nāfiʿ b. al-Azraq, A. Neuwirth in: ZAL 25/1993/233ff.; also I. J. Boullata in: Fs. Adams 27ff., and Muranyi in: Wild (ed.), The Qurʾan as Text 247ff. 43  This was, of course, an error; after all, there was the Dīwān by Samawʾal. The circumstances of Iraqi urban culture, where the Jews spoke a form of ‘Middle Arabic’, were projected onto the pre-Islamic period. Qirqisānī, Anwār 298, 14ff., tells us how a Jew thought about iʿjāz; regarding Spain cf. Sadan in: IOS 14/1994/325ff. 44  Ashʿarī, Maq. 225, 8ff. 45  See vol. III 445. More information on the word on p. 712 below. 46  Ibn Ḥazm discussed this in some detail (Fiṣal III 15, 12ff.). 47  Cf. the text in Frank’s article in: MIDEO 19/1989/174, 8; also Text XXII 212A, b.

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not speak of the Quran as a whole but of ‘sura’, which led to the discovery that even the smallest of all the suras, the Sūrat al-kawthar (no. 108), contained all the signs of perfection; an idea that can be documented from Ibn al-Rēwandī onwards.48 It consisted of three verses, which fulfilled the requirements of ta‌ʾlīf and naẓm.49 Individual words or figures of speech were not considered to be muʿjiz independently; while they were perfect and consequently exemplary, they were not inimitable. Others thought that the iʿjāz was expressed only in the long suras, especially in those that included the taḥaddī verses, but once again in the composition of the sura as a whole and by no means in the context of these verses only.50 One generation before Ashʿarī, iʿjāz made its first appearance in book titles, apparently with its rhetorical connotation: in works by two of Jubbāʾī’s contemporaries and pupils, Muḥammad b. ʿUmar alBāhilī (d. 300/913),51 and Muḥammad b. Zayd al Wāsiṭī (d. 306/918).52 The earliest extant monographs on the subject are by Rummānī (d. 386/996?) and by Ḫaṭṭābī (d. the same year, or 388/998). The former was a Muʿtazilite,53 the latter a traditionist and jurist. We can see that the theory of rhetorical iʿjāz had become common knowledge by the second half of the fourth century. Both treatises were edited by Muḥammad Khalafallāh and Muḥammad Zaghlūl Sallām, Thalāth rasāʾil fī iʿjāz al-Qurʾān, Cairo 1955; the second one was translated by Cl.-F. Audebert, Al-Ḫaṭṭābī et l’inimitabilité du Coran, Damascus 1982, with information on the further development of the problem. Cf. also G. v. Grunebaum in: EI2 III 1018ff. s. v. Iʿd̲ jā̲ z; Grotzfeld in: Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte 13/1969/58ff.; Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 79ff.; Neuwirth in: Der Islam 60/1983/166ff.; Boullata in: Approaches, ed. Rippin, 139ff.; van Gelder, Beyond the Line (Leiden 1982), p. 5f. and 97ff. Useful are furthermore Abdul Aleem in: IC 7/1933/64ff. and 215ff., Weisweiler in: Oriens 11/1958/77ff., and Naʿīm al-Ḥimṣī’s collection of material in RAAD 28/1953–30/1955 (collected in the book Ta‌ʾrīkh 48  Cf. Text XXXV 69. Also Gimaret, Ashʿarī 465; and Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’hommme 220; regarding the early Ashʿarites in general Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal III 19. –7ff. 49  Regarding ta‌ʾlīf see p. 522 above. 50  Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl, fol. 26b and 27b. 51  See p. 275 above. 52   Fihrist 41, 10, and 220, 7; also Audebert, Ḫaṭṭābī 59. Abū Muslim al-Iṣfahānī (d. 322/934) also uses the word in his Tafsīr (cf. the quotation in Suyūṭī, Itqān II 119, ult.). 53  Cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 333, 2, and IM 110, 6ff.; he was a pupil of Abū Bakr Ibn alIkhshīdh and opponent of Abū Hāshim. Regarding his Tafsīr cf. Makram in: Al-Fikr al-islāmī 1/1970, issue 4/77ff.; GAS 8/112f., and Gimaret, Une lecture muʿtazilite du Coran (Leuven 1995) 23. Muḥammad al-Ṭūsī and Zamakhsharī used this work. In general see Flanagan in EI2 VIII 614f.

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fikrat iʿjāz al-Qurʾān, Beirut 1980). Many relevant studies were published in Egypt in the last decades of the twentieth century. Regarding the years 1954–61 cf. Audebert in: Cahiers de Liguistique d’Orientalisne et de Slavistique 1–2/1973/29ff.; for the later time e.g. ʿAbd al-Karīm Khaṭīb, Aliʿjāz fī dirāsāt al-sābiqīn (Cairo 1974), ʿAbd al-Qādir Ḥusayn, Maʿa l-Qurʾān fī iʿjāzihī wa-balāghatihī (Cairo 1975), Munīr Sulṭān, Iʿjāz al-Qurʾān bayna l-Muʿtazila wal-Ashāʿira (Alexandria 1977), or Aḥmad Abū Zayd, Almanḥā al-iʿtizālī fī l-bayān wa-iʿjāz al-Qurʾān (Rabat 1986). Overall these books make no contribution to the historical elucidation of the issue. We have already pointed out the interferences between the iʿjāz dogma and the belief in an illiterate (ummī) prophet.54 Like so many ideas in this field they never achieved a united amplitude; the universally Islamic consensus that is usually conveyed nowadays is clearly a late development. Being illiterate was not necessarily a compliment at first;55 furthermore, the word ummī generally implied that while someone was unable to write, he could at least read.56 It was in the early days of the Abbasid era that some Quranic exegetes began to interpret the word in sura 7:157f. (and 2:78) as ‘illiterate’;57 if the poet was unable to either read or write it seemed assured that he could not have drawn the revelation from himself. Originally the meaning of ummī in the Quran had been quite different;58 furthermore, this new interpretation meant that it became necessary to prove that Muḥammad could not even have learnt of the content of earlier holy scriptures through oral instruction.59 Muḥammad b. al-Layth, who wrote to Constantine VI on behalf of Hārūn al-Rashīd, knew the theory in its fully developed form.60 Aṣamm, too, embraced it.61 An Egyptian gravestone of 207/822 calls Muḥammad ummī as well as khatam al-nabiyyīn.62 ʿAlī b. Rabban al-Ṭabarī regards this idea as one reason for his conversion.63

54  See vol. I 31f. above. 55  Ibid. 56  Cf. ʿAthamina in: Der Islam 69/1992/61ff., esp. 77ff. 57  In more detail Goldfeld in: Der Islam 57/1980/66ff.; regarding the chronology also, rather more sceptical, Calder in: Der Islam 67/1990/111ff. In general also ʿAthamina, loc. cit. 58  Cf. Paret, Kommentar 21f. on sura 2:78; Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 53f. 59  See p. 369f. above. The Quran seemed to say something different in places; cf. Paret, Muhammed und der Koran 564, and vol. I 32 above. Sura 96:1 also posed a problem, depending on how one interpreted iqra‌ʾ. 60  See vol. III 28 above. 61  Text XIII 21, b. 62  RCEA I 118f. no. 151 (although there is nothing to say that ummī means ‘illiterate’ here). 63   K. al-dīn wal-dawla 44, –5ff. = 298, 4ff./transl. Mingana 50f.

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People had noticed at the time that the iʿjāz dogma did not require this swerve; Jāḥiẓ put it into words.64 In principle, referring to Muḥammad as illiterate only said that he could not have ‘copied’ anything; his command of language was not affected. Consequently there were still arguments on the question in the fifth/eleventh century in Spain, the Mālikite jurist al-Bājī pointing out that Muḥammad wrote on the occasion of the treaty of Ḥudaybiya.65 Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī did not think much of the theory, either, interpreting ummī to mean that the prophet had acquired his knowledge in his mother’s womb (mādarzād).66 The Shīʿites’ attitude was entirely negative. They believed in the omniscience of the imāms;67 surely they could not deny the prophet one of the most common intellectual skills.68 They derived ummī from umm al-qurā,69 identifying Muḥammad as a Meccan.70 How, it was asked jokingly, could calligraphy be such a noble art if the prophet was not able to write?71 Christianity approached this topic with the fact that the apostles were simple men. We have referred to Arnobius on p. 677, n. 29 above. St John Chrysostom described the apostles as ιδιώται, ἀγράμματοι, and ἀπαθει̃ς; their teachings are the more convincing the less education they possess (cf. Wensinck in: AO 2/1924/192). Complete illiteracy is not mentioned; after all, there was never any doubt that the evangelists wrote their books themselves. 4.2.1.1 Verbal Inspiration? We have to ask to what degree the idea of verbal inspiration was included in the dogma of stylistic iʿjāz. Finding the answer is difficult not least because the theologians of the early period never explicitly explored this matter; we have to read between the lines. There is no corresponding Arabic term to guide us, but there are, of course, many arguments in favour. Overall we may say that verbal inspiration moves closer the more clearly the concept of scripture-based religion prevails; it is the latter’s entelechy, as it were. Like Melanchthon and Lutheran orthodoxy, Islam on the whole equated scriptura with verbum dei. 64  See p. 128 above. 65  Cf. Fierro in: BSOAS 55/1992/243f. 66   Fīhi mā fīh 142, 12ff./transl. Arberry, Discourses 151. 67  Which included their unusual command of language (see vol. I 322 above). 68  Ashʿarī, Maq. 50, 5ff.; also p. 668 above. 69  Ibn al-Ṣaffār, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt 225, –4ff., and 226, –6ff.; also Ibn Bābōya (cf. Tritton in: BSOAS 13/1949–51/837). 70  Regarding umm al-qurā ‘capital city’ as a name of Mecca cf. sura 6:92 and 42:7. 71  Marzolph, Arabia ridens II 173 no. 731.

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That which is written has also been prescribed,1 quite possibly from the very beginning. Muḥammad knew the Quran by heart before he was even called to prophethood, the Sālimiyya claimed – presumably with reference to the nūr Muḥammadī that had been with God even before the beginning of time.2 ‘Prophecy is speech that detaches itself from God in the form of revelation (waḥy)’, Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī had said some decades earlier;3 it ‘reproduces’ God’s word, as the Muʿtazila had put it since Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir.4 Similar assertions have also been made frequently in modern times, even by those on the liberal side.5 The discussion concerning the literal application of Quranic punishment laws has brought the parallel with internal Christian phenomena to Western awareness. Regarding Melanchthon’s and his successors’ understanding of scripture cf. C. H. Ratschow, Lutherische Dogmatik zwischen Reformation und Aufklärung I 71ff. For those lacking a theological education K. Barth’s deliberations are enlightening (Kirchliche Dogmatik I2 568ff. Parallels with modern American sects have been pointed out by M. Riesebrodt, Fundamentalismus als patriarchalische Protestbewegung (Tübingen 1990), p. 19f., and S. J. Al-Azm, Islamic Fundamentalism Reconsidered. A Critical Outline of Problems, Ideas and Approaches in: South Asia Bulletin 13/1993/93ff., and 14/1994/73ff., esp. ch. IX. Modern Protestant encyclopaedias appear to give the word Verbalinspiration a wide berth. Catholic reference works yield more; e.g. the 1927 Dictionnaire de Théologie Catholique VII 2068–2266 (!) s. v. Inspiration de l’Ecriture. Also, considerably briefer, Dictionnaire Biblique 339f. s. v. Inspiration. J. Leipoldt’s article, Die Frühgeschichte der Lehre von der göttlichen Eingebung, in: ZNW 44/1952–53/118ff. It may be worthwhile to present the parallel in detail, as an antithesis to the communis opinio. Gregory the Great, and Augustine above all, evolved the idea

1  Cf. Fernhout, Canonical Texts 26f. 2  Böwering, Mystical Vision 95 (after Abū Yaʿlā’s doxographical catalogue, no. 15). Cf. p. 323f. above. 3  Khatm al-awliyāʾ 346, –4f. Yaḥyā = 46, 11 Radtke. 4  See p. 70f. above. 5  Thus e.g. Sayyid Ahmad Khan; cf. A. Ahmad/G. von Grunebaum, Muslim Self-Statement in India and Pakistan 27f. (in discussion with Shāh Waliyyullāh Dihlawī) and 34. Regarding the context cf. Ch. Troll, Sayyid Ahmad Khan. A Reinterpretation of Muslim Theology (New Delhi 1978), p. 184ff.

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that God ‘dictated’6 the scripture to the evangelists; Ex. 34:27 essentially anticipates this.7 The Islamic view, on the other hand, includes an intermediary; Muḥammad receives his revelations from Gabriel.8 The image of God as the flute-player who breathes his words into the human, i.e. the evangelist, often quoted and first documented in Athenagoras,9 is found in a slightly different form in Islam, but with reference to a work of poetic art, not as a metaphor of the revelation: in the proem of Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s Mathnawī.10 Protestant orthodoxy of the seventeenth century regarded even the vowel signs of the Hebrew original, or the kerē as opposed to the kethīb, as having been spoken directly by God11 – an excess that would seem typical of philologists who did not themselves speak the language (and were not very familiar with it, either). A Muslim, on the other hand, who was working with Arabic writing on a daily basis, would have known that texts were normally unvocalised;12 as, indeed, were the old Quran manuscripts. Quranic philology has always admitted a number of approved readings; even Ibn Mujāhid’s (d. 324/936) reform ruled out only the non-ʿUthmānite codices, but continued to include seven differing, but fundamentally equivalent, qirāʾāt of the largely but not entirely standardised consonant text.13 The Shīʿite Abū l-Jaysh al-Khurāsānī (d. 367/978)14 was bemused as to how people could hope to uncover the true, revealed original in this jumble which was made worse by all the exegesis.15 Ibn Kullāb, who had explored the issue a century earlier, had used the term rasm (which denotes the unvocalised and unpointed consonant text) to describe the phenomenologically comprehensible realisation of divine speech, the ‘tracks’ it leaves behind on earth.16 This encourages us to have an in-depth look at the theology. The phrase ‘God’s word’ might be understood as a pure metaphor; in that case there 6  Cf. Barth I2 575. 7  Cf. Leipoldt 119. 8  Only Muḥammad’s enemies thought that he received dictation (sura 25:5); as did the Satan (sura 47:25). 9  Barth, ibid. 10  Cf. Ritter in: ZDMG 93/1932/169ff. Rūmī does not express the idea explicitly, but it is found in the source pointed out by Ritter, ʿAṭṭār’s Jawhar al-dhāt (ibid. 177 and 191). 11  Barth 581f. 12  Thus also Leipoldt 121. 13  Cf. Paret in EI2 V 127f. s. v. Ḳirāʾa; also ibid. III 880 s. n. Ibn Mud̲ jā̲ hid, and III 935f. s. n. Ibn S̲h̲anabūd̲ h̲. 14  Regarding him see vol. VI 317 (of the German edition); also p. 536 above. 15  Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn 206, 5ff. 16  See p. 208 above. The same term rasm was also employed in the theory of abrogation before it was replaced by tilāwa (see p. 231 n. 68 above).

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were only the historically existing holy scriptures. This view occurs where the sources speak of the Jahmiyya; Jahm himself probably embraced it, too.17 Alternatively one might regard divine speech as a real speech act, which imbued her with a separate and possibly hypostatic existence. The Muʿtazilites decided in favour of this view; they defined speech as ‘separately articulated sounds’ (aṣwāt muqaṭṭaʿa).18 However, they assumed that God creates this speech in an earthly substrate: in the burning bush,19 in Gabriel or, after the Quran had been revealed, in each individual written copy.20 While each of these is a faithful reproduction (ḥikāya), the reproduction introduces a medium each time.21 When Ibn Kullāb took up arms against the Muʿtazila, he changed the model only with regard to the doctrine of the attributes: God’s word is not created; rather; God is ‘eternal (together) with his speech’.22 This does not mean that God’s word that humans recite on earth was eternal, as it is only the expression of divine speech: its created phonetic form. What is eternal is the substance of that which is recited; it is common to the Quran, the Torah, and the Gospel. The substance is still unformed while it is with God; kalām nafsī, the Ashʿarites would call it, ‘inner speech, words of the soul’ – thinking, we might translate.23 Gabriel conveys the Quran to the prophet by transforming it into an earthly language, Arabic;24 earlier revelations may be imagined in a similar way. After all, humans can access the substance ‘spoken’ by God only in a language accessible to them, in Hebrew, Syriac, Arabic; God himself has no language.25 Even for Ibn Kullāb the plurality of revelations thus contradicted 17  Maybe Jaʿd b. Dirham, too (see vol. II 513 above). Cf. Fernhout, Canonical Texts 129; also p. 469 above. 18  Cf. Text IV 40, c; also vol. I 441 and III 443f. above. 19  See vol. III 78; also reported of Basran Murjiʾites (see vol. II 209 above), or of Jahmites (ibid. 571); regarding Mufīd cf. the text in: MUSJ 51/1990/108, 7ff. no. 11. 20  Abū l-Hudhayl is the only one who also mentions the fiat (kun) that exists without a substrate (see p. 500 above); this is in fact an inconsistency in the system. 21  This might be clearly ranged against the idea of verbal inspiration, as demonstrated by Qāsim al-Dimashqī (see p. 267 above). 22  Text XXXIII 24, b; also p. 214f. above. 23  Gardet in EI2 IV 470b. The Ḥanbalites emphasised this analogy with thought in their polemic (cf. the texts in: BEO 24/1971/71, 14ff., and 88, 16); the Ashʿarites themselves avoided them. 24  This is Ibn Taymiyya’s explanation of Ibn Kullāb’s teachings (cf. Oriens 18–19/1965–6/108); ‘to let (someone) know, to impart’ (aʿlama) means ‘to make (someone) understand’ (afhama). Suyūṭī records this theory anonymously (Itqān I 43, –7f.); cf. also the information in Ibn Qudāma in: IOS 14/1994/261, –9 = transl. 266. 25  See p. 206 above. Regarding the Ashʿarites cf. Frank in: Le Muséon 104/1991/168f. and 174; regarding Ashʿarī himself cf. Gimaret 315ff. Polemic summaries may be found in Ibn ʿAqīl in: BEO 24/1971/85, 9f.; 86, 13f., and 88, 1.

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the idea of verbal inspiration. A Christian would not have thought of this; his outlook would have been more provincial. Of course one might be of the opinion that God was presented too depersonalised here. His having no ‘language’ did not have to mean that he did not speak at all, but he did not use grammatical forms, neither nouns nor verbs, neither affirmation nor imperative.26 ‘Imperative’ also meant ‘commandment’,27 and commandment meant ‘law’; consequently even the sharīʿa was secondary in a way. Ashʿarī refused to go along with this; God has been commanding and prohibiting for all eternity, he said, although he followed Ibn Kullāb’s teachings in other respects.28 Maybe he looked to the Ḥanbalites, for they were the ones who disagreed fundamentally. To them the recitation and the recited text, qirāʾa and maqrūʾ were simply the same thing;29 and they refused to speak of the ʿibāra.30 God’s speech consists of sounds like our earthly language, they said;31 it is identical with the letters of the Quran. Thus not only God’s word had become eternal, but the Quran, too.32 Ibn ʿAqīl explored the issue;33 later records survive from Damascus. Saladin, who preferred the Ashʿarite doctrine, prohibited all discussion on the written and the phonetic form (ḥarf waṣawt),34 but shortly after his death Ibn Qudāma conducted a debate on this very subject with the Ashʿarite qāḍī Muḥammad b. ʿAlī (with whom we are not otherwise acquainted), and had the result documented in accordance with his own beliefs.35 This was all the more important to him because Ibn ʿAqīl had made a concession to the Ashʿarites – or, as the Ḥanbalites preferred to put it, the Muʿtazilites – with regard to the ‘letters’; this was part of the reason why he

26  See p. 210 above. 27  Both are amr in Arabic. 28  Gimaret, Ashʿarī 319f.; this disturbed the internal logic of the system considerably. Interestingly, Qalānisī adhered to Ibn Kullāb’s view (cf. Gimaret in: JA 177/1989/245). 29  Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 88, 7. 30  In their anti-Ashʿarite polemic they simply assumed that the ʿibāra was identical with the Muʿtazilite ḥikāya (cf. Ibn ʿAqīl in: BEO 24/1971/87, 19; 92, 19, and 93, 13f.). Thus also Shahrastānī, Mafātīḥ al-asrār 60 b, 12ff. 31  Abū Yaʿlā 92, 11ff. 32  Cf. the account in Mānkdīm, ShUKh 527, 7ff., after which Peters, God’s Created Speech 282ff. 33  Cf. the texts edited by G. Makdisi in: BEO 24/1971/55ff.; also Ibn Taymiyya, Majmūʿa (Beirut 1403/1983) I 405ff. 34  Cf. Goldziher in: ZDMG 62/1908/25f. = Ges. Schr. V 157f. 35  Cf. in detail Daiber in: IOS 14/1994/249ff.; a short account also in: Proc. 31. Int. Congr. Tokyo I 282f.

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had been forced to recant.36 All the same, Ibn Qudāma did not spend much time with this detail, but focussed on God having a voice (ṣawt), although it was a voice that had to be defined differently from those linked to the generation of sound on earth.37 His solution was along the lines of the bilā kayf.38 As long as people spoke of ‘letters’, they were strictly speaking concerned only with the consonant text; but in this context even the Muʿtazilites had admitted that the ‘preserved tablet’ (al-lawḥ al-maḥfūẓ) contains the divine speech in the form of the written Quran, certainly unvocalised and possibly unpointed as well.39 By declaring the pronunciation (lafẓ) of the Quran to be eternal as well,40 the Ḥanbalites limited the scope. Even now the respective reciter could choose between several readings, but there was no doubt any more that divine speech had come to Muḥammad in a veritative way.41 God had spoken for all eternity, and had been heard – and each time in the same way? – at several points in time. He revealed the Quran in Arabic to Gabriel who passed it on to Muḥammad.42 All these deliberations had consequences for linguistic theory, too; Ibn Kullāb had noted this already (see p. 210f. above). Phonology looked to the consonant text; the Muʿtazila’s interpretation that the words of the Quran consisted of aṣwāt muqaṭṭaʿa referred to the consonants and 36  Ibn Qudāma, Taḥrīm al-naẓar § 93f. Makdisi. He based this on Ibn Kullāb, Ibn Taymiyya tells us (Majmūʿa, Beirut 1403/1983, I 409, 9). Conversely, Muḥāsibī had distanced himself from Ibn Kullāb in this particular point, possibly under pressure from the Ḥanbalites as well (see p. 229 above). 37  Ibid.  § 78f.; ṣawt meant not only the ‘voice’ but also ‘sound, noise’. The mutakallimūn defined ṣawt, as Ibn Qudāma was aware, as iṣṭikāk in the context of the second meaning (§ 80; cf. vol. III 387 above); while he understood it as ‘everything that is audible’ (§ 82). According to a hadith that Abū Dāwūd, who was Ibn Ḥanbal’s pupil, included in his K. al-sunan, God’s voice during the act of revelation sounds to the dwellers of heaven like a chain dragged across a rock (K. al-sunan, cap. 20: Bāb fī l-Qurʾān = vol. II 278, –4f.; cf. Conc. II 501a). 38  Ibid. § 83. 39  Regarding Ḍirār b. ʿAmr cf. vol. III 51; regarding Abū l-Hudhayl ibid. 305f., both certainly with reference to sura 85:22. This was not as self-evident as the Quranic passages seems to indicate. Sometimes people imagined that different things were inscribed on the lawḥ al-maḥfūẓ, such as the destiny of humans (EI2 V 698; regarding Ghazzālī cf. Iḥyāʾ III 19, 2, and Nakamura in: SI 80/1994/35f.). 40  See p. 240f. above. 41  Abū Yaʿlā 90, 13. Ibn ʿAqīl claims that the Ashʿarites believed that the Quran never ‘came down’ (BEO 24/1971/75, 6ff.); they themselves would have been more specific. 42  Thus Fernhout, Canonical Texts 143 regarding Ibn Taymiyya. In the time after him we learn of a detailed argument with Ibn Kullāb and Ashʿarī from the Ḥanbalite Ibn al-Najjār (d. 972/1565), Sharḥ al-Kawkab al-munīr II 9, 7ff., and 36, 11ff.

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implied that they became visible in writing. It seems that the term ḥarf used in this context (see vol. III 306) denotes the smallest unit of the unvocalised Quranic text in every respect: the letter, the sound (= consonant), the particle (= consonant and vowel), the word (thus Versteegh, Arabic Grammar and Qurʾānic Exegesis 103f.), and consequently also the respective reading. Cf. the material collected by Weiß in: ZDMG 64/1910/359ff., where he describes ḥarf as a ‘small quantum of spoken or written language not defined as to its precise size’ (p. 364). In Studies in the History of Arabic Grammar II 111ff. Dichy uses the word ‘segment’, pointing out that taqṭīʿ, too, is nothing other than ‘segmentation’. The grammarians explained ḥarf as the phonetic and morpho-syntactic ‘boundary’ as that allowed vowels to be understood as something separate, too (ibid. 118). We have pointed out (p. 500 above) that atomism played a part in the conceptualisation. Ibn Kullāb regarded thought as multi-dimensional, but speech as a thread on which the sounds or letters are strung; the chronological sequence of sounds is thus the proof of the finiteness and createdness of the phonetically expressed speech (cf. the Ashʿarite’s argument in: IOS 14/1994/261, 6ff. = transl. 265. The Māturīdites, like the Ashʿarites, embraced the distinction formulated by Ibn Kullāb,43 which meant that the majority of people followed the same opinion in Iran;44 even the most orthodox thinkers met the Ḥanbalites with resistance.45 The effect this had on the idea of the verbal inspiration may be observed nicely in the example of Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī. He imagined the prophet as an ecstatic inebriated with God at the moment of the revelation, and consequently says qāla llāh ‘God said’, although it is really he himself who is speaking. Muḥammad was not aware of his words – the verbal inspiration was the consequence of his absorption in God. This recalls the doctrine of the Sālimiyya according to which God recites his revelation in the tongue of every Quran reciter.46 All the same, Rūmī did not believe that this speech consisted 43  Cf. e.g. Najm al-Dīn al-Nasafī’s (d. 537/1142) ʿaqīda (transl. Jeffery, Reader 348); Pazdawī, Uṣūl al-dīn 62, 13ff., and 63, 6ff. 44  Abū l-Layth al-Samarqandī says this of Samarqand in his commentary on the Fiqh absaṭ (where he probably has Māturīdites in mind; cf. the text cited by Daiber, Islamic Concept of Belief 154, l. 597ff., and commentary p. 239f.); cf. also Ḥākim al-Samarqandī, Al-sawād al-aʿẓam § 39. Further material in Meier, Bahāʾ-i Walad 312. 45  See p. 243ff. above. 46  Böwering, Mystical Vision 95 after Abū Yaʿlā (i.e. recorded – and criticised – by a Ḥanbalite). It was said of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq that he lost consciousness after repeating a Quranic verse over and over until ‘he heard it spoken by him who spoke it’ (cf. Qāshānī, Ta‌ʾwīlāt alQurʾān, transl. Lory, Les commentaires ésotériques 165).

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of sounds or letters (= consonants); this was only the form in which God passed it on.47 In another place he describes how a mystic hears from a grammarian that speech always consists of nouns, verbs, and particles, and as a consequence tears his garment with the words: ‘Twenty years I have lived in the hope that there would be another word beyond all this!’48 Rūmī conveys the impression that he did not consider Gabriel at all; God, it seems, takes Muḥammad as his mouthpiece. And it is true that Gabriel does not appear in the suras of the Meccan period;49 he does not fit in with their ecstatic style. But then sura 2:97 tells us unambiguously that he brought the Quran ‘down upon’ the prophet’s heart ‘by the leave of God’, and he plays a dominant role in Muḥammad’s famous revelatory experience, when he shows him a text, sura 96:1–5 written on a cloth. This scene also emphasises that there is no recitation without a written document: it is not far from ‘dictation’ any more. Cf. Fernhout, Canonical Texts 26. Regarding the tradition itself cf. Buhl, Leben Muhammads 134ff.; GdQ I 78ff.; Andrae, Die Legenden von der Berufung Muhammeds, in: MO 6/1912/5ff.; Bell, Mohammed’s Call, in: MW 24/1934/13ff.; Sellheim in: JSAI 10/1987/1ff., and in particular the unjustly overlooked article by Th. Lohmann in: MIO 14/1968/249ff. and 416ff., esp. 423ff. Concerning the isnāds Juynboll in: Le Muséon 107/1994/160ff., and Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie 59ff. Rilke wrote a poem on the event (‘Muhammads Berufung’ in: Sämtliche Werke, ed. E. Zinn, II 638). The question of whether the prophet (being ummī) was actually able to read the text seems to have led to variants in the narrative as well as deliberately vague description; the discussion of the meaning of qara‌ʾa, ‘to read’ or ‘to recite’ began here, too (cf. Denny in: F. M. Denny/R. L. Taylor, The Holy Book in Comparative Perspective, Columbia 1985, p. 84f.). One could also debate how the subsequent preposition bi- (in iqra‌ʾ bismi rabbika) was intended. Abū ʿUbayda thought it introduced the object, i.e. ‘recite the name of your lord’, rather than ‘recite the (following) revelation’ (cf. Rubin in: IOS 13/1993/213ff.). Consequently there are versions of the legend of Muḥammad’s calling that do not mention a written text at all (cf. Watt in: Watt/Welch, Der Islam I 53ff.).

47   Fīhi mā fīh 39, 18ff./transl. Arberry, Discourses 51f. 48  Something, that is, that corresponds to the Ashʿarites’ kalām nafsī; ibid. 157, ult. ff./transl. 165. 49  Nagel, Der Koran 40.

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According to the Quran the only human whom God addressed directly and without intermediary is Moses, not Muḥammad. Sura 4:164 tells us this in such a way that it was recognised as a singular occurrence, in a parenthesis or explanatory addendum ‘and unto Moses God spoke directly’, i.e. the revelation of the prophets is so true because it might be that they, like Moses, receive it directly from God. On other occasions God speaks to humans ‘by means of inspiration, or from behind a curtain, or by sending a messenger’;50 but in the case of Moses God called to him ‘from the right side of the mount’ and ‘brought him near for a private conversation’.51 He took Moses aside on Mount Sinai, as it were, and spoke to him ‘face to face’, as Deut. 34:10 puts it, or ‘mouth to mouth’, as in the parallel in Num. 12:8. The Jews insisted on it; Maimonides emphasised it in his Thirteen Principles of Faith, raising it to the rank of dogma for future generations.52 Muslims noted this with awe and called Moses kalīm Allāh because of it, but they burdened themselves with a theological problem in the process. While sura 4:164 did not state explicitly that Moses was the only one, and the opposite might even have been inferred from sura 2:253,53 nobody thought of ­generalising54 as the idea appeared too anthropomorphic. Jaʿd b. Dirham rejected it altogether.55 Some Muʿtazilites were said to have suggested vocalising sura 4:164 differently and thus exchanging subject and object of the sentence, as then Moses would have spoken to God, rather than God to Moses.56 While the text claiming this is very late, the traditions Ṭabarī adduced in the context of the passage prove how much people racked their brains over it. They wondered how Moses could have withstood the impact of God’s speech when another passage (sura 7:143) described how he fell to the ground as if struck

50  Sura 42:51. Regarding the difficulties of this passage cf. Jeffery, The Qurʾān as Scripture 52ff.; Izutsu, God and Man in the Koran 176f.; Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 34f., with differing interpretations. Cf. also Radscheit, Die koranische Herausforderung 91ff. 51  Sura 19:52. 52  Art. 7, with reference to Num. 12:8; the ‘Thirteen Principles’ were adopted into everyday ritual by all Jewish communities with the exception of the Ashkenazim. Cf. J. Maier, Geschichte der jüdischen Religion (2Freiburg 1992), p. 401; C. Sirat, History of Jewish Philosophy 171f.; in general on the Jewish parallels Speyer, Biblische Erzählungen 299f. 53   Minhum man kallama llāhu leaves open whether man should be interpreted as a singular or a plural form. 54  Regarding Ibn Kullāb see p. 209f. above. 55  See vol. II 513, also 515 above. 56  Namely kallama llāha Mūsā taklīman instead of kallama llāhu Mūsā taklīman (Yūsuf Efendīzāde, Risāla fī ḥukm al-qirāʾa 35, 3f. This sounds very forced, but it would have been an obvious solution to read minhum man kallama llāha in sura 2:253 (see above).

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by lightning when God appeared to him on Mount Sinai.57 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Mahdī reveals something of the situation when he states that someone claiming that God did not speak to Moses must be treated as a zindīq.58 Kaʿbī would later accept the passage as it stood; the only Muʿtazilite interpretation he furnished was that as the events on Mount Sinai were unique, divine speech must have come into being within time and was not eternal.59 The Ashʿarites, too, could not evade the assumption that God had not spoken to Moses in the true sense of the word but rather had imbued him with the meaning of the speech on an intuitive level; they used the word ilhām in this context.60 Only the Ḥanbalites interpreted the passage completely literally; to them it was evidence that Muḥammad, too, had been addressed by God directly during his journey to heaven.61 This allowed them to say that only Moses and Muḥammad had heard God speak directly.62 There had been reservations among Jewish scholars, too. Philo had believed that a voice had been created in the air above Mont Sinai, and that Moses had heard this voice,63 an idea that corresponds to the Muʿtazilite concept of the substrate.64 It also recalls the idea of bat qol found in Rabbinical texts: humans are addressed by God’s disembodied voice.65 Islamic texts describe similar events, especially in the context of the Last Judgment. After all, it seems that on that occasion God would indeed address the believers directly and absolve them; this was made clear e contrario in sura 2:174. The Bakriyya emphasised this,66 even Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ believed it.67 The hadiths, however, that describe events are strangely reluctant; they employ the passive voice68 or even mention a ‘caller’ (dāʿī).69 Later exegetes always understood this to be Gabriel. 57  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3IX 403ff.; also Dhayl al-mudhayyal in Ta‌ʾrīkh III 2503, 17ff. Cf. also Ashʿarī, Maq. 587, 4ff. 58  Ibn Ḥanbal, ʿIlal 2III 181 no. 4783. 59  Ṭūsī, Tibyān III 394, 11ff. 60  Cf. the texts in: BEO 24/1971/78, 5ff.; 85, 3ff., and 91, 9ff. 61  Ibid. 91, 14ff. 62  Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 90, 18ff. 63   De decalogo § 32f.; also vol. III 444 above. 64  Apart from this Philo believed with Ibn Kullāb that God’s speech was incorporeal and did not consist of letters of sounds (Quod deus sit immutabilis § 83 = cap. 18). 65  Cf. EJud IV 325f., and the collection of sources in P. Kuhn, Die Offenbarungsstimme in der rabbinischen Literatur (Regensburg 1989). 66  See vol. II 127 above. 67  Ibid. 306. 68  Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ 185, pu. f.: thumma yuqālu fa-yuqālu. 69  Ibid. 184, 11; albeit not in precisely the same situation.

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What conclusions can we draw from all this? It is too early for a definitive result. A theory of revelation similar to the words of Thomas Aquinas on prophecy70 is not discernible in the extant early Islamic material.71 As the Christians had four different versions of events in the four gospels (= versions of the revelation, according to Muslim understanding), their need to formulate theories was rather greater. And the evidence to which we can refer only offers oblique insights into our question. Gabriel prevents the direct contact between God and the prophet, and according to some exegetes that was his duty.72 On the other hand Gabriel, being an angel, is a ‘mere official’,73 a tool in the hand of God; unlike the evangelists he does not change God’s words. The Book of Jubilees has the ‘angel of the face’ dictating to Moses, and not God.74 Revelation by intermediary can also be verbal revelation. Ghazzālī would later interpret that every kind of inspiration – the mystics’ ilhām as well as the prophets’ waḥy – was effected by an angel; the prophet was distinguished from the other humans only because he saw the angel.75 Ilhām, as we have seen,76 was a term adopted from the Ashʿarites. Ghazzālī’s teacher Juwaynī, on the other hand, made a distinction regarding the content as well. Gabriel, he said, communicated with the prophet in two ways: he read written text out to him, which was identical with the word of God, but on other occasions he related the substance of God’s commandments, in the way a messenger does. Suyūṭī reporting this,77 linked the second way to the sunna only, but it seems quite doubtful whether this was what Juwaynī intended.78 He was concerned more with explaining how a messenger’s words come into being. Gabriel had, of course, always been the bearer of a revelatio specialissima: in the Book of Daniel (9:21), in the Gospel of Luke during the annunciation (1:26ff.), and finally in the Quran as well.79 The process of 70   Summa theol. II2, quaestio 171ff. 71  This would fundamentally change only with the philosophers (see p. 670f. above). Concerning the earlier period cf. the information in Maqdisī, Badʾ I 113, 3ff. 72  The same device, as we have seen (p. 432f. above), was used to purge the two visions in sura 53:5–18 of anthropomorphic implications. 73  See p. 602 above. 74  Jubil. 2:1 and 1:27; also Leipoldt 119. 75   Iḥyāʾ III 19, 9f.; also Jabre, Notion de certitude 177. 76  See p. 690 above. 77   Itqān I 44, 9ff. 78  Ibid. 44, 15ff. Suyūṭī thus prepares the way for assuming that the sunna, too, was divinely inspired, but has to presume at the same time that there is a canon for it as well as for the Quran; this is not an easy enterprise considering the contradictions between traditions and the ikhtilāf al-madhāhib. 79  Regarding Gabriel’s role in the OT and NT cf. RAC V 239ff. s. v. Engel.

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the revelation as such (waḥy) is described in the Quran as though Muḥammad would be able to find the more precise words by himself; he is ‘led’ towards the right expression.80 Ibn Abī Sarḥ, who served as the prophet’s secretary for a time, claimed that he had once found such an apposite expression himself, and that the prophet included it in the ‘Quran’, i.e. the version approved by him.81 The observation that it is the custom to introduce Quranic quotations with the phrase qāla llāhu taʿālā ‘God the exalted is speaking’ does not furnish more information, either. In Christian texts the corresponding formula would be ‘it is written’ or ‘the scripture says’, but in both cases the meaning is no more nor less than ‘this is God’s word’. The formula appears to have met with resistance in Iraq in the first/eighth century. Rabīʿ b. Khuthaym warned: ‘Beware of saying “God says thus in his scripture”, as God might respond: “You are lying; I did not say that”.’ And Rabīʿ’s pupil Shaʿbī (d. 103/721 or later) was said to have responded to the question ‘Does God not say this (in his scripture)?’ with the words ‘How do you know?’. Jāḥiẓ, who preserved the two remarks,82 also furnishes the more precise version of the formula qāla llāh fī kitābihī ʿalā lisāni nabiyyihī ‘God said with the mouth (or: in the language) of his prophet in his book’.83 This is not typically Muʿtazilite; the same phrase also occurs in the K. al-ḥayda.84 Ibn al-Munajjim’s slightly later K. al-Burhān has the parallel information in the context of the iʿjāz debate that the Quran was composed as a sign of Muḥammad’s outstanding eloquence with the help of God.85 Originally the imperfect form yaqūlu was used as well as the perfect qāla. The Basran ascetic Muṭarrif b. ʿAbdallāh al-Shikhkhīr (d. 95/714) raised an objection to this,86 he was probably concerned that the time-transcending assertive character of the phrase was lost in this way. On the other hand it was not possible to overlook that the more sealed the text became, the easier it was to misuse it for ideological purposes. Hishām al-Fuwaṭī demanded that some passages from the Quran that had significance in anti-Muʿtazilite polemic 80  ‘Like a poet by his muse’, as R. Bell put it in a not entirely straightforward comparison (Introduction to the Qurʾān 32ff. = Watt, Bell’s Introduction 18ff.); cf. also id. in: MW 24/1934/146ff. In detail concerning the meaning of waḥy in the Quran: Izutsu, God and Man 156ff. 81  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3IX 533, –6ff. on sura 6:93; Ibn Isḥāq, Sīra 818, –4ff. Wüstenfeld. Also EI2 I 51b s. v. ʿAbd Allāh b. Saʿd, and Goldziher, Richtungen der Koranauslegung 35. 82   Ḥayawān I 338, 7ff. 83   Rasāʾil III 303, apu. 84  P. 152, 9f., possibly under Kullābite influence (see p. 207f. above). 85  Cf. e.g. § 70 and 57ff.; in the case of iʿjāz the miracle was that the prophet spoke in unmatched fashion. On the other hand the same text also includes the statement that the Quran was God’s ta‌ʾlīf (§ 75). 86  Ibn Ḥanbal, ʿIlal 122, 2ff.

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should be quoted verbatim in the liturgy only, while they had to be rephrased for everyday usage and, in particular, for theological discourse.87 However, such a distinction was not easy to implement; it was soon regarded as heresy. Shahrastānī was later suspected of not believing in the literal nature of the revelation because he avoided using the phrase qāla llāh.88 Of course, he was an Ismāʿīlite; it was probably feared that he might ascribe some inner meaning to God’s word. Avicenna’s theory of prophecy was difficult to reconcile with verbal inspiration; if the prophet uses images when speaking to the people, the truth does not rest within the words but behind them. The formula qāla llāh was probably the result of God frequently addressing Muḥammad with the word qul in the Quran.89 However, this is another fact that does not help resolve our question. This form of direct address also occurs in the Old Testament; when Moses introduces the commandment to keep the Sabbath, Ex. 31:13 has him addressed directly: ‘Speak thou also unto the children of Israel, saying’.90 However, whatever follows qul is not necessarily literally that with which God charged his messenger. Once again Juwaynī expressed this clearly and early on: a messenger is committed to the content, the substance of the message; the way in which he conveys it depends on the circumstances and on the receptivity of the audience.91 The respective passages show that the imperative qul guided Muḥammad to react in certain situations in a certain, tried and tested and thus frequently stereotypical, way; this is how maxims are introduced as well as prayers and principles of the faith, and above all rhetorical questions directed at the opponents. This is the reason why God always speaks of himself in the third person.92 The prophet must adhere to the instruction precisely for his own sake, but this does not mean that he must repeat the sentences verbatim in the live presentation of the speech. And if he does repeat them this is because they have stabilising function in the discourse of the community.93 The ‘dictation’ of verbal inspiration played no part here. We are looking at a presentation of paradigmatic dialogues, at – to use a term from Christian hermeneutics – simulatio. In quotations, qul may be left out.94

87  See p. 10ff. above. 88  Cf. A. Hartmann in: Festschrift Khoury 192, n. 4. 89  I 352 instances in total; cf. GdQ I 120. 90  Cf. Horovitz, Koranische Untersuchungen 5. 91  Suyūṭī, Itqān I 44, 11ff. 92  Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 14f.; also A. T. Welch in: EI2 421f. 93  Watt, Bell’s Introduction 75f. 94  Cf. vol. V 181, n. 5 (of the German edition) on Text XI 3, d.

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All of which makes no difference to the fact that Muḥammad and his community as well as the Muslims after him heard God speaking to them in the Quran. In the revealed religions, speech was the main expression of epiphany. Siegfried Morenz used the words ‘genius for hearing’ when describing the Middle East in general;95 hearing was nobler than seeing.96 When it came to religion it was significant that hearing was also obeying; by speaking, God showed himself to be the master. ‘I hear and I obey’ was the formula with which the servant responds to the order. Obedience was also his duty when the order came from ‘behind a curtain’ – especially then, in fact; for if he were to see God this would be a kind of appropriation. A vision was interpreted as a particular favour. While there were attempts in early Islam to play off Muḥammad’s vision of God during the miʿrāj against Moses’ experience by the burning bush (Moses had, of course, lacked the fortitude to bear the vision of God),97 they soon became at best half-hearted. Muslim theologians would later call the revelation simply samʿ ‘hearing’: Muḥammad’s proclamations were consequently simply ‘conveying’ the message.98 The word of the Quran was the manifestation of the transcendental in the same way that Christ’s incarnation was in Christianity. This provides some explanation of atomistic exegesis; each verse became an ‘oracle in itself’.99 Bible criticism has taught us to see how texts of the Old Testament were redacted over the centuries to achieve greater authority. ‘Thus says the Lord’ we read in the Prophets, a formula that was frequently prefixed retrospectively.100 In this way, speech about God was transformed into God’s own speech. A sixth book of Moses was found in Qumran, in which the narrative is not in the third person; rather God himself speaks in the first person. Verbal inspiration has been found in Judaism from Philo and the intrusion of Hellenism onwards; the theory is clearly the result of a further shift towards rationalisation within the faith.101 In the pastoral epistles attributed to St Paul it is described 95  In: ThLZ 75/1950/709ff. 96  Cf. the remarks by Ritter, Meer der Seele 439f. 97  See p. 434f. and 462 above. 98  Cf. sura 5:67. Also Gardet, Dieu et la destinée de l’homme 179. 99  Hanson, Allegory and Event 188. 100  Cf. e.g. the part played by this ‘messenger formula’ in Jer. 6:16, 23:16 etc.; regarding the term in more detail K. Koch, Was ist Formgeschichte? 231f. 101  In general Brock in: Oudtestamensche Studiën 17/1972/20ff.; concerning Philo cf. the text in Peters, Judaism, Christianity and Islam II 6f. The determining factor is an explicit theory of prophecy; according to Philo the prophet speaks in a state of μανία, like a medium (cf. Leipoldt 122ff.; Wolfson, Philo II 11ff.; E. R. Dodds, Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety, Cambridge 1965, p. 70ff.). The concept is loosely connected to Rūmī’s (see above), but lacks the mystical component.

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as θεόπνευστος ‘inspired by God’ (II Tim. 3:16).102 To either side of it we find the belief in the infallibility and eternal validity of the scripture. ‘One jot or one title shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled’, Matthew 5:18 assures us. Origen believes ‘every letter’ to have been spoken by God;103 Gregory of Nazianzus ‘every little stroke and every line’.104 The Quran changed ‘Thus speaks the Lord’ to ‘Thus speaks your Lord’ (qāla rabbuka);105 this makes unmistakeably clear that is not the prophet who makes God speak, but that God speaks through the prophet. Now the text is the most important component, not the event.106 After all, Islam is the first of the revealed religions in which (pace Wansbrough) the scripture existed before the traditions. While the gospels pass on only what the first Christian community believed, and are thus speech about God, in Islam the texts about God arrive in the sunna; Muḥammad heard God’s own words from Gabriel’s mouth.107 Islamic theology thus did not need a doctrine of the holy spirit. On the other hand, and like Protestantism which devalued the tradition in the wake of devaluing the authority of the church, it was in danger of according scripture its own dynamic. It seems that Islamic theology was able to defend itself more successfully against this tendency in the Middle Ages than Protestantism; nowadays the tables have turned. At the time the scripture’s claim to absoluteness was not expressed as much in the theory of verbal inspiration as in the belief in the ‘eternal existence of the Quran’. 4.2.1.2 The Quran: Created or Uncreated? The ‘prophetic event’ took place in the light of history; no-one could doubt that Quran had come into the world through Muḥammad’s agency. It was also known that many Quranic verses referred to current events; the theory of abrogation presumed that God reacted anew and differently to these in each case. On the other hand there was the ‘preserved tablet’ (al-lawḥ al-maḥfūẓ) on which everything that could later be read in the Quran had been recorded 102  Cf. Leipoldt 135; Theol. WB des NT VI 452f. with parallels. The term is vague enough to allow a more loosely formulated theory of inspiration, too. 103  Hanson, ibid.; von Campenhausen, Die Entstehung der christlichen Bibel 365f. 104  Barth I2 574. 105  Sura 19:9 and 21. 106  Cf. also Fernhout, Canonical Texts 23. 107  Cf. the article by R. Caspar, Parole de Dieu et langage humain en Christianisme et en Islam, in: Islamochristiana 6/1980/33ff. We need to bear in mind that there are texts in the Quran that do not fit this scheme, e.g. the Fātiḥa; it is a prayer in the We-form. Interestingly it was not included in the Codex of Masʿūd. Regarding the problem cf. Neuwirth in: Festschrift W. Richter 331ff.; also Sperl in: BSOAS 57/1994/213ff.

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since the beginning of time,1 as well as the ‘original copy’ (umm al-kitāb) from which it might simply have been copied.2 Thus despite its historicity it had been fixed by God a long time ago. This was probably not seen as a contradiction.3 The abrogation was not usually seen as a theological problem, either: it was a matter for the jurists.4 Before being ‘sent down’ to earth, the Quran was with God. From the very first this idea was closely linked to the Jewish idea of the pre-existence of the Torah,5 an idea that was adopted by hadith with regard to the Quran as well as the Torah.6 Abū Hāshim, the son of Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya, emphasised that the Quran had been created before the birth of the prophet.7 ‘Created’ is indeed the word used; this did not change even if the prophet was regarded as pre-existing. ‘Created’ never meant (not even to the Muʿtazilites): coming into being together with the revelation at a particular point in time on the Arabian Peninsula, but ‘created’ in accordance with contingency. Those who supported pre-existence meant: created before the rest of creation; 40 years earlier, maybe also 1,000 or 50,000, but in any case within a calculable and finite period. Samaritan circles, too, had imagined that Moses was as pre-existing and at the same time created as the book entrusted to him.8 The Quran, the anthropomorphists said, comes from God’s chest, as his wisdom,9 recalling in a way the Sophia conjecture that developed in Israel in post-exilic times and influenced Hellenism as well as early Judaism.10 1   See p. 687 above; cf. also Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 83. 2   Unless umm al-kitāb refers to the book of destiny; cf. Paret, Kommentar 264f. on sura 13:39, and 60f. on sura 3:7. There was disagreement on the precise meaning of lawḥ al-maḥfūẓ, too (see p. 686, n. 39, above). In general cf. Graham, Beyond the Written Word 82ff. 3   The doxographical passages from Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’s K. al-uṣūl preserved by Ashʿarī (Maq. 589, 14–593, 7, and 595, 6–598, 7) illustrate how theology tried to come to terms with it later. The usual, albeit in this context not entirely suitable, distinction between substance and accident was applied; cf. in more detail Fernhout, Canonical Texts 129ff. 4   For one exception see p. 230ff. above. The situation changed when the subject became relevant to the debate with the Jews (see vol. III 428 above; concerning later theology cf. ShUKh 476, 7ff.). Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm wrote a treatise in which he attempted to prove that the abrogation of certain verses was compatible with their revelatory nature (Madelung, Qāsim 126f.). Cf. also Burton in: JSS 15/1970/264. 5   Cf. Jeffery, The Qurʾān as Scripture 14ff.; Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus 2309ff.; source texts in Peters, Judaism, Christianity and Islam II 72ff. 6   HT 165; cf. TTD V 141, –5ff. 7   Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XVI 231, 9. 8   Kippenberg, Garizim und Synagoge 125f. 9   See p. 417 above. 10  Cf. the article σοφία in Theol. WB des NT VII 465ff.; H. Gese in: RGG3 VI 1576f.; Habermann, Präexistenzaussagen im Neuen Testament (Frankfurt 1990), p. 86ff.

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Wolfson attempted to show how the belief in a pre-existing created Quran transformed into the idea of a pre-existing uncreated Quran under the influence of the Christian dogma of the Trinity.11 John of Damascus’ Διάλεξις plays an important part in his evidence, as in it the Christian presumes his Muslim opponent to believe that God could not have been without speech even before he created the word, thus forcing him to recognise that the logos (the ‘word’) had to be eternal, too. The Muslim, he thinks, cannot profess the createdness of God’s word as this would be heresy to him.12 This does not mean that the development had to be due to Christian influence. The reference to the heretical character of the khalq al-Qurʾān means that the text’s chronological position is doubtful in any case. S. Griffiths consequently pointed out that the Διάλεξις is not necessarily a rendition of John of Damascus’ ipsissima verba but was collated by Theodore Abū Qurra on the basis of John’s doctrine, ἀπὸ φωνήσ, and probably arranged in the style of the Ἐρωταποκρίσεις-φωνήσ literature.13 The train of thoughts mentioned is indeed found in the same way in Abū Qurra’s own Opusculum no. 36.14 Even if the idea reported should take us back to the late Umayyad era, the passage only tells us what a Christian theologian possessed of a degree of dialectical skill could elicit from the Muslim position at the time. There is no need to adduce Jaʿd b. Dirham or Jahm b. Ṣafwān in explanation;15 the latter’s teachings had presumably not even been heard about in Syria in those days. John of Damascus by no means predetermined the development. It took place within Islam itself, and in its own time. Madelung noted the foci that sparked the discussion before the crisis of the miḥna.16 There were essentially two trains of thought that encouraged the khalq al-Qurʾān. We are already familiar with the first one: If God speaks, he creates a voice in a substrate. This was Philo’s theory that we mentioned earlier;17 it was generated by the concern over a purified image of God. The second relied on the fact that God had created everything and that consequently everything that was not he, the creator, must be created; this fundamentally self-explanatory axiom was thought through to a radical conclusion by Jahm b. Ṣafwān.18 We do 11   Philosophy of the Kalam 241 and earlier. Later, inversely, the dogma of the created Quran influenced Jewish theology (Wolfson, Repercussions 85ff.). 12  Ibid. 242f.; cf. the text in Sahas, John of Damascus 148ff. The text was consulted already by Watt in: MW 40/1950/28, n. 5. 13  In: Parole de l’Orient 14/1987/84f.; cf. also 89. 14  Cf. Glei/Khoury, Schriften zum Islam 160f.; the authors regard a certain John Diaconus as the final editor who collated the Διάλεξις using Abū Qurra’s material (p. 59ff.). 15  Thus Sahas 114f. 16  In: Festschrift Pareja 504ff. 17  P. 620. 18  See vol. II 560f. above.

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not know whether all those who embraced the khalq al-Qurʾān at that time, such as the Khārijites,19 also adopted these deliberations; as long as, like them, one relied only on the assertions of the scripture the question should not have arisen as a problem at all. Those whose thinking had been given a different direction thanks to hadith probably realised soon enough that the first train of thought was a postulate rather than a proof. When it came to the second, however, a compromise could be agreed: the Quran is neither creator not created, but the word of God. This may have been stated by Zurāra b. Aʿyan, who traced it back to Muḥammad al-Bāqir;20 usually it was linked to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, not only in Shīʿite sources but in Sunnite ones as well.21 Ultimately it was a model based on hypostases, but it was probably not adopted from a Christian concept after all. Sometimes the Quran was imagined as a human being who intercedes during the Last Judgment, like Muḥammad;22 it can speak and thus has a heart and a tongue.23 It was furthermore difficult to imagine that those Quranic passages in which God speaks about himself, e.g. in sura 11224 or, better, in the assertion in sura 20:14 ‘I am God. There is no God but I’, could possibly be created.25 In our understanding – and that of Jahmites as well as Muʿtazilites – this was confusing the utterance with the substance, but it happened in other instances, too. The discussion surrounding the divine names tended to overlook the distinction between ism and musammā in a similar fashion; this, too, was a debate conducted with the Jahmites.26 The effect of this fuzziness could be seen in the early theological discussion on sura 111 which, people believed, cursed Abū Lahab. The verses were now imbued with predetermining character. Criticism of this emerged in Basra in particular (see vol. II 82, 124, 342, also 725, above, and V 109f. [of the German edition]). However, as it outraged only those who did not believe in the Quran’s non-createdness, the objection did not have any effect. Regarding the original meaning of sura 111 cf. Rubin in: BSOAS 42/1979/13ff.

19  Ashʿarī, Maq. 108, 14, and 124, 5. From the point of view of the Kufan Shīʿites the ‘Murjiʾites and Ḥanafites’ in particular embraced the khalq al-Qurʾān (ʿAyyāshī, Tafsīr I 8, 2ff.). 20  ʿAyyāshī I 6, ult. ff. 21  See vol. I 441 above. 22  Cf. vol. I 14 above and V 22 (of the German edition). 23  Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil III 298, pu. ff. 24  Dhahabī, ʿUlūw 191, 11f.; thus e.g. Sufyān al-Thawrī (see vol. I 262 above) and Ibn alMājashūn (II 780). 25  Ibid. 186, pu. f., as Ibn al-Mubārak’s argument. 26  See p. 227 and 480f. above; also Gimaret, La doctrine d’al-Ashʿarī 311.

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Believing in hypostases was easier in those days than it is now. Even so, Jahmites and Muʿtazilites claimed that the model they offered was the simpler one; they were the Arians in this quarrel, as it were. Still, they could not always make do without hypostases, either. Abū l-Hudhayl, for instance, was familiar with accidents ‘without a substrate’ that existed beyond the world; time was one of them, but also kun, the fiat mentioned in the Quran. As all creation was ultimately caused by it, it could be regarded as created only in the figurative sense, as otherwise another word of creation would have been needed to create it.27 In this way Abū l-Hudhayl put the ball in the opponents’ court. Shāfiʿī’s pupil Yūsuf b. Yaḥyā al-Buwayṭī concluded from his argument that the fiat was not even created figuratively, but could only be called uncreated, accepting this as proof of the non-createdness of divine speech in g­ eneral.28 This took place during the miḥna; Buwayṭī died in prison in Baghdad.29 From then on the frontlines were clearly drawn. Speaking out against the khalq al-Qurʾān, which would have been done only with reservations before, now became proof of an eternally absolute truth; dicta of the prophet’s companions and the following generations were collected to show that they had all been of the same opinion, too.30 Sufyān al-Thawrī (d. 161/778) was one of the best witnesses – and possibly the earliest reliable one; he began his ʿaqīda with the sentence: ‘The Quran is the speech of God, uncreated; it began with him and it will return to him’.31 His younger contemporary Ibn al-Mubārak (d. 181/797), on the other hand, was not ready to use the word ‘uncreated’,32 and even Ibn Ḥanbal two generations later required time – and the stimulus of personal persecution – to advance from a simple rejection of the opposite position (‘not created’, laysa bi-makhlūq) to a positive affirmation of his own point of view (‘uncreated’ ghayr makhlūq). The idea that it was possible to say ‘eternal’ instead of ‘uncreated’ was expressed only by Ma‌ʾmūn and those who toadied to him.33 Their point of view was discredited by the miḥna. The Zaydiyya, still courted by Ma‌ʾmūn, later split over the issue of the khalq al-Qurʾān;34 in their stronghold in Āmul in Daylam they were surrounded by a population who did not see anything they liked in the Muʿtazilite views.35 In Iraq 27  See p. 500 and vol. III 302ff. above. 28  Lālakāʾī, Sharḥ uṣūl iʿtiqād ahl al-sunna 217f. no. 356. 29  See vol. II 539. 30  Thus e.g., in great detail, Lālakāʾī 228ff.; apparently lists of names were compiled as a positive counterpart to the Qadarite lists of the jarḥ wal-taʿdīl texts (see also p. 243f. above). 31  Lālakāʾī 151, –4. Regarding the last sentence see p. 412f. above. 32  See vol. II 622f. above. 33  See vol. III 497f. above. 34  Madelung in: Festschrift Löfgren 41ff. 35  Ḥākim al-Jushamī in Madelung, Arabic Texts 132, 5ff.

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Ibn Kullāb appeared on the scene beside the Muʿtazila, a theologian who, not without referring to earlier Muʿtazilite distinctions,36 separated the recited Quran from God’s eternal speech;37 compared to the Ḥanbalites this makes him appear like a Dyophysite.38 Now that the first step had been taken, a number of other compromise solutions emerged. They attracted the anger of Ibn Ḥanbal and his followers;39 the theological landscape in Baghdad but also in the Jazira and in Iran had thus been fundamentally changed. In addition the search was on for the one who had started the ‘heresy’ of the khalq al-Qurʾān: Abū Shākir al-Dayṣānī perhaps (see vol. I 512f. above), or the Jew Ṭālūt (ibid. 442), or the extreme Shīʿite Bayān b. Samʿān (Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Iʿtiqādāt 170, 8ff., where the name is misprinted as Bunān). Abū Ḥanīfa, two, found himself a suspect (cf. ibid. 188 and 192; also II 618). There can be no doubt that a whole generation before the miḥna the question was at the centre of embittered controversy; the trial of Bishr alMarīsī shows this particularly clearly (see vol. II 489 and III 189f. above). The mystic Maʿrūf al-Karkhī (d. 200/815) spoke out against the khalq alQurʾān (Ibn al-Jawzī, Manāqib Maʿrūf al-Karkhī wa-akhbāruhū, ed. Ṣādiq Muḥammad al-Jumaylī in: Mawrid 9/1980, issue 4/620, 1f.); Abū l-ʿAtāhiya wrote verses on the subject (Maqdisī, Badʾ VI 121, 6ff.). Yazīd b. Hārūn proceeded not only against Bishr al-Marīsī but also against Aṣamm (vol. II 451) and cursed Jahm b. Ṣafwān as its spiritual progenitor (II 488). His Basran contemporary Muʿādh b. Muʿādh also called it zandaqa (II 433).

36  Such as between ḥikāya and maḥkī (see p. 206 above); in general Ashʿarī, Maq. 193, 11ff. 37  Like Buwayṭī he used the word of creation kun as his argument; see p. 206f. above. 38  This comparison, with the Ḥanbalites being the ‘Monophysites’, is F. Meier’s (Bahāʾ-i Walad 311ff.). 39  See p. 240ff. above; also Ashʿarī, Maq. 602, 9ff.

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4.2.2 Miracles and Affirmation The presence of God’s word in the Quran, the ‘inlibration’, as H. A. Wolfson called it, assumed the character of a miracle of affirmation in the Muslim consciousness in due course. This is noticeable because working miracles was not originally one of the ‘emblems’ of Muḥammad’s prophethood. According to the testimony of the Quran, Moses worked miracles,1 as did Jesus;2 Muḥammad, on the other hand is affirmed simply by Jesus predicting him.3 Of course legend took hold of his person early on; instances of this are found in Ibn Isḥāq,4 but also in the K. al-maghāzī attributed to Wahb b. Munabbih.5 However, this is popular narrative that found its way into hadith as well;6 the theologians did not at first pay any attention to it, either because they did not recognise prophetic tradition as a whole, or because they did not recognise individual instances of it as evidence.7 They developed a ‘critical’ image of the prophet inspired by the Quran; there, the prophet had rejected the attribution of miracles to himself.8 As usual the Khārijites maintained this scripturalist attitude most consistently; in their understanding the prophet’s word was the ‘argument’ as such.9 Those who lived less secluded lives, however, soon realised that this adherence to principles had disadvantages, too. It was not possible to keep up with the development. The miracle stories proliferated unchecked;10 the mirabilia told by Shīʿites about their imāms provide the best illustration of just how little popular imagination was restrained.11 Above all, Islam found itself 1  Sura 7:103ff.; cf. Prenner, Muhammad and Musa 33ff. 2  Cf. EI2 IV 82 s. v. ʿĪsā. 3  Sura 61:6 and 7:157; also ibid. IV 83a. 4  Cf. Andrae, Person Muhammeds 26ff., and Sellheim in: Oriens 18–19/1965–66/53ff. 5  Cf. Khoury, Wahb b. Munabbih I 138ff. (= PB 7, 16ff.); also 181. Kister allows these traditions in the context of the late first century with reference to Becker and Horovitz (BSOAS 37/1974/563). 6  Regarding the miracles in hadith cf. G. von Bülow’s dissertation, Ḥadīṯe über Wunder des Propheten Muḥammad, insbesondere in der Traditionssammlung des Buḫārī (Bonn 1964); the author also attempts a classification. 7  More detail on p. 721ff. below. 8  Cf. sura 6:37 with the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 139; also Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes 77, and A. Th. Khoury, Der Koran I 48ff. 9  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 175, 16ff.; Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 155, 1f.; for a group of Ibāḍites cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 106, 12 (cf. vol. I 413 above). 10  Cf. e.g. the account according to which God had the sun rise again for Muḥammad because he had forgotten his evening prayer (Suyūṭī, La‌ʾālī I 336, 7ff.). 11  See vol. I 322f. and 295 above; also Ashʿarī, Maq. 50, 13ff. As a consequence the Shīʿites were particularly zealously spinning tales of prophetic miracles (cf. Biḫār XVII 225ff. and 307ff.), the number of which they gave as 4,440 (ibid. 301 no. 13).

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in a strategically unfavourable position compared to the Christians who were now able to point out that Jesus had been much more convincing in that respect. Timothy did so in his conversation with the caliph al-Mahdī,12 as would Theodore Abū Qurra13 and ʿAmmār al-Baṣrī after him.14 The latter completed the fundamental positioning of the argument along the line prepared by the Muslim view: due to the way in which Muḥammad presented himself in the Quran, any recourse to miracles had been ruled out from the outset.15 Muqammiṣ16 and Qirqisānī17 would later say the same thing from a Jewish point of view. Moses’ miracles were transmitted in his ‘scripture’, in the Torah; the fact that they were recorded there and not just transmitted orally (as in hadith) gave them particular weight in Muqammiṣ’ eyes. This was the point Muslim theology attempted to invalidate first. Muḥammad may have regarded himself as a mere ‘warner’, but the revelations he received showed in themselves, people thought, that their origin was supernatural. They served to highlight Muḥammad’s supernatural knowledge; he had foreseen the victory of his faith and he had been able to explain a remarkable star shower that happened during his lifetime. Interestingly his nocturnal journey was not mentioned, although it, too, appears in the Quran; the description was not sufficiently unambiguous. Over time it became clear that the star shower was not very convincing either, but we can date quite closely the time when it was first adduced: it was introduced in the early years of Hārūn al-Rashīd, between 174 and 181.18 After that it was another half century before ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān paved the way for Ibn Isḥāq’s stories (and those in the hadith collections) to be accepted into theology.19 This step was overdue; once even the Muʿtazila relented, no-one could stay behind. It is possible that Ibn Shabīb’s K. al-tawḥīd anticipated ʿAbbād;20 certainly, ʿAlī b. Rabban al-Ṭabarī, a contemporary of the former, devoted a whole chapter of his K. al-dīn wal-dawla to 12  See vol. III 24 above. 13  Cf. the texts listed by Dick (Le Muséon 72/1959/63, –4ff.) and Sahas, here ‘in the words of John of Damascus’ (John of Damascus on Islam 156ff. = Glei/Khoury, Schriften zum Islam 88ff., opusc. 18). Cf. vol. II 499 above. 14  Cf. Griffith in: Proc. PMR Conference 4/1979/76 and earlier. In general Khoury, Polémique byzantine 42ff.; S. Stroumsa in: HTR 78/1985/101ff.; Rissanen, Theological Encounter 91f. and 100ff. 15  Griffith, ibid. 16   ʿIshrūn maqāla XIV 15ff.: p. 268ff. Stroumsa. 17   Anwār 300, 8ff. 18  See vol. III 25ff. and 445f. 19  See p. 49f. above; more details p. 725 below. Regarding the consultation of these accounts in apologetic texts cf. ʿAbd al-Majīd Sharfī, Al-fikr al-islāmī fī l-radd ʿalā l-Naṣārā 474ff. 20  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 511, 12ff.; concerning the text see p. 142 above.

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Muḥammad’s miracles.21 However, he introduces them saying that they were not really necessary at all, as other prophets also made do without miracles.22 There is another reason why apologetic proof emerged as late as it did. It seems that for a long time the Muslims had assumed that with the advent of Islam the earlier revealed religions had simply become outdated; their consciousness of having been chosen allowed no other interpretation. The new religion meant chronological progress; consequently Muḥammad had no need for additional legitimation. If there was proof of his prophethood, it was found in the form of predictions in the earlier holy scriptures. Christianity had dealt with the Old Testament in this way, and the Quran thought along the same lines. Unlike in the situation described above, there was not usually any preceding exchange of ideas with those of different faiths; the opinion the latter had on the passages in question was simply irrelevant. This is illustrated clearly in the way in which Quranic evidence itself was treated: sura 61:6, namely the verse in which the paraclete of John 14:16, 14:26, and 16:7 seemed reflected.23 Mahdī referred to it in discussion with Timothy,24 following a tradition long established by the time. The equation was noted by Muqātil b. Sulaymān;25 Farazdaq had already stated that Jesus had predicted Muḥammad’s arrival.26 The development was a gradual one. In the chapter on Islam in De haeresibus John of Damascus had been able to claim that the ‘Saracens’ did not know whether an earlier scripture bore witness to Muḥammad’s arrival.27 Abū Qurra has the Muslim in the same situation replying with sura 61:6, but adding that the corresponding passage in the NT had been ‘erased’;28 apparently he did not make the connection with the paraclete. Farazdaq, too, only repeated what could be inferred from the Quran, while Ibn Isḥāq was familiar with John’s prediction and the Greek term, but did

21  P. 29ff. = 265ff./transl. 30ff. 22  P. 18, 12ff. = 249, 8ff./transl. 16f. Regarding the basis in the Quran cf. Khoury, Der Koran I 52f. Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī cited instances from tradition even as proof of Muḥammad’s foreknowledge (Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 210, 8ff.). 23  Regarding an explanation of this passage cf. Paret, Kommentar 476 with further literature. 24  See vol. III 26f. above. Timothy expresses his opinion in detail; cf. the Syriac text p. 34ff. Mingana. 25   Tafsīr IV 316, 6; cf. Versteegh in: Der Islam 67/1990/218. 26   Dīwān 103, 4 Boucher/264, 6 Sāwī, transl. Bellamy in: Festschrift Watt 150. The poem may be dated to the year of Yazīd II’s accession to the throne, 101/720. 27  Glei/Khoury, Schriften zum Islam 76ff. (l. 58ff.).; regarding the authenticity of the text ibid. 38ff., and R. Le Coz, Jean Damascène, Ecrits sur l’Islam (Paris 1992), p. 184ff. 28  In Opusculum no. 19; Glei/Khoury 94ff. (l. 24ff.).

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not make the connection with the Quranic verse.29 The two are clearly linked in Mahdī’s argument, and also in Muḥammad al-Layth’s (under Mahdī’s son Hārūn al-Rashīd).30 The interpretation of the word aḥmad ‘most praiseworthy’ in the Quranic verse as being a name referring to the prophet is a separate process, and possibly of a later date.31 And it was not until Marracci that the possibility of the word’s origin being due to παράκλητοσ having been confused with περίκλυτοσ was raised.32 The paraclete was the ‘one called out to one’s aid’, the witness; his function was forensic, vouching for someone and interceding on his behalf.33 The Arabs, however, did not know this any more; the Talmud, too, always uses the word as a Greed foreign term. Before the Muslims the Manichaeans had adopted the concept: Mani the paraclete is the representative of Jesus and rules until Jesus returns on Doomsday.34 Its interlacing with the earlier religions is demonstrated by the second instance, too, which was adduced at the earliest time: Isaiah 21:6–9, where the anticipated fall of Babylon and overthrowing of its Gods appeared to go together with riders arriving on horses, asses, and camels. Muqātil b. Sulaymān was said 29  Although this may have been self-evident (cf. Sīra 149, –5ff.). Even ʿĀmirī still mentioned the paraclete without referring to sura 61:6 (Iʿlām bi-manāqib al-Islām 203, pu. f.). Regarding the passage in Ibn Isḥāq cf. Plessner in EI2 VII 953 s. v. Nāmūs, and Griffith in: OC 69/1985/137ff., and de Prémare in: SI 70/1989/44f., and especially A. Guillaume’s timeless articles in: Al-Andalus 15/1950/289ff.; Guillaume has a Christian informant in mind who was not using the Pshīṭtā but the Syriac lectionary. Where Ṭabarī mentions the connection in his commentary on the passage, interestingly he does not adduce earlier records as he does in other places (Tafsīr 2XXVIII 87). 30  See vol. III 26 above; aḥmad is explicitly named as the translation of barāqlīṭ. 31  Not as late, however, as I suggested in vol. III 478 above. A hadith already tells us that the prophet said of himself: ‘I am Muḥammad, I am Aḥmad, I am the extinguisher (al-māḥī) …’, whatever aḥmad may refer to here (Conc. VI 176 a and VIII 5a; Friedmann, Prophecy Continuous 55, and in detail Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder 39ff.); cf. also the traditions listed by Ibn Saʿd I1 64, 20ff. Abū Qurra summarises sura 61:6 as though it read Muḥammad (see n. 28 above). Watt discovered that while the name Aḥmad is documented for the preIslamic time, no Muslim appears to have borne it before AH 125 (MW 43/1953/110ff. = Early Islam 43ff.; also Schacht in EI2 I 267 s. v. Aḥmad). In Ḥallāj’s view Aḥmad is Muḥammad’s name in the pre-existence (Gramlich, Islamische Mystik 41). 32  Cf. Anawati in EI2 IV 83a s. v. ʿĪsā with further literature. On the subject also Räisänen, Das koranische Jesusbild 52ff.; Schumann, Der Christus der Muslime 35ff.; in general Fritsch, Islam und Christentum 89ff., and Zirker, Christentum und Islam 134ff. 33  Cf. O. Betz, Der Paraklet, passim. 34  Thus in the Manichaean Bema psalms (Betz 232ff.; also Sundermann in: P. Bryder [ed.], Manichaean Studies 201ff.). The degree to which the paraclete was accessible outside of the main church is demonstrated by the fact that Montanus, too, identified with him (Pelikan, Christian Tradition I 102). The results of research up to 1975 on internal developments within the church (and only there) were collected by R. Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium (in: Herders Theol. Komm. zum NT, IV), vol. III 156ff.

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to have named horse, ass, and camel as the mounts of the prophets.35 The rider on the ass could easily be perceived to be Jesus, while the camel-rider was Muḥammad.36 A text was transmitted from Muqātil b. Sulaymān’s contemporary Muqātil b. Ḥayyān in which God exhorts Jesus to predict Muḥammad as the ṣāḥib al-jamāl with a precise description of his person.37 Later we read, in Ibn Ḥazm, that Muḥammad brought about the fall of Babylon;38 of course the Arabs had indeed subjected Iraq. Literal quotations do not appear until Muḥammad b. al-Layth,39 ʿAlī b. Rabban40 and Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī,41 with divergent texts. The Jews, too, deliberated on this passage; to them it became the starting point for a outline of history in which Babylon and Media were followed by the Greeks, symbolised by the horses, the Byzantines (‘Edom’, they called them; here, the asses), and the Muslims (the ‘kingdom of Ishmael’, i.e. the camels).42 The problem they had was that the messiah they expected was going to ride an ass, too, and appeared to be preceding the camel-rider in the relevant passage. The ‘secrets’ (nistārōt) of Rabbi Shimʿon ben Yōḥay thus state that another one would appear riding on an ass, bringing about the ‘kingdom’ that would save Israel. They appear to have had Marwān I in mind of whom we read that he ‘will be taken away from the sheep and the asses and raised to the kingship’. Of course it could also have applied to Marwān II, who is known to have been called ‘Marwān al-Ḥimār’, Marwān with the ass, by the Muslims, and who tried to use this attribute to focus eschatological expectations on himself. See vol. I 8, n. 3; also Sharon in: BO 49/1992/64, who assumes that the two Marwāns are mistaken for each other in the text. In an ‘Apocalypse of Enoch’, composed for him by the Monophysite bishop of Sīstān, Marwān II was assured that he would rule in his son (cf. Becker in: NKWG Göttingen, Phil.-Hist. KL. 1916, p. 53, after Michael Syrus IV 453c, 13ff./transl. II 570b. 35  Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān VII 204, 2ff. 36  Ibid. I 246, 5f.: Muḥammad is apparently mentioned as the camel-rider ‘in the books’; thus also Ibn Qutayba, presumably in K. dalāʾil al-nubuwwa (cf. Brockelmann in: ZAW 15/1895/140 after a fragment in Ibn al-Jawzī, Al-wafāʾ bi-aḥwāl al-Muṣṭafā [Cairo 1966], I 66, –5ff.). Regarding the subject in general see Bashear in: JSS 36/1991/37ff. 37  Fasawī III 275, 7f. 38   Al-uṣūl wal-furūʿ 190, 1ff. 39  See vol. III 26 above. 40   K. al-dīn wal-dawla 82, 10ff. = 2149, 9ff./transl. 96. 41   Aʿlām al-nubuwwa 196, 10ff. 42  Cf. the text in Jehuda Eben-Shemūʾēl (Judah Kaufmann), Midreshē geʾullā, Jerusalem 1954/21968, p. 188. I am grateful to my late colleague H. P. Rüger for this as well as some of the following information.

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It is well known that this never came to pass. The Nistārōt, which were probably given their final redaction in Manṣūr’s time, consequently do not present him in a very favourable light. Marwān I, on the other hand, is introduced in a parallel text with the words: ‘Another king will rise, greater than all of them, and his name shall be called Marwān’ (Midrāsh ʿasärät melākīm, ed. J. D. Eisenstein, Ōṣār Midrāshīm II, New York 1915, p. 465b). The passage from the Nistārōt is included in A. Jellinek, 555 a ff. = S. A. Wertheimer, Bātei Midrāshōt (2Jerusalem 1967–68), p. 506f. In a later amended version of this apocalypse, the so-called prayer of Rabbi Shimʿon ben Yōḥay which appears to date from the time of the Crusades, the second appearance of the (or a) man riding an ass has been omitted (Jellinek 119 = Eisenstein 552 a). The latter text was analysed together with the others by B. Lewis in: BSOAS 13/1949–51/308ff. (= Studies in Classical and Ottoman Islam, no. 5); Crone/Cook drew on this in Hagarism 4f. Maybe Esra, who according to sura 9:30 was the ‘son of God’ in the eyes of the Jews, as Jesus (al-masīḥ) was to the Christians, played a part in these speculations, too; in this context the mysterious formula of abdication quoted by Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ al-aʿshā XIII 266, ult. (in which Moses is the camel-rider!) requires more in-depth study. Ḥimār al-ʿUzayr (with the article) occurs as the sobriquet of a historian (see vol. III 6 above; also Heller in EI1 IV 1150). Bīrūnī mocked the Jews’ attempts at uncovering a meaning that suited them in the passage from Isaiah (Āthār 19, 3ff./transl. 22f.; cf. also F. Peters, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam I 186ff.). In agreement with the editor (J. Kaufmann, Midreshē geʾullā 162ff.), Lewis emphasised that not only the ‘prayer’ but also the Nistārōt before it were adapted to the changing times; the oldest core seems to date back to the years of the Arab invasion. It will have to remain undecided whether Crone/Cook’s conclusion that at first the Jews also regarded the camel-rider Muḥammad as the messiah, is correct. It is remarkable that not only the Muslim speculations, but also the last-named Jewish ones were based on the text of the Septuagint, and consequently the Aramaic Targum. Only there do we find the ‘riders’ in the singular, and only there are there two rather than three (καὶ εἰ̃δον ἀναβάτας ἵππεις δύο, ἀναβάτην ὄνου καὶ ἀναβάτην καμήλου; concerning Aramaic cf. A. Sperber, The former prophets according to Targum Jonathan = The Bible in Aramaic III 40, ult.); in the Hebrew original, on the other hand, they were introduced as a collective. The Nistārōt, too, assume the singular, although the passage from Isaiah is quoted in Hebrew (Crone/Cook, Hagarism 153, n. 13). Of course, the entire Christian tradition of the east, such as the Pshīṭtā, depended on the Septuagint in the following centuries. Thus the Christians,

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when the Muslims asked them about the passage, did not think of a simple grammatical mistake, but engaged in exegesis instead. Timothy does this (cf. the text in Putman 27ff. § 134; transl. of the Syriac version in Mingana, Christian Documents 37ff.), unconcerned that in this way not only Muḥammad but Jesus, too, is left behind. The anonymous author of the letter said to have been addressed to ʿUmar II by Leo III employs a different approach, reducing the number of persons to a single one and then hints that this might refer to Jesus (cf. von Grunebaum, Medieval Islam 17f.; Pelikan, Christian Tradition II 237). This text dates to the ninth or tenth century (cf. Gaudeul in: Islamochristiana 10/1984/109ff.); the abovementioned quotations already existed in Arabic translation by that time, once again in the singular and mentioning two riders. Regarding later records cf. Fritsch, Islam und Christentum 82. Muqātil b. Sulaymān, on the other hand, broke ranks; the dictum mentioned earlier refers to a horse – which had already disappeared among the ‘riders’ in the Targum. While in the two cases mentioned the source in the OT or NT is clearly visible, Ibn Saʿd transmits a further prophecy that appears to be entirely dreamed up.43 There are indications of certain sources,44 but the author clearly does not presume that anyone is familiar with them. We are probably looking at the oldest layer (or at a tradition from a region where there was no danger of a confrontation with Jewish scholars). No-one was interested in looking things up in the writings of the ahl al-kitāb unless forced by a controversy; after all, the truth of one’s own cause was beyond all doubt. The most likely source of the passage mentioned is, interestingly, the Quran.45 The dhimmīs were at best expected to provide affirmation, as is illustrated clearly by the – similarly early – Baḥīrā legend.46 Its only important point was that it had been a monk who recognised Muḥammad as the prophet; he was trustworthy, as people knew from sura 5:82. None of this was of use to the theological debate; those of different faiths had no interest in the legend or the alleged prophecies. And the more the different groups misunderstood one another, the more they distrusted each other, too. The Muslim opponent whom Abū Qurra expects believes that the 43  IS I2 87, 2ff. 44  Is. 42:1–3, which says that the servant of God – here: the prophet – will not make his voice heard in the street. Another detail in Ps. 115:6f. 45  Sura 25:50, where the messengers are said to have ‘gone in the markets’. [Cf. also Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder 228.]. 46  Cf. in more detail vol. V 124f. (of the German edition) below and Griffith in: OC 79/1995/146ff.; ch. 101 in John of Damascus’ De haeresibus alludes to it already (Glei/ Khoury, Schriften zum Islam 44f. and 74f.).

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Christians suppressed prophecies written in the New Testament; in an earlier period, during the time of John of Damascus, the Muslims had only suspected them of adding passages in which Jesus’ divine nature was apparent.47 This was the source that, besides the hints in the Quran,48 fed the theory of taḥrīf.49 The Christians thought along similar lines; they believed all this to be nonsense and slander. In their eyes Islam had come to power through violence; the Arabs’ conviction that they had been granted the distinction of a new prophet was really only tribal consciousness (ʿaṣabiyya) in religious garb.50 The set-up for these discourses did not change for centuries. ʿAlī b. Rabban added to the foundation of scriptural sources; as a convert he was very familiar with both Testaments and able to quote from them verbatim.51 Interestingly, he makes no reference to either the paraclete or to sura 61:6. Of the later authors only Ibn Ḥazm was similarly well-versed. ʿĀmirī, unable to suppress his doubts concerning all this ‘proof’, believed the obscurity of the original sources to be pedagogically valuable in that it might serve to hone human intelligence. Furthermore he adduced only instances from the Torah; Is. 21:6–9, which ʿAlī b. Rabban had discussed, does not feature in his deliberations. Iʿlām 202, 3ff. On the subject in general see Lazarus-Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds 75ff.; ʿAbd al-Majīd al-Sharfī, Al-fikr al-islāmī fī l-radd ʿalā l-Naṣārā 479ff.; A. Bouamama, La littérature polémique musulmane contre le Christianisme (Algiers 1988), p. 199ff.; C. Adang, Muslim Writers on Judaism 110ff. and 264ff. Cf. also Th. F. Michel, A Muslim theologian’s response to Christianity (New York 1984; about Ibn Taymiyya). Sharfī includes a list of the Arabic texts that are not extant any more (p. 163ff.). [Deut. 18:18 requires special attention; it had been adduced by the Samaritans in the context of their expectation of the messiah (Cf. Th. Gaster in S. J. Saller, The Memorial of Moses on Mount Nebo, Jerusalem 1941, I 272f.] 47  Ducellier, Miroir de l’Islam 134f.; also p. 703 above. 48  Sura 2:75, 4:46, 5:13, and 41. 49  Regarding the development cf. Schreiner in: ZDMG 42/1888/591ff.; Buhl in EI1 IV 696f. s. v. Taḥrīf; texts of a later date on the subject were collected by Caspar and Gaudeul in: Islamochristiana 6/1980/61ff. The Shīʿa expresses the idea in a missive said to have been written by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq to ʿAbd al-Malik’s son Saʿd al-Khayyir, and which includes the suspicion that the Sunnites had distorted the Quran, too (Kulīnī, Kāfī VIII 54, 2). 50  Cf. Griffith in: Proc. PMR Conference 4/1979/73ff.; explicit also in the anti-Islamic treatise attributed to Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ (see vol. II 34 above). The accusation of falsification had already been raised by the Christians against the Jews; cf. H. B. Swete, An Introduction to the Old Testament in Greek (Cambridge 1900), p. 479f. 51  Regarding the authenticity of the book, which was sometimes in doubt, cf. D. Thomas in: Bull. John Rylands Library 69/1986/1ff.

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Muslim theology, on the other hand, focussed on evolving inner-Quranic proof. This meant that in the long run Muḥammad’s own prophetic foreknowledge became more important than his predecessors’ prophecies. Knowledge of things to come had traditionally been the characteristic that distinguished a prophet; in fact, this was the interpretation applied to the word προφήτης.52 Naẓẓām was the first to present this point systematically,53 showing clearly, too, that it was meant to affirm Muḥammad as prophet.54 Interestingly there was no engagement with the idea that he needed to be affirmed against the Christians; after all, this was not consistent with the historical situation in which Muḥammad had acted. Rather, the issue was presented under an epistemological aspect: how did – or could – the pagan Meccans gain certainty that Muḥammad was a prophet? The question had been presented in the Quran,55 and it justified the methodological approach: Muḥammad had never relied on miracles but only ever referred to the truth of his message. The Quran was proof in itself.56 As we have seen, this was the formula to which the Khārijites had already adhered.57 Naẓẓām’s referring it to those verses in which Muḥammad appeared to have foreseen the future, however, was a step further; Ḍirār had still polemicised against people who believed that the prophet was familiar with hidden things (al-ghayb).58 The iʿjāz theory had not been part of the picture earlier, either.59 Now, however, there were foundations on which Jāḥiẓ could erect his typology of the prophets: Moses was the magician, Jesus the healer, and Muḥammad the gifted orator.60 He regarded this as an evolution: the style had become more refined with every prophetic cycle. The Christians had thought along the same lines with regard to the Old Testament; it seemed that

52  Originally a προφήτης was not someone who ‘predicts’ something, but someone who ‘announces’ something, in particular the oracles. For a comparison of the antique and Old Testament ideas on the issue cf. Wolfson, Philo II 11ff., and Case, The Origins of Christian Supernaturalism 55ff. 53  See vol. III 445 above. 54  The theory that a miracle could only be in affirmation of a prophet was seen as particularly Muʿtazilite (Ṭūsī, Tibyān II 283, 14ff.). 55  See n. 65 below. 56  Cf. e.g. sura 29:51. The characteristic term is bayyina (in more detail Radscheit, Die koranische Herausforderung 69f. and 75). 57  See p. 701 above. 58  He probably meant Shīʿites; cf. Catalogue of Works XV, no. 26. 59  See p. 676 above. 60  See p. 129 above. Adopted by Ibn Qutayba (Ta‌ʾwīl mushkil al-Qurʾān 10, 5ff.).

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the divine plan for the world was expressed in, among other things, the educational medium selected.61 Jāḥiẓ’ theory developed an interesting offshoot in the next generation, when the prophet transformed from a miracle worker to a culture hero. The reason was that Adam was included in the deliberations; he was the beginning not only of the line of prophets but of humanity in general. Consequently he was the one whom God had appointed the teacher of humanity even without, as was well-known, having granted him a revelation in the form of scripture. God had taught him only the names of things, but this had raised him above the angels (sura 2:30–34). This, the interpretation went, was how he acquired language.62 The idea as such was of a venerable age; Homer had already had carpenters, archers etc. being taught by a God.63 In Muʿtazilite doxography it is linked to Kaʿbī,64 but this may well be merely an attempt at covering up another author: Ibn al-Rēwandī had already thought of this model. As for Kaʿbī, there is no proof of his authorship in this point; in any case he merely revisited an already existing tendency. At the same time the concept of miracle changed. The Quran had spoken of ‘signs’ (āyāt); miracle was everything in which God revealed himself. It is thus not an end in itself, but rather conveyed an insight. Consequently it might be rejected; Muḥammad made this experience repeatedly with the pagan Meccans.65 While the miracle results in knowledge, it is always tied to faith (which, as we have seen,66 is itself insight and knowledge). It enables us to reappraise faith, as it were.67 This understanding suited the epistemology of a later time; a ‘sign’ (now dalīl rather than āya) indicated something ‘designated’ (madlūl).68 At the same time it implied the common cosmological proof of the existence of God, imbuing the Quranic miracle with tremendous rationality; a modern work of Quranic theology points out that within the purview of the Quran ‘miracles’ are not supernatural, but rather show nature itself at work.69 While this is entirely true, and Stoic ideas may consequently have been current from the very first, we must also look at the other side. In 61  Cf. Pelikan, Christian Tradition II 215. 62  See p. 364 above; Schöck, Adam im Islam 79f. 63  Lesky, Göttliche und menschliche Motivation 31; in general Thraede in: RAC V 1242ff. 64  Ibn al-Murtaḍā, Al-baḥr al-zakhkhār 73, –5f. 65  Cf. e.g. sura 6:109 or 6:8; in general Khoury, Der Koran 46ff. 66  P. 633 above. 67  In more detail Radscheit in: Wild (ed.), The Qurʾān as Text 116ff. [Also in: Die koranische Herausforderung 60ff.] 68  Cf. my deliberations in: Logic in Islamic Culture 26f., and p. 739 below; the Quran also uses dalīl instead of āya in one instance (sura 25:45). 69  Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes 68ff.

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Muḥammad’s eyes, everything was a miracle; he did not distinguish between ordinary and extraordinary or supernatural phenomena. He did not recognise any laws in nature, in which case only something that broke those laws would have been a ‘sign’ for him. He used the word ‘sign’ in the same way as the Old Testament uses ōt (which is etymologically cognate) and the gospels use σημει̃ον.70 His only innovation was that āya could also denote a Quranic verse; the Quran itself is the sign of Muḥammad the prophet.71 To him a miracle was not ‘the impossible happening’72 nor yet a miracle of affirmation.73 The miracle stories of the Sīra and the hadith introduced a new type of miracle. These were miracles that were reported, not experienced or perceived; they were unique occurrences that happened to the prophet or through him. They were meant to impose faith and consequently presented themselves as objective events. Now the problem was their authentication, rather than the blindness of those who did not see anything unusual in them. They provided Islam with a link to the θαυμάσια of Hellenism.74 They did not primarily prove God’s work but Muḥammad’s prophethood, consequently people became used to the phrase dalāʾil al-nubuwwa or aʿlām al-nubuwwa; in fact, they were the roots of an entire literary genre within later hadith science. The miracle was something unusual, and it served as affirmation, even though this aspect had not been given the form of a theory.75 This theory would be furnished by Muʿtazilite theologians, but something else was required, too: the awareness of the laws of natural processes. This had long been prepared in neighbouring religions. When shortly after the middle of the first/eighth century a Jew and a Christian conducted a religious discussion in Damascus, the Jew defined σημει̃ον as τὸ παρὰ τη̃ ν συνήθειαν ξένον ­πρα̃γμα, as an ‘event that contradicts what is habitual’,76 but it took some time before this had become common knowledge among Muslims as well. Christian and Jewish theologians sometimes used the word jarīḥa/pl. jarāʾiḥ (‘violation 70  Cf. C. A. Keller, Das Wort ‘Oth’ als Offenbarungszeichen Gottes, theol. Diss. Basel 1946; Theol. WB zum AT I 182ff. (with further references); Jeffery, Foreign Vocabulary 72f.; Theol. WB zum NT VII 241ff. s. v. σημει̃ον (H. Rengstorf); Bultmann, Theologie des Neuen Testamentes 1390ff. In general also von Bülow, Ḥadīṯe über Wunder 10ff. 71  Cf. Jeffery in EI2 I 773f. s. v. Āya; Fazlur Rahman 72; Nagel, Der Koran 333f. A selection of instances may be found in Khoury, Der Koran I 243f. 72  G. Mensching, Das Wunder im Glauben und Aberglauben der Völker 9. 73  The pagans around him had, however, demanded this (cf. Khoury, Der Koran I 51ff.). 74  Cf. e.g. Grant, Miracle and Natural Law 61ff. 75  Thus also, in a mirror image, the deceptions of the anti-prophets (cf. e.g. Eickelmann in: JESHO 10/1967/31). 76   Trophées de Damas 205, 10 Bardy. Regarding the text see vol. I 76 above.

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of the normal course of events’) to denote a miracle,77 but this did not take hold among the Muslims who preferred to speak of muʿjizāt when they wanted to emphasise this aspect. This recalls iʿjāz, as was probably the intention. The prophet’s miracles just like his rhetorical challenge show up his contemporaries’ ‘powerlessness’ (ʿajz). Form IV of the verb is Quranic usage, as a finite verb aʿjaza as well as as a participle (muʿjizūn), although it was use under an entirely different aspect, with Allāh as its subject rather than object, and together with a negation: humans cannot ‘render God powerless’, i.e. ‘cannot evade his grasp’.78 Now it meant that God ‘leaves (humans or the prophet) incapable’, i.e. forces them to admit their powerlessness. When and how this shift took place remains to be researched.79 There are reasons to believe that before the noun muʿjiza emerged, the adjective muʿjiz was in use with nominal meaning, too; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār furnishes numerous instances.80 The feminine noun may be a back-formation from the plural muʿjizāt.81 Gimaret thought of an intermediate stage al-ʿalam al-muʿjiz or al-aʿlām al-muʿjizāt;82 the phrase jarīḥa muʿjiza is also documented.83 None of these detours are, however, necessary. Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir was certainly still using the word uʿjūba (pl. aʿājīb) instead,84 as, apparently, did Naẓẓām – even when he was describing the Quran’s miraculous power, its iʿjāz.85 Besides these there was the term ʿajība/ʿajāʾib, used in Christian texts to denote a miracle in the theological sense.86 The Muslims understood ʿajāʾib as the mirabilia of creation,87 which is closest to Gr. θαυμάσια. Signs that ‘left (someone) incapable’ were those that could not be imitated because they ‘breached what was habitual’. In the long run these would be called kharq al-ʿāda or naqḍ al-ʿāda. This phrase is first hinted at by Jāḥiẓ;88 Kaʿbī used it and passed it on to the Ashʿarites.89 Normally, it was said, God 77  Muqammiṣ, ʿIshrūn maqāla 267, 2 (with further instances 266, n. 12). 78  Cf. Paret, Kommentar 152 on sura 6:134. 79  Ibn al-Rēwandī may have used the word with reference to the imāms, but the relevant book title is recorded in Shīʿite sources only (see p. 354 above). 80   Mughnī XV 237, 9; 239, 3 etc. 81  According to Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 170, 7ff., the feminine suffix achieves hyperbolic emphasis (mubālagha), as in ʿallāma, nassāba etc. 82   Doctrine d’al-Ashʿarī 461, n. 18. 83  Text XXII 223, l. 84  Text XVII 1, v. 19. 85  Ashʿarī, Maq. 225, 11. 86  Graf, Verzeichnis arabischer christlicher Termini 77. 87  Cf. EI2 I 203f. s. v. ʿAd̲ jā̲ ʾib. 88  See p. 129 above; also Text XXX 8. 89  Regarding the latter see Gimaret, Ashʿarī 408; in general Schwarz in: Maimonidean Studies 3/1992–93/157ff.

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leaves things to ‘go their habitual way’ (ajrā l-ʿāda),90 an idea that would later be linked indissolubly to the spreading concept of occasionalism,91 although the two had no connection to begin with.92 At first it appeared in the context of the question of how, once the miracle had become proof, the prophet could be distinguished from a magician or a mountebank; after all, Musaylima had somehow conveyed an egg into a bottle,93 and Muqannaʿ, when he pretended to be a prophet in Marv, had made the moon rise from a well (or above a mountain) and then commanded it to stand still for some time.94 The subject had been broached by the Quran,95 but Jāḥiẓ was the first to devote a separate treatise to it.96 For a long time Muʿtazilites assumed that God could not work miracles on anyone but a prophet, as otherwise humanity would never be safe from lies and deception;97 thus the result was determined. Of course proposing such a postulate was one thing; finding criteria according to which one could unmask a fraud was quite another matter. The question could not be solved entirely in any case; Ibn al-Rēwandī had pointed out the epistemological difficulties inherent in it.98 This may have been one of the reasons why the theologians concentrated so exclusively on the linguistic miracle of the Quran, as this was an event the result of which was still accessible to verification. Supernatural events that were long in the past: the journey to heaven,99 or the split moon100 were regarded with reservation. Most people thought it nonsensical that God might perform a miracle in order to unmask a false prophet.101 ‘Miracles of grace’ (‘Huldwunder’) performed by

90  Gimaret 393f., also 64 and 115. 91  Cf. Antes, Prophetenwunder in der Ašʿarīya 40ff.; also p. 459 and 475f. 92  Nor with jarīḥa (cf. the passage n. 77 above). The origin of the expression remains to be researched. In Christianity ‘supernatural’ was a more likely word; Origen, who could not imagine that God might act ‘against nature’, was the first to use it (ὑπὲρ τη̃ν φύσιν; Grant, Miracle and Natural Law 205f.); but cf. the definition in the Trophées de Damas. 93  Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān IV 369, 7ff.; see also p. 600, n. 35 above. 94  Niẓām al-Mulk, Siyāsatnāma 252, 9ff. Köymen; IKh III 264, 5ff.; also Sadeghi, Mouvements religieux 183 and 164; Daniel, Political and Social History of Khurasan 138. 95  Cf. e.g. sura 51:52. 96  Catalogue of Works XXX, no. 45. 97  Thus Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, who is also familiar with divergent views (Mughnī XV 217ff.); from aother point of view Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl, fol. 68b, Regarding Judaism cf. the fatwā by Gaon Ḥai for his fellow believers in Qayrawān (Vajda in: REJ 106/1941–5/111f.). 98  See p. 366ff. above, esp. 371f. 99  See p. 663f. above. 100  See vol. III 470 above. 101  Thus once again Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XV 236ff.

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saints, too,102 were rejected by the Muʿtazilites for a long time, Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Baṣrī,103 Abū Rashīd and Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī being the first to believe them possible.104 It is true that in this case not only the theological principle but also atmospheric tensions played a part. Intellectuals were most reluctant to get involved with charismatics, especially if the latter came from the lower classes. Jubbāʾī was said to have attended one of Ḥallāj’s presentations in Ahwāz and mocked his ‘miracles’.105 The confrontation was fiercer than in Christianity. If miracles were affirmation, the saints became competition for the prophets. The hermit Antonius’ miracles in the desert were performed through invoking the name of Christ, and thus secondary and in memory of Jesus’ salvific works,106 but when it came to the Sufis’ ‘miracles of grace’ the Muʿtazilites were always aware of the danger that they might be confused with the prophets’ ‘miracles of power’.107 Because of his gruesome end – and the trial that preceded it – Ḥallāj lent himself to the debate on principles; indeed, Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s entire chapter on the subject (XV 270ff.) explores the ‘tricks (ḥiyal) people report of Ḥallāj and others’. Cf. also Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara I 165ff. > Livre des Ruses 405ff. Among the mystics Sahl al-Tustarī (d. 283/896) as well as Kharrāz (d. probably 286/899) presented the karāmāt as a category separate from the āyāt and the muʿgizāt (cf. Gramlich, Die Wunder der Freunde Gottes 16; concerning Kharrāz see his K. al-kashf wal-bayān in: Rasāʾil 35, 11ff.; in general Gardet in: EI2 IV 615f. s. v. Karāma); they were both older than Jubbāʾī. Even so, they could not altogether overlook the side effects, either. Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī expresses outrage at the miracle dervishes who attract attention by means of magic tricks, only to swindle women and other fools out of their money (Sīrat al-awliyāʾ 123, 12ff. Yaḥyā = 6, 14ff. Radtke). Kharrāz combined his agreement in principle with an attack on those Sufis who ranked the awliyāʾ above the prophets (Kashf 31, –6ff.; cf. p. 322 above). They supported their argument with the 102  In general see Gramlich, Die Wunder der Freunde Gottes (Wiesbaden 1987). Gramlich introduced the term ‘Huldwunder’ (miracle of grace) as opposed to the prophets’ ‘Machtwunder’ (miracle of power). 103  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s teacher (see p. 44 above). 104  Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl, fol. 62b ff.; Madelung in EI2, Suppl. 25b; Gramlich, Wunder 98. 105  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XV 272, 11ff.; Massignon, Passion I 199f./transl. I 155f. 106  Athanasius, Vita Antonii 48 (= PG XXVI 913). 107  Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 536, 4ff.; cf. also Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī’s polemic, Sīrat al-awliyāʾ 393, 6ff. Yaḥyā/§ 105 Radtke (although this may refer to the Ḥanafites).

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Moses – Khaḍir pericope (see p. 565, n. 7 above). Many of them probably extended the application of the term muʿgizāt to themselves quite unabashedly (Maq. 438, 14ff.). The word karāma took hold only gradually. At the time of Ḥallāj, the word used instead was maʿūnāt ‘proof of divine grace or assistance’ (cf. Tanūkhī, Nishwār II 290, 9, and 291, 6; Massignon reads, probably incorrectly, maghūthāt, Passion I 165, n. 6/I 124, n. 156). Once the term had been accepted universally, a verb was derived from it, too: ukrima bi- ‘he was granted … in a miraculous fashion’ (Ibn al-Jawzī, Talbīs Iblīs 367, 16). This development displeased not only the Muʿtazilites, as is illustrated by the reaction in Spain where as late as the fourth/tenth century influential Mālikites such as Ibn Abī Zayd al-Qayrawānī raised objections (cf. Fierro in: BSOAS 55/1992/236ff.). In Iraq, on the other hand, the Ashʿarites would soon steer a more Sufi-friendly course, above all Bāqillānī with his Bayān ʿan al-farq bayna l-muʿgizāt wal-karāmāt (although the extant version of this work is incomplete, as can be inferred from § 130, and does not contain the decisive chapters). The same applies to Nishapur in Iran, where the Shāfiʿites recognised the karāmāt while the Ḥanafites retained the Muʿtazilite view (Madelung, Religions Trends 46). The arguments pro and contra are collected in Gramlich, Wunder 74ff.

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4.3 Epistemology Faith and knowledge, we have seen,1 were not necessarily opposites in Islam. Reason was greatly prized,2 as indeed it was among the Christian theologians who wrote in Arabic at the time (second/eighth and third/ninth century).3 Compared to mediaeval Europe people lived in an unusually pluralistic society; and someone of a different faith would not, of course, be impressed by quotations from scripture.4 The ‘heretics’ against whom they fought, such as the Manicheans, taught the Muslims empirical thinking, as they relied entirely on what they could see with their own eyes.5 The only ones in the circle of the mutakallimūn who expressed doubt concerning the power of the intellect were a few ascetics;6 this trend would be continued later among the m ­ ystics.7 Ratio lost primacy across the board only once the debate with non-Muslims died down; now, with the Ashʿarites, the Quran increasingly became the most important guideline of Sunni thought.8 While Islam had always acted from a position of power, this had been political power, and its representatives were now left with demonstrating it intellectually as well. Christianity had been in an entirely different situation. Saint Paul had meant to bring the message of Jesus to the heathen; he showed them a salvation for the sake of which they had to relinquish old-established patterns of thought. Intellect to them was part of the category ‘flesh’; faith alone leads to redemption.9 In order to facilitate the 1  P. 633 above. 2  See p. 233ff. and 576f. above; as a further example I should like to point to the detailed chapter on ʿaql in the Ibāḍite Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī’s Bayān al-sharʿ II 227–240. In general cf. Naṣr Ḥāmid Abū Zayd, Al-ittijāh al-ʿaqlī fī l-tafsīr (Beirut 1982); ʿAlī Ḥusayn al-Jābirī, Al-ʿaql wal-ʿaqlāniyya fī madrasat Baghdād al-falsafiyya, in: al-Mawrid 17/1988, issue 3/32ff., and numerous other Arabic secondary sources (some of which are, however, apologetically motivated). 3  S. Rissanen pointed out the kinship of the methods of acquiring knowledge in the two camps, Theological Encounter of Oriental Christians with Islam during Early Abbasid Rule 61ff. 4  Thomas Aquinas said the same, Summa contra gentiles 12. 5  Thus Stroumsa’s rendering of the remarkable – and possibly transmitted corrupt – phrase Manānī al-ʿiyān in Muqammiṣ, ʿIshrūn maqāla 262 with n. 2). Ibn Jinnī observed that the mutakallimūn like the philosophers relied on their immediate sensory perceptions; meaning that in their conclusion they did not draw the ratio (ʿilla) from the Quran as the jurists would do, but from phenomena existing in the real world (cf. the text cited by Bohas in: Arabica 28/1981/204f.). Regarding sensualism among the Manichaeans and the zanādiqa see vol. I 530 and II 16 above; among the mutakallimūn vol. II 453 and III 74, 79ff., 362ff., 366f., 413. Regarding Naẓẓām’s approach to ‘appearance’ see vol. III 363, n. 30. 6  In more detail p. 744f. below. 7  Cf. Ritter, Meer der Seele 76ff. 8  See p. 359. Regarding Ashʿarī’s attitude cf. Rudolph in: ZDMG 142/1992/73ff. 9  Cf. Dihle, Vorstellung vom Willen 94ff.

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transition he abandoned the Jewish Law, appointing conscience in its stead.10 Islam, on the other hand, brought a new law intended to be more meaningful and pure by virtue of being more original than those of the earlier prophets; for this reason it retained the tendency to this day of considering the tenets of this law to be susceptible to rational proof. The law was not identical with the Quranic revelation. While Muḥammad had given a new framework to the code of conduct that pertained in the society with which he interacted, the commandments or prohibitions explicitly presented in the Quran were frequently merely modifications of a pre-­existing model.11 Their foundation was presumed to be familiar; as a result it was ‘missing’ later when everything pre-Islamic had vanished into the era of ‘ignorance’. It had to be added now, in retrospect, with numerous ‘implementing regulations’; the medium for this was prophetic tradition which here, as elsewhere, was strongly exegetic.12 The guideline in this development was the collective consciousness of the community and, once the community had been dispersed in the wars of conquest, of the respective region. This was the original meaning of the word sunna, ‘custom’, among jurists; theologians also spoke of ijmāʿ. Reason was thus not applied abstractly and normatively, but in combination with the consensus of society. This overall situation would give rise to the following epistemological questions over time: 1) How does exegesis happen, and which hermeneutic rules must be observed? 2) How can a prophetic dictum be proved to be genuine and binding? 3) How does one arrive at a consensus, and how can it be determined? 4) How does one arrive at a conclusion based on these criteria? 5) Where is the separate realm of reason located, and when can reason make do without the revelation?

10  See p. 639 above. 11  Cf. e.g. inheritance law. The rules of worship are a slightly different case, but e.g. the ḥajj is by no means a new invention. 12  See p. 466 above.

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4.3.1 The Quran and the Way in Which it was Interpreted Early Islamic exegesis is factual, intent on the restitution of a historical situation or a legal or theological circumstance. Many scholars originally commented on only a few select verses in their lectures, possibly verses concerning which they had been consulted.1 Sifting the text as a whole was a gradual development; it required great persistence.2 Even then, however, each verse was explored on its own; exegesis would always retain a certain atomising ­tendency.3 Contradictions, we can easily imagine, were evened out. They were most noticeable in the juristic context; here, they were disposed of early with the stratagem of abrogation. After all, the Quran had been ‘sent down’ in pieces and at different times; by reconstructing the chronology one might conclude that the theory of naskh had a reliable foundation. The fact that God changed his mind when reacting to different historical situations did not pose a theological problem at the time4 – that came later, but by then abrogation had become a construct indispensable to Islamic law.5 Furthermore the practice was regarded as having been sanctioned by the Quran itself.6 Someone more focussed on the theological statements in the Quran would always have explained the discrepancies adducing a different topos that had also been hinted at in the Quran itself: the distinction between ‘clear’ and ‘ambiguous’ verses (sura 3:7).7 ‘Ambiguous’ (mutashābiḥ) and ‘abrogated’ (mansūkh) were sometimes regarded as identical.8 Two words existed to refer to the process of interpreting scripture: tafsīr and ta‌ʾwīl. Remarkably, they both occur in the Quran – once again reflecting itself: sura 25:33 and 3:7. Unlike the latter, the former was a loan.9 It occurs in an 1  Cf. e.g. vol. II 730, n. 87, and 728 above. 2  Ibid. 94. 3  See p. 694 above. 4  See p. 492f. above; also vol. I 315f. 5  See vol. I 39ff. above with references. A general overview is provided by J. Burton, The Sources of Islamic Law. Islamic theories of abrogation (Edinburgh 1990); regarding Burton’s approach cf. Madelung in: JNES 50/1991/228ff. Regarding the general attitude to this hermeneutic postulate cf. Mufīd, Awāʾil al-maqālāt (appendix) 101, 4ff. 6  Sura 2:106. 7  See vol. I 44 and II 593 above; Text IX 22 regarding Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ, and Text XXIX 17 regarding Iskāfī (adopted by Ashʿarī; cf. Gimaret, Ashʿarī 521). Different: Aṣamm (Text XIII 15–16). In general, besides the article mentioned vol. I 44 above, also M. Lagarde in: Quaderni Studi Arabi 3/1985/45ff. 8  See vol. I 262 above regarding Sufyān al-Thawrī. 9  Cf. Hebr. pēsher (Eccl. 8:1; also in the Qumran texts), Aram. pishrā (Dan. 2:7 and 5:12), both meaning ‘interpretation’; rendered in the Septuagint as σύγκρισις or ςύγκριμα. Form II, which is the one relevant to the Arabic, occurs in the Syriac translation (Horovitz, Jewish Proper Names 218; Brockelmann, Lexicon Syriacum 615a).

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apposite place, just where the Quran speaks of the ‘clear’ and the ‘ambiguous’ verses, but the context was rather problematic, stating that no-one could really interpret the ‘ambiguous’ passages except God (mā yaʿlamu ta‌ʾwīlahū illā llāh).10 This could imply that if humans apply ta‌ʾwīl, the result would be heretic deviance;11 it is certainly true that the word often had negative connotations. This is not, however, the case everywhere; as witness Māturīdī’s Ta‌ʾwīlāt ahl al-sunna.12 Above all the term did not yet refer to allegoresis at the time; it was a rare occurrence and would be found really only in Shīʿite texts. Its flowering would come later, in the Ismāʿīliyya, which would also be called Bāṭiniyya as a result. In the early period it was particularly characteristic of gnostic currents;13 in the moderate Shīʿa the focus was more on typological exegesis.14 Both these methods move the Shīʿa closer to Christianity, but the motive is a different one each time. Christianity employs allegoresis and typology because it had to cope with two scriptures, and the Old Testament could not be dealt with in any other way.15 The Shīʿa, on the other hand, used these tools because the one scripture was not complete enough to fulfil its requirements; under this premise it had the choice between claiming that the Quran had been falsified and purged, or trying to uncover deeper layers. Sunni exegesis was familiar with a similar concept only in the dogma of the fourfold meaning of the scripture, but this approach did not prevail.16 In the long run, grammatical analysis would be applied; if miscarriages of justice 10  Thus according to the customary parsing of the sentence (wal-rāsikhūna fī l-ʿilm being part of the following: cf. Paret, Kommentar 61 on the passage). 11  See vol. I 304 as well as II 238 and 605 above. In this meaning ta‌ʾwīl touches on bidʿa ‘innovation’ and hawā ‘(unqualified) noises’, but its denotation is narrower than that of the last two; cf. also p. 765f. below. 12  Cf. also Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Furūq 43, 15ff.; regarding the early period also vol. II 94 and 461 above. When Kindī accuses the Muʿtazilites of poor exegesis, he says sūʾ al-ta‌ʾwīl (Alfalsafa al-ūlā 103, 12ff.); he thus uses the word ta‌ʾwīl but modifies it, giving it a neutral meaning. 13  See vol. I 344f. and 449, and II 549 and 673. 14  This was the home of the frequent comparisons with the history of the Israelites (see e. g. Kohlberg in: SI 52/1980/49ff.). Typological exegesis was also at the basis of the punishment legends of the Quran. 15  Regarding allegoresis in connection with the Old Testament and its origins in the exegesis of Homer as well as in Hellenistic Judaism cf. Leipoldt/Morenz, Heilige Schriften 131ff., and von Campenhausen, Entstehung der Bibel 78f.; on the procedure applied by Philo and the Church Fathers cf. Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages 2ff. Marcion, who did not recognise the Old Testament, was one of the opponents of allegoresis (Hanson, Allegory and Event 136). 16  See vol. I 352 above. It most frequently occurs in mysticism, first in Muḥāsibī (cf. Gedankenwelt 209ff); cf. also Abū ʿUbayd, Faḍāʾil al-Qurʾān (ed. Wahbī Sulaymān Khawājī; Beirut 1411/1991), p. 42f. no. 6.4–6.

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were to be averted, the exact wording was crucial. Above all it was necessary to find out what character an imperative had in each case; whether it expressed a strict commandment or merely a recommendation – or, in modern terms, whether it was an obligatory provision or a discretionary provision.17 The degree to which statements following the ‘if …, then …’ pattern could claim universal applicability was also relevant. It was not easy to determine because in Arabic such sentences are often introduced by indefinite pronouns (man, mā etc.); only if these are joined by a determinant such as kull, baʿḍ – which does not usually happen – does the statement lose its ambiguity. In theology the topic was discussed mainly in the context of the threats of punishment in hell; Muʿtazilites and ‘Murjiʾites’ could not agree whether these applied to all sinners or to unbelievers only.18 Of course the question of which verses should be valued more and which less arose everywhere; any exegesis, however fundamentalist, will be selective. As far as I can see no rules were developed – for the simple reason that people believed in every case that they had selected the right verses. Consequently the history of theology is also the history of exegesis. We have already pointed out19 that the result of this was that entire sections of the Quran were abandoned theologically altogether, while on the other hand answers were inferred from the text even though the associated questions had not been the Quran’s concern in the first place; the practice is widespread to this day.

17  See vol. II 318 above and V 66 (of the German edition), with further references. 18  See vol. III 208f., 286, and 422f. above; also Weiss, The Search for God’s Law 389ff., and A. Zysow, The Economy of Certainty (PhD Harvard 1984), p. 126ff. A particularly impressive early passate is K. al-ḥayda 74, 7ff. Terminologically this is included with the pair of opposites ʿāmm: khāṣṣ, which corresponds to kelal: p3raṭ in the Talmud (cf. Daube in: HUCA 22/1949/252f.; Brunschvig in: Acc. Naz. dei Lincei, Rendiconti morali, Rome 1975, series VIII vol. 30, fasc. 5–6, p. 10 and 13ff.; Wansbrough, Quranic Studies 169; Calder, Studies in Early Muslim Jurisprudence 233ff.). 19  P. 646 and 354; in general cf. also Frank in: Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 2/199225ff.

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4.3.2 The Trustworthiness of the sunna However much the Quran was pushed back in the theologians’ actual argumentation, it remained the uncontested authority to all of them. When it came to hadith, on the other hand, their attitude was ambivalent; we have already pointed out scripturalist tendencies.1 The reason was that prophetic tradition developed gradually, and in rather chaotic fashion at first, with divergent local traditions; as soon as one looked beyond one’s own environment the discrepancies were impossible to overlook. In addition those who held and preserved the traditions did not always come from the same social strata as the theologians; they were merchants or small-scale craftsmen, while the Muʿtazilites and those close to them might be officials or courtiers. Credibility, the main issue with oral transmission, thus became easily a question of social prestige.2 When it came to the law, however, it was well-nigh impossible to proceed without hadith; consequently even Shimmazī, ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd’s pupil, knew a number of them by heart.3 In fact ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd and Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ had not been against prophetic tradition as a whole; they had merely sifted it most thoroughly. Wāṣil was also said to have developed a criterion of authenticity which was rather like what would later come to be called tawātur, but he referred the rule he had formulated to statements of all kinds; consequently he spoke of khabar rather than ḥadīth. He was not aware of the dimension of historical depth, either; isnāds were not yet the universal custom in his day. He explored how a fact could be reported reliably at the same time by different people without them agreeing on it, but not how it could be transmitted through the generations without wear.4 He was not interested in hadiths but in ­ἔυδοξα;5 khabar and ḥadīth were interchangeable in general at the time.6 We are familiar with the question in the context of Hellenistic philosophy: how can we know that the city of Alexandria or the island of Crete exist if everyone says so but we have not been there ourselves?7 Muqammiṣ went on to apply this to the knowledge we have of a prophet, as did the Christian theologians writing 1  Regarding Ḍirār b. ʿAmr see vol. III 56ff. above; regarding the Khārijites vol. II 652, 669 and 695. 2  The aristocrat’s and intellectual’s disdain for the gossip of the common people breaks out into the open in Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ, Al-adab al-kabīr 94, 9ff.; one should not believe reports even when someone states that this was how he heard them (pu. ff.). 3  See vol. II 367 above. 4  Vol. II 318 above. Regarding the text discussed there see also R. al-Sayyid in: Al-Ijtihād 2/1990, no. 8/65ff. 5  Cf. Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 128. 6  Thus also on the field of Islamic law; cf. Ansari in: Arabica 19/1972/256ff. 7  Vol. II 319 above; also Erkenntnislehre 412. Cf. the discussion of the issue in Qāḍī ʿAbd alJabbār, Mughnī XV 368ff.

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in Arabic: what guarantee have we that a religion followed by many people is true?8 This put the problem on a diachronic level as well as a synchronic one; after all, a revealed religion always gods back to the message of one man. Jāḥiẓ devoted some thought to this;9 he was also aware of the wear that occurs in the course of transmission.10 Following him Ibn al-Munajjim summarised the issue very well.11 Still, people had already noticed during antiquity that there needed to be numerical guidelines: how many independent statements are needed for us to be certain that Alexandria does indeed exist?12 This was the question of the threshold value known to us from the discussion of pollution nowadays. Abū lHudhayl attempted to answer it: twenty witnesses are needed to gain certainty concerning a religious tradition, and four, to gain probability.13 This was ‘decisionist’, as so often in jurisprudence, but the threshold was very high, which can probably be explained by the fact that the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth and the Muʿtazilites had parted ways in the meantime; ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd had been boycotted by the Basran traditionists, whereupon Ḍirār b. ʿAmr went on the counter-attack.14 Even so, Abū l-Hudhayl had realised that he was dealing with quite particular material, and he did not regard a hadith as a simple, neutral statement as Wāṣil had done. He insisted that one of the twenty had to be of the ahl al-janna, i.e. a pious Muslim; thus rejecting one non-Muslim tawātur.15 His pupil ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Shāfiʿī, who had been Shāfiʿī’s pupil, too, and was consequently exceedingly well versed in hadith, undertook a remarkable correction: he lowered the threshold from 20 to five, but demanded five in each generation.16 This proves that his argument was based on isnāds. In his eyes, certainty started immediately beyond probability (four witnesses, like Abū 8    ʿIshrūn maqāla XIV 4f. = p. 264 with n. 9. 9   In his K. ḥujaj al-nubuwwa; cf. Rasāʾil III 260, 8ff. 10  See p. 130f. above. 11   K. al-burhān § 21ff. Regarding the development of the problem in general cf. my article in: La notion d’autorité au Moyen Age 211ff. 12  Thus Galen in his treatise Περὶ τη̃ ς ἰατρικη̃ ς ἐμπειριας, translated by Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq into Syriac and by Ḥubays into Arabic (On Medical Experience, ed. Walzer 51, 1ff.; cf. id. in: SB Preuß. Akad. Wiss., Phil.-Hist. Kl. 1932, p. 459), in the greater context of sorites (ibid. 455ff.). Regarding sorites see vol. III 288 above. 13  See vol. III 288. 14  Ibid. 55f. 15  See p. 376 above. Regarding tawātur in general Weiss, Search 274ff., and Zysow, Economy 11ff.; also Löschner, Die dogmatischen Grundlagen des šīʿitischen Rechts 95ff.; Juynboll, Muslim Tradition 97f., and EI2 VII 781 s. v. The term itself seems to have been coined comparatively late; it was not used by Shāfiʿī (Calder, Studies 224). 16  Vol. III 315f.

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l-Hudhayl); presumably hadiths transmitted along five separate isnāds were rare at the time. Four witnesses were sufficient to convict someone of adultery; confirming the crime, while subject to the strictest of criteria, was ultimately a matter of probability.17 Four evangelists had witnessed the crucifixion of Jesus, and had been wrong after all. However, even if there had been five there would not have been an obligation to believe them, as Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, too, insisted that there must be a ‘friend of God’ among the five. What he did de facto was to prevent all the numerous hadiths that were known in only one version and with only one isnād from being admitted into theology. And the discussion on the relation between an ἔυδοξον and an individual account as conducted by Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ became an argument on the khabar al-wāḥid or the āḥād for good. There was a connection between this development and the fact that Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān was Shāfiʿī’s pupil, for the latter had explored the khabar alwāḥid in some detail in his attempt at placing Islam on a clearly defined textual basis.18 He was in favour of it, as he regarded it as a safeguard against the arbitrariness of independently determining the law (ra‌ʾy). The best guarantee of reliability appeared to him to be the integrity (ʿadāla) of the transmitters; this, too, was originally a category of procedural law that now entered hadith science.19 It allowed him to evade the weighty argument that so far at least two witnesses had been needed for a valid testimony.20 He only engaged casually with those who relied on the Quran only in legal issues.21 However, even those who did not despise hadith felt entitled to practise ra‌ʾy if two traditions contradicted each other.22 The oldest known monograph on the subject is by Shāfiʿī’s influential contemporary ʿĪsā b. Abān23 with whom Shāfiʿī discussed the issue,24 as well as with Ibn ʿUlayya.25 A century later an Iranian Ḥanafite, ʿAlī b. Mūsā b. Yazdād al-Qummī (d. 305/917) wrote a book in which

17  That the analogy was with procedural law, i.e. juristic rather than psychological or epistemological in general is clearly demonstrated by Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XV 362, 3ff.; cf. Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought 144. 18  A Hasan, The Early Development of Islamic Jurisprudence 181ff. 19  Khalidi 138f. 20   Risāla 373 § 1010; in general Jimāʿ al-ʿilm in Umm VII 254, pu. ff. See also Sayyid in: AlIjtihād 2/1990, no. 8/71f. 21  In his K. jimāʿ al-ʿilm; cf. Umm VII 250, 11ff. Regarding Schacht’s utilisation of the passage see Azami, On Schacht’s Origins 73ff. (critical but well-informed in parts only). 22  Schacht, Introduction to Islamic Law 28f. 23   K. khabar al-wāḥid; cf. Fihrist 258, 20. 24  See vol. III 65f. 25  Vol. II 476f.

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he discussed questions in which Shāfiʿī differed from the ‘Iraqis’,26 among them apparently the khabar al-wāḥid.27 When Jubbāʾī broached the controversial issue at the same time he left no doubt that even if a practical solution suggested itself one was permitted only to rely on traditions with two or more chains of transmitters. Bājī, Iḥkām al-fuṣūl 334, 4f.; also earlier 330, –4ff. Cf. Turki, Polémiques 107. Regarding the early stages of the argument see p. 110 above and the material I collected in: Der Islam 44/1968/43f.; with further details Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 127ff. On the role played by Shāfiʿī in general see Hallaq, Was al-Shāfiʿī the Master Architect of Islamic Jurisprudence?, in: IJMES 25/1993/587ff. On the systematic classification of khabar al-wāḥid cf. Weiss, Search 291ff., and Löschner, Grundlagen 101ff. In theology, where eternal truths were concerned and people consequently believed they required absolute certainty, Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān’s five authorities were soon abandoned and 50,28 then 70 and even 200 were suggested.29 Still, Naẓẓām had understood Ḍirār’s fundamental criticism of hadith30 to mean that the criterion of numbers was altogether superfluous, that the primacy of reason was sufficient for a theologian. Hadiths, Naẓẓām thought, were only reliable as long as they could be confirmed by reason; the truth of oral information is best determined by means of the circumstances attendant on the fact related. This was an entirely synchronous approach; the most famous of the examples he adduced was that of the news of someone’s death the truth of which will be confirmed by wailing or a waiting bier.31 Soon, however, it was applied to jurisprudence, too.32 Unfortunately Naẓẓām took one step because of which this comprehensive rationalism soon lost its credibility. By elevating the iʿjāz of the Quran to the rank of a dogma, he paved the way for processes of affirmation in which miracles occupied a special place. With the exception of the Quran miracles, 26  Kaḥḥāla, Muʿjam al-muʾallifīn VII 250f.; Ziriklī, Aʿlām V 178f. 27  He had written a monograph on this subject, too (cf. FIhrist 260, apu.). 28  Because in a qasāma the community within which the murder was committed must absolve itself in fifty oaths (Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl 38 a; regarding the qasāma cf. EI2 IV 689 b). 29  Cf. the deliberations in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XV 372ff.; the figures were of course also dependent on the Quranic basis people believed to have found. It has not yet been possible to date the respective dogmas. 30  Expressed in Text XXII 254. 31  See vol. III 415f. above. 32  See also Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought 139ff.

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however, were known only from accounts, and these accounts were often āḥād. ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān provided a suitable theory: miracles are transmitted by people who are free from sin, like the prophet.33 This presumably referred to the companions of the prophet, replacing Abū l-Hudhayl’s ahl al-janna or ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Shāfiʿī’s ‘friend of God’. In his political theory ʿAbbād’s teacher Hishām al-Fuwaṭī had already demonstrated how important it was to him to raise the members of the first community above later generations.34 With this adjustment ʿAbbād played into the hands of the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth twofold: he recognised a group of authorities that played a major part for them, too, and he gave them the argument that ʿadāla was, in fact, a much more convincing criterion than sinlessness.35 At the same time – being a Basran – he severed ties with the Shīʿites; the ṣaḥāba’s sinlessness was anathema to the latter. Fundamental objections, consequently, came only from someone who was part of the Shīʿite tradition: from Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq. He thought that tawātur was not only afflicted by the odium of deceit, i.e. it might be false, but that it was in fact impossible as there were never so many trustworthy observers of an event. However, nobody believed him; even Ibn al-Rēwandī criticised him.36 Later the Muʿtazilites would defend the reliability of traditions, even of āḥād.37 The issue was not a problem to the Shīʿites, at least the Imāmite ones, until after the ghayba; once people could not ask the imām any more, it became necessary to look back to the past. The Sharīf al-Murtaḍā did not think much of the āḥād and did not even accept Naẓẓām’s special cases in which the attendant circumstances are an additional criterion. Muḥammad al-Ṭūsī did not share this view. Over time the conflict between the Akhbārī and the Uṣūlī began with this disagreement.38 The most detailed monograph on the issue of tawātur was written by someone who was more closely affiliated with philosophy than with either theology or hadith: Abū ʿAlī al-Ḥasan b. Saḥl Ibn al-Samḥ b. Ghālib (d. 418/1027), who had studied under Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī (d. 973) and made a name for himself as commentator of Aristotle’s Physics, and who would 33  See p. 49f. above. 34  See p. 18f. above, and p. 775f. below. 35  It seems that theologians did not use the term ʿadāla at all at that time. In the context of tawātur individual reliability was irrelevant to later theoreticians such as Āmidī, too (cf. Weiss, Search 291f.). 36  See p. 375f. above. 37  Cf. e.g. Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl 42 b ff. 38  Cf. the description in Arjomand, Shadow of God 53ff.; E. Kohlberg in EIran I 716ff.s. g. Aḵbārīya; also Falaturi in Fs. Caskel 78ff.

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be the teacher of the Muʿtazilite Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī (cf. Stern in: JRAS 1956, p. 33ff. = Medieval Arabic and Hebrew Thought, no. XVI; also Lettinck, Aristotle’s Physics 4). The treatise was reprinted in facsimile and translated by M. Bernand in HA 257/1969/95ff.; the editor did not recognise the identity of the author. The criterion of number has been abandoned altogether; Ibn al-Samḥ saw clearly that a large number alone will never be enough. His example shows how close Islamic thought was to that of late antiquity on this issue. Both cultures regarded written fixation as merely the means of recalling something one already knows. News, on the other hand, are not something one reads: one hears them; consequently the fundamental problem is the reliability of the account.

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4.3.3 Consensus and Controversy The respect for consensus had deep roots in ancient Arabian tradition; the tribal elders had never ruled autocratically but always as first among equals who had to persuade others to their point of view.1 In the Islamic environment groups with a presbyterian structure such as the Ibāḍiyya were most indebted to this idea; the Basran Ibāḍite community’s submission to the decrees of a body called jamāʿat al-muslimīn suggests not least linguistically that their decisions were based on ijmāʿ.2 And the one could be inferred from the other elsewhere, too. Of course, this should not be imagined too much like ‘grassroots democracy’; authority in the community was linked to knowledge and property. The importance of property was demonstrated by G. Rotter using the example of the shūrā after ʿUmar I’s death;3 while knowledge played the main part in the istishārat dhawī l-ra‌ʾy wal-ʿilm, the consultation with discriminating and competent people that ʿUmar II was said to have recommended to his Basran governor ʿAdī b. Arṭāt once the other sources, i.e. Quran, sunna and caliphal custom, had been exhausted.4 The shūrā meant that consensus was brought by the authorities; after all, sunna and caliphal custom were not yet separate. The opinion of certain scholars was consulted, but comprehensive consultation was not required.5 The same was true of the ancient law schools in Iraq and in Medina. While they had no great esteem for the authorities, the consensus was the consensus of their leading minds and personalities; vetoing minorities were unknown.6 The approach was similar to that of the Jews; the Babylonian Talmud includes a legend in the treatise Bābā Meṣīʾā which has God submitting to the majority of the rabbis. Cf. the text cited by Peters, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam II 172f.; also the material collected by J. R. Wegner in her comparative article in: The American Journal of Legal History 26/1982/39ff. Schacht already pointed out the kinship with the opinio prudentium in Roman law (Origins 83). Regarding antique philosophers’ and the Church Fathers’ assessment of 1  Jacob, Beduinenleben 223; Bravmann, Spiritual Background 198; A. Hasan, The Doctrine of Ijmāʿ in Islam 1ff. Concerning the situation in the present day cf. S. Lavie, The Poetics of Military Occupation 259ff. 2  This applies independently of the question of whether the jamāʿat al-muslimīn was a decision-making or an advisory body (see vol. II 223ff. above). In Tāhart, however, the imām’s authority held sway, as the conflict with the Nukkār proves (ibid. 199). 3  Die Umayyaden und der Zweite Bürgerkrieg 12f. 4  See vol. II 153f. 5  Dannhauer, Qāḍī-Amt 66ff.; further details see p. 785ff. below. 6  Cf. Schacht, Origins 68 and 82ff.

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ὁμολογία (or κοινωνία) τω̃ ν άνθρώπων see K. Oehler, Der Consensus omnium als Kriterium der Wahrheit in der antiken Philosophie und der Patristik in: Antike und Abendland 10/1961/103ff. (with reference to the ijmāʿ p. 123, n. 18). To begin with, sunna and ijmāʿ were difficult to distinguish; both were connected to what Schacht called ‘living tradition’.7 Only once the sunna began to be regarded as sunnat al-nabī with hadith as its main expression did the differentiation begin. Wāṣil, as we have seen, used the word khabar rather than ḥadīth, making no distinction between a prophetic dictum and another statement, or between agreement among several informants and the consensus of decision-making.8 We do not know whether he used the word ijmāʿ at all.9 ʿUbaydallāh al-ʿAnbarī, too, did not accord particular consideration to this criterion,10 and even Awzāʿī and Abū Yūsuf used it only rarely.11 Of course we must bear in mind that the terminology lagged behind practice.12 With Aṣamm and Ḍirār it has become a term linked to practice; in their eyes the ijmāʿ, together with the Quran, is the relevant basis on which to arrive at a verdict.13 Both feared the intrusion of hadith into theology,14 but another concern of theirs was that tradition should not be left to those specialists who might, given the right conditions, have cancelled generations of legal custom with a single prophetic dictum. Faḍl al-Raqāshī had already emphasised that the essential tenets of the faith – which, after all, were not listed anywhere in binding form – were determined by the consensus of Muslims.15 Among the jurists, Shaybānī, a contemporary of Ḍirār and Aṣamm, relied on the practice of ‘people’ (nās), i.e. presumably on the respective local or regional consensus.16 For Aṣamm, political theory was an important area of application 7  Origins 43; also Ansari in: Arabica 19/1972/283, and Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 127ff. 8  Cf. Text IX 21 with vol. II 316. 9  Cf. Text IX 21, commentary on f.; Text 23 is too general and furthermore uses later terminology. 10  Vol. II 186 above. 11  Cf. Ansari in: Festschrift Mawdudi 158f. 12  Ansari in: Arabica 19/1972/285 and 299; cf. Shāfiʿī’s text translated by Schacht in Origins 87. 13  Vol. II 461ff. and III 55 above. 14  Regarding Aṣamm cf. vol. II 461, regarding Ḍirār p. 722 and 724 above. Shāfiʿī knew as well that the opponents of hadith recognised the ijmāʿ in addition to the Quran (cf. Schacht, Origins 41). 15  See vol. II 83 above. 16  Cf. Wichard, Zwischen Markt und Moschee 52f.

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as well.17 Later there would be consensus defined in philological terms, namely language usage.18 A passage in Jāḥiẓ shows for how long ijmāʿ was able to overrule hadith; he mentions fuqahāʾ who considered something to be forbidden by a) a passage in the Quran, b) an ijmāʿ, c) a rational argument, or d) an analogy based on a Quranic passage or an ijmāʿ.19 Jubbāʾī stressed that he accepted hadiths not because of their isnād but because they agreed with the consensus (of his school?) and because reason supported them.20 The ahl al-ḥadīth replied by sanctioning ijmāʿ with a prophetic dictum: ‘My community will never agree on an error’. While Shāfiʿī did not explicitly refer to this, he was familiar with the idea,21 which already occurs among the Basran Qadariyya.22 After all, it was a paraphrase of orthodoxy: Whoever says what the jamāʿa says remains connected with it.23 It recalls the conviction of Christian churches that the Holy Spirit worked through their doctrinal decisions; ‘the Church of Rome does not err’, we read in the pseudo-Isidorian decretals citing an alleged dictum by Pope Lucius.24 At the same time we cannot escape the suspicion that some people had already begun to have doubts, and that these were probably expressed by those who were excluded by the jamāʿa in the name of ijmāʿ, the Khārijites and the Shīʿites. The Khārijites rejected the consensus because of their scripturalism,25 while they Shīʿites’ reason was that they had always been in the minority, even in the first community.26 The de facto absence of ijmāʿ across more than one location led the bureaucrat Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ to draw the conclusion that juristic unity had to be enforced from the outside, by the caliph.27 It was not, however, until Naẓẓām that the criticism was formulated into a theory; by this time the abovementioned prophetic dictum had long existed in several versions, although it had not yet been canonised. His approach was similar to that in the case of tawātur: if one person can err, all persons can err.28 This was an age-old sceptic’s 17  Vol. II 462ff. above. 18  See p. 47 above. 19   Ḥayawān VI 84, 9ff. This may refer to Ḥanafites. 20  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl al-iʿtizāl 289, 5ff. 21  In more detail vol. III 418f. above. 22  See vol. II 87 above; traced back to Ḥasan al-Baṣrī. 23  Shāfiʿī, Risāla 475, pu. (§ 1320). 24  Y. Congar, L’ecclésiologie du haut Moyen-Age (Paris 1968), p. 230. 25  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 19, 6f. 26  Khayyāṭ believed that all ‘Rāfiḍites’ with the exception of five or six thought this (Intiṣār 114, 12ff.); the ‘Twelvers’ in particular adhered to it (cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī XVII 156. 4ff.). 27   Risāla fī l-ṣaḥāba § 34ff. Pellat. 28  See vol. III 417 above.

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objection;29 it was due to it that the Baghdad Muʿtazila – similar, perhaps, to Shāfiʿī – believed the hadith to be a falsification.30 In the substance the Baghdad scholars were not so far from their opponents any more, for Khayyāṭ could assert at the same time that no-one in Baghdad shared Naẓẓām’s view,31 and neither, in fact, did he.32 Abū Hāshim recognised the controversial hadith, and used it in his argument.33 Even the ‘Rāfiḍite’ Hishām b. al-Ḥakam had objected strongly to the suggestions that the whole community might be in error;34 after all, he would have pulled the rug from under his own feet. Like the later Shīʿa, however, he did not admit that the truth was always on the side of the majority. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār emphasised that the umma’s infallibility could not be proven,35 adding immediately that this did not mean it had to be wrong.36 His pupil Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī devoted a detailed and overall positive elucidation to the hadith in question.37 Of course the consensus was of such great importance because there was no teaching structure within Islam; ijmāʿ, later Muʿtazilites said, was the ‘statement of the community’ (khabar al-umma, as opposed to the khabar al-nabī, the hadith; Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt41 b, 6). This explains the lasting quarrel over who constituted the ijmāʿ: the scholars, the companions of the prophet, or the umma as a whole, and it also explains why Ghazzālī defined the difference between tawātur and ijmāʿ as the former relating to events accessible to sensory perception (ḥissiyyāt), while the latter always included a faith-related decision (taṣdīq) as well (cf. Bernand in EI2 III 1023 s. v. Id̲ j̲māʿ; regarding the first problem cf. Chaumont in: SI 79/1994/82ff.). Consequently the kinship with Habermas’ modern theory of consensus is not close, as this is based on speech act theory (in: Festschrift W. Schulz, ed. H. Fahrenbach, Pfullingen 1973, p. 211ff.; cf. R. Alexys’ critical evaluation, Theorie der juristischen Argumentation 134ff.). 29  Cf. my Erkenntnislehre 311f.; in general J. Barnes, The Toils of Scepticism 1ff. (concerning the term διαφωνία). 30   Intiṣār 73, 13ff. 31  Ibid. 114, 15ff. 32  Ibid. 72, 3f.: ‘The community cannot err with regard to what it transmits from its prophet’. This does not refer to hadiths (after all, everyone was aware that these often contradicted each other), but to the consensus in matters of faith. 33  Abū Rashīd, Ziyādāt sharḥ al-uṣūl, fol. 41 b, pu. f. 34  Cf. Text IV 55, b. 35   Mughnī XVII 199, 15ff., and 206, 15ff.; also Turki in: SI 42/1975/73. 36  Ibid. 154, 12ff., and 157, 1ff. As the qāḍī fundamentally agrees with Naẓẓām here it is not surprising that he names only the Shīʿites as opponents of ijmāʿ, ibid. 156, 4ff. 37   Muʿtamad 471, 15ff./transl. Bernand, Accord unanime 26ff.

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Ijmāʿ was linked from the very first to ikhtilāf, the latter being the fitna befalling the jamāʿa. Shāfiʿī referred to the hadith in question – or at least to its proposition – in his Risāla, saying: ‘We know that the great majority will not agree on something that contradicts (khilāf) the prophet’s sunna’.38 In the version preserved by Ibn Māja, the hadith continues: ‘My community will not agree on an error. Therefore side with the great majority when you see that there is a difference of opinion (ikhtilāf).’39 The word ikhtilāf had negative connotations in the Quran, too, where it was used above all in connection with Jews and Christians. Humanity had been ‘one single community (umma)’, and God had sent prophets in order to preserve the unity, but no-one obeyed them, and it took until Islam that the ancient unity was restored; consequently Islam was the one true religion.40 Because of their discord the others had headed straight for perdition, but it was ultimately part of the divine plan of salvation: ‘Had your Lord willed, he would have (truly) made mankind one nation (ummatan wāḥidatan); but they continue in their differences (mukhtalifīn) excepting those on whom your Lord has mercy (raḥima). To that (very) end he created them, and perfectly is fulfilled the word of your Lord: “I shall assuredly fill Gehenna with jinn and men all together”.’41 It thus comes as no surprise to hear the companions of the prophet speak out against ikhtilāf, too. ‘Differences of opinion are bad’, ʿAbdallāh b. Masʿūd is quoted as having said. The old schools of law, which emerged out of the consensus of local tradition, had no interest in this kind of ‘debate culture’.42 Thābit Quṭna still regarded ikhtilāf as a stigma borne by the mushrikūn, which was why he preached irjāʾ with regard to the civil war.43 Many opinions, however, also express the fear that Islam might suffer the same fate as the earlier religions. Ḥudhayfa b. al-Yamān was said to have urged ʿUthmān: ‘Take action in this community before it falls out over the scripture in the way that Jews and Christians did’.44 Reality was daunting enough; with ʿUthmān’s murder discord had entered the jamāʿa (which was regarded as identical with the umma of the Quran).45 Some made a virtue of necessity: the Medinan jurist Qāsim b. Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr, a tābiʿī and grandson of the first caliph, was quoted 38   Risāla 472, pu. 39  Ibn Māja, Sunan, Fitan 8. 40  Sura 2:213 and 3:19; cf. Paret in: Fs. Roemer 523. 41  Sura 11:118f. 42  Schacht, Origins 95. 43  Text II 3, v. 6. 44  Paret, loc. cit. 524. 45  Even under Ma‌ʾmūn a man from Khorasan returned to Christianity because there was too much ikhtilāf in Islam for his liking (Ṭayfūr, K. Baghdād 60, 3ff./32, 5ff.).

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as having said that the ikhtilāf among the ṣaḥāba was a benefit from God.46 Similar opinions were transmitted from ʿUmar II in Basra: it was the only way in which legal scope of decision (rukhṣa) could be retained.47 Interestingly, both these comments refer to the field of law; this kind of open-mindedness was not an option when it came to politics and theology. Consequently the prophetic dictum composed out of the key terms of the listed Quranic passages, ikhtilāf al-umma raḥma, was tailored towards legal requirements. It might even be regarded as an exegesis of sura 11:118f. As I have demonstrated elsewhere,48 disproving a widely held belief, this sentence is not yet documented in Abū Ḥanīfa; the Fiqh akbar, in which it seemed to be included, is a construct, and it is this very component that provides proof of that. An early variant was also found: ikhtilāf aṣḥāb rasūl Allāh raḥma49 which proves that the emphasis had always been on the earliest community. Both dicta were raised to the status of hadith: ikhtilāf aṣḥābī raḥma50 or ikhtilāf ummatī raḥma.51 The second form would later become a maxim: ‘Difference of opinion among my community is an expression of divine mercy’,52 making people forget that, as Paret demonstrated,53 praise of pluralism had not been the original intent. The emphasis had been different: ‘If (in spite of the necessary unity) there should be a difference of opinion among my companions/ in my community, it will be cause (for God) to show leniency’. Thus the believers would still be those of whom sura 11:119 says that God had had ‘mercy’ on them. While they are now ‘in differences’, they are still not destined for hell. The Muʿtazilites did not adopt this idea. They believed in aiding the one truth to victory by means of the power of reason. They were not predestinarians, and the only result of the ikhtilāf among the companions of the prophet was that even the latter lost the Muʿtazilites’ trust. Abū l-Hudhayl thought

46  Al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Al-faqīh wal-muttafaqih II 59, 10ff. 47  Ibid. 59, –5ff., and earlier 15ff., both with Basran isnāds. 48  Vol. I 207ff. above; in more detail in: REI 56/1986/327ff. 49  Thus in a variant of the abovementioned dictum by Qāsim b. Muḥammad: kāna khtilāf aṣḥāb rasūl Allāh raḥmatan lil-nās (IS V 140, 27; Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya VII 119, 3f.). 50  Thus Faḍl b. Shādhān, Īḍāḥ 123, 1, at the end of the well-known but not canonical dictum: ‘My companions are like stars’. 51  Suyūṭī, Al-jāmiʿ al-ṣaghīr 13, –4ff., who refers to a great number of Ashʿarite theologians but admits not to have seen it in a hadith source. 52  Faḍl b. Shādhān is not familiar with the dictum in this form. The only meaning in which he, being a Shīʿite, was able to accept the (older) variant ikhtilāf aṣḥābī raḥma ‘the difference of opinion among my community as long as I am with them (Īḍāḥ 39, 1ff.). 53  Loc. cit. 524f.

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concord was better than differences of opinion,54 while Jāḥiẓ and Isḥāq alMawṣilī mocked the dictum ikhtilāf ummatī raḥma.55 All the same, they, too, faced the question for what reason God had created humans according to sura 11:119: to bring discord, or to be merciful? Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār had no doubt: for God to be merciful, for if he had created them with the aim of ikhtilāf, he would have predestined them to damnation.56 This was old Qadarite doctrine; Mujāhid had already expressed it in Mecca.57 The predestinarian did not feel it affected them; all they had to do was refer the ‘for’ to both ikhtilāf and raḥma.58 Of course they could just as well have restricted ikhtilāf to the unbelievers, which would have been more in keeping with the Quran’s intention. Still, this was not compatible with reality any more, and furthermore, as could now be emphasised, the verse was about ‘humans’ in general. The result was ultimately that God is not only lenient when it comes to the Muslims’ ikhtilāf, but that in fact he willed it in the same way as he willed it among non-Muslims, only to a beneficial rather than a harmful end. ʿUmar II was said to have ‘rejoiced’ about ikhtilāf according to the dictum quoted above. This could be maintained only if the scope of ikhtilāf was limited. It could not include scripture itself, as it had among Jews and Christians, but can only denote a later and less fundamental discord: among the companions of the prophet, for instance, or later among the different schools of law, and only in the context of questions in which probability is the best that can be expected, on the field of ijtihād.59 This distinction was parallel to the development described, presumably during the first half of the second century, too. When Ayyūb al-Sakhtiyānī asked ʿUthmān al-Battī what was the correct attitude in fiqh, the answer was: ‘Listen to the ikhtilāf !’60

54  Goldziher, Ẓâhiriten 102, n. 2. 55  Goldziher 100f.; also Paret 525, and p. 132 above. 56   Faḍl al-iʿtizāl 191, 11ff.; Tanzīh al-Qurʾān 185, 11ff. 57  Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3XV 536f. no. 18730–18734; cf. also the exegesis by Ṭāwūs b. Kaysān in Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 196, 14ff. The discussion in the anti-Qadarite Quaestiones traced back to Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya, which may also have been composed in the Hijaz, is particularly enlightening (Anfänge 91ff. with further material; regarding them vol. II 745 above). 58  Thus e.g. Mālik b. Anas or Aʿmash (cf. Anfänge 92). Mujāhid’s theories, too, are predestinarian in the recently edited alleged original text of his Tafsīr (I 309, 8). 59  Wensinck, Muslim Creed 112f. – Attempts at interpreting ikhtilāf restrictively are found from an early date, e.g. with Ḥasan al-Baṣrī: as disagreement on sustenance (rizq; Ṭabarī 3XV 534, 12f. no. 18719). Cf. also Ṭūsī, Tibyān VI 85, 11f. 60  Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Jāmiʿ bayān al-ʿilm II 44, 10f.

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4.3.4 The Ways of Reason Quran, sunna (or hadith), and consensus all had the function of auctoritas: they were subsumed under the term samʿ ‘that which must be heeded’.1 Beyond them – i.e. when it was not possible to decide a case clearly, or when they contradicted each other – one had to resort to one’s own intelligence. Jurists used the word ijtihād, ‘effort’. The procedure applied was called qiyās. Thus even after qiyās had become the fourth ‘root’ of the law, it remained something entirely different: it was form, not material. Furthermore, the word was not always used with the same meaning. In jurisprudence it was grosso modo the same as the conclusion by analogy, in theology it often meant the conclusion in general,2 which was due to the different starting points. The greater part of the material was already provided in the law; it only needed to be extended, and until the late second/eighth century people hoped that this could be achieved by a different means than reason, namely by simply collecting prophetic dicta.3 Due to the discourse with the non-Muslims theology, however, required arguing without presuppositions; even the Quran was buttress rather than proof. As for the development of fiqh, Schacht advanced the analysis c­ onsiderably.4 The rational conclusion had been an early component here, too; fatwās having been issued in accordance with common sense without consulting the Quran – and much less, of course, hadith.5 This was ra‌ʾy, meaning ‘common-sense assessment (of a situation)’, as opposed to arbitrariness and caprice (hawā), and the result was free finding of justice. The experts in this practice were not favourably inclined towards the conclusion by analogy at first; they found it too narrow, and believed it to be a methodological dead end.6 They did not mind 1  Thus already Ibn al-Rēwandī in Intiṣār 96, 7f. Being a Muʿtazilite he restricted the sunna/ hadith to ‘statements that of necessity result in knowledge’. Regarding samʿ see p. 694 above. 2  Cf. the passages in the commentary on Text XXV 34; also Index s. v. Regarding Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ e.g. vol. II 316. Among jurists the term included not only the conclusion by analogy in the strict sense, but also the argumentum a minore ad maius, the argumentum e contrario etc. (Schacht, Origins 99; Tyan in: SI 10/1959/82f.). Regarding the etymology and semantic development see vol. II 154 above. 3  Cf. e.g. vol. I 263 and II 620 above; Schacht, Origins 128f. 4  With additional information Ansari in: Arabica 19/1972/288ff., and A. Hasan, The Early Development of Islamic Jurisprudence 127ff. M. M. Azami’s criticism, On Schacht’s Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudence (Riyadh 1985), is particularly concerned with Schacht’s concept of sunna. 5  A good instance, from the first century, is Jābir b. Zayd al-Azdī (see vol. II 220 above). Hadith did not count at the time, but if something had been decided by the Quran, no fatwā was necessary. 6  Thus e.g. Iyās b. Muʿāwiya (cf. vol. II 143f. and 150), or Shaʿbī (cf. Dhahabī, Ta‌ʾrīkh IV 134, apu. ff. = 2Ṭabaqa XI, p. 131, 8ff.).

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that their own approach meant that the correctness of a decision was due only to its practicability – and to the immediate authority of the decision-maker – they were still greatly indebted to the image of the pre-Islamic ḥakam.7 The logical consequence of this attitude, as well as its final point, was ʿUbaydallāh al-ʿAnbarī’s kullu mujtahid muṣīb.8 One approach of the opposition was to consider the structure of the conclusion by analogy. At first comparisons had been fairly rough, as long as they were recognised as ‘common-sense assessment’ in a concrete environment.9 The ʿilla, the ratio legis, was apparently introduced in Basra;10 Shāfiʿī, on the other hand, used the terms aṣl or maʿnā.11 The latter term also occurs in Sībawayh,12 as the grammarians, too, soon discovered the heuristic value of analogy.13 The first of them to apply this approach and inquire into the ʿilal14 was another Basran according to Jumaḥī: ʿAbdallāh b. Abī Isḥāq al-Ḥaḍramī (d. 117/735);15 theology was another of his interests.16 One reason may have been that Basrans wished to distinguish themselves from Kufan ra‌ʾy, and attach methodological fetters to the latter,17 but even Shāfiʿī distanced himself increasingly from ra‌ʾy over the course of his career,18 ultimately even wanting to have all personal fatwās prohibited by the authorities.19 In his Risāla the only means of ijtihād is the correctly applied qiyās.

7  Cf. in more detail my article in: La notion de liberté 25ff.; also vol. II 143 above. 8  Who did not take any particular care in the context of the conclusion by analogy (vol. II 187). Regarding his teachings ibid. 185ff. 9  Regarding the qiyās al-shabah see vol. II 153 above; examples in Hasan, Early Development 136ff. From the systematic point of view id., Analogical Reasoning 294ff. 10  Regarding ʿUthmān al-Battī cf. vol. II 171; regarding ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd ibid. 343. 11  Schacht, Origins 125; also Shehaby in: JAOS 102/1982/33; Hasan, Analogical Reasoning 123. In detail cf. Shāfiʿī, Jimāʿ al-ʿilm 50, pu. ff. § 184ff. 12  Arkoun in: Annuaire de l’Afrique du Nord 18/1979/318. Later adopted by Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī (Shehaby 30). 13  See vol. II 254 above. 14  This does not mean that he must have used the term ʿilla, too. 15  ifṭī, Inbāh al-ruwāt II 105, 13ff. 16  See vol. II 311 above. We must bear the chronology in mind. R. Gwynne even believes to be able to prove that the conclusion a fortiori occurred earlier in grammar than in kalām (in: Studies in the History of Arabic Grammar II 165ff.). 17  An account in Balādhurī (Ansāb III 183, 8ff. Dūrī) presumes that ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd’s interest in qiyās was regarded as unusual in Syria. 18  Schacht, Origins 120; cf. p. 723f. above. 19  Arkoun, loc. cit. 314 after Shāfiʿī’s K. ibṭāl al-istiḥsān in: Umm VII 274, 9ff.

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Risāla 477, 2ff./transl. Khadduri 288ff.; cf. also Schacht 124. Schacht demonstrates ibid. 270ff. where precisely Shāfiʿī shows progress compared to the ‘older schools’. In general cf. Weiss, Search 551ff., and A. Hasan, Analogical Reasoning in Islamic Jurisprudence (Islamabad 1986); concerning the development of the ijtihād concept see Wiederhold in: ZDMG 143/1993/328ff. Regarding the methodology of analogical thought in Judaism cf. Neusner, Twentieth Century Construction of ‘Judaism’ 90ff., and The Bavli’s One Statement 225ff., esp. 239ff.; on the juristic hermeneutics of the Talmud in general the studies by the Vienna Judaist Adolf Schwarz are always worth reading. The theologians did not let Shāfiʿī influence them; in Iraq he was a bird of passage, after all. Bishr al-Marīsī, with whom he was better acquainted – possibly since their Egypt days – is probably the closest to him; Bishr applied the qiyās, but only if the principle (aṣl) explicitly stated the ratio legis.20 Essentially, however, he favoured the strict intellectual proof, like Aṣamm on whom he relied.21 If ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd applied ʿilla, this was in legal matters only; he did not start a trend in kalām. Among the early Shīʿites and Khārijites, too, many were against the conclusion by analogy;22 in the Shīʿa the ijtihād became acceptable only after the ghayba and under Muʿtazilite influence.23 The criticism was given its dialectical form by Naẓẓām.24 After him, Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir joined the debate; he rejected the qiyās, but unlike Naẓẓām he recognised ijmāʿ.25 Neither wished to return to ra‌ʾy in the old style, Naẓẓām being a champion of deductive reasoning, while Ibn Mubashshir was a literalist. He paved the way for the Ẓāhirites. Asking for the ‘cause’, the ʿilal al-sharāʾiʿ,26 was a sin in this circle. The mutakallimūn’s rationalism soon reached its limits in fiqh. Bishr alMarīsī had insisted that there was only ever one valid proof for a particular 20  See vol. III 202 above; Hasan, Analogical Reasoning 143. 21  Regarding Aṣamm cf. vol. III 450f.; Shehaby emphasised that he, too, required an ʿilla (p. 31). Another suitable example is provided by the Ibāḍite Aṭrābulusī (vol. I 415 above), but he lived later. 22  See vol. I 103 and 399 above; also vol. II 669. 23  Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin 320f.; Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 126f. 24  See vol. III 419f. above. 25  See p. 76 above. Regarding criticism and the rejection of qiyās in general see Hasan, Analogical Reasoning 425ff. 26  As a book title familiar from Shīʿite circles in particular (cf. GAS 1/547 regarding Ibn Bābōya; also Ali Buzurg, Dharīʿa XV 313f. no. 2003–5, and Kohlberg, Ibn Ṭāwūs 190f.), possibly to be explained on the basis of Muʿtazilite tradition. In the case of Faḍl b. Shādhān as preserved by Majlisī, Biḥār VI 58ff. the same question includes theology as well.

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fact,27 but even his rival Shāfiʿī admitted that conclusions by analogy based on the same facts might lead to different results all the same; it always depended on which characteristic they focussed. In his eyes this was where the realm of free will began – the first step towards the establishment of schools of law.28 People gradually came to understand that ijtihād could lead only to probable results, never to certain ones – casuistic probabilism, as Strothmann called it.29 As a consequence Jubbāʾī first pointed out that the prophet could not have exercised ijtihād as thanks to the revelation he had absolute certainty.30 The consequences for procedural law are interesting, too; there was usually no court of appeal.31 Someone who put his trust in reason expected much from the qāḍī; while someone who did not believe certainty was possible at all was more likely to overlook judicial errors. Hadith demonstrates the original approach to the last-named issue. ‘There are three kinds of judges’, the prophet was quoted as saying, ‘of whom two are in hell and one in paradise: one who decides based on truth – he is in paradise; one who decides arbitrarily – he is in hell; and one who decides without knowledge – he, too, is in hell.’32 Or, even more clearly: ‘Someone who is a judge and decides unjustly is in hell. Someone who judges and errs (akhṭa‌ʾa) is (also) in hell. Someone who judges and finds the truth will be saved the sooner’.33 There are other versions which do not confront deliberate irregularity and incompetence with truth, as the first instance above does in the threeway model, or, as in the second, moral injustice and error, but rather injustice and incompetence,34 with the element of error as the result of competent deliberation – i.e. a failed ijtihād – missing altogether. The emphasis shifting onto this aspect is nicely demonstrated by another example where a leading question35 targets this particular issue: ‘How,’ someone asks the prophet, ‘can such a judge be in hell although he has deliberated to find his own verdict (ijtahada ra‌ʾyahū)?’ And the prophet answers: ‘If he is not competent, he should 27  See vol. III 202 above. 28  Cf. his K. ikhtilāf al-ḥadīth in the margin of Umm VII 148, –4ff.; after this Arkoun, loc. cit. 317. Also Schacht, Origins 97. 29   Staatsrecht der Zaiditen 92. Cf. my Erkenntnislehre 242; Bernand in: EI2 V 239 b s. v. Ḳiyās. 30  Muḥammad’s campaigns were the only exception; cf. Chaumont in: SI 75/1992/114ff. 31  Material at vol. III 21 above; also vol. II 182f. and 474. In more detail M. H. Kamali, Appellate Review and Judicial Independence in Islamic Law, in: Mallat (ed.), Islam and Public Law 49ff. 32  Wakīʿ, Akhbār al-quḍāt I 16, ult. ff. 33  Ibid. 18, 5f.; also Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam, Futūḥ Miṣr 227, 5ff. 34  Wakīʿ 14, 2ff. 35  Cf. the examples in HT 24, 22, 41, 47f.

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not be sitting in judgment!’36 In the end a more lenient view prevailed: ‘If a judge (al-ḥākim) makes a decision and it is just, he will receive double the reward (in the afterlife); if, however, he makes a decision and errs, he will receive single reward (only)’. This dictum, which was included in nearly all the canonical collections,37 would later be discussed exhaustively in the context of this question.38 Theology was less lenient. Its subject matter was even less accessible; it was said that people drew conclusions ‘concerning that which was hidden (ghāʾib) based on that which was present (shāhid)’, i.e. made inferences regarding the invisible based on what they could see. This is an obvious and old-established pair of opposites. In the Quran God is the one who is ‘knower of the unseen (ghāʾib) and the visible (al-shahāda)’.39 Mujāhid already replaced shahāda with shāhid, establishing a morphological link with ghāʾib,40 as did the poet Ruʾba in his criticism of the Qadarites.41 This could be seen as the basis for a qiyās al-ghāʾib ʿalā l-shāhid,42 which corresponded to the qiyās al-ẓāhir ʿalā l-khafī in the Arabic translation of Galen’s Περὶ τη̃ ς ἰατρικη̃ ς ἐμπειρίας;43 the Greek original was ἀναλογισμός.44 This ἀναλογισμός was, as the same text informs us, practised by the ‘dogmatists’ among the Hellenistic physicians; they met with criticism from the empiricists.45 Sextus Empiricus, for instance, tells us that according to the fourth trope of Aenesidemus the ‘aetiological’ method of the dogmatists was to discover in the appearance (φαινόμενα) something 36  Wakīʿ I 18, 12ff.; in general Conc. V 418a. Its guise as a prophetic dictum is of a rather late date; it is presumably older in the form of a conversation between Iyās b. Muʿāwiya and Ḥasan al-Baṣrī in which Iyās represented the strict interpretation (TTD III 181, 9ff., with the clear phrase man ijtahada wa wa-akhṭa‌ʾa). The phrase ijtahada ra‌ʾyahū, from whose infinitive ijtihād al-ra‌ʾy the term ijtihād was ultimately derived, shows how closely linked ijtihād and ra‌ʾy were (cf. also Bravmann, Spiritual Background 188ff.). 37  Cf. Conc. I 390 a. Also Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam 227, 19ff., although he does not note the contradiction with the foregoing (see n. 33 above). 38  Cf. e.g. Shāfiʿī, Risāla 494 no. 1409ff., or Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, Muʿtamad 966, 7ff. Also Taftazānī, commentary on Nasafī’s ʿAqīda, transl, Elder 166ff.; also Schacht, Origins 96f. 39  Sura 6:73; cf. the parallels in Paret, Kommentar 144. Al-shahāda is in fact ‘that which is present in front of one’s eyes’. Cf. also Izutsu, God and Man in the Koran 82ff., and briefly Gimaret in EI2 IX 201 s. v. S̲h̲ahāda. 40  Quoted in Muḥāsibī, Fahm al-Qurʾān 313, 2. 41  Ahlwardt, Sammlungen alter arabischer Dichter 6, v. 47; also vol. II 54 above. 42  Thus also the Christian Theologians writing in Arabic (cf. Rissanen, Theological Encounter 95ff.). 43  P. 33, 2 Walzer; similar phrases ibid. 20, 7, and 23, 7. The Arabic translation is by Ḥubaysh (see p. 722, n. 12 above). 44  Cf. my deliberations in: Logic in Classical Islamic Culture 34f. 45  Ibn Hindū would later report on this in some detail (Miftāḥ al-ṭibb 33ff.); cf. Masʿūdī, Murūj VII 172ff./IV 377f. no. 2857ff. Pellat.

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hidden within (ἀφανες), namely the cause of the appearance.46 Anaxagoras had said one must utilise the visible world in order to ‘see’ what is not obvious (ὄψις ἀδήλων τὰ φαινόμενα).47 The topic was clearly not new; the Arabs were introduced to it by Hellenistic scholarly tradition not only in medicine but perhaps also in rhetoric. It appears as though kalām found its independence of fiqh in this area not until late. While conjectures concerning the ʿilla occur early on and, assuming the relevant text is genuine,48 had acquired a considerable degree of subtlety with ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd, Abū l-Hudhayl’s remarks on extra-juristic, non-specific methods of taking evidence, appear rather primitive.49 Instead of qiyās he writes istidlāl; theological arguments drew conclusions based on a sign (dalīl) concerning something designated (madlūl ʿalayhi). I have said in the past that this was due to Stoic influence,50 and I still believe this to be the case.51 Still, we will have to bear in mind that many of the new ideas the Stoics had introduced into logic were not theirs alone any more. While there will be no need to abandon the distinction between Aristotelian term logic and Stoic propositional logic (the distinction having been the cause for the reawakening of interest in Stoic logic around the middle of the twentieth century), it is true that the later Greek Peripatetics, too, had some thoughts on the hypothetical syllogisms that were the form Stoic propositional logic took. As emphasised by Miklós Maróth, Ibn Sina und die peripatetische ‘Aussagenlogik’ (Leiden 1989). Avicenna had texts available to him the Greek originals of which are not extant any more (cf. Shifāʾ, Qiyās 356, 7ff./transl. Shehaby, The Propositional Logic of Avicenna 159). We should also consider that there are terms (and processes) that do not fit into the Stoic system, e.g. tamthīl as used by Muʿammar and Naẓẓām – whatever it may denote precisely (cf. Text XVI 48, a, and XXII 145, b, and 149, a; also vol. III 92 and 411 above); regarding tamthīl = παράδειγμα (after Aristotle, Rhet. I 2.8, 1356b) as used by Avicenna cf. Gutas, Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition 274f. Dhanani explores the epistemology of the mutakallimūn, The Physical Theory of Kalam 15ff. 46   Hypotyposeis I 181. 47  Cf. H. Diller in: Hermes 67/1932/14ff. 48  Text X 5–6. 49  Text XXI 178; cf. vol. III 290f. above. 50  In the study cited in: Logic in Classical Islamic Culture 21ff. 51  I have received support from R. Gwynne. Her dissertation includes material confirming that the conclusions employed by Jubbāʾī in his Tafsīr corresponded to the five kinds of hypothetical syllogism Chrysippus had distinguished (The ‘Tafsīr’ of al-Jubbāʾī 75ff.).

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4.3.5 Knowledge and Responsibility Drawing conclusions from the sign onto that which is designated, or regarding that which is ‘absent’ based on that which is ‘present’ opened up a way out of the sensualism the early theologians had adopted from Iranian thought.1 The legend of Jahm’s discussion with the Sumanites demonstrates most clearly what people were aiming at: it had to be possible to prove things one did not see, too. After all, it was impossible to do without them; not only in the case of God but also of the spirit.2 Of course in these instances one might wonder whether they were necessary concepts; for a time, the concept of God was believed to be an a priori one.3 Some insights happened automatically; they were called ‘primary or spontaneous’ (ibtidāʾī),4 or ‘inevitable’ (ḍarūrī),5 while others were ‘acquired’ (iktisābī), ‘the result of one’s own decision’ (ikhtiyārī),6 or ‘the result of deliberation, theoretical’ (naẓarī).7 Not only sensory perceptions were ‘inevitable’ or ‘necessary’, people soon realised, but also the sense of self and other things one perceived intuitively; Muʿammar appears to have been the one responsible for this distinction.8 Abū l-Hudhayl was familiar with the word badīha and used it to refer to a wide section of what others called ibtidāʾī:9 a given truth, perhaps an empirical principle.10 It did not include what later generations subsumed under badīhiyyāt: the ‘axioms’ in Aristotle’s sense, the theorem of contradiction etc.11 Aristotelian logic had not yet been absorbed into kalām; indeed, there was no interest in logic in the stricter sense, but rather in epistemological foundations.

1   Sources p. 716, n. 5 above. 2   Vol. II 566f. above. Things were different for the ‘spirits’, such as the angels; they were able to materialise and would then be visible to humans (see p. 601 above). 3   See p. 403ff. above. 4   Thus Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir (see vol. III 128 above). 5   Abū l-Hudhayl spoke of the ʿilm al-iḍṭirār (Text XXI 170, b; also vol. III 271 above). 6   Thus once more Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir. Abū l-Hudhayl was more likely to use terms such as ʿilm al-ikhtiyār or ʿilm al-iktisāb (Text XXI 44, b). 7   This term does not occur until later (Erkenntnislehre 114); in its basic meaning naẓar is close to Gr. θεορία and Lat. speculatio. 8   He was in contact with Naẓẓām on the subject (see vol. III 93f. and 413). It is noticeable that Muʿammar did not regard sensory perceptions as a unit (ḥissiyyāt, as they would be called later), but looked at each sense separately; Ibn ʿArabī used the same approach (Chittick, Sufi Path of Knowledge 160). 9   The two words associated one another; the root b-d-h is probably a secondary derivation of b-d-ʾ. Cf. also Fārābī’s fī bādi al-ra‌ʾy al-mushtarak ‘in consequence of a spontaneously appearing view’; and M. Aouad in: Ar. Sc. and Phil. 2/1992/133ff. 10  See vol. III 290 above. 11   Erkenntnislehre 118f.

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Concerning the development of the theological grid cf. B. Abrahamov, Necessary Knowledge in Islamic Theology in: Brit. J. of Middle Eastern Studies 20/1993/20ff. In a posthumously published study Pines regards the antithesis described as being due to Indian, and in particular Buddhist, influence (JSAI 17/1994/193). The most appropriate translation for ḍarūrī is still debated; Frank suggests ‘non-inferential’ as being the opposite of ‘inferential’ for iktisābī or naẓarī (in: Le Muséon 95/1982/336, n. 29, and JAOS 109/1989/44). – Logic itself and its foreign, Greek origins only became controversial towards the end of the period discussed here: with Nāshiʿ, who attempted several times to refute the aṣḥāb al-manṭiq (Catalogue of Works XXXI d, no. 3). Other records are of later dates: the well-known argument between the grammarian Abū Saʿīd al-Sīrāfī and the philosopher Abū Bishr Mattā b. Yūnus (in more detail Endreß in: B. Mojosich [ed.], Sprachphilosophie in Antike und Mittelalter 163ff.), the K. al-khamsīn masʾala fī kisar al-manṭiq edited by A. Falaturi (in: Collected Texts on Logic and Language, ed. Mohaghegh/Izutsu, p. 13ff.), and above all Ibn Taymiyya’s Radd ʿalā l-manṭqiyyīn together with Suyūṭī’s writings based on it (cf. W. Hallaq, Ibn Taymiyya against the Greek Logicians; Oxford 1993). People were always aware that knowledge entailed an obligation (taklīf); it opened the gates to salvation, and could thus itself be evaluated,12 but of course only if one had been able to acquire it in person; this is probably why earlier sources said iktisābī or ikhtiyārī instead of naẓarī. Of course this also added ambiguity to the model. What if someone’s eyes are opened by force? He will see, but will he see ‘of necessity’? Does he not in fact ‘acquire’ sight thanks to someone else’s action? This was Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s reaction. To him, the answer resulted from his theory of tawallud: everything that is ‘generated’ is also ‘acquired’, acquired in the sense of ‘performed’,13 by the person performing the action. Seeing would thus in this case not be the action of the person seeing but of the one opening that person’s eyes – an exceedingly absurd consequence that was immediately met with opposition.14 Transmitted knowledge was a similarly complex case: one acquires it by hearing it, which is a sensory perception; but in addition one has to understand it, and accept it. Once iktisābī was replaced with naẓarī one could say that transmitted truth

12  See p. 406 above. 13  See vol. III 48 above. 14  Ibid. 128 and 269; also p. 544 above.

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could not be the ‘result of deliberation’, but calling it ‘necessary truth’ because of this was rather harsh. Regarding the later development cf. Erkenntnislehre 416f. Things looked different if ‘acquired’ knowledge was interpreted as ‘conveyed’ knowledge; in that case the sensory perceptions generated by a third party would be included, as would insights gained from reports or traditions (ibid. 171). Still, this attempt at escaping the dilemma was also later than the period discussed here; it is found in the works of the sixth-century Māturīdite Ṣābūnī. Muʿammar had included knowledge of tradition among the ‘necessary’ insight (vol. III 93). The difficulties arose presumably because two classifications overlapped: ḍarūrī – iktisābī on the one hand and senses – tradition – intellect on the other (thus Gimaret, Ashʿarī 165). The fact that the opposition ḍarūrī – iktisābī had not originally been intended epistemologically but rather from a juristic aspect blinded Muslim theoreticians to the difference in level between a priori and sensory perception and the consequence that these might be in contrast as well. Ever since Kant the West has become used to thinking along entirely different lines. If ‘acquired’, personally executed knowledge was subject to an obligation, it was not to be delayed; every moment an adult spent without knowledge of God was lost. On the other hand insight and knowledge take time; consequently the question arose of how much time a human had.15 There was no basic distinction between believers and unbelievers. Muslims had the advantage that their time was usually shorter thanks to instruction, but a heathen was also obliged to acquire knowledge of God,16 and if he implemented it, he obeyed God’s commandment. This was true even if he remained an unbeliever; it meant that he had gained only a partial insight into the truth, and that he had followed his obligation without God as his true objective. Abū l-Hudhayl explored this discrepancy.17 A heathen may not even know that he has this obligation or, as some would soon add, he could not know it, as the obligation to come to know God presumed the concept of God.18 This did not mean any more that the concept of God was a priori: the Muʿtazilites could not now retreat to this position. Rather, the conclusion was that non-Muslims who had never heard

15  See p. 405f. above. 16  Cf. Ashʿarī, Maq. 226, 6f.: as the doctrine of all Muʿtazilites. 17  Vol. III 272f. 18  See p. 116 and 405f. above.

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of God were ‘innocent’. Thumāma argued like this;19 Jāḥiẓ agreed. However, the latter went on to attempt a revolutionary psychological approach to show how knowledge could come into existence without any precondition. It cannot be planned; in a sense it is always necessary (ḍarūrī). Above all it is not ‘­generated’; while it can be the result of deliberation, this is not necessarily the case.20 However brilliant and original this deliberation was, it was at the same time the admission of failure of Muʿtazilite rationalism. Jubbāʾī’s counter-move was to try and prove why every human must feel the obligation to recognise God. Nobody, he said, can evade the experience that he depends on a power that guides him and to which he owes gratitude for this guidance; in order to demonstrate this gratitude, everyone will try to find out to whom it should be addressed.21 This meant the decisive step to the development of the Robinson Crusoe motif had been taken. Jubbāʾī himself appears to have included it in his thought experiment;22 later, Shīʿite authors in particular, but others, too, adopted it.23 Ibn Ṭufayl’s version of the idea is well-known,24 as is Ibn al-Nafīs’ exaggerated caricature of it.25 Of the authors mentioned only Juwaynī (cf. Nagel 336) and the Ibāḍite al-Kindī referred to an island. Ashʿarī and Ibn Bābōya spoke of an empty desert, Kulīnī of the top of a mountain where the protagonist grows up. The substance of this thought experiment is, of course, fundamentally independent of the location. It is worth noting that Plato’s allegory of the cave was used in the context of a similar question. It was approached from a different angle by the African rhetorician Arnobius, Lactantius’ 19  See vol. III 181f. above. Ḍirār had already stated that only those who have been addressed by a revelation have an obligation to acquire insight and knowledge (ibid. 55), but the epistemological link is not as firm in his context. 20  See p. 114ff. above. 21   Erkenntnislehre 329ff.; on the issue in general but without reference to Jubbāʾī see A. K. Reinhart, Before Revelation 107ff. 22  If we assume that he was the source of the reflex in Ashʿarī, Lumaʿ 52 § 119. 23  Cf. Kulīnī, Kāfī II 246, 3ff., and Ibn Bābōya, Tawḥīd 235, 12ff.; Jubbāʾī’s gradual introduction to the knowledge of God is found in a similar for in Kulīnī, in an account of Jaʿfar alṢādiq’s circle (Kāfī I 188, 14ff.). Juwaynī, Ghiyāt al-umam 524f. § 841 Dīb (cf. Nagel, Festung des Glaubens 339), and Shahrastānī, Nihāya 371, 12ff. show that the Robinson Crusoe motif was familiar to Sunni circles too; it was traced back to the ahl al-ḥaqq. Regarding the Ibāḍiyya cf. Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ II 301, 2ff. 24  In his Ḥayy b. Yaqẓān; cf. Gutas in: Oriens 34/1994/222ff., esp. p. 235, and U. Rudolph in: F. Niewöhner (ed.), Klassiker der Religionsphilosophie (München 1995), p. 126ff. A detailed study of the sources is yet to be undertaken. 25  In his Risāla al-kāmiliyy; cf. Meyerhof/Schacht, The Theologus Autodidactus of Ibn al-Nafīs (Oxford 1968).

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teacher. He focusses on how a child who grows up alone in a cave – in the original natural state, as it were – will behave when he leaves the cave later. The answer is that this person would simply accept the world as it is. Ibn Ṭufayl, on the other hand, believed that a desire for knowledge and curiosity would determine his actions. Cf. H. Blumenberg, Das dritte Höhlengleichnis (Studi e Ricerche di Storia della Filosofia; Turin 1961; briefly also id., Die Genesis der kopernikanischen Welt 33f.); on the reception of the text during the French enlightenment see P. Krafft, Beiträge zur Wirkungsgeschichte des älteren Arnobius (Wiesbaden 1966), p. 161ff. In general K. Gaiser, Das Höhlengleichnis. Thema und Variationen von Platon bis Dürrenmatt; in: Schweizer Monatshefte 65/1985, issue 1/55ff. Among the theologians named the Ibāḍite al-Kindī explored the issue in the greatest detail; after all, in his circle the question had the longest tradition (cf. vol. I 412 and II 237f. above). In his view the prohibition of killing was central to the argument; slaughtering animals, he says, is the epitome of violence ( jawr) and devoid of any rational justification. In this way he links the Robinson Crusoe motif with the discussion on natural law (see p. 640 above). The duty to gratitude, which Jubbāʾī emphasised as being a fundamental rational commandment, could hardly be upheld once God was regarded as ‘causing harm’ (ḍārr) as well, as the Ashʿarites did later (cf. Gimaret, Noms divins 331ff., and p. 11, n. 26, above). Among the Muʿtazilites Jāḥiẓ remained virtually the only one at the time who began to feel doubt regarding the power of reason. He knew that there were desires and emotions, sounding almost Platonic when postulating sections of the soul each of which can be effective in its own way.26 In the matter of the consciousness of human weakness only a few Muʿtazilite Sufis followed him, reviving the idea of ἰσοσθένεια τω̃ ν λόγον in the form familiar to the ancient Sceptics:27 it is not always possibly to find a binding decision between competing arguments.28 Later, this resigned attitude spread; Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī, who was not a great admirer of kalām in any case, collected instances.29 Previously, people had revelled in optimism. While Jāḥiẓ’ teacher Naẓẓām had known that one cannot always reach every aim by means of reason only, he had 26  See p. 118ff. above. Here, as in the case of Plato, the part played by will is reduced (Dihle, Vorstellung vom Willen 65). 27  In the τρόπος ἀπὸ τη̃ ς διαφωνίας; cf. J. Barnes, The Toils of Scepticism 1ff. 28  See p. 106f. above. 29  Cf. the material provided by I. ʿAbbās in: al-Abhath 19/1966/196ff.; also my deliberations ibid. 21/1968/7ff., and in Erkenntnislehre 221ff.

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considered the resulting doubt to be a positive.30 If someone calling himself a Muʿtazilite drew the conclusion that true and false were equally probable, even Jāḥiẓ found it embarrassing.31 The K. uṣūl al-ʿadl wal-tawḥīd attributed – presumably incorrectly – to Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm, which shows Muʿtazilite influence, ranks reason above not only hadith but also the Quran, as both these are recognised only through reason.32 People simply living for their faith were accused of taqlīd; Bishr al-Muʿtamir and Murdār, among others, castigated the fideism prevalent in the populace.33 Only Ibn Kullāb and his fellow believers could bring themselves to admit that a muqallid was a believer. However, they, too, added qualifications: while he obeys God in his faith, he sins because he does not think. He is consequently similar to a fāsiq – bearing in mind that in their view (which was not shared by the Muʿtazila) the latter could be granted mercy.34 The criterion based on which one knows one is right began to be explored only gradually. Theology saw the affirmation of the revelation as the aim of deliberation; consequently whatever agreed with the revelation must be right. Of course this was not the same as rational certainty; this required, as Abū l-Hudhayl had thought, a ‘conviction’ (iʿtiqād) becoming ‘knowledge’.35 One perceived this development, Naẓẓām thought, when the movement of the spirit, caused by the search for truth, comes to an end. Truth is ‘rest of the heart’ (sukūn al-qalb).36 This was a subjective criterion with consequences for logic clearly discernible in Jāḥiẓ’ works.37 Jāḥiẓ also wondered whether this was the way to confront the sceptics: after all, does not everyone calm down when he believes something?38 Apparently it had once been pointed out to Thumāma that all thinking was only conjecture; his response had been to resort to v­ iolence.39 This anecdote follows a topos;40 there was no intellectual debate with scepticism before Muḥammad b. Shabīb and, presumably after him,

30  See p. 120 and 655 above. 31   Ḥayawān VI 37, 6ff. 32  Ed. ʿImāra in: Rasāʾil al-ʿadl wal-tawḥīd I 96, apu. ff.; regarding the authenticity of the treatise cf. Madelung, Qāsim 100. 33  See p. 76, n. 24, and vol. III 118 and 151 above; cf. also Erkenntnislehre 45ff. 34  Ibn al-Dāʿī, Tabṣirat al-ʿawāmm 28, 3ff. 35  See vol. III 275 above. 36  Ibid. 412f. 37  See p. 112ff. above. 38  P. 118 above. 39  Cf. the anecdote narrated by Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd II 407, pu. ff.; cf. al-Abhath 21/1968/1f. 40   Erkenntnislehre 235f.

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ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān.41 The arguments of scepticism probably spread thanks to the influence of empirical physicians of the Gondēshāpūr school;42 but experiencing religious and cultural pluralism in general also had an effect.43 Ever since that time the question has not let the theologians rest,44 which is understandable in view of its fundamental character. On the other hand it was important to remember that this was, after all, theology and not philosophy: if everything, Ibn al-Rēwandī pointed out, can be explained rationally, why then should we need a revelation at all?45

41  See p. 145 and 48 above. Nader, Système philosophique des Muʿtazila 236ff. approaches the subject in Naẓẓām’s footsteps, based entirely on Ḥasan Çelebi: the earlier sources do not contain anything similar. On the other hand Abū l-Hudhayl had already written in criticism of the ‘sophists’ (Catalogue of Works XXI, no. 4); unfortunately none of it was preserved by tradition. 42  Galen’s treatise Περὶ τη̃ ς ἰατρικη̃ ς ἐμπειρίας, while not following sceptical lines itself, fits into the intellectual climate of Gondēshāpūr. 43  Daiber sees the interest in doxographers in this context; lists of contradicting dogmas could be interpreted as supporting the τρόπος ἀπὸ τη̃ ς διαφωνίας (Hellenistischkaiserzeitliche Doxographie und philosophischer Synkretismus in islamischer Zeit; in: Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, ed. W. Haase and H. Temporini II 36.7, p. 4974ff.). 44  Cf. the material in Erkenntnislehre 173ff. and Vajda in: REJ 126/1967/154ff.; specifically regarding Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār see Bernand, Le problème de la connaissance 69ff. The explanations the qāḍī provides for illusions are discussed in Sabra, The Optics of Ibn al-Haytham 107ff. (after Mughnī IV 70ff.). 45  See p. 360 above. The Spaniard Ibn al-ʿArabī claims to have heard the same idea during his journey to the east, probably in the style of Ibn al-Rēwandī, from three legal scholars he met in Alexandrea and Jerusalem (Ibn al-ʿArabī, Al-ʿawāṣim min al-qawāṣim 230, 7ff. and earlier).

chapter 5

Theology and Society The Muʿtazilites made themselves unpopular by polemicising against the taqlīd; they were regarded as authoritarian, while they regarded themselves as people fighting ‘self-inflicted ignorance’; their ideas possessed enlightening traits.1 If they resorted to violence it was above all directed against their own fellow believers; this was when they brought in the judiciary.2 Others, on the other hand, they usually fought with words; they were not responsible for the miḥna.3 The spirit of enlightenment – within the boundaries religion set it in general – was peculiar to Islam overall; it found expression in the rational concept of faith4 and in the denying of all supernatural forces between humans and God.5 There should be wise and experienced persons (ahl al-fiqh walsunna) in every town, every army district, and every frontier zone (thaghr), who could observe their fellow citizens’ behaviour and thought, and try to guide them to the right way.6 Someone engaging in theology might see himself as a guide of souls in the same way as ʿĀmirī would say of the philosopher later: that he ‘is well-versed in the arguments against old-fashioned commonplaces (daʿāwī masmūʿa) and in no danger of sullying himself with blind trust (taqlīd) in vain dogmas’.7

1  Cf. the characteristic remark in Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān VI 201, 9ff.; also p. 637 above and p. 789 below. Muḥ. ʿImāra discusses the relationship between the Muʿtazila and the common people, Al-Shūrā (Libya), 2/1975, issue 4, p. 72ff.; see also p. 745 above. 2  See vol. III 70 and 467 above. 3  Ibid. 194f. and 502. 4  See p. 632 above. 5  Cf. in general Bürgel, Allmacht und Mächtigkeit. Religion und Welt im Islam (Munich 1991). 6  Risāla fī l-ṣaḥāba 62ff. § 57 Pellat. 7  Iʿlām bil-manāqib al-Islām 87, 14f./transl. Rosenthal, Fortleben der Antike 94.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004381599_012

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5.0.1 Marginalisation Of course it was only a small step to intolerance. There were not only the ignorant that had to be educated, there were also competitors who intended to educate the same ignorant people, but differently. It was quite possible for different beliefs to co-exist peacefully: the Muʿtazilite Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir and his traditionist brother, or the Shīʿite Hishām b. al-Ḥakam and the Ibāḍite ʿAbdallāh b. Yazīd who were business partners.1 Often, however, people were more fanatical: ʿAbd al-Malik b. Ḥabīb (d. 238/852), a Spanish Mālikite and author of a Ta‌ʾrīkh,2 demanded that Khārijites and Muʿtazilites should be condemned to death;3 Mālik himself had advocated dealing with the Ibāḍites in the same fashion.4 Of course this was a demand for the lecture theatre: jurists had no power over the executive.5 On the other hand the demand is interesting in itself, as it could be proposed only if one had the impression – or wished to convey it – that one’s opponents had crossed the line to ‘unbelief’ or ‘heresy’, a line that was not easy to draw objectively. As we have seen, ‘orthodoxy’ was defined differently in different regions and at different times; there was no institution that could have given it a binding framework.6 The Muʿtazilites deliberated on the issue and as a result often distinguished between forgivable and unforgivable heterodoxy.7 Unforgivable was what contradicted their own credo: anthropomorphism and determinism.8 On a purely systematic level dualism would have been even worse, but it had really lost its relevance since the steps taken by al-Mahdī.9 The first to have engaged in takfīr, declaring others heretics, were the Khārijites. The consequence they drew was to exclude themselves; like the Essenes of yore they chose solitude in order to remain intact as a community for salvation. Consequently it was easy for them to wage jihād against the Muslims on this premise: once they had performed a new hijra they were able

1  See p. 64f. and vol. I 349f. above. 2  Ed. J. Aguadé, Madrid 1991. 3  Cf. Monés in: EI2 IV 87b. 4  See vol. II 746 above. 5  As clearly demonstrated by the case of Ḍirār b. ʿAmr who was protected against Saʿīd alJumaḥī’s anathema by the Barmakids (see vol. III 36 above). More information p. 752f. below. 6  Thus already Goldziher, Vorlesungen 183f.; and Lewis in: SI 1/1953/57f. 7  Thus e.g. Aṣamm; cf. vol. II 470 above. 8  See p. 71 and 473f. as well as vol. III 147f. and 310 above; also Text XXIX 33–35 and XXXI 22, discussing which of the two was worse. Jubbāʾī names denying the khalq al-Qurʾān instead of anthropomorphism; cf. Maq. 464, 7ff. 9  See vol. I 493 and III 21ff. above.

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to treat their former fellow believers as unbelievers.10 They were not the only ones11 – the line continues all the way to the murderers of Anwar el-Sadat.12 Even so, this was the language of political extremism. Someone wishing to be integrated into society abided by the amr bil-maʿrūf in his actions. This was the Muʿtazilites’ approach, too; they were able to enforce their ideas of ‘order’ only in lonely communities on the periphery of the Islamic world, without involving the authorities.13 They soon abandoned the militant enforcing of amr bil-maʿrūf;14 after all, there are more civilised ways of commanding one’s fellow human beings to do ‘that which is right’.15 What remained in any case was the self-righteousness, the lack of tolerance as we would call it. Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī put it as follows: Many theologians, I see, are quick to declare fellow believers (qawm min ahl al-qibla) unbelievers due to a minor divergence in some detail of the revelation (sharīʿa).16 In my view this is a course of action that has dangerous consequences and should indeed be criticised in advance.17 For how could someone leave the frame of a religion behind if this religion includes many (different) views? One may ornament oneself with many of its facets,18 none of which are wrong in the context of this religion, and if someone accuses someone else of being an unbeliever, he himself is in no better position as regards the distribution of such a label. Abū Hāshim, for instance, declared his father Abū ʿAlī al-Jubbāʾī an unbeliever, and the latter returned the favour; furthermore Abū Ḥāmid al-Marwarrūdhī19 told me that one of Abū Hāshim’s sisters declared him as well as her father to be unbelievers.20 The pupils of Abū Bakr Ibn al-Ikhshīdh,21 such 10  Schwartz, Ǧihād unter Muslimen 29. The other side described their fight against the Khārijites as mujāhada as well (Mubarrad, Kāmil 1062, 5). 11  Cf. Schwartz, Ǧihād. 12  Cf. Jansen in: WI 25/1985/14ff., and 30, n. 33; earlier p. 13f. on the arguments between this group and the Jamāʿat al-takfīr wal-hijra whose hijra ideal is regarded as too quietistic. 13  Thus perhaps in India (see p. 18 above). 14  See vol. II 443 above. 15  Ibid. 442. In general cf. the insightful remarks by Strothmann, Staatsrecht der Zaiditen 92ff. 16  As the people under discussion are theologians (mutakallimūn) I conclude that sharīʿa does not refer to the ‘law’ in the stricter sense only; see also p. 630 and 396, n. 9, above. 17  Meaning: Principiis obsta. 18  I read tuḥulliya instead of taḥallā. 19  Frequently cited authority to Tawḥīdī; Shāfiʿite scholar, d. 362/973 (IKh I 69f. no. 23; with further biographical sources). 20  Regarding this sister cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 330, 10ff., and p. 803 below. 21  Regarding him vol. II 42 and 385f.; also p. 279 above.

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as Anṣārī,22 Ibn Kaʿb,23 Ibn al-Rummānī24 and others all declared Abū Hāshim and his followers as well as Juʿal25 and his pupils to be unbelievers all. There are other instances to choose from. I do not know the meaning of this affliction that is impossible to root out among them … !26 In this episode takfīr is mere bickering among scholars; something really to be expected of theologians. Those who were not particularly interested in theology, however, had the vast scope of social exclusion at their disposition. Fuḍayl b. ʿIyāḍ had set the standard during Hārūn al-Rashīd’s day: one should not share a table with a ‘heretic’ (although people were happy to share with Jews and Christians), one should not go to his funeral and most certainly not give him one’s daughter in marriage; in fact, one should not even give him a friendly smile.27 Mālik b. Anas seems to have expressed similar views with regard to Qadarites and Ibāḍites, forbidding sickbed visits as well, and of course one must not pray for heretics.28 In the case of the prayer of the dead this was supported by the Quran (sura 9:84); an early Khārijite sermon quotes the verse in this sense.29 At times Khārijites did not even pray over children who died before they had been officially received into the community.30 During the miḥna an ill-disposed judiciary constructed a problem around mixed marriages: a woman could demand divorce of a man who refused to profess the khalq al-Qurʾān.31 Scholars would be boycotted; as a result some did not lecture in the mosque at all, but at home. If an unpopular preacher or judge was dismissed or chased away, his place of business was washed.32 People wondered whether they might accept an inheritance from a heretic;33 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Mahdī answered in the negative in the case of the Jahmites.34 This was probably mainly a theoretical problem, but Muḥāsibī was said to have followed the 22  Abū l-Ḥasan al-Anṣārī; cf. Ḥākim al-Jushamī in: Faḍl 333, 2f. 23  Not mentioned by Ḥākim al-Jushamī. According to Baṣāʾir 2I 236, 1, this would be the same person as the preceding. 24  Regarding him see p. 678, n. 53 above. 25  This is the Muʿtazilite Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Baṣrī (d. 369/980); regarding him EI2, Suppl. 12ff. 26   Baṣāʾir 2VII 249, 2ff.; similar, but shorter also ibid. 1IV 253, 6ff./2IV 216, 4ff. 27  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila II 42, –7ff. 28  Cf. J. Kraemer in: IOS 10/1980/52 after Saḥnūn and Ibn Qudāma; with further material. 29  Text VIII 7, g. 30  See vol. II 646 above. For examples of the prayer of the dead being refused cf. vol. II 740 and 754f.; also EI2 VIII 931b. More details p. 756 below. 31  See vol. III 509 above. Note the parallels with the case of Naṣr Abū Zayd in Egypt. 32  See vol. II 434 and III 517 above. 33  Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 341, 9ff. 34  Ibn Ḥanbal, Waraʿ 53, 5f.

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precept in the case of his father;35 and Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb adopted a similar stance.36 They were both ascetics, and it may well have been merely a topos in both cases.37 It was certainly easier – and consequently practised rather more frequently – to cut those of different faith groups in the street. See vol. II 390 above. In general cf. Wāʿiẓ-i Kāshifī, Futuvvatnāma-yi sulṭānī 252ff.; he says among other things that one had better not greet chess players – not, however, because one did not wish to disturb them (254, 3ff.). In the case of non-Muslims – with whom one would be less likely to have religious disagreements, but rather feel superior socially – it was expected that they must greet first (cf. Ibn Qudāma, Mughnī [Cairo 1342/1924] X 625, 4ff., and particularly detailed Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-dhimma 191ff.). It was also discussed in which form one should or might respond to the greeting; an exegetic tradition concerning sura 58:8 played a rather unfortunate part (cf. Ṭabarī 2XXVIII 13, –4ff.; Lane, Lexicon 1284 a and 1475 b; EI2 VIII 917 a). Besides, the discussion was limited to the ahl al-kitāb in accordance with this exegetic reference; consequently Qatāda decided in a fatwā that one should respond to their greeting but not to that of the Zoroastrians (Aqwāl Qatāda 73, 14f.). – The Jews did not bestow their Shalom on everybody, either (cf. ʿA. Al-Nasser in: ZAL 26/1993/18; EI2 VIII 916b). The step from social ostracism to openly terrorising those of different faiths and to rioting was taken by the Ḥanbalites above all. They had grown intransigent as a result of the trauma suffered in the miḥna – or else they may have found new members predominantly among those who were implacable in the matter of the khalq al-Qurʾān. In their eyes anyone who did not toe the line exactly had renounced Islam;38 they even considered doubt of their point of view to be unbelief.39 When they gained influence on the caliph’s policies, the number of forced recantations increased for the first time since the miḥna;40 Ibn al-ʿAqīl’s accuser had no qualms to issue a fatwā permitting his blood to be 35  Ibid. 4, 13ff.; cf. Gedankenwelt 2. 36  His case was different in that his father was not a heretic but a public official, i.e. suspected of having come by his fortune unlawfully (see p. 80 above and 795 below). 37  Even with regard to unbelievers inheritance practice during the Umayyad era – at which time they were still numerous – varied considerably (Ibn Kathīr, Bidāya IX 231, pu. ff.: after Zuhrī). 38  See p. 241ff. above; in general Abū Yaʿlā, Muʿtamad 267, 3ff. 39   Muʿtamad 272, 8ff. The formula itself is older (see p. 655 above). 40  Makdisi, Ibn ʿAqīl 428ff.

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shed.41 Abū ʿAlī Ẓāhir b. Aḥmad al-Sarakhsī (d. later Rabīʿ II 389/mid-April 999 at the age of 96) probably had the Ḥanbalites in mind when he transmitted that Ashʿarī had said on his deathbed in his house: ‘I profess that I do not wish to declare any of my fellow believers (ahl al-qibla) unbelievers, for they all indicate one and the same God (with the expressions of their faith); the differences everywhere are merely verbal’.42 Ashʿarī appears in the same light as Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī, but of course this is not an original saying and may merely be an idealised version. What we can infer from the sentence is that his followers distanced themselves from the Ḥanbalites – to whom he himself had still made some concessions; those who tried to steer a central course could not permit themselves to be too obstinate when it came to takfīr. Ḥanbalite doxography notes that the Ashʿarites regarded a heretic as a fāsiq, but not as a kāfir.43 The Ḥanbalites were not prepared to admit this,44 and neither were the Imāmites;45 consequently the Shīʿites and the Ḥanbalites were at odds in Baghdad, too. The Ashʿarites, however, could count on a broad civic consensus. Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī wrote a K. tark al-ikfār.46 Ḥākim al-Tirmidhī deplored that in his homeland in eastern Iran people were quick to accuse one another of zandaqa.47 The Murjiʾa in particular had the reputation of a certain liberalness, although perhaps not entirely justified.48 Ultimately people knew that all this rabies theologica would fall back onto its originators. Among the Muʿtazilites Nāshiʾ advocated leniency towards dogmatic divergence.49 Mufīd observed that they referred to the ‘innovators’ as sinners ( fussāq):50 he was a contemporary of Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī. ‘Innovator’ (mubdiʿ) was the term that would be used instead of ‘unbeliever’ in the long run; takfīr was thus replaced with tabdīʿ. Ghazzālī used the latter term in his Fayṣal al-tafriqa,51 and for all his severity Ibn Taymiyya would use 41  Ibn Qudāma, Taḥrīm al-naẓar § 5; on the context cf. Makdisi, Nouveaux details sur l’affaire d’Ibn ʿAqīl in: Mélanges Massignon III 91ff. 42  Ibn ʿAsākir, Tabyīn kadhib al-muftarī 141, 1ff.; quoted by Goldziher, Vorlesungen über den Islam 185f. > Lewis in: SI 1/1953/59, both in the wider context of the question. 43  Abū Yaʿlā 267, pu. f. 44  Cf. e.g. Ibn Qudāma, Taḥrīm al-naẓar § 76 Makdisi. 45  Mufīd, Awāʾil al-maqālāt 15, ult.; on the foundation in tradition cf. vol. I 317f. The Safavid state, too, was particularly intolerant towards Sunnites (cf. Arjomand, Shadow of God 191 and 198f.). 46  Catalogue of Works XXXIII c, refutation a. 47   Sīrat al-awliyāʾ 395, 10ff. Yaḥyā/85, 1ff. Radtke. 48  Thus according to Zurqān; Ashʿarī disagreed with him (Maq. 476, 12ff.). 49  Text XXXI 65. 50   Awāʾil al-maqālāt 16, 3ff./transl. Sourdel 261 § 14. 51  P. 195, 16 Dunyā/transl. Runge 43.

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it later, too.52 We do also have a number of instances dating from the early period, but not everywhere. The root is found once in the Quran, as the finite verb ibtadaʿa, without negative connotation.53 The noun bidʿ occurs once in a poem by Bashāma al-Ghadīr who lived just before the emergence of Islam;54 here, too, the meaning is neutral: ‘something new in the course of events (ḥadathān)’.55 And the ‘by-laws of the community of Medina’ made it quite clear that a new element (muḥdatha) might cause disruption, and that an ‘innovator’ (muḥdith) might be an aggressor.56 Here we have arrived at the pejorative meaning, albeit in the context of another word; ḥadath would be used instead of bidʿa from time to time, such as by the Ḥanbalite Ibn Qudāma.57 Bidʿa is widely used in hadiths, where we also find the succinct remark that ‘every innovation will lead us astray’.58 One of the tasks with which Ibn alMuqaffaʿ entrusted the abovementioned59 ahl al-fiqh wal-sunna was to prevent innovations;60 and not necessarily with reference to the religious sector. The focus among the Murjiʾites was different; bidʿa occurs in the K. alirjāʾ,61 and also in Abū Ḥanīfa’s letter to ʿUthmān al-Battī.62 The Muʿtazilites, as we have seen, were closer to the Khārijite tradition of takfīr, but Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir referred to the ahl al-bidaʿ in a book title.63 People would usually have sunna in mind as the antonym;64 if the correct practice was old ‘custom’, then incorrect behaviour must be ‘innovation’. This was thinking along fundamentalist lines, but ultimately every religion whose high point had been 52  Cf. Turki in: SI 42/1975/82; also Goldziher, Vorlesungen 1200, n. 15.3, and 289f. That Ghazzālī as well as Ibn Taymiyya described certain things as kufr all the same is a different matter; regarding Ghazzālī see p. 768 below, regarding Ibn Taymiyya the Majmūʿ fatāwā, vol. XXXV 99ff. (under the heading Fī ḥukm al-murtadd!). 53  Sura 57:27: the Christians ‘thought monasticism up (by themselves)’; God never commanded it, In this case the bidʿa is a kind of opus supererogationis. 54  He was Zuhayr’s uncle (cf. GAS 2/118). 55   Mufaḍḍaliyyāt no. 122, v. 13. 56  Cf. Serjeant in: BSOAS 41/1978/23f., sentence 3 a with commentary. 57   Taḥrīm al-naẓar § 54; also, of course, with reference to ʿUthmān’s ‘innovations’. Concerning aḥdatha in this sense cf. vol. I 185 and II 351 above; regarding the lexical field in general see the index of terms s. r. ḥ-d-th. 58   Conc. I 152. 59  P. 747. 60   Risāla fī l-ṣaḥāba 63, 2. 61  Text II 1, c. 62  Text II 5, d, o, and ww. 63  Catalogue of Works XXVII, no. 5. 64  Cf. e.g. Text I 1, b, and II 5, w; also XVI 66, a; and Schacht, Origins 60f., and Juynboll in: JSAI 5/1984/308ff. Thus also in the abovementioned poem Mufaḍḍaliyyāt no. 122; esp. v. 16 (cf. the translation by Lyall II 345f., with the commentary).

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the revelation at its inception would have to think in this way. In Greek we find καινότης (used by the Church Fathers)65 or νεωτερισμός (in Byzantium).66 Tertullian spoke of the novellitas or posteritas of sectarians,67 and in 434 CE Vincent of Lérins entitled his ‘notebook’ (Commonitorium) in which he defined orthodoxy68 ‘For the Antiquity and Universality of the Catholic Faith Against the Profane Novelties of All Heresies’. Ashʿarī was said to have advised moderation on this front, too: if someone should go astray in his religious beliefs, one ought to be silent or contradict him using a prophetic dictum; but on no account should one ‘ostracise’ him, such as omit to greet him or not attend his funeral.69 However, this is said explicitly only in a secondary version of the relevant text, in which Ibn Ḥanbal is named as the opposite extreme.70 In the K. al-amr bil-maʿrūf wal-nahy ʿan al-munkar of his Iḥyāʾ, Ghazzālī would utter a similar call to moderation.71 Only deliberate ‘outing’, a public scandal, would provoke a reaction: after all, ‘we judge based on appearances (al-ẓawāhir)’, it was said; ‘God is the one who knows what is inside’.72 After all, despite all the harsh words the prophet had not excluded the munāfiqūn from the community; they were given this name because they were ‘dissenters’ without revealing their innermost thoughts.73 Where words were concerned, however, no-one ever held back; ‘hypocrite’ had been rather polite. ʿAlī b. Mītham or Yūnus al-Qummī had the bright idea of calling their opponents ‘rain-drenched curs’;74 elsewhere, as we learn from Abū Dulaf’s Qaṣīda sāsāniyya, heretics were called kharrāṭ after a type of dog found in Mecca.75

65  Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon 782); one instance only, however. 66  Also νεωτέρισμα (Sophocles, Greek Lexicon 782); also the verb νεωτερίζειν (Lampe 907 b). 67  Cf. N. Brox in: RAC XIII 262. 68  See p. 761 below. 69   Risālat istiḥsān al-khawḍ = K. al-ḥathth ʿalā l-baḥth, ed. Frank in: MIDEO 18/1988/150, 1ff. 70  151, 5f.; regarding problems of textual criticism cf. Frank, ibid. 90ff. 71  Book 9 of the second ‘quarter’. Cf. B. Musallam in: The Cambridge Illustrated History of the Islamic World, ed. F. Robinson (1996), p. 173ff. 72  Turki loc. cit. (n. 52); also vol. III 58 above. 73  Cf. EI2 VII 561f. s. v. (A. Brockett). 74  See vol. I 457 and II 483 above. 75  Bosworth, Underworld II 211. Kharrāṭ also means ‘wood turner’ and, in the figurative sense, ‘braggart’.

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5.0.2 Common Ground What people felt they had in common with their fellow believers, at least in everyday life, was prayer; if Muslims were described independently of their denomination the term used would be ahl al-ṣalāt or ahl al-qibla.1 When ʿUthmān was besieged by the unbelievers in Medina, he is believed to have written a long letter to the Meccans which began with him saying that there would be no more prayers together if individual interests were fought over in so embittered a fashion.2 Since that time it became a concern whether it was permitted to pray behind every imām and, above all, behind every ruler;3 but if propriety demanded it or, worse, if one was forced, scruples were abandoned easily.4 The problem really only arose during Friday prayers, and larger cities usually had several chief mosques, where like-minded people were among themselves and chose a preacher.5 Of course because the ritual was so strongly constitutive of identity it put idiosyncrasies into sharper relief: someone who prayed only twice a day,6 kept his shoes on during the ablution,7 or even just raised his hands to heaven at a certain point during prayers8 was immediately noticeable and would attract criticism. Presumably people did not mix with strangers at all during weekdays; there were numerous small mosques9 where it was possible to ensure ‘heretics’ did not enter.10 After all, mosques were not only ‘the house of God’, but meeting places replacing the majlis. For this very reason the few words by which the Sunni and the Shīʿite call to prayer differed11 acquired even greater significance; in Abū Muslim’s day the differences had been even more noticeable.12 Funerals, too, afforded an opportunity – as, indeed, they do everywhere and at all times – to demonstrate 1 2 3 4 5

  Cf. index of terms s. r. ʾ-h-l.   Ṭabarī I 3042, 7ff.   Vol. I 18 above; also index s. v. ‘prayer’.   Cf. e.g. vol. I 313 above.   Regarding Rayy in the Seljuk era cf. ʿAbd al-Jalīl al-Qazwīnī, Naqż 598, apu. ff./transl. Calmard in: Le monde iranien et l’Islam 1/1971/46. 6   See vol. II 475 above. 7   Regarding the masḥ ʿalā l-khuffayn see vol. I 276, 286, 363f. and II 135, 186, 579 above; further instances in the index. 8   Vol. II 599 above. 9   Regarding mosques affiliated to tribes and sects see vol. I 17f. with further references. As sura 9:107 demonstrates, there were already tribal mosques in Medina during the prophet’s time (cf. M. Lecker, Muslims, Jews and Pagans, Leiden 1995, p. 100). 10  See vol. III 208 above. 11  Cf. EI2 I 188a s. v. Ad̲ h̲ān. 12  Ṭabarī II 1955, 13ff. The Ḥurūfīs would later change the adhān in provocation (cf. p. 474 above); regarding the Safavid era cf. Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 43f.

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not only sympathy but also one’s religious affiliation;13 the number of takbīrs revealed the denomination.14 The person saying the prayer over the bier was the mark of the deceased’s social status, making plain whether the occasion was dedicated to a ‘great man’s passing’. Even for a scholar the governor or a member of the ruling family might occasionally condescend to pay these last respects.15 It has been mentioned above (p. 750) that the custom is already documented in the Quran, in a negative expression: ‘And never pray over any one of them when he is dead, nor stand over his grave; they disbelieved in God and his messenger, and died while they were ungodly’ (sura 9:84). This refers, in fact, to followers of Muḥammad who had already converted to Islam and then refused to join a military expedition, i.e. munāfiqūn (cf. Paret, Kommentar 208f.). According to Ḥasan b. Ziyād al-Luʾluʾī (regarding him see vol. III 5144, n. 12 above) this was how rebels should be treated, too, at least while they still had followers (Ṭarsūsī, Tuḥfat al-Turk 129, 7ff.). Hadiths regarding the prayer of the dead are found in the janāʾiz chapters of the relevant collections (cf. e.g. Muslim, Janāʾiz 17, 22 and 27; Conc. VI 287b); the custom is accepted without question there. For more details see Grütter in: Der Islam 32/1957/87ff. Ḥakīm al-Samarqandī refers to one of the hadiths in order to support the demand that the prayer should be said over every one who has died (Al-sawād al-aʿẓam, Ar. 23, 11). Nowadays the highest-ranking symbol of unity and identity besides the prayer is fasting during Ramadan.16 This appears to have been different in the early centuries. Not even the question of which criterion should be applied to determine the beginning of Ramadan seems to have aroused much interest in those days;17 the scale of the Easter controversy was never matched. The pilgrimage to Mecca does not appear as a communal experience in the sources, either,18 but above all as an action agreeable to God19 or, besides, as an opportunity 13  Cf. e.g. vol. II 789. 14  Cf. Brunschvig, Etudes d’islamologie I 68; also vol. III 229 above. 15  See vol. II 90, 416, 434, 623, 776; III 106 and 229 above. 16  Cf. Jomier in: MIDEO 3/1956/1ff. = L’Islam vécu en Egypte (Paris 1994), p. 39ff. 17  But see vol. I 515 above. In general see Schacht in EI2 III 379ff. 18  Only in that some Khārijites prohibited participating in the hajj in order to prevent mixing with other Muslims (vol. II 652 above). 19  See vol. II 335 and 375 above; inversely also II 556. Najāshī mentions once that someone performed the hajj fifty times on foot (270, 7f.). It was also considered meritorious to give financial support to the needy, enabling them to perform the pilgrimage, or to look after pilgrims (see vol. I 371; II 620 and 735 above).

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for an ‘international’ exchange of ideas, and possibly also in order to establish business connections.20 During the first half of the second/eighth century the visit to the holy places appears to have been regarded as an opportunity to obtain legal advice.21 On the other hand the feeling of community would have been a matter of course in those days anyway; humans were integrated in their living environment, and the concept of ‘person’ that we are looking at is, in fact, a ‘constellated’ one. Normally, people did not seek solitude – much more rarely, certainly, than in Christianity. There were no monks, and the ascetics were not usually hermits but lived amid the civic community. The majority were married; someone who stayed single would soon be regarded as being unable to fulfil himself due to his lack of social contacts.22 Types such as St Antony of Egypt, who fought demons in the desert, would always remain foreign to Islam. While early Islamic society was segmentary,23 when it came to ‘class distinction’ and religious privileges, it was extraordinarily homogeneous; on the whole the different social groups – which did, of course, exist – were determined according to function rather than status.24 During the period discussed here dividing lines were not so much horizontal as vertical, running between regions, cities, and city quarters.25 Even though the Arabs had at first been careful to keep their distance to ‘clients’, this distance was soon bridged by the egalitarian

20  See vol. II 393 above. 21  See vol. II 776 above. Concerning the meaning of the pilgrimage cf. above all the studies by Victor Turner (Process, Performance and Pilgrimage, New Delhi 1979; also: Pilgrimages as Social Processes, in: Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors, Cornell Univ. Press 1974, p. 166ff.). On the hajj in particular cf. Eickelmann/Piscatori (ed.), Muslim Travellers (London 1990), esp. the articles by El Moudden (p. 69ff.), Metcalf (p. 85ff.), and McDonnell (p. 111ff.). 22  Exceptions are found in Syria in particular; a number of border fighters appear to have remained unmarried (see vol. I 142, n. 7 above), and Mount Lebanon was a popular retreat for hermits (Ibn al-Faqīh, Buldān 112, 9; Muqaddasī, Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 44, 9, and 188, 18ff.). 23  Cf. vol. I 17; in general C. Sigrist, Regulierte Anarchie (Olten-Freiburg 1967). The term was coined by Durkheim and was also used frequently by Evans-Pritchard (The Sanusi of Cyrenaica; Oxford 1949). In political science the term of choice is ‘fragmented’; E. BrunnerTraut suggested ‘aggregated’ instead (Frühformen des Erkennens, Darmstadt 1990, p. 82). I do not presume that this society was acephalous; Islam always assumed a central ruler. 24  In more detail Rodinson in: M. A. Cook (ed.), Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East 139ff., esp. p. 143. Cf. also, albeit regarding Persia only, EIran V 662ff. s. v. Class System: Social Stratification (A. Ashraf and A. Banuazizi). Earlier (p. 658ff.) furthermore information on the idea the Muslims had of the situation; in more detail L. Marlow, Theories of social stratification in Islamic literature until the end of the Mongol period (PhD Princeton 1987). 25  See R. Bulliet’s fundamental study Islam. The View from the Edge (New York 1994).

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spirit of Islam.26 The Quran had already shown the way; sura 49:13 said: ‘O mankind, We have […] appointed you to federations (shuʿūb) and tribes, that you may know one another (because of genealogical relationships). Surely (though) the noblest among you in the sight of God is the most godfearing of you.’ The Shuʿūbites took their name from this verse,27 but they were neither the first nor the only ones to recall it. Utopias were oriented towards the ideal of equality; the mahdī was expected to ‘fill the world with justice’.28 Of course there were hopes of equality of thought and religious opinions, too, but people were prepared to accept compromise. Thus Iskāfī – who, being a ‘Zaydite’, was admittedly not very exclusive when it came to doctrine in any case – said on establishing the just order: ‘If this thing comes to pass, we shall write on our banners: “There is no god but the God; Muḥammad is the messenger of God, and the Quran is God’s word.” In this way we shall bring harmony and unity, and leave discord and division behind.’29

26  Cf. vol. I 45f. and III 59ff. above. The classic book is, of course, Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien I 1ff. 27  Cf. R. Mottahedeh in: IJMES 7/1976/161ff. 28  See vol. I 268 and III 21, also p. 566 above. Cf. Gibb in L’Elaboration de l’Islam 121f. 29  See p. 92 above.

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5.0.3 The Dialectic of Orthodoxy Iskāfī said this during the controversy over the khalq al-Qurʾān. And while the mahdī never came after all, the attitude was realistic. There had never been unity of doctrine; the miḥna was the last attempt of the state to achieve it in one or two points at least. Many theologoumena never evolved a definitive formula;1 after all, there was no doctrinal authority, and the expanse of the Islamic ecumene was simply too vast. At the beginning we are looking at local communities of muʾminūn who owed their existence to the rapid expansion of the faith, and who consequently had little in common with each other beyond their belief in the prophet and the fact of the revelation. The text of the revelation itself had raised questions. The ʿUthmānic redaction had met with opposition; above all, it had not reached the Khārijites (or at least not all of them), with the result that parts of the canon were controversial among them.2 The ritual, too, had never been unified; interestingly it was this area, i.e. the practical expression of religion, that divergent trends were first called Bidʿiyya ‘party of innovators’.3 Not even the worship of the Kaʿba, as the construction of the Dome of the Rock appears to demonstrate, was universally recognised from the start.4 At that time, the sense of community was strongest in Syria of all the parts of the Umayyad empire; this was where people referred to the jamāʿa. However, the term had political connotations. It emphasised the restoration of unity after the second civil war; in the ‘year of community’ (ʿām al-jamāʿa) ʿAbd al-Malik had the first coins struck that bore an Islamic legend.5 This did not mean much in Iraq any more. The two great cities, Basra and Kufa, were distant not only geographically but also intellectually; the Shīʿa must not be seen as a schism but was in fact a separate Iraqi community with its own leaders and its own tradition.6 The Ibāḍiyya, too, was able to go its own way for a while; the term jamāʿa was used only with reference to its own jamāʿat al-muslimīn, and then only in the sense of a ‘house of representatives’. During the Abbasid era, once the hub of the empire had shifted, even in Syria the jihād was carried 1  E.g. in the matter of ʿiṣma; see p. 667f. above and earlier. 2  See vol. II 653 and 645f. above. 3  See vol. II 695f.; this only, however, documents the usage of the heresiographers. 4  As emphasised by A. Rippin, Muslims. Their Religious Beliefs and Practices I 53. See also my deliberations in: J. Raby/J. Johns, Bayt al-Maqdis. ʿAbd al-Malik’s Jerusalem I 98ff. 5  There had been another ʿām al-jamāʿa previously, after Ḥasan’s abdication and Muʿāwiya’s entrance into Kufa (41/661; cf. EI2 VII 265b). At the time the phrase was favoured over umma, which is so dominant in the minds today (see vol. I 21 above). Cf. also R. al-Sayyid in: Al-Ijtihād 4/1991, no. 13/26ff. 6  Cf. the reflections (some admittedly exaggerated) by M. Sharon in: Revolt. The Social and Military Aspects of the ʿAbbāsid Revolution 17f., and, similar, in: JSAI 14/1991/125f.

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out by groups who did not regard themselves as being particularly close to the authorities; Fazārī and ʿAbdallāh b. al-Mubārak gave no thought to the caliph in their works.7 Of course boundaries were drawn against the outside; this was where the early Muslims’ consciousness of being the chosen people found its expression. Jurists would later use the phrase ‘House of Islam’; however, this was not the Christians’ corpus ecclesiae mysticum:8 it was merely the sphere of influence of Islamic law. Theologically speaking the identity thus established among the believers was once again simply the shared belief in the prophetic revelation.9 There was no word denoting ‘orthodox Muslims’ or ‘orthodoxy’ at first; ahl alḥaqq, which is closest, occurs very rarely indeed,10 and would later, when it became more common, be claimed by any and all denominations.11 Our sources tend to employ the denotations that reflected their own positions, with the result that those whom we call ‘Sunnites’ when speaking of the early Islamic period, have a number of different names:12 the Qadarites call them mujbira, the Khārijites murjiʾa,13 the Murjiʾites shukkāk,14 the Rāfiḍites nāṣiba,15 the Jahmites mushabbiha, and the Muʿtazilites nābita16 or ḥashwiyya.17 The first attempts at creating a common foundation, an Islamic ‘paradigm’, as it were, were undertaken by theologians who would later look like dissenters themselves: by Murjiʾites like Abū Ḥanīfa in Kufa, and especially by the Muʿtazilites. Abū Ḥanīfa saw himself as one of the ahl al-ʿadl (as opposed to the ahl al-bidaʿ),18 the ‘people of the just centre’, but also of ‘fairness’ and ‘honourable actions’; however, the phrase did not have any future beyond the

7  Cf. Bonner in: SI 75/1992/125f. 8  Although this term did not emerge before the early Middle Ages, either; originally it referred to the eucharist. Cf. E. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies 194ff., and RGG3 I 1171 with further reading. 9  It was weakened by the concept of fiṭra; in this way a piece of Islam was part of every human, even the heathen (see p. 403 and 660f. above). Of course this only came into its own if it was not deliberately denied by Christians, Jews, etc. 10  With regard to the Shīʿites, i.e. very exclusively, vol. I 339 above. 11  Cf. Erkenntnislehre 130f. 12  Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila 35, 11ff. 13  Cf. e.g. vol. I 171ff. and 226 above. 14  Vol. I 259 above. 15  The Ismāʿīlite Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī says clearly that nawāṣib was a derogatory name for the ‘Murjiʾites’ (K. al-zīna in Sāmarrāʾī, Ghulūw 256, 9ff.). 16  Vol. III 506f. above. 17  Thus already in the title of a book by Ḍirār b. ʿAmr (Catalogue of Works XV, no. 21). 18  Text II 5, w.

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Murjiʾa in the sense he chose.19 In the fiqh al-absaṭ there is one instance of ahl al-sunna wal-jamāʿa in a – presumably – later passage.20 This is the term that would later rule the world, but when it comes to its origin and expansion, we have very little information. Ghulām Khalīl uses it in K. sharḥ al-sunna, but only with reference to the companions of the prophet.21 On the other hand people grew increasingly used to calling someone they considered to be orthodox a ṣāḥib sunna; Ghulām Khalīl himself did so,22 as did his contemporary Aḥmad b. ʿAbdallāh al-ʿIjlī (d. 261/875) in his Ta‌ʾrīkh al-thiqāt,23 and before him ʿAbdallāh b. al-Mubārak (d. 181/797)24 and, of course, Ibn Ḥanbal.25 Still, they were given this name precisely because they were not ‘Sunnites’ in the wider sense. If we were inclined in spite of this evidence to presume a unity of the ‘genuinely Islamic’ to have been in existence since the days of the first community, we would be applying a model that, having been used in patristics and ecclesiastical history, received the final blow almost a century ago with Walter Bauer’s Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei im ältesten Christentum (Tübingen 1934). ‘Orthodoxy’ evolves; it is always the expression of a consensus, but also of a network of power.26 Its solidification was, or so it seems to me, sealed only in modern times in Islam, thanks to the increasing omnipresence of the state and the interference of the media. In comparison, the idea of a specific orthodoxy standing firm in the face of heresy is merely the product of a static image of history. Being static, this image of history is backward-facing; it is the same that provided the basis for the term bidʿa. ‘The best (people) of my community’, the prophet said, ‘are the members of the generation to which I was sent’.27 However, the problem of continuity appeared quite different to Islam than it did to Christianity. In the Christian context Vincent of Lérins defined 19  Vol. I 228 above and V 31 (of the German edition). Vol. II 740 demonstrates the degree to which Abū Ḥanīfa was able to become the norm of ‘orthodoxy’. 20  P. 56, 21. 21  Fol. 2a, 1. 22  See p. 426f. above. 23  Juynboll in EI2 VIII 516a s. v. Rid̲ jā̲ l. Regarding Aḥmad b. ʿAbdallāh al-ʿIjlī see vol. III 509 above. 24  See vol. II 622 above. 25  See vol. III 7 and 501f.. In general Juynboll, Some New Ideas on the Development of Sunna as a technical term in early Islam, in: JSAI 10/1987/97ff. 26  Cf. A. Knysh, ‘Orthodoxy’ and ‘Heresy’ in Medieval Islam. An Essay in Reassessment, in: MW 83/1993/48ff. In general cf. J.-P. Deconchy, L’orthodoxie religieuse. Essai de logique psychosociale (Paris 1971) = 2Orthodoxie religieuse et sciences sociales (The Hague 1980); esp. the Engl. summary p. 269ff.: (Religious) Orthodoxy, Rationality and Scientific Knowledge. 27   Conc. I 94 a.

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orthodoxy in 434 CE in his Commonitorium with the famous and oft-repeated formula quod ubique, quod semper et quod ab omnibus traditum est.28 In his view, the community of the age of the Apostles transformed seamlessly into the Church. Islam, on the other hand, had the ‘community’ only, and there was no hiding the fact that the generation of the ṣaḥāba was followed by an age of schism ( furqa) and sects ( firaq, sg. firqa). As a result the abovementioned hadith was joined by another one that would become as popular: ‘My community will have many experiences that will be as similar to those of the Israelites as two sandals are to each other29 … The Israelites split into 72 sects, but my community will split into 73, only one of whom will not go to hell’.30 We have already heard of the comparison with the Jews. It was the result of reflection on the Quran: the Muslims will not escape, or have not escaped, the ikhtilāf that was the undoing of their predecessors.31 Now, however, it was joined by the hope that over the course of history the firqa al-nājiya, the ‘saved group’ would be the only one remaining, or at least be the great majority. ‘The jamāʿa is the only group that will not go to hell’ was also quoted, despite the skewed logic, and, with reference or in parallel to the ikhtilāf al-umma raḥma: ‘The jamāʿa is (a sign of God’s) mercy, but schism is punishment’.32 The schism clouded the vision of the past; it now seemed that this vision could apply to the first three decades of the new era only. In those days, it was said, the first community was not tarnished by the confusion. ‘Who, then, is (the group who will achieve salvation)?’ the prophet was asked, and his response was, ‘The one to which I and my companions belong’.33 Fundamentalism was linked to the idea of imminent decadence. The aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth drew the, to them, most obvious conclusion: the truth can be restored only through the most painstaking collection of traditions, bypassing ‘sects’ and theology. Furthermore this can be undertaken only by someone who lives in and for the truth; consequently the criticism of transmitters conformed to the new ideal of orthodoxy. Transmitters tried to do justice to the ubique et ab omnibus by establishing a shared understanding of the faith

28   Commonitorium, cap. 2; cf. the translation in Peters, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam II 339. Regarding the historical context see Pelikan, Christian Tradition I 333ff. 29  We might say ‘like two peas in a pod’. 30  Tirmidhī, Īmān 18; Conc. V 136a with variants. 31  See p. 731f. above. Moving lamentations of ikhtilāf were composed e.g. by Muḥāsibī (cf. Gedankenwelt 3). 32  Regarding both hadiths cf. Conc. I 370 b. 33  Tirmidhī, ibid.; also Peters II 363. The tradition was included by neither Bukhārī nor Muslim.

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through surveys and travel; this was how ʿaqāʾid were composed.34 The focus of the prophetic tradition, however, was on acting in accordance with the faith rather than with the tenets of the faith, with the result that the ʿaqāʾid also included rules of orthopraxy, too. Theology played only a limited part; indeed, as kalām it is frequently rejected altogether.35 Actions, however, are much more visibly subject to the changing times than thought; something that is new today may be regarded as old tomorrow. Traditionists protested against many things: against the use of strainers or potash when doing the laundry,36 later against coffee and tobacco,37 but in the end their descendants accepted them after all. The lists are continually changing;38 as the ‘innovations’ tended to be linked to the ‘code’ of a community rather than its creed, fundamentalism was softened by the normative force exerted by actuality. This allowed people to refer to good or bad ‘innovations’.39 It was never possible to speak of good or bad heresies. This is closely linked to the fact that matters of correct behaviour fell under the purview of the law where ikhtilāf was permitted.40 A jurist was fundamentally free to embrace a divergent view; after all, the law had never been codified. ‘For every mess (munkar) there is a fatwā from some lawyer’, Saladin’s son al-Malik al-Ẓāhir said to Ibn ʿArabī.41 Traditionists were usually jurists, this informed their way of thinking. Early on ʿUbaydallāh al-ʿAnbarī had been able to suggest that this pluralism should also be applied to theological issues.42 Naẓẓām had even pointed out that the companions of the prophet, too, had been at odds;43 in fact, he found a hadith contradicting the one that extolled

34  See p. 215 and 629 as well as vol. II 714 above. 35  Cf. the credo attributed to Ibn Ḥanbal in Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Tabaqāt al-Ḥanābila I 241, 9ff./ transl. Peters II 359f., also p. 810f. below. 36  Instances in Goldziher, Muh. Stud. II 25f. 37  Cf. the deliberations by Kâtib Çelebi/Ḥājjī Khalīfa, Mīzān al-ḥaqq, transl. G. L. Lewis, The Balance of Truth (London 1957), p. 50ff. and 60ff. Regarding coffee also EI2 IV 451, and Hattox, Coffee and Coffeehouses, Index s. v. Bidʿa; concerning smoking the treatise by ʿAlī Muḥammad Naṣr, Al-qawl al-mubīn fī bayān aḍrār al-dukhān wa-taḥrīm al-tadkhīn (Cairo 1412/1992), which although slightly naïve contains a wealth of material. 38  Cf. in summary Fierro in: Der Islam 69/1992/211ff. V. Rispler claims to have found that of the jurists Shāfiʿites and Mālikites were more likely to study the matter than Ḥanafites (Der Islam 68/1991/325). The ascetic point of view of the issue was expressed by Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 168, 12ff./transl. Gramlich I 528ff. 39  Goldziher, ibid.; Robson in EI2 I 1199 s. v. Bidʿa; Talbi in: SI 12/1960/59ff. 40  See p. 733 above. 41   Al-futūḥāt al-Makkiyya (Būlāq 1293/1876) III 91, 11ff. 42  See vol. II 185f. above. 43  See vol. III 423f. above.

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the precedence of the first community.44 Both these went very far indeed: such ideas would not be received favourably later, but together with everything else they contributed a little to weakening the trend towards a self-contained system. While one may call Islam ‘totalitarian’ in that it wants to register all earthly reality in a juristic framework, its answers remained comparatively flexible. Even theological divergence could be regarded matter-of-factly. What Ashʿarī’s Maqālāt al-Islāmiyyīn present as heresiography is usually no more than doxography; the author’s criticism is most restrained.45 There is no direct condemnation from his pen; even on his deathbed he said that he refrained from it deliberately. Hārūn al-Rashīd, despite perhaps being rather prone to bigotry by that time,46 had no reservations against Ibāḍite Quran reciters.47 In particular environments and under particular circumstances some scholars recanted – had to recant, perhaps,48 but formulas to recant sectarian opinions are rare in the sources,49 rarer, certainly, than in Christianity.50 There do not appear to have been any cases in which one had to renounce certain things before acceding to an office, in the way that the Catholic Church demanded until 1967 in the Oath against modernism.51

44  Cf. Tet XXII 254.3. 45  But cf. Text XXI 63, d; XXVI 2, h; XXXI 34, f (and c), and 61 (commentary). 46  See vol. III 106f. above. 47  Vol. II 252f., and p. 201 above. 48  See p. 653f. above. 49  But cf. vol. II 517. 50  Cf. LThK I 70; regarding the Orthodox Church see P. Eleutheri and A. Rigo: Eretici, dissidenti, musulmani ed ebrei a Bisanzio, una raccolta eresiologica del XII. secolo, Venice 1993 (concerning the Muslims esp. p. 53ff. with an evaluation of the sources). 51  For an oriental scholar’s point of view see G. Levi Della Vida, Fantasmi ritrovati 73ff.: ‘Un ebreo tra i modernisti’.

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5.0.4 The Relevance of Heresy It must be emphasised once again that establishing this precarious balance took time. In the two centuries discussed here the Khārijite takfīr and the Murjiʾte tabdīʿ were still regarded as possible alternatives. The Muʿtazilite Aṣamm regarded a grave sinner as an ‘enemy of God’ who may be reviled at will: he even believed that this was supported by a consensus.1 The Ḥanafite K. al-ʿālim wal-mutaʿallim,2 on the other hand, tells us that one should pray for forgiveness on the behalf of sinners rather than cursing them; even Khārijites ought to be called liars (or as those who are wrong) rather than unbelievers.3 In addition the range of terms used in those days was much greater. The Quran had introduced ḍalāl/ḍalāla ‘error, heterodoxy’ and hawā ‘whim’,4 the latter similar to αἳρεσις in the meaning the Christians had given the word: ‘(deliberately wrong) choice’.5 The Shīʿites called those in their own ranks whose views they considered aberrant ghulāt, ‘exaggerators’.6 This, too, was based on the Quran: ‘Go not beyond the bounds in your religion’ (lā taghlū fī dīnikum), we read in sura 4:171 and 5:77. Heresy meant abandoning the middle ground, i.e. extremism. In the eyes of the Sunnites heterodoxy was sometimes the result of ta‌ʾwīl, false interpretation of Quranic passages;7 those who were orthodox upheld the central meaning of the scripture.8 This aspect would be the focus of the polemic against the Ismāʿīlites, the Bāṭiniyya, later,9 although it was also radicalised due to political circumstances. At first it was emphasised that ta‌ʾwīl

1  See vol. II 461 above. 2  Ibid. 629f. 3  Cf. Rudolph, Al-Māturīdī und die sunnitische Theologie 54 and 56. This is why the phrase that a sinner ‘obeys Satan’ is rejected here (see vol. II 630 above). 4  Sometimes in one and the same verse, e.g. sura 5:77. Regarding hawā see Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī’s deliberations in his K. al-zīna (in Sāmarrāʾī, Ghulūw 247ff.); also p. 734 above. 5  In antiquity αἳρεσις meant, of course, ‘school of thought’ or ‘school of philosophy’ (cf. Brox in: RAC XIII 256ff.). Hawā, too, did not always have negative connotations (cf. Kister in: JESHO 8/1965/143, n. 3 = Studies in Jāhiliyya and Early Islam, no. I); regarding ahwāʾ = ‘political inclinations’ cf. Naqāʾiḍ II 1091, 18 Lyall. Christian Arab literature is familiar with αἳρεσις as a borrowed term via αἱρετικός: harṭaqa (cf. Wehr s. v.; also Graf, Kirchliche Termini 115). 6  See vol. I 463 and III 203 above. Regarding the usage of ghulūw in early non-Shīʿite texts cf. Anfänge 150f. 7  See vol. II 238, 244, 540, 603 above. 8  We need to bear in mind that the same thought was at the back of the etymology of zindiq (see vol. I 489f. above). Regarding Judaism cf. Urbach, The Sages 296: a heretic is someone who ‘interprets the Torah’. 9  Cf. Radtke in: EIran III 860 s. v. Bāṭen, and Halm ibid. 861ff. s. v. Bāṭenīya.

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did not necessarily imply unbelief,10 while the Ḥanbalite Ibn Qudāma believed that the ‘gate of ta‌ʾwīl’ had been closed.11 Then there was furqa ‘schism’, and, associated with it, firqa ‘splinter group, sect’; ‘straying’ was seen as fragmentation. This, too, had already been thought of in the Quran.12 However, furqa did not become a religious term, remaining limited to the political division in the early community, especially the first civil war,13 and more or less abandoned later. Firqa, on the other hand, was often used entirely neutrally, meaning ‘group, section’, which, indeed, was the meaning in the Quran.14 At the beginning, the harshest word used was zandaqa. It was not Quranic, but it was the one to which the jurists devoted the greatest amount of deliberation. It referred to the kind of heresy that was punishable by death, and thus equal to apostasy.15 At the same time it was the term that would be used up historically the soonest; it was linked to al-Mahdī’s persecutions and since that time referred mainly to dualism. And that meant unbelief, κατ᾿ἐξοχήν, shirk; monotheism was never negotiable in Islam. Later references to heretics as zindiq were owed to the desire of implying the legal consequences. ‘This sort of thing leads to zandaqa’, Hishām al-Tirmidhī was told with regard to his theory of the high rank of saints,16 and Ibn Ḥanbal gave one of his treatises the title Radd ʿalā l-zanādiqa wal-Jahmiyya. In this case, however, we must bear in mind that the word does not occur in the text itself but appears only in the preamble which Ibn Ḥanbal’s son ʿAbdallāh added to the treatise.17 The mutakallimūn had used it earlier in book titles, but always with reference to 10  Regarding the Shīʿite ʿAlī b. Mītham cf. Text IV 62, d; regarding the Muʿtazilite Nāshiʾ Text XXXI 65, b–c; regarding Fiqh al-absaṭ vol. II 603f.; for the Murjiʾa in general Maq. 477, 1f. 11   Taḥrīm al-naẓar 34, 7. Ghazzālī’s and Ibn Rushd’s view of the relation between kufr and ta‌ʾwīl is discusse in I. A. Bello, The Controversy between Philosophy and Orthodoxy 57ff. and 66ff. 12  Cf. tafarraqa insura 98:4, and the use of this verse in Text IX 4; also sura 3: 105, with the parallels listed by Paret, Kommentar 76. In general Paret, ibid. 325 on sura 19/37. 13  Especially among the Murjiʾites; cf. Text II 1, o, and 2, a. Also vol. I 154, 172 and 175 above; with slightly wider denotation Naẓẓām (cf. vol. III 424 above), but still in the sense of a deviation from the prophet’s first community. Sayf b. ʿUmar uses the phrase ahl al-furqa to refer to ʿAlī’s opponents in the Battle of the Camel, having ʿAlī use the respective verb (Ṭabarī I 3092, 17, and 3093, 4). 14  Sura 9:122. Galen’s αρίςτη αἳρεσις is firqa al-fāḍila in Arabic (Περὶ τη̃ ς ἰατρικη̃ ς ἐμπειρίας 4, 11 and 87). Firqa has a neutral meaning in Text IX 2, h, and XVIII 4, m, too; but negative in the text cited vol. III 23 above. 15  See p. 648f. above. 16   Sīrat al-awliyāʾ 395, 10ff. Yaḥyā/85, 1ff. Radtke. 17  Cf. also the examples vol. I 489 above. Regarding Spain see Fierro, Heterodoxía, passim; a brief summary for those not fluent in Spanish may be found in: Quaderni di Studi Arabi 5–6/1987–88/251ff.

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persons, not to the subject matter.18 In all probability they would have added some form of explanation of whom and what precisely they intended by it; it is likely that this was the only intention a high-ranking official like Muḥammad b. al-Layth would have had when writing on the subject.19 Ḍirār b. ʿAmr was probably aiming at different groups when he wrote treatises against the ahl al-ahwāʾ, against the zanādiqa and against the mulḥidūn;20 we should like to know how he distinguished between zandaqa and ilḥād.21 At first ilḥād was the more general term of the two;22 it, too, could be traced back to the Quran.23 The Muʿtazilites soon preferred it, and we find it in book titles by Bishr b. alMuʿtamir, Abū l-Hudhayl, Murdār, and Naẓẓām.24 Later it was often applied to the philosophers. Cf. e.g. ʿĀmirī’s remarks quoted by Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 25 (with reference to circumstances in Nishapur around 370/980; also ibid. 23). The Ismāʿīlites were regarded as the malāḥida par excellence, and not only because of their links to philosophy; even extra-Islamic sources use the name (regarding China cf. H. Franke in: Oriens 10/1957/256f.; concerning the Latin texts and Marco Polo see Daftary, The Assassin Legends 115 and Index s. v.). The apocryphal K. al-balāgh illustrates how their particular case was imagined (see p. 374 above). Ṣāliḥī defined ilḥād as ignorance of God (Text XXXI 45, g–h), although his authority is Ibn Fūrak, during whose lifetime the term was already rather more frequently used. – In general on the terms discussed also Lewis in: SI 1/1953/51ff. Heretics were put to trial more frequently during the first two centuries than later. The caliph al-Mahdī even established the position of judge of the heretics (ṣāḥib al-zanādiqa).25 In those days the authorities had no qualms to claim the right to define the guidelines of religion, taking a back seat only after 18  Cf. the Index of titles s. t. Radd ʿalā l-zanādiqa: Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, Aṣamm, Ḍirār. 19  Vol. III 28 and 33. 20  Catalogue of Works XV, no. 28, 38, and 35–37. Cf. in parallel for Aṣamm Catalogue of Works XIII, no. 24 and 26. 21  It cannot be ruled out that the large number of titles was due to the contamination of several catalogues of works; the titles of the treatises were not necessarily by the author himself. 22  Thus also Ḍirār when he refers to ‘all the mulḥidūn’ in title no. 36. 23  See vol. I 490 above. Regarding the early usage cf. Madelung, ʿAbd Allāh ibn al-Zubayr the mulḥid, in: Actas XVI Congreso UEAI (Salamanca 1995), p. 301ff. 24  Catalogue of Works XVII, no. 16; XXI, no. 2; XVIII b, no. 31; and XXII, no. 6. Further details vol. II 46 above. 25  See vol. III 22 above.

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the miḥna. Unlike Christianity, in Islam the state – i.e. the caliph – influenced the fortunes of the faith from the very first, at a time when the guidelines had not been fixed at all. Just like al-Mahdī believed himself to be protecting the tawḥīd, a few years earlier al-Manṣūr had had Muḥammad b. Saʿīd al-Urdunnī executed in Damascus, apparently with the intention of making a statement in support of the second component of the shahāda, Muḥammad’s prophethood and its concluding character.26 The demonstration against Bishr al-Marīsī illustrated how the mob would take the wheel in times of trouble; interestingly the representative of the authorities protected Bishr from the rising tide of lynch law.27 When after the miḥna the caliphs gradually abandoned their claim in principle, too, and the jurists came to the fore instead, striving for the definition of truth was always accompanied by the fear that unity might s­ uffer.28 In Christianity history took a different course. The late and unexpected triumph under Constantine generated the consciousness that a truth that had been preparing a long time now emerged from the shadows; consequently the desire to formulate it was imbued with much greater confidence. The jurists, on the other hand, did not see Islam as endangered in the long run by dualism any more, and even less by anthropomorphism or predestination, but – from their professional perspective – by the rejection and abolishment of the law, by antinomianism. Consequently the Sufis aroused their suspicion. It was known that Bishr al-Ḥāfī had considered the hajj to be a formality and thus not meritorious.29 Ḥallāj had considered replacing the pilgrimage entirely with a symbolic act to be performed behind closed doors; this played a major part in his trial.30 The same suspicion fell on the Qarmates and the Ismāʿīlites.31 The early ghulāt had already been suspected of even ‘turning their backs on the qibla’, i.e. deliberately pervert the prayer, in order to obey the imām.32 Ghazzālī wrote a treatise against the ‘Bāṭinites’ as well as against the antinomians among the Sufis, the Ibāḥiyya.33 This was where his tolerance ended; he regarded them as apostates and wanted them to be 26  See vol. I 157f. above. 27  See vol. III 189ff. above. 28  Cf. M. Chamberlain’s remarks in Knowledge and social practice in medieval Damascus 168 and 171ff. 29  See vol. III 113 above. 30  Cf. EI2 III 101 a s. v. al-Ḥallād̲ j̲; Massignon, Passion 2I 595ff./I 548ff. 31  Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi 29 and 222ff. 32  See vol. III 13 above. The Muslims are ahl al-ṣalāt (see p. 755 above). 33  Cf. his K. faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya (besides other writings) and his Radd ʿalā l-Ibāḥiyya (ed. O. Pretzl, Die Streitschrift des Ġazālī gegen die Ibāḥīya, in: SB Bayr. Ak. Wiss., Munich 1933, no. 7).

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treated as such.34 Baghdādī, too, had thought the Bāṭinites worse than Jews and Christians;35 and under the heading Ibāḥiyya he included Iranian sects like the Khurramiyya who placed themselves outside the boundaries of Islam by embracing libertinism.36 All of this was, of course, mere theory at first. The authorities took steps against the Bāṭinites because the latter were a political danger. The same was true of the execution of Ghaylān al-Dimashqī.37 While there were cases in which the authorities, wishing to justify their actions, requested the theory from the jurists, individual instances are still awaiting proof. Ghazzālī’s Mustaẓhirī was one, as the name shows, but it does not seem to have been true of the Tahāfut al-falāsifa, which also branded three of the doctrines attacked as kufr. The ‘hierarchised pluralism’38 in accordance with which the ahl al-dhimma were tolerated, could also benefit sectarians. Some of them probably never came to the notice of the authorities. A century after Bābak’s revolt had been brutally crushed not only for political but also for religious reasons, Masʿūdī was able to interrogate his followers concerning their doctrine and customs; clearly they had not been forced to convert.39 Many of the ghulāt listed by Shīʿite authors such as Kashshī, Najāshī, Ṭūsī etc. were entirely ignored by the Sunni authorities.40 In the Mamluk era the Syrian Ismāʿīlites gave up their political ambitions and were subsequently left in peace in the rural areas they inhabited. It is also astonishing that the criticism of the prophet’s moral integrity expressed by some ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila41 was accepted without sanctions, even though there was much public outrage. What a contrast when compared with the case of Salman Rushdie. We may thus assert, with a degree of caution, that, as the definition of heresy was overall not laid down authoritatively, there was comparatively wide scope within which it could be tolerated. Andalusian fatwās show the continued attempts at evading a final and universally binding decision on the relation 34  Goldziher, Streitschrift 26*, 7ff. = Faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya 156ff. Badawī/transl. Jeffery, Reader on Islam 264ff. 35   Farq 265, apu. f./282, 1f. 36  Ibid. 251f./266, 5ff.; regarding the Khurramiyya see vol. III 471, n. 48 above. Cf. in general the articles Ibāḥa and Ibāḥīya in GIE II 299ff.; also S. B. al-ʿAlawī, Al-khiṭāb al-ashʿarī 51ff. 37  See vol. I 84f. above. 38  The term was coined by M. Rodinson; cf. L’Islam: politique et croyance (Paris 1993), p. 164. 39  Cf. the most readable article by R. P. Mottahedeh, Toward an Islamic Theology of Toleration, in: T. Lindholm and K. Vogt (eds.), Islamic Law Reform and Human Rights (Copenhagen etc. 1993), p. 25ff. 40  Cf. the list in Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 22ff.; the Shīʿites themselves were, of course, careful not to denounce them. 41  See p. 104f. above.

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between ‘innovators’ and grave sinners or unbelievers.42 When the Dominican Riccoldo da Montecroce travelled to the Middle East in the late thirteenth century, he noted in the account of his journey that all ‘Saracens’ agreed that one only had to recite the shahāda in order ‘to be saved, even if one had committed all the sins in the world’.43 For all the hyperbole, he had observed correctly. Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī had limited himself to the shahāda,44 as had Ghazzālī after him,45 although the latter added belief in the Last Judgment subsequently46 – presumably with the aim of keeping the Ismāʿīlites out; if there was a reckoning in the otherworld, obeying the law in this world was a necessity. Riccoldo would not have been satisfied with this for, as he continues: ‘Their law may be called wide with good reason. Satan foresaw this in his cunning, in order that those who do not wish to ascend to salvation along the narrow path can proceed along the wide road to hell’. Ghazzālī had defined unbelief in purely juristic terms: as the status of someone from whom one may not inherit, and whom one may kill unless he is under protection.47 This could hardly be expressed in Christian categories. A Muslim was ‘justified’ by his profession of faith;48 clearly heresy could only be something that transgressed against this profession, the shahāda.

42  Fierro in: Jayyusi (ed.), Legacy of Muslim Spain 899; cf. also M. Marín, Individuo y Sociedad en al-Andalus (Madrid 1992), p. 135ff. 43  Laurent, Peregrinatores medii aevi quattuor 135, cap. XXX 4ff./transl. Peters, Christianity, Judaism, and Islam II 327. 44   Iʿtiqādāt 299, 4ff. 45   Fayṣal al-tafriqa 195, 12. 46  Ibid. 134f.; also Lewis in: SI 1/1953/58f. 47  Loc. cit. 48  See p. 609f. above.

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Political Theory

The ‘fundamentalist’ recourse to the first community was focussed predominantly on actions and consequently influenced not only the concept of orthodoxy but also political theory. This is no different today. It explains the strange phenomenon that maxims of present-day behaviour present themselves as interpretations of the past, and ideal political models as ‘history’. Ever since the hijra Islam has been faced with the task of coping with the earthly existence; the prophet had himself pushed the eschatological early stage, that could have fed the interest in renouncing the world, into the background. The myth of the end was replaced with a ‘myth of the beginning’; it was with good reason that the date ʿUmar chose to begin the new era was that of the hijra, rather than for instance Muḥammad’s birth or death.1 The consciousness the first believers had had of being the chosen people was transformed into the sense of a new beginning looking towards a future on earth. Islam never speaks of a civitas Dei or a heavenly Jerusalem. The last canonical text of Christianity was an apocalypse, the revelation of St John; in Islam, this place was immediately filled by history. For a long time Christianity did not include the state in its salvation history, but in the Muslims’ self-image God’s will manifested itself in the military triumphs of the wars of conquest and in the institution of the caliphate.2 Historical as well as political interest had thus been part of Islam from the very first. The Quran had paved the way for ‘theology of historical tradition’,3 but there were specific reasons why the conception of history turned backwards immediately. Historiography could simply have accompanied events, but it only did so incidentally. Early historical monographs demonstrate not least through their titles that certain events were reflected particularly intensely. The image of history was, as it is always and everywhere, selective. At first it was a matter of course that the focus should be on the first community. There is no exaltation; events were not yet regarded through the lens of hadith. The prophet’s actions were an influential example, but they merged seamlessly into those of the caliphs. They, too, enacted laws,4 and they were his

1  Cf. the controversy Ghaddafi caused when he tried to change this. Interestingly there was never a suggestion that a chronology ante hegiram might be needed. 2  Cf. Lewis, Political Language 25f. 3  The phrase is G. Müller’s (WI 28/1988/347ff.; cf. p. 660 above). Cf. also R. Paret, Der Koran als Geschichtsquelle in: Der Islam 37/1961/24ff. 4  See vol. I 15 and 43f.; also II 670 above.

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successors as heads of the community.5 The fact that the Quran was revealed divine law and different toto caelo from everything that would come after it was not so clearly visible. There was no mention of the prophet’s sunna, and it was certainly not the object of nostalgia. In spite of some rifts and conflicts, people saw continuity above all; the ‘mission topos’ expresses this clearly.6 ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd b. Yaḥyā’s letters always name the prophet and the caliphs in the same breath,7 although it has to be admitted that by his time it was Umayyad ideology: even a generation before these Rasāʾil one of the texts that adopted the ‘mission topos’, the K. al-irjāʾ, demonstrated clearly that the shock of the first civil war, when the unity of the community was shattered, provided food for thought.8 Failure provided the impulse for historiography as well as for political theory. This can be observed elsewhere as well. Arno Borst stated with reference to the Christian Middle Ages: ‘The broadening of historical thinking is usually a consequence of historical situations in which the previously familiar continuities and communities were disrupted, and the question of the extent of time and the subject of history had to be answered anew. In this respect, world histories are projections focussed on the past’ (Weltgeschichten im Mittelalter? in: Koselleck/Stempel [eds.], Geschichte – Ereignis und Erzählung; Munich 1973, p. 456). The only specific factor in early Islam is the time; the awakening of a sense of history coincides with the search for political structure. As a consequence that which emerges as ‘tradition’ and would soon find its way into early collections was not only apologetic but also included expressions of assumptions and, one might say, ‘ideologies’. Regarding the development cf. Duri, Rise of Historical Writing 43ff.

5  We can safely adhere to the view that the caliph’s title included in some respect the ‘succession’ of the prophet, even though the phrase changed from khalīfat rasūl Allāh to khalīfat Allāh under ʿUthmān with the result that being the ‘representative of God’ became a competing concept. Some traditions that argued against this interpretation were suspected of being tendentious. It would be astonishing if the two first caliphs had interpreted their title in a way (meaning ‘vicarius’) in which the prophet might have borne it but never did. Furthermore it would be difficult to comprehend why ʿUmar should have introduced the title amīr al-muʾminīn in contrast. Cf. Crone/Hinds, God’s Caliph and the secondary sources listed p. 4, n. 1. 6  See vol. I 17 above. 7  Cf. W. al-Qāḍī in: Saber religioso y poder politico 242ff. 8  Text II 1, c–l; also in Maymūn b. Mihrān’s text cited by Ibn ʿAsākir, TD XLVI (ʿUthmān) 7 ,503ff. (cf. vol. I 175 above).

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5.1.1 Searching for the Unity of the Early Community The unity of the community was basically a conditio sine qua non of the consciousness of being the chosen people; after all, Muḥammad had been sent because the earlier revealed religions had discredited themselves through strife and arguments. At this point ikhtilāf was seen as an exclusively negative factor, not as a simple disagreement, let alone plurality of opinion. There was no awareness, either, of the contradictions to be overcome: egalitarianism vs. Arab dominance, the principle of sola scriptura vs. influential and increasing tradition, segmentary society vs. a sense of statehood. Not even the violent death of the second caliph could shake this optimism. ʿUmar had been the victim of a private vendetta; furthermore the murderer did not even seem to be a Muslim. The murder of ʿUthmān was a different matter; in fact, it was the actual starting point of the ‘temptation’ ( fitna). In this case Muslims had attacked a Muslim, and ʿAlī, the immediate beneficiary of ʿUthmān’s death, had not taken any steps against the murderers. Even more than this event, the great military conflicts that followed from it, the Battle of the Camel and the battle at Ṣiffīn, became the fundamental paradigm. The responsibility could not be shifted onto someone who was damned anyway, for the people facing each other – with the exception of a few who kept apart (al-muʿtazilūn)1 – were members of the prophet’s inner circle. ‘Temptation’ had been followed by sin: members of the first community had killed one another. No-one had shown repentance, which meant that the event demanded not only atonement on earth but also punishment in the otherworld.2 In the long run it was impossible to halt the polarisation that was the result of these events. This was when the religious – political parties formed that would play a more prominent part in the future. And the attempts at finding a compromise started here, too: at first in the Murjiʾa, then in the early Muʿtazila, and finally – in a wider sense – among the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth. Those who took sides were of course convinced they knew who bore responsibility for the catastrophe. Those who worked towards reconciliation, on the other hand, assumed one and all that it was not possible any more to assign clear blame, hoping to consign the whole story to oblivion in one way or another. Thus the Murjiʾites recommended to ‘defer’ the verdict: this is the origin of their name. At first the recommendation referred to the historical event as such; it was a call to political moderation. Later, when not even the Murjiʾites accepted every political development unquestioningly any more, it became a theological doctrine: no-one should dispute another’s faith. Only God decides 1  See vol. II 386f. 2  In general cf. Gardet in EI2 II 930f. s. v. Fitna; H. Djaït, La Grande Discorde, passim.

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whom he will punish and whom he will not punish; on earth, all Muslims are united by Islam.3 The Murjiʾa presented its doctrine when ʿAbd al-Malik had come through the second civil war – against ʿAbdallāh b. al-Zubayr. The Muʿtazila, on the other hand, appeared on the scene while the third civil war was underway, which would lead to the downfall of the Umayyads. Its thinking was more rigorous; its ascetic origins as well as the terrible situation encouraged it to focus much more strongly on the aspect of sin. Sin destroyed the ʿadāla, the trustworthiness of those who led their followers into the battles of the first civil war; consequently they were compromised as witnesses. But we do not know who was in the wrong, and as a result the situation we are facing is rather like unresolved adultery, with both parties swearing the oath of imprecation (liʿān) against each other: the marriage will have been dissolved, but the guilty verdict remains suspended. They are both still admitted as witnesses, except in cases when they would testify against one another, where their words would be meaningless. This is the same attitude at heart as that embraced by the Murjiʾa, but introducing the additional element of witness testimony. Considering that the persons concerned were long dead, this referred to traditions originating with the protagonists of the first civil war, hadiths that went via them (and had possibly been invented by their followers). Such traditions should be accepted, as long as they did not contradict each other, i.e. did not touch on the civil war or the discord that resulted from it. This was an attitude also found outside the Muʿtazila, among those who would later find fame because of their skill in the field of hadith.4 A decisive evaluation of events was thus not completely ruled out; Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ supported ʿAlī, while ʿAmr b. ʿUbayd favoured ʿUthmān.5 Ḍirār encouraged even stricter doctrine by providing a new example which meant that independently of its contents the testimony was invalid in any case.6 As we have seen he rejected hadith altogether.7 This emerging opposition against hadith proved to be untenable in the long term. Even within the Muʿtazila the model described was abandoned at the 3  See vol. I 200 and 210 above. 4  E.g. in the much-discussed dictum by Ibn Sīrīn in the introduction to Muslim’s Ṣaḥīḥ (cap. 5 = I 15, 1ff.). We need not consider the question of its date in this context (cf. Juynboll in: Arabica 20/1973/142ff., and JSAI 5/1984/303ff.). 5  See vol. II 309 and 350f. above. 6  See vol. III 61f. above. 7  See p. 721 and 724 above. This was by no means a necessary conclusion. The Ibāḍites, who were the first to discuss the example because of circumstances (see p. 287f. above), came to the conclusion that until guilt had been established all those involved could demand loyalty; Shabīb b. ʿAṭiyya was of the same opinion some decades before Ḍirār (cf. Kindī, Bayān alsharʿ III 12, 10ff., and 13, 9f.; regarding Shabīb see vol. I 260 and 476 as well as II 741 above).

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beginning of the third century. The concept pursued by the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth themselves in order to heal the rift between the parties would have much more far-reaching consequences: the four-caliph theory. Originally only three of the caliphs of the first generation had been recognised – but not always the same ones: in Medina and Basra Abū Bakr, ʿUmar and ʿUthmān, but in Kufa Abū Bakr, ʿUmar and ʿAlī. Some traditionists from Kufa were the first to make a concession: Abū Bakr, ʿUmar and ʿAlī and, to a somewhat lesser extent, ʿUthmān; after all, he, too, had been a companion of the prophet.8 Others saw this as a reason to follow the chronological order, switching ʿAlī and ʿUthmān, with the result that the latter was raised to the same level for good. This step was taken by Walīd b. Abān al-Karābīsī in Wāsiṭ,9 and in Baghdad by Ibn Ḥanbal a generation later, towards the end of his life.10 This compromise was more successful than earlier attempts, not least because the historical events concerned had taken place a longer time ago; clearly it was not precipitated by current events. The exaltation of the four ‘righteous caliphs’ could now go ahead; it happened parallel with the canonisation of the ṣaḥāba overall. In the second half of the second century Sayf b. ʿUmar began to collect reports according to which ʿUthmān’s murder and the Battle of the Camel were not the fault of the prominent members of the prophet’s generation but rather of members of the lower orders, Bedouins (ahl al-ʿArab) and members of the Saba‌ʾiyya;11 and only very few of the fighters of Badr (‘no more than six’) had taken part in the battle itself.12 This wording reveals what it was that sparked the debate. There was a hadith according to which God had forgiven all the fighters of Badr: they were ahl al-janna under any circumstances. Ḥasan al-Baṣrī had raised his eyebrows at this; he regarded fighters of Badr who played an active part in the civil wars as ‘freed by God from the fires of hell’.13 The Basran Muʿtazilites came to know the issue in this version; they wondered to what degree the ṣaḥāba had incurred guilt when they did not rebel against Muʿāwiya and the Umayyads and the secularisation of Islam.14 Even so, they did not refuse to follow the trend: 8   See vol. I 270ff., also II 494 above. 9  See vol. II 497 above. He probably was not the first one there (ibid. 494). 10  See vol. III 489 above. Previously they had followed the dogma of the three caliphs in the Medinan and Basran sense (ibid. 204f.). Hadiths on the subject, referring to two, three, or four caliphs, were collected by Ibn ʿAsākir in his biography of ʿUthmān (TD XLVI 146ff.; cf. also 513, 14ff.). 11  Thus already Wellhausen; based on his studies, with further material, E. L. Petersen, ʿAlī and Muʿāwiya 78ff.; also Muranyi, Prophetengenossen 80ff. 12  Ṭabarī I 3095, 10ff. 13  See vol. II 124 above. 14   Intiṣār 115, 14ff.

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only one generation after Sayf b. ʿUmar, Hishām al-Fuwaṭī condensed the accounts – which Sayf may not yet have arranged in accordance with a consistent tendency15 – into a theory: the battle of the camel was a misunderstanding, an unlucky development that was not the fault of the politically influential elite, but of the ‘hangers-on’.16 This step would have attracted notice in Basra. Like Ḥasan al-Baṣrī Hāshim al-Awqaṣ had greatly disliked the idea that the leaders had been given a kind of amnesty by God independently of their wrongdoing, while the ‘hangerson’ were punished for their sins,17 and Naẓẓām poured out all his rage over the most respected ṣaḥāba above all, because their unqualified remarks had fanned the discord after the prophet’s death.18 Even those who were prepared to revise history insisted that the guilty ones had been repentant.19 Hishām al-Fuwaṭī’s model, on the other hand, went beyond even the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth, for Walīd b. Abān al-Karābīsī in Wāsiṭ, who was presumably not much older, had not claimed at all that ʿAlī and his companions had not wanted the battle, but rather that they had taken an independent decision (ijtihād) and might have made an error, or could be absolved in accordance with the principle of kullu mujtahid muṣīb. His pupil Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī al-Karābīsī adopted this view from him.20 Later numerous theologians from Ibn Kullāb’s and Ashʿarī’s schools, mainly Shāfiʿites but even a Mālikite like Bāqillānī, preferred this juristic variant. They looked to the hadith of the ʿashara al-mubashshara in which paradise was promised to all the protagonists of the first civil war.21

15  Cf. A. Noth in: Der Islam 47/1971/168ff.; Muranyi points out an account of this kind before Sayf (p. 90). 16  See p. 18f. above. 17  See vol. II 124 above. 18  See vol. III 423f. above. 19  Thus for instance with reference to ʿAlī and ʿĀʾisha, i.e. the Battle of the Camel, the Bayhasiyya among the Khārijites (cf. Kindī, Bayān al-sharʿ III 432, –9ff.), but also certain Muʿtazilites; Mufīd polemicised against the latter pointing to his Masʾala al-kāfiyya (Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Al-fuṣūl al-mukhtāra I 94, 14ff./2104, –4ff.). 20  See p. 19 and 239 above. 21  Mufīd, Jamal 22, apu. ff./256, apu. ff., and 24, 4ff./58, 7ff.; cf. also p. 68 above. Of course the Shīʿites never recognised this hadith; cf. Ḥasan al-Ḥusaynī Āl al-Mujaddid al-Shīrāzī in: Turāthunā 11/1416, issue 1–2, p. 13ff.

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5.1.2 The Justification of Power Hishām al-Fuwaṭī can, of course, be regarded as an example of quite how firmly intellectuals are able to close their eyes to reality. However, he also demonstrates that people wished to be rid of this fruitless subject, in order to focus on that which worked rather than that which had failed. And entirely different questions would come into view: who should be elected ruler? According to what criteria should the election take place? Is it permissible to divest someone of power once it has been granted to him? Is a ruler an inescapable necessity at all? The first of these questions was one of the original issues of Islam. So far, when describing the attempts at finding a political compromise, we have spoken of the Sunni side only; as was in the nature of things. Only those already in power are interested in compromise; this applied to the Sunnites. The opposing parties, on the other hand, defined themselves out of the fact that they had no interest in compromise, least of all when it came to the theory. The Khārijites practised theoretical and practical emigration; as far as circumstances permitted they appointed their own authorities. The Shīʿa felt overruled from the very first: it had disagreed even with Abū Bakr’s election. While neither of these developments had to lead to a revolution, they did not leave much room for the legitimacy of the caliphate. Usually the Khārijites formed small, manageable groups, which made a presbyterian constitution the obvious choice.1 The history of the Shīʿa is more complex; after all, it produced its own caliphate at one point.2 In the case of the Shīʿa it is tempting to adduce the ‘pendulum swing theory’ evolved by E. Gellner with regard to Islam;3 he contrasts the ‘orthodox syndrome’ of monotheism, egalitarianism, and scripturalism with the ‘heterodox syndrome’ of ritualism, mysticism, and hierarchy. Being an ethnologist he focussed on explaining the difference between urban and rural Islam, but the elements of the latter ‘syndrome’ may also be perceived in the early Shīʿa, the only difference being that at the time we are not looking at the pendulum swinging to a different time, but simply at an alternative. Ritualism manifested itself in the ceremonies of penitence and mourning linked to Ḥusayn’s grave in

1  Cf. p. 654 and vol. II 223 above. 2  Historiography flourished in both groups: losers make good historians. In the Shīʿa there were, for instance, Abū Mikhnaf, Kalbī or Naṣr b. Muzāḥim, while Jāḥiẓ lists Khārijite historians in his Ris. fī l-Ḥakamayn (Mashriq 52/1958/476, 10ff.). 3  First in: Annales de Sociologie Marocaines 1968, p. 5ff., A Pendulum Swing Theory of Islam; also the response in R. Robertson, Sociology of Religion 127ff. The idea also informs Gellner’s Der Islam als Gesellschaftsordnung (1992), e.g. p. 99f. and 132ff.

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Kerbela since the days of the tawwābūn,4 mysticism in the miracle stories and the recognition of a direct connection with God, and hierarchy in the rulership ideal so typical of the Shīʿa, even though it had not yet become reality in the early days. The imām is regarded not only as the leader in the worldly sense, but has sacred authority by virtue of the divine spirit that inhabits him.5 The extremist fringes of the movement had – then as well as occasionally later – no qualms declaring him a manifestation of God himself, of which new prophets would tell.6 More moderate believers followed him as their charismatic leader because he was a member of Muḥammad’s family, the ahl al-bayt.7 This rulership ideal is fundamentally neither a ‘heresy’ nor a new development. The Sunnites, too, called the caliph imām and his function imāma, and they ascribed religious authority to him for a long time. Like the Shīʿites they regarded him not only as the protector of the law in the early days, but also as its founder.8 Only once this claim had to be retracted were the jurists able to take his place, only then did the doctrine of ijmāʿ stand a chance of succeeding more widely. ʿAlī had been called amīr al-muʾminīn deliberately, like ʿUmar and some Khārijite leaders.9 Originally the shīʿat ʿAlī’s main concern had been to show that ʿAlī was in the right against ʿUthmān; after all, Muʿāwiya, against whom he had had to fight at Ṣiffīn, had taken up arms to avenge ʿUthmān. Soon Abū Bakr and ʿUmar began to look dubious as well; people started writing about the yawm al-saqīfa10 and wondering whether someone who had less of a claim to the caliphate could have been elected lawfully at all. There was a broad range of opinions, from those who saw the election as an excusable error to those who saw a conspiracy at work.11 Some Muʿtazilite theologians

4  Cf. in detail Halm, Der schiitische Islam 53ff. 5   See vol. I 322f. also III 11f. above. 6   See p. 661f. above. 7   See vol. I 269f. above. 8   Cf. in general the abovementioned book by Crone/Hinds, and the studies by R. al-Sayyid, e.g. in: Al-Ijtihād 4/1991, no. 13, p. 11ff. 9   This was, as Gibb already emphasised in EI2 I 445, the caliph’s ceremonial title. According to Maymūn b. Mihrān the ruler should only be addressed thus when he was granting an audience or dispensing justice ( fī mawḍiʿ al-aḥkām; Qushayrī, Ta‌ʾrīkh Raqqa 33, 7ff.). Regarding the Khārijites see vol. II 526, 659, 688 above. 10  Cf. the list of relevant treatises in: Turāthunā 6/1411, issue 1/146ff.; all these works are early (Sulaym b. Qays, Wāqidī, Abū Miḥnaf, Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq). This event forms the conclusion of Ibn Isḥāq, Sīra (p. 1013ff. Wüstenfeld); also Caetani, Annali II1 510ff. 11  Concerning the moderate wing cf. vol. I 311 and 275 as well as II 485 and 539f. above; for the radical wing vol. I 357ff. and 444f.; in general also Watt in: Festschrift Gibb 638ff.

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and heresiographers12 made use of the distinction between imāmat al-fāḍil and imāmat al-mafḍūl: the rule might either be awarded to the ‘excellent’, i.e. the best one, or it might be granted to the ‘less excellent’ one as long as he had the majority. Of course this model is already an expression of Shīʿite prejudice; Abū Bakr was ‘less excellent’ compared to ʿAlī. Its origins are presumably Zaydite, but Shayṭān al-Ṭāq already linked it to the Muʿtazila. Cf. the book title at Catalogue of Works IV a, no. 3. Qāḍī Nuʿmān recognised the theological meaning of the lexical pair (Sharḥ al-akhbār II 126, pu. ff.). We do not know when it first originated. Of course it would fit into Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s ideas (see vol. III 139f. above), but Shayṭān al-Ṭāq lived a generation before him. The argument over precedence as such is certainly older; regarding Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ (?) cf. vol. II 309 above). This would not happen to those13 who emphasised Abū Bakr’s precedence,14 but the Rāfāwiḍ, too, disagreed, the election being only the first of the things that did not sit well with their outlook.15 They rejected Abū Bakr altogether, together with the other two caliphs that preceded ʿAlī, ʿUmar and ʿUthmān.16 As long as the argument concerned ‘excellence’, the persons in question could be compared to one another; the catalogues of virtues that were compiled in this context were the first summaries of the necessary or desirable characteristics of a ruler.17 The Rāfiḍites, on the other hand, were not interested in a combination of certain qualities; the rule, the imamate (the sources use the same word for both), was inherited, a ‘testamentary’ bequest, and awarded by ‘appointment’ (naṣṣ).18 ‘Appointment’ was more than a mere metaphor of the descent from the prophet; it was a nomination and had to be witnessed as such.19 While 12  Thus e.g. Pseudo-Nāshīʾ (i.e. presumably Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb), Uṣūl al-niḥal 50, 12ff.; cf. Texts IX 12, XV 44, XVII 58, XXI 182 etc.), and Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār (cf. Mughnī XX1 267, 15ff. and earlier). 13  This did not correspond to the historical circumstances, either; Abū Bakr’s opponent at the yawm al-saqīfa had not been ʿAlī but Saʿd b. ʿUbāda (cf. Rotter, Zweiter Bürgerkrieg 4ff.). 14  Vol. II 135; also p. 148 above regarding Ibn Shabīb. Regarding Ḥasan al-Baṣrī cf. Jāḥiẓ, ʿUthmāniyya 123, 9f., and Ṭabarī, Tafsīr 3X 411, 6ff. 15  Cf. e.g., from a later Ismāʿīlite point of view, Ibn al-Walīd, Tāj al-ʿaqāʾid 76, 12ff/transl. Ivanov, A Creed of the Fatimids 41. 16  See vol. I 357ff. above. 17  See vol. III 139f. above. 18  See vol. I 446f. above. 19  Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 64. The Shīʿa’s antipodes, the ‘Bakrites’, also spoke of naṣṣ (see vol. II 136 above).

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the companions of the prophet might each possess some excellence when compared to the others, in the Rāfiḍite view they were all discredited by having played a part in the intrigue in which Abū Bakr and ʿUmar secured power for themselves over ʿAlī. Only very few, the founding members of the shīʿat ʿAlī, were except from this demonisation of the first community. We have already pointed out the consequences of this view of history elsewhere: the devaluation of the igmāʿ and the restriction of prophetic tradition to the ahl al-bayt. In a certain sense the Imāmite Shīʿa preserved old ideas here, too; the companions of the prophet were not regarded as ideal figures at first by others, either. Now, however, this was not matter-of-fact realism but ideology, in the same sense as the exaltation of the ṣaḥāba among the Sunnites. A conception of history that looked to the past was not really compatible with this approach, as is demonstrated by the new ‘myth of the end’ that emerged in the form of the ghayba and, even more, the ideal of the qāʾim (among the Ismāʿīlites).

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5.1.3 Challenging the Power After ʿAlī’s death the Shīʿites never held the power during the period discussed here. Their talk of legitimation was purely theoretical; in practice all they could do was stage revolts, like the Khārijites. If they spoke of legitimation they always had contesting the official power and seizing power in mind. This, too, was of course given religious justification. From the very beginning, dissidents of any colour linked their resistance to a call ‘to the book of God and the sunna of his prophet’,1 meaning that they wanted to realise the true Islam. Campaigning for this counted as amr bil-maʿrūf wal-nahy ʿan al-munkar in their eyes; the slogan spread quickly. The Muʿtazilites adopted it while they were still in opposition to the authorities, and retained it once they entered the caliphs’ service, for of course the authorities, too, set great store by being in harmony with ‘the book of God and the sunna of his prophet’ and ‘commanding what is right’. Interpretation followed: how does one command what is right? Using the sword, the tongue, or just the heart? Hadiths had paved the way in this context.2 As soon as they took up arms, a Quranic verse became relevant that shifted the balance slightly: sura 49:9, which recommends fighting those who are violent (al-fiʾa al-bāghiya) until they surrender.3 Subsequently it says that ‘God loves those who are just’; consequently those who fought the ‘violent ones’ (and usually reported their own feats), the ahl al-baghy, were often called ahl al-ʿadl or al-fiʾa al-ʿādila.4 Of course everyone could refer this to himself in theory, but the Quranic verse drew certain limits. It also said that one should try to make peace between the parties at war; this was not to the taste of revolutionaries. The emphasis was indeed on solving the conflict; consequently someone fighting against unjust authorities lost his legitimation as soon as the authorities ‘gave in’. Rebels thus did not usually employ the term baghy; one exception being the Khārijite poet ʿĪsā al-Khaṭṭī who called the Umayyads dhawī l-baghy wal-ilḥād, putting them politically as well as religiously in the wrong.5 The classic case for sura 49:9, however, was the battle of the camel. ʿAlī, it was believed, had treated Muʿāwiya’s party as fiʾa bāghiya; afterwards he agreed that an arbitration court should ensure a reconciliation. Not only the Imāmites gave ʿAlī right in this way:6 there was also a hadith that agreed, 1  Cf. the examples listed by Crone/Hinds, God’s Caliph 59ff.; also Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/112ff. 2  Vol. II 440ff., and p. 748f. above. 3  Thus e.g. vol. I 305 above. 4  Ibid. 210. Cf. e.g. Ibn Qudāma, Mughnī X 64, –5ff./VIII 108, –6ff. For another meaning of the same see p. 568 above; also p. 760. 5  Quoted by Madelung in EI2 VII 546a. 6  Kulīnī, Kāfī VIII 180, 9ff. after Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq.

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prophesying that ʿAmmār b. Yāsir, who fell at Ṣiffīn fighting for ʿAlī, would be killed by the fiʾa al-bāghiya.7 Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir came to a similar conclusion when he applied the Quranic verse to the Battle of the Camel: ʿAlī had been right to fight Ṭalḥa and Zubayr.8 In this instance the authorities played the part of the fiʾa al-ʿādila, but of course the political consequences of the first civil war meant that soon it was not a suitable model any more; Murjiʾites like Abū Ḥanīfa refused to decide which of the party was the ‘unjust’ one.9 Still, this applied to that single historical case. Overall it was agreed that the state had the monopoly of power and could consequently decide who were the ahl al-baghy; jurists regarded the ‘violent ones’ simply as ‘rebels’. This is the translation used by Lewis in Political Language 81f.; cf. also the material collected by J. Kraemer in: IOS 10/1980/48ff. Also Shaybānī, transl. Khadduri, Islamic Law of Nations 250ff.; Ibn Qudāma, Mughnī X 48ff./VIII 104ff.; Māwardī, Aḥkām al-sulṭāniyya 96, 5ff. Enger; Samarqandī, Tuḥfat al-fuqahāʾ III 424ff.; Ṭarsūsī, Tuḥfat al-Turk 118, 2ff. Sayyid (with quotations from Ḥanafite texts); but also Shīʿites like Qāḍī Nuʿmān, Sharḥ al-akhbār II 84ff. (in whose eyes fighting against the ahl al-baghy was equivalent even to jihād) or al-Ḥurr al-ʿĀmilī, Wasāʾil al-Shīʿa XI 54ff. Kh. Abou El Fadl has a good overview in Ahkam Al-Bughat. Irregular Warfare and the Law of Rebellion in Islam; in: Cross Crescent and Sword. The Justification and Limitation of War in Western and Islamic Tradition, J. T. Johnson and J. Kelsay eds. (New York 1990. Contributions to the Study of Religion, no. 27), p. 149ff. Under these circumstances the hadith about ʿAmmār b. Yāsir required special treatment (cf. Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat al-adilla 888, 14ff.; Ibn Taymiyya, Majmūʿ fatāwā XXXV 74ff.; also vol. II 632 above). Nonjuristic literature, such as Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s small monograph K. dhamm al-baghy (ed. N. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Khalaf, Riyad 1409/1988), sometimes ignores the political and religious connotations altogether. This also means that the basis on which to develop the right to resist was narrowing; this was true in particular for the Sunni world.10 The Khārijites had 7    Conc. I 203 a; cf. Veccia-Vaglieri in AIUON 4/1952/37ff. 8   Text XVII 58, q. 9   Text II 5, q. 10  In more detail Lewis, Political Language 91ff.; a wealth of material was collected by Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/108ff. Cf. also, slightly exaggerated, Tibi in: Fetscher/Münkler, Pipers Handbuch der politischen Ideen II 92.

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discredited militant criticism of the state in the eyes of the majority from the very first; they were the ‘rebels’ (bughāt) κατ᾿ ἐξοχήν.11 They had stylised the hijra as an attitude of internal denial, against the false religion,12 but ʿUmar had already re-interpreted it as a kind of military service in the garrison towns, and the Umayyads interpreted it along the same lines, directing it against the outside world instead.13 It is true that the amr bil-maʿrūf addressed internal criticism, but it was regarded as a solidary duty buttressing the public order, in which everyone was responsible for one another.14 Early Muʿtazilites like Aṣamm could take the view that a ruler could only expect loyalty against the ahl al-baghy as long as he himself was ‘just’.15 The Fiqh absaṭ, on the other hand, i.e. a Murjiʾite document, decided the dilemma in an entirely different way: the authorities must be supported even when they transgress in the fight against the ahl al-baghy.16 Ibn al-Mubārak, a dedicated supporter of jihād to the glory of Islam,17 claimed to be able to recognise a ‘Sunnite’ because he considers armed rebellion to be unlawful and will pray behind anyone, pious or sinful.18 The Nābiṭa, too, were defined as most particularly law-abiding in this respect.19 While there was one hadith among those they recognised as canonical which changed the tune: lā ṭāʿata li-makhlūqin fī maʿṣiyati l-khāliq, meaning ‘one must obey God more than humans’ (Acts 5:29), it was also known that the Qadarites had cited it, and Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ had already warned the caliph Manṣūr against a possible incorrect interpretation.20 The Quranic passage 26:150ff., to which this hadith presumably referred, is spoken by the prophet Ṣāliḥ and attacks a community of unbelievers. Even modern fundamentalists can only justify resistance against the state by declaring it unbelieving, ‘pharaonic’.21 This happened rarely in classical Islam.22

11  Cf. Kraemer, loc. cit. 12  See vol. I 9, also II 216, and p. 662 and 748 above. 13  Cf. Madelung in: REI 54/1986/225ff. 14  Basic information in Strothmann, Staatsrecht der Zaiditen 92f. 15  See vol. II 464 above; more decisively perhaps Najjār (see p. 181 above). Regarding the tyrants (salāṭīn jawara) cf. Schwartz, Ǧihād unter Muslimen 34. 16  See vol. I 241 above. 17  See vol. II 619f. above. 18  Text XIV 29, c. Cf. the traditions listed by Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/103. 19  Lambton, State and Government 63. 20  See vol. I 100 above. 21  See p. 748 above. 22  See p. 473, n. 60 above, and p. 795f. below.

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The well-known hadith of the ‘Ethiopian slave’ is only indirectly relevant to this context (cf. the materials collected by ʿAlī al-Ḥusaynī al-Mīlānī in: Turāthunā 7/1412, no. 1/43ff.). However, not even this was intended in a Khārijite way, as has been believed, but is in fact of Sunni origin (thus Crone in: BSOAS 57/1994/59ff.).

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5.1.4 Conferring and Holding Rulership According to the Sunni view, theoretically the power was not vested in the ruler but in the community; this was legitimised through the election. It is true that the name of the caliph does not appear on coins of the time before al-Mahdī;1 they only showed a religious formula. Here we see the attraction of the last of the concepts belonging in this chapter: shūrā ‘counsel, consultation’. This is once again a fundamentally pre-state concept as it presumed a localised, segmentary society; as such it could be promoted by different parties for different reasons. It might be seen as an election model; it is wellknown that ʿUmar settled his succession in this way. In such a case the Shīʿa would say that people agreed on someone ‘with whom everyone was content’ (al-riḍā), upon whose death another election would be necessary.2 On the other hand a shūrā could also be demanded against a ruler in office, in which case it implied his previous deposition. This was how the rebels proceeded against Walīd II;3 Jahm b. Ṣafwān would later demand the same in the case of Naṣr b. Sayyār.4 This gave rise to the question of whether a ruler who has been elected lawfully can stand again. The procedure had displayed pitfalls in the case of Ṣiffīn, and pointing out that the prophet, too, had called an arbitrator at the time of his quarrels with the Jewish tribes, was not helpful, either.5 As long as the shūrā was linked to the institution of the ḥakam, it remained rooted in the egalitarian tribal ethos of the pre-Islamic period, like the amr bil-maʿrūf or the ijmāʿ. Thus it is no surprise that the term soon took a different course. It had never been in any way ‘democratic’, as the electoral bodies, be they appointed by the authorities or demanded by the opposition, were always oligarchical in ­nature.6 This was what made it so easy to reduce the numbers needed; Sulaymān al-Raqqī thought that two competent people were enough to form a shūrā.7 This may have been part of the reason why Aṣamm, who had believed that an electoral body was suitable for resolving difficulties under the conditions of the early period, demanded that the election of a caliph in his 1  Cf. T. El-Hibri in: JESHO 36/1993/61f.; also in more detail J. Bacharach in: JAOS 113/1993/271ff. Interestingly the custom started with Manṣūr naming his son on coins as the successor to the throne, probably in order to show that he truly was the mahdī. 2  Cf. Crone in: Festschrift Lewis 95ff. 3  See vol. I 99 above. 4  See vol. II 556 above. 5  Text XVII 60, e. 6  Rotter pointed out the kinship between ʿUmar I’s shūrā and the Meccan mala‌ʾ, to which the most important clans of the city sent representatives (Zweiter Bürgerkrieg 12). 7  See vol. II 540 above.

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day required the consensus of all Muslims.8 Not even the electors’ power of decision was a given, as shūrā only meant ‘consultation’ and left open whether people consulted with one another,9 or whether someone consulted them. In the second case it might be the ruler,10 but it also applied to the qāḍī convening a consultation meeting.11 In these cases shūrā had nothing in common with an election any more; it was not a prerogative but a sign of gracious condescension.12 In the political practice this grew into a kind of crown council; it existed in the later Ottoman Empire as well as Qajar Iran,13 and is found in some places even today.14 It was not, however, usually a fixed institution; there were no ‘implementation rules’, and the consultation remained informal. The Quran did not contain any advice, either; the only position of authority discussed there is the imām.15 To this day the problem of delegating power and distributing public authority has not been resolved satisfactorily in the Islamic world.16 Consequently the subject has triggered a flood of secondary texts in the Sunni world in more recent times. Cf. the collection Al-shūrā fī l-Islām published by the Academy of Jordan in 1989, and, independently, Muhammad Zaman Marwat’s dissertation Al-Shura. An Analysis of Its Significance and the Need for Its Implementation and Institutionalization in the Contemporary Muslim World (Temple University 1990). ʿA. Dūrī, Al-dimūqrāṭiyya fī falsafat al-ḥukm al-ʿarabī (in: Al-mustaqbal al-ʿarabī 2/1979, no. 9/60ff.) comments cautiously on the few sources in which we find shūrā not only as an ideal but also as an institution. Two instances of shūrā in the fourth century are discussed by R. Mottahedeh in: Arabian Studies in Honour of Mahmoud Ghul 83ff. (overall identical 8  Cf. Text XIII 28, c, and Text 24; also vol. II 463f. above. 9   In present-day Afghanistan shūrā denotes the village council. 10  Thus once again stated by Aṣamm (Text XIII 34, i). 11  See vol. II 154 above. Especially in Islamic Spain; cf. Marín in: SI 62/1985/31ff., and Guichard, Les Musulmans de Valence et la Reconquête 312. [In general see Marín in EI2 IX 505f.]. 12  This is a typical example of the principle Bürgel emphasised when explaining Islamic government practice: sharing by submission (Allmacht und Mächtigkeit 65ff.). 13  Cf. EI2 V 1082ff. s. v. Mad̲ j̲lis al-S̲h̲ūrā, and Lewis, Meşveret in: Tarih Enstitütsü Dergisi 12/1981–2/775ff.; with reference to the Mamluk era briefly also Tyan, Institutions du droit public musulman II 178ff. 14  Thus e.g. in Jordan. Also consider the person of the princely councillor in mediaeval Europe (consul, consularius; cf. LdM VII 449ff. s. v. Rat). 15  Cf. the passages concerning the a‌ʾimma (sura 21:73, 28:5, 32:24). Abraham is an imām for all humans (sura 2:124); the Torah, too, is imām (sura 11:17 and 46:12). 16  Guichard states the complete absence of relevant regulations in Islamic Spain during the period of the Reconquista (Valence 338).

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in: Chibli Mallat (ed.), Islam and Public Law 19ff.). In some detail on the subject, and with reference to the historical dimension: R. Badry’s professorial dissertation Die zeitgenössische Diskussion um den islamischen Beratungsgedanken (shūrā) unter dem besonderen Aspekt ideengeschichtlicher Kontinuitäten und Diskontinuitäten (Tübingen 1995). ʿUmar’s shūrā model was never applied in practice again. After the Qadarites had firmly emphasised the free availability of rulership during the late Umayyad era under Yazīd III,17 there was no room for a discussion of forms of election under the early Abbasids. The times when it was possible to look among the ahl al-bayt for someone with whom ‘everyone was content’ were past. The Abbasid caliph was not elected: he inherited the power from his predecessor, and his family had the power thanks to their ancestor ʿAbbās who had been the prophet’s uncle. Under al-Mahdī the claim was derived for a time from the inheritance law directly: as the prophet had no living male descendants, and his father had been long dead, too, his uncle was his next heir – closer, certainly, than his cousin ʿAlī, whom even the Shīʿa called the legatee or ‘executor’ (waṣī), and who might at best have administered the part of the inheritance due to his wife Fāṭima as quota-heiress. Rulership was the prerogative of a family. The fact that Fāṭima was a quota-heiress never played any part in the debate; this was about power, to which a woman was not entitled. The well-known hadith according to which it was impossible to inherit from prophets (Conc. I 270b, and VII 174a) was ignored as well. Originally this had been Abū Bakr’s decision; in all probability neither the Shīʿites nor the Abbasids were particularly fond of it at the time (cf. my K. an-Nakṯ 32; concerning the issues in detail cf. D. Powers, Studies in Qurʾān and Ḥadīth 123ff.). According to Sunni law the paternal uncle excludes the descendants of another uncle, i.e. the cousins (such as ʿAlī) completely. According to the Shīʿite view, the opposite was true in most cases (cf. in detail Cilardo, Diritto ereditario islamico 140 and 143f.); but as this was a special regulation it had to be confirmed by the imām’s dicta. It was also relevant that ʿAbbās had been only the half-brother of ʿAlī’s father Abū Ṭālib: they had had different mothers (cf. Coulson, History of Islamic Law 115f.; Madelung in: Society and the Sexes 75; in general Cilardo, La rappresentazione nel diritto ereditario musulmano, in: Gli interscambi culturali e socio-economici fra l’Africa settentrionale e l’Europa mediterranea, Atti 17  Cf. vol. I 86ff.; also p. 555f. above.

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Congr. Intern. di Amalfi, 5–8 dicembre 1983, Naples 1986, p. 931ff., esp. 941). Manṣūr’s saying in his correspondence with al-Nafs al-zakiyya that women are not equal to uncles is presumably a polemical simplification. According to Sunni law daughter and uncle inherit together, according to Shīʿite law the daughter is the sole heir (Cilardo, Diritto 73). Cf. vol. II 336 and III 17f. above. Of course the radius of the family could be extended, as confirmed by the principle al-a‌ʾimma min al-Quraysh, which is presumably older than the abovementioned Abbasid legitimation, but we are unable to date it as yet. Ibn Qutayba traces it back to Abū Bakr, who might indeed have used it as an argument against Saʿd b. ʿUbāda – if indeed it was advisable in Medina to refer to the Quraysh so soon after the conquest of Mecca. However, Ibn Qutayba’s source is, once again, only Naẓẓām who knew the phrase as a hadith and noted with surprise that ʿUmar, who fought with Abū Bakr on the yawm al-saqīfa, said something else altogether on more than one occasion afterwards.18 He apparently does not trust the tradition. It looks slightly different in Ṭabarī’s version, according to which only one of the Anṣār supported his call to loyalty to Abū Bakr on this basis, without, however, putting the maxim into those very words.19 Baghdādī is thus justified in saying, much more cautiously, that the Anṣār agreed to Abū Bakr’s being the ruler for this reason.20 The maxim itself was also linked to Abū Ḥanīfa,21 he had been around when the power changed from the Umayyads to the Abbasids and might have been able to do justice to both dynasties and their claims to power. It was probably later still that the phrase became the key witness for political theory, namely when Abū Ḥanīfa’s pupil Abū Yūsuf became chief qāḍī under Hārūn al-Rashīd. At that time the Abbasids abandoned their inheritance theory, and the genealogists appeared on the scene in order to determine, surely in light of recent events, which families still belonged to the clan Quraysh – and were consequently eligible for government – and which ones did not.22 The argument over the right expression and the appropriate interpretation, on the other hand, is certainly older. By that time there was a number of 18  Ibn Qutayba, Ta‌ʾwīl mukhtalif al-ḥadīth 149, 11f. = 122, 7f./transl. Lecomte 137 < Naẓẓām, K. al-nakth, in Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Maḥṣūl II1 460, 2ff.; cf. Kohlberg, Ibn Ṭāwūs 170. 19  I 1842, 6f. Regarding the Anṣārī cf. Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Istīʿāb 172f. no. 193. Slightly differently Watt in EI2 V 435 a. 20   Uṣūl al-dīn 276, 8ff. 21  Thus, on the authority of Zurqān, Baghdādī, ibid. 275, 7f.; further sources see vol. I 243, n. 6 above. 22  Baghdādī, Uṣūl 276, 13ff.; cf. also vol. II 178 above.

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hadiths with the same message.23 In addition there was a version of Abū Bakr’s speech traced back to Zuhrī, in which al-a‌ʾimma min Quraysh was quoted as a prophetic dictum.24 Of course the Khārijites disagreed,25 but there was opposition in Kufa, too, although the maxim had been imported to Baghdad from here: Ḍirār b. ʿAmr pointed out that the members of powerful clans were difficult to depose even if they were guilty of arbitrary decisions.26 In Basra, in particular, people made conditions: if the Quraysh were the rulers, they – and not only the caliphs, but also the governors who were members of this family – should earn loyalty by being just rulers.27 Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī involved Basrans such as Abū Shamir as well as Abū Ḥanīfa and Ḍirār in an inner-Murjiʾite discussion on the subject.28 Jurists like Abū Yūsuf, or theologians visiting the Abbasid court, on the other hand, did not primarily think about who should be the ruler, but rather how to justify one’s loyalty to him. The result were contract theories in which the bayʿa as the oath of loyalty played a major part.29 The ruler guarantees the integration of society, consequently one must submit to him. More details would be added to this ideal, in particular under al-Ma‌ʾmūn. Like he predecessors he regarded himself as the prophet’s heir,30 and as the educator of his ‘flock’ (raʿiyya) as well,31 which was why the Risālat al-khāmis called him a leader entrusted with the right guidance (imām al-hudā).32 He does thus not rule 23  Cf. the versions in Suyūṭī, Ināfa fī rutbat al-khilāfa, eds. Arazi/El’ad in: IOS 8/1978/247ff., also ibid. 235; and Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/96ff. 24  Wāqidī in Balādhurī, Ansāb al-ashrāf I 582, 7f. Ḥamīdullāh. 25  Suyūṭī 248, 9f. 26  See vol. III 59ff. above; more details below. 27  Cf. Pseudo-Nāshī, Uṣūl al-niḥal 63 § 108/transl. vol. I 131, where this interpretation is described as ‘re-interpretation’ (e), while it is in the form of a normal hadith in Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad 1III 129, 1ff., and 183, –6ff. (with the Basran Anas b. Malik as the first transmitter; cf. also ibid. IV 421, 2ff.: after Abū Hurayra). The other canonical collections do not include the saying in its longer version. See also Kister inL JSAI 18/1994/127. 28  He depends on earlier heresiography (cf. the text from K. al-zīna quoted in ʿAbdallāh Sallūm Sāmarrāʾī, Al-ghulūw wal-firaq al-ghāliya fī l-ḥaraka al-islāmiyya 269, 1ff.). Suyūṭī, too, mentions the opposition of some Muʿtazilites in addition to that of the Khārijites, basing this information on Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ. 29  The word bayʿa implied a purchase contract in which loyalty was exchanged for protection. 30  Cf. the official missive with which Ma‌ʾmūn initiated the miḥna, in which the mawārīth al-nubuwwa that God granted the caliph are mentioned at the very beginning (Ṭabarī III 1112, 14). 31  This term is used in the same context shortly afterwards. It is very old (cf. the early Khārijite Text VIII 7, l), and was widely used later, too; cf. Bosworth in EI2 VIII 403ff. 32  The Risālat al-khāmis was written 198/814, twenty years before the miḥna; one of its other topics is the educational factor. Cf. Nagel, Rechtleitung 145ff., and in summary J. A. Nawas, Al-Ma‌ʾmūn. Miḥna and Caliphate 54f.

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through force, and neither does he have to arbitrate; rather, he influences his subjects with his superior insight. By virtue of being the educator he is the prophets’ immediate successor, his heir, as it were. It seems that Ḍirār b. ʿAmr had already asserted this;33 Abū l-Hudhayl and Naẓẓām adopted it.34 The idea is thus older than Ma‌ʾmūn. Education and exhortation are central categories in Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ’s Risāla fī l-ṣaḥāba,35 and the ta‌ʾdīb al-ʿāmma, pedagogically guiding the common people to their salvation (iṣlāḥ), is also mentioned repeatedly in the Iranian mirrors for princes, which were certainly familiar to Ibn al Muqaffaʿ as well as Ma‌ʾmūn.36 It became clear during the miḥna just how this ideal could be used to justify violence. As a consequence the anthropological premise on which it was based showed up more vividly; the pedagogical optimism rested on the belief in the weakness of normal human beings who are incapable of governing themselves. The people, Jāḥiẓ says, are predatory and ignorant; that is why prophets and rulers are needed.37 Similar words from Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm: humans do not rage against one another only because God in his wisdom never leaves them without an educator.38 Bishr b. al Muʿtamir compares them to wolves who are only intent on their own advantage,39 which takes us very close to the to the homo homini lupus motif we know from Hobbes. Bishr, however, adduces it as an excuse for his own failure: people do not listen to learned men. The reason for this was that he was on his own in his missionary endeavours; those who lived at court were not so easily discouraged. Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ had stated that the populace would not be knowledgeable about anything if God did not send good and pious people (khawāṣṣ min ahl al-dīn wal-ʿaql) to whom they might listen.40 The pessimistic view of the present in which there is no justice any more but only violence was familiar to him from the letter of Tansar he himself had translated into Arabic.41 When after centuries of bitter disappointments

33  See vol. III 59 above. 34  Thus after the same source (which does, however, overall generalise rather too much; Text XV 41, d). Regarding Jāḥiẓ see p. 130 above. 35  § 55 Pellat. 36  I am referring to the ʿAhd Ardashīr on which Ma‌ʾmūn based Wāthiq’s education (see vol. III 485 above), esp. p. 62, 6f., and 65, 7 in the context. Regarding the text in general cf. de Fouchécour, Moralia 67ff. 37  Lambton, State and Government 59 after the text in Pellat/Müller, Arabische Geisteswelt 104f. 38  Madelung, Qāsim 141f. Regarding Ma‌ʾmūn cf. also Sourdel in: REI 30/1962/44. 39  Vol. III 118 above. 40   Risāla fī l-ṣaḥāba § 57 Pellat; also Lambton, State and Government 52f. 41  Boyce, The Letter of Tansar 36 and 39.

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everyone had lost hope of a just ruler,42 the context was interpreted to mean that tyranny was still better than humans being left to their own devices and attacking each other. Yaʿqūbī, a Shīʿite with no high opinion of the authorities in any case, however, already attributed this maxim to ʿAmr b. al-ʿĀṣ.43

42  Thus in the Mamluk era Najm al-Dīn al-Ṭarsūsī, the Ḥanafite chief qāḍī of Damascus; cf. his Tuhfat al-Turk 121, 9. 43  See Haarmann in: Festschrift Falaturi 262ff.; in general also Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/101f.

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5.1.5 Withdrawal of Rulership and Limitation of Rulership Experiencing tyranny also ensured, in fact, that the allegedly ignorant mob ascribed a different position to the caliph after the miḥna: he was no longer the educator, but subject to the divine law like them, and the law was not administered by the caliph but by the scholars whom one could ask for advice in everyday life. This does not mean people wished to influence his election; rulership was accepted. Even a Zaydite like Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm agreed: that authorities are needed is made clear by the Quran.1 Even so, it was occasionally imagined that it might become necessary to depose the caliph or even that the state was not needed because humans could govern themselves. After all, the population of Baghdad had governed itself during the troubles after Amīn’s death, even raising an army under the command of Sahl b. Salāma.2 Sahl b. Salāma appears to have had ties to the Muʿtazila. Models of this kind had indeed been evolved by Muʿtazilite theologians. A ‘community without authorities’3 could always be imagined as Utopia. A treaty first had to be entered into, and the civil wars had shown that treaties can be terminated, too. The necessity of rulership could also be used to legitimise an unlawful regime, as could be learnt – independently of how one regarded the present – from the fall of the Umayyads. They had invoked this necessity4 but had been ousted all the same. From the point of view of the pious opposition of the time they had not been imāms but merely ‘kings’.5 Kingship, however, had negative connotations, presumably because the Umayyads had imposed the ‘state’ on the Arabs, a freedom-loving – or possibly anarchic – people.6 And whether circumstances had improved under the Abbasids was doubtful. They themselves, of course, believed so;7 but tradition does not mention anywhere that ‘kingship’ would give way to a more ideal form of government. The Ḥanbalite Ibn Kathīr would later use the phrase mulk Banī ʿAbbās throughout his ­history.8 Independently of whether one argued in an ‘enlightened’–rationalistic fashion or based on the conception of history (and the two did not have to be mutually exclusive), 1  Madelung, Qāsim 141f. 2  Vol. III 186f. above. 3  Thus the well-known title of a study by Wellhausen who uses it to characterise circumstances in pre-Islamic tribal society. 4  Kumayt, Hāshimiyyāt II v. 38; also Nagel, Untersuchungen zur Entstehung des abbasidischen Kalifats 86. 5  H T 183; vol. I 173 above. Goldziher, Muh. Stud. II 29ff. provides fundamental information. 6   It would be worth researching whether the Byzantine βασιλεύς was also taken into consideration. 7  Goldziher, Muh. Stud. II 53ff. 8  Cf. Arazi/Elʿad in: IOS 8/1978/236, with further material. The two authors correctly point out that mulk is often used quite neutrally, e.g. in Ṭabarī’s Ta‌ʾrīkh al-rusul wal-mulūk.

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the result was always the same: as little public authority as possible, or only as much as necessary.9 Once again we are looking at different camps. First we encounter some of the theologians who regarded the caliph as an educator: Ḍirār, and later Thumāma and Jāḥiẓ. The starting point for their deliberations was the case that the ruler did not enjoy his subjects’ trust any more. Interestingly they did not demand that the ruler should call them to account for their unruliness, but looked for a way of avoiding bloodshed. And the solution they found was at the expense of the ruling dynasty, as they said that the best ruler would be someone who did not have a power base, certainly not an Arab who was supported by his clan; then the problem would be resolved in no time. The phrase al-a‌ʾimma min Quraysh was thus, as we have seen, invalidated; a ‘Nabataean’ would have as much claim to the throne as an Arab. Of course nobody s­ eriously intended to champion a Nabataean caliph; Ḍirār and Thumāma were Arabs themselves. In fact, Ḍirār’s argument mainly referred to the paradigmatic past: it would have been better if ʿUthmān had been deposed without opposition; Muʿāwiya, too, did not really deserve the caliphate. In the present, however, there was no reason not to maintain the ideal of the ruler guiding his flock.10 Even so, it is remarkable how this Utopia was developed further elsewhere. A ruler, we read, is needed only in an emergency, for instance in a war; on the whole, the community would be able to do without him. Of course it must abide by the Quran; the scripture contains enough guidance to establish a working commonwealth. Without saying so directly – and after all we have only doxographical summaries – the implication is that the power lies with those who are able to interpret the scripture, namely with jurists and theologians. The ruler is only an executive organ appointed by the community – rather like the ‘judge’ in the Old Testament. In this way potestas and auctoritas were separate; and the status of scholars was raised in the way to which Sunnites and Shīʿites alike would later aspire. One of those who arranged things in this way was Naẓẓām.11 One wonders how he came to do so. It is unlikely that only the burgeoning self-confidence of his class spurred him on, but it would be rather far-fetched to suggest that he had tribal structures in mind. Of course for instance the Aws and Khazraj, before they called Muḥammad to Medina, had frequently appointed their generals ad hoc only – in fact, there had been no permanent authority among them 9  We are familiar with this postulate in the context of the political philosophy of liberalism, such as Wilhelm von Humboldt or the young Fichte. 10  See vol. III 59ff. above; regarding Thumāma ibid. 166; regarding Jāḥiẓ p. 114 and 711 above. 11  See vol. III 451 above.

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at all,12 but this was not the kind of past that Naẓẓām, who was not an Arab and had grown up in the city, would have considered worth emulating. Among the Khārijites, however, the model had lived on. Najda b. ʿĀmir’s followers believed that a community did not need a ruler as long as it abided by the Quran.13 In Iraq the Ibāḍiyya had demonstrated with its jamāʿat al-muslimīn how dignitaries who were scholars at the same time could direct the fortunes of a trading empire. Naẓẓām’s direct inspiration was probably Aṣamm, as the latter was familiar with the Ibāḍite system. He is the man whom even the latest sources mention as the one on the ‘far left’ who believed on principle – or under the stated conditions – that rulership was unnecessary.14 At the same time he insisted that once a ruler had been chosen, one could not withdraw one’s allegiance; this, to him, was a corollary of the binding character of the consensus.15 Aṣamm had also understood that the model was better suited to smaller, more manageable, communities than to a world empire. The conclusion at which he arrived is once again characteristic: he felt compelled to advocate decentralisation.16 He had been a witness to Hārūn al-Rashīd dividing this empire between his sons; his suggestion was thus relevant. A century earlier the Medinan jurist Saʿīd b. al-Musayyab (d. 94/713) had refused to swear the bayʿa to two of ʿAbd al-Malik’s sons at the same time, and while the father was still living.17 Naẓẓām, on the other hand, survived Aṣamm by a generation and thus experienced how anarchy broke out after Amīn’s murder in Baghdad, with the citizens seeking safety in vigilante organisations. At that time scholars administered the law without having been appointed by the state: people were indeed living in a society without a caliph.18 As we know, this state of affairs was short-lived. The scholars appear to have justified their actions with the principle of amr bil-maʿrūf; but as soon as Ma‌ʾmūn had the situation under control he took steps against it.19 The idea of dividing the empire had fallen out of favour, too; Kaʿbī theorised later that if more than one ruler was elected lawfully, they should draw lots.20 However, 12  Cf. Hasson in: Arabica 36/1989/21. 13  Ashʿarī, Maq. 125, 11f.; Abū ʿAmmār, Mūjaz II 233, 3ff., where this is firmly rejected. 14  Cf. Text XIII 33 with commentary. 15  Vol. II 463f. above. 16  Ibid. 464f. 17  Fasawī I 473, 5f. 18  See vol. III 186f. above; also Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ X 150. 1ff. 19  See vol. II 441 and III 187 above. At that time the office of ṣāḥib al-sūq changed to that of muḥtasib (cf. EI2 III 487 a). 20  Abū l-Muʿīn al-Nasafī, Tabṣirat 826, pu. f.

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Wāthiq was said to have recognised the relevance of scholars to the extent of assigning religious advisers to his officials.21 This may be a myth and wishful thinking,22 although it would have had some inner logic during the miḥna. After all, in sura 24:55 God promised ‘those of you who believe and do righteous deeds that he will surely make you successors on earth (la-yastakhlifannahum fī l-arḍ)’; this could more easily be referred to the pious than to the caliphs.23 Another question was who was still comfortable playing this part. More than a few Muʿtazilites did not want to have anything to do with the state any more. Hardly any of them had been ‘court theologians’ in any case;24 it seems that they never supported the Abbasids’ inheritance theory.25 A strongly ascetic element included in their philosophy had ensured from the first that they never came too close to the corruption of the world. This reached its peak with those whom Pseudo-Nāshiʾ called the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila. Their dismissal of the world included not only the ‘state’ but also trade and gainful employment: they found the entire web of rulership and money suspicious. They were an urban movement; gainful employment to them meant merchants and possibly craftspeople, but not farmers. A hadith had taught them the market is the place where Satan raises his banner.26 The axiom that the ruler had a merely regulatory function and must be elected ad hoc acquired its own special emphasis. The Islamic ecumene was not an idyll any more, in which the caliph might not be needed; on the contrary, it was deeply corrupt, a ‘house of unbelief’ or of ‘sin’, where rulership is usually usurped. This was where the harsh phrase of the ‘kings’ circulated.27

21  See p. 53 above. 22  The same motif also occurs, in a mythical context, in Text X 2, i. It recalls the American fundamentalist Tim La Haye’s saying: ‘I’ll tell you what is wrong with America. We don’t have enough of God’s ministers running the country’ (D. Saperstein, Fundamentalist Involvement in the Political Scene. Analysis and Response, in: N. J. Cohen (ed.), The Fundamentalist Phenomenon, Grand Rapids 1990, p. 218). 23  The first one (?) to refer it to the rulers was the Medinan Muḥammad b. Kaʿb al-Quraẓī (regarding him see vol. II 770 above); it may have been meant in support of the Umayyads (cf. Sufyān al-Thawrī, Tafsīr 185, 3f.). The fact that istakhlafa probably has an entirely different meaning (cf. Paret’s translation) is irrelevant in the context. 24  We do not have traditions concerning political theory from some of them, such as Muʿammar; Thumāma, the ‘court theologian’ par excellence, was rather reserved in his teachings. 25  As emphasised clearly by F. Jadʿān, Al-miḥna 267ff. 26  Muslim, Faḍāʾil al-ṣaḥāba 100 = p. 1906, 5ff.; cf. Ritter, Meer der Seele 52. 27  Ashʿarī, Maq. 464, 2ff.

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At first the Sufis had simply followed their waraʿ, the reluctance to become involved with anything dubious at all (shubha), such as the ‘state’ (al-sulṭān). No-one was to take wages from the state,28 or serve it as a soldier;29 indeed, one should not even eat anything grown on the royal domains,30 or enter a bath house furnished with the money of members of the government and consequently built on unlawfully acquired land.31 After the miḥna the Muʿtazilites made the additional experience that in some places the authorities entered into agreements with non-Muʿtazilite, ‘heretical’ groups. Baghdad and Egypt, Jubbāʾī said, were ‘places of unbelief’ (dār kufr), as one could not live there without having to profess the eternal duration of the Quran or determinism;32 he lived in ʿAskar Mukram himself, among fellow believers.33 Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir had made similar remarks, but he had been concerned primarily with the moral rather than the dogmatic aspect.34 They both limited the Sufis’ refusal on principle in their own way. The Sufis’ attitude led to a dead end, although they understood many aspects of historical and political reality correctly. When they added criticism of the prophet, i.e. the educator par excellence, to their criticism of the ruler, they overstepped the boundaries of propriety.35 The Muʿtazila’s political thought was noticeably losing its momentum. There could be no doubt in the long run that rulership (imāma) was necessary for a commonwealth to function; brains continued to be racked over how best to prove this necessity. Soon the philosophers would be successful competitors with the theologians when it came to political writings.

28  A Sufi who violated this code of honour would be noticeable; cf. Tanūkhī, Nishwār almuḥāḍara II 359. 29  See p. 79 above. Money received from a soldier was considered impure as it might have been unlawfully acquired (cf. the story in Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb al-madārik II 316, pu. ff.). 30  Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb II 295, –9ff./transl. Gramlich III 716. 31  For this reason the jurist Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbd al-Ḥakam in Fusṭāṭ did not set foot in the Ḥammām al-Iṣṭabl which belonged to the Umayyads (Khushanī, Ṭabaqāt alfuqahāʾ wal-muḥaddithīn 46, 14ff.). However, when he took this stand the Abbasids had long taken over. – On the subject more generally see also Gedankenwelt des Muḥāsibī 101ff.; M. Marín, Inqibāḍ ʿan al-sulṭān. ʿUlamāʾ and Political Power in al-Andalus, in: Saber religioso y poder politico (Madrid 1994), p. 127ff.; Kister in: JSAI 18/1994/116ff.; ʿAthamina, The ʿUlamāʾ in the Opposition. The ‘Stick and Carrot’ Policy in Early Islam, in: IQ 36/1982/153ff. 32  Ashʿarī, Maq. 464, 2ff.; see also p. 272 above regarding Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ṣaymarī. 33  See p. 274f. above. 34  See p. 66 above; also p. 64. 35  See p. 103 and 383f. above.

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Concerning the oldest texts of this kind cf. F. Rosenthal, Abū Zayd alBalkhī on Politics, in: Fs. Lewis 287ff., esp. 295ff. Sarakhsī composed a K. adab al-mulūk even before Abū Zayd, but it is not certain whether the extant text with this attribution is authentic (id. in: EI2 IX 35). – Regarding the question of which basis is needed to prove the necessity of rulership cf. Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, ShNB II 308, 3ff., and the information provided by Madelung, Qāsim 143. Most Basrans from Jubbāʾī onwards were convinced that the Quran was the only possible foundation. Jāḥiẓ, on the other hand, and the people of Baghdad after him, as well as Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, were convinced that it was possible to demonstrate rationally how many advantages would arise from a community united under one leadership. The Imāmite Shīʿa followed this line, with only a slight shift in emphasis.

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The Organisation of Teaching and Studying

The wider influence of theology schools is not as easily discernible as that of legal madhāhib. Jurisprudence was concerned with positions and sinecures; anyone who held the office of judge somewhere, and even someone who only provided legal expert opinions privately, could expect to be included in biographical works. Theology, on the other hand, was concerned with spiritual influence, which was not tied to a specific profession or institution. We learn of influential personalities, and they are in fact introduced as ‘heads of schools’ (ra‌ʾīs/ruʾasāʾ), but it is difficult to discover who made up the rank and file. Theologians gave lectures, but not always in the mosque;1 we would imagine the meetings of the ‘corporation’ (σωματει̃α) hosted by Naẓẓām as having taken place in a distinguished citizen’s, or indeed Naẓẓām’s own, house.2 People regarded themselves as the pupils of one particular master whose ‘circle’ (ḥalqa) they were part of; this remained the case even when dedicated places of study, the madrasas, became available for the established subjects.3 In the early days of theology these teaching circles were part of a larger informal organisation: there were ‘brothers’4 in all the cities – in the case of the Muʿtazila even in India – to whom one could write letters and who knew whom to consult in complex religious matters.5 There were always one or two among the local followers who would assist the head of the school; they were called ghilmān, ‘assistants’, who earnt a little money, and might also have lived in the master’s house. Their duties are never described clearly; sometimes they had to buy the rolls for a picnic, just like a student assistant might at a university nowadays.6 They were probably usually quite young; once someone had been promoted to colleague, he would be called ṣāḥib, ‘companion’.

1  Cf. e.g. vol. II 410 above. 2  See vol. III 324 above. We should not imbue the mosques with too much ‘holiness’; Leo Africanus reports that at his time, during the first half of the sixteenth century, the alchemists, too, met once weekly in the Qarawiyyīn mosque in Fes (Descrittione dell’Africa, transl. Schubert-Engelschall 129). 3  Cf. Chamberlain, Knowledge and social practice in medieval Damascus 75ff.; regarding the riyāsa in those days see ibid. 154f. 4  Cf. Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 276, –6f.; also vol. V 136 (of the German edition). 5  See p. 6, 277, and 285 above; also Catalogue of Works XXIV, no. 9, where the ‘brothers’ from eastern Iran are called ahl al-Khurāsān. 6  Thus Jāḥiẓ as Naẓẓām’s assistant (see vol. III 458 above). A nature philosopher such as Abū l-Ashʿath, who had several assistants (see vol. II 42 above), might have required assistance when conducting alchemical experiments.

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G. Makdisi translates as ‘fellow’, using the double meaning to indicate that this was tied to an academic position, too (The Rise of Colleges 30, 92, 111, 175, etc.). He interprets the ṣāḥib as a ‘graduate student’ beginning to take part in disputations (ibid. 110 and 128); occasionally he calls him an ‘assistant’, too (192). However, this referred to legal training and certainly to a later period. In the beginning the denotation of ṣāḥib was much wider, demonstrated by the case of the ṣaḥāba of the prophet whom Makdisi cites in comparison several times (ibid. 128 and 140). He was simply a ‘follower’ or ‘supporter’ who might, of course, have been a pupil, too (cf. vol. II 456 and 728 above as well as Text XXI 180; also vol. II 458 and 694 and III 316). The meaning ‘pupil’ was secondary, as demonstrated by the fact that instead of a person one might ‘follow’ a concept or thing, as in ṣāḥib sunna (p. 761 above) or the well-known aṣḥāb al-maʿārif (vol. III 185 and p. 125f. above). A ṣāḥib is on the same level: someone who is of the same opinion; consequently it can also refer to a ‘master’ or ‘teacher’ (cf. Kaʿbī, Qabūl al-akhbār 213, –9f., where Saʿīd b. Abī ʿArūba speaks of his ṣāḥib, and his ṣāḥib’s ṣāḥib, from whom he inherited his Qadarite views). Regarding the circumstances within the Muʿtazila cf. Heemskerk, Pain and Compensation 28ff. In general Heinrichs in: EI2 VIII 830f.; Makdisi, Ṣuḥba et riyāsa dans l’enseignement medieval, in: Fs. Anawati/Gardet 207ff., and Arioli in: B. Scarcia-Amoretti, Onomastica e trasmissione del sapere nell’Islam medieval (Rome 1992), p. 6ff.; concerning the later period also Chamberlain 120ff. and Berkey, Transmission of Knowledge in Medieval Cairo 23ff. Ghilmān were not found among scholars only but also among poets (cf. e.g. Agh. I 190, 7, regarding ʿUmar b. Abī Rabīʿa). Regarding ghilmān in the military cf. the article G̲ h̲ulām in EI2 II 1079ff.); concerning ghulām = ‘pageboy, squire’ cf. Text X 2, c. Mālik b. Anas had an assistant who arranged the material of the Muwaṭṭaʿ in chapters for him – a greatgrandson of Zubayr b. al-ʿAwwām and thus a much-respected Arab (Ibn Ḥazm, Jamhara 125, 8f.). Concerning the situation among oriental Jews cf. Goodblatt, Rabbinic Instruction in Sasanian Babylonia 272ff. The ra‌ʾīs had an obligation to his aṣḥāb. A lawyer like Aṣamm was expected to find employment for them;7 in propitious circumstances, as for instance among the Ḥanafites in eastern Iran, this might develop into a vast network of ‘livings’. Abū l-Hudhayl distributed the allowance he received from the court among his 7  See vol. II 452 above.

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followers,8 rather like a present-day member of the German national parliament who will pass on a portion of his expense allowance to his party. Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir, conversely, received zakāt from his ‘brothers’; he appears to have worked as a freelance jurist and not earned very much.9 The Iraqi Shīʿites used their zakāt to provide for their own theological schools,10 diverting the money from that which they sent to the imāms.11 This gave them influence: a theologian who did not agree with the consensus would soon find himself out of funds.12 Frequently the zakāt was not fiscally regulated, after all, and those opposing the government would always consider how to better use tax monies. Later, too, it was not a rare occurrence for people to bring their zakawāt or ṣadaqāt to a scholar for him to distribute among his needy followers or pupils;13 these were presumably voluntary donations. Around 220/835 the Shīʿites had introduced the khums; every member of the community would deliver 20% of their income to the imām.14 When dogmatic arguments broke out within the community Faḍl b. Shādhān 9d. 260/874) ensured that this money would be retained for the time being.15 They were not recoverable as they were paid in accordance with one’s ‘loyalty of category’, as Mottahedeh called it, i.e. the solidarity within a certain group. Of course there were similar arrangements in the self-administration of the ahl al-dhimma. The Christians paid their clerics directly; the head of the Ḥarrānians collected a tax.16 In a Jewish environment the yeshībhā (Aram. methibhtā) showed a number of similarities.17

8   See vol. III 229 above. Jubbāʾī, too, used the revenues from his estates in Jubbā to support his students (Tanūkhī, Nishwār I 221, 9ff.). 9   See p. 64 above. 10  Kashshī 285, 4. 11  See vol. III 103 above. Some of them appear to have made mushāraka deals with the imām (see vol. I 413 above). 12  See vol. I 455 above. 13  Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership 162. 14  Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation 12ff. 15  Ibid. 39. 16  Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist 389, 10. Regarding the educational system of Syrian Christians cf. N. V. Pigulevskaja, Sirijskaja srednevekovaja škola; in: Palestinkij Sbornik 15/1966/130ff. 17  Cf., once again, Goodblatt’s study (esp. 45ff.; concerning the Hebrew or Aramaic term p. 63). However, he is entirely focussed on the technical terminology and does not include information regarding the structure of the schools. A different point of view is provided by Neusner, History of the Jews in Babylonia IV 278ff., and V 133ff., which also includes a comparison with contemporary Christian schools in Mesopotamia (III 195ff.). Cf. also Goitein, Jewish Education in Muslim Countries, based on records from the Cairo Geniza; Jerusalme 1962 (Hebrew).

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Teaching activities were pleasantly ‘unregulated’. No-one was forced to study or to teach; people met in ‘sessions’ (majlis),18 in which higher age or greater experience determined everyone’s rank.19 Calling this ‘private schools’ would be an exaggeration.20 Each teacher was an island; there is no indication that the ra‌ʾīs of a ḥalqa also had administrative duties as appears to have been the case for the Jewish rēsh methibhtā who was, after all, the president of an academy.21 There were no curricula, and the subject matter was determined by interest, with the result that legal questions in the widest sense, including rituals and the doctrine of sin, were most important. The lessons followed similar rules to the distribution of expert legal opinions. The needs of the community might lead to more specific sub-divisions; among the Basran Ibāḍites there were some majālis accessible to all members of the community22 which dealt with theological and juristic issues, while others were dedicated to training missionaries (ḥamalat al-ʿilm).23 Considering this close tie with the community it is unlikely that payment was demanded for teaching; Ibāḍite scholars were usually wealthy merchants, and not asking for payment for religious knowledge was generally considered to be more distinguished.24 However, we must be careful not to generalise.25 Circumstances were not like those at the future madrasas where everything was managed financially;26 after all, there were no institutions as yet. Still, 18  The Arabic word corresponds etymologically to Hebrew yeshībhā. Goitein considers yeshībhā in turn to have been a translation of Gr. συνέδριον (Goldblatt 66). 19  A collection of instances for majlis and ḥalqa from juristic literature may be found in Calder, Studies in Early Muslim Jurisprudence 166ff. 20  There was a school for orators in Basra that was led by a tribe’s khaṭīb, but it is possible that it accepted only members of this tribe (Jāḥiẓ, Bayān I 135, 9f.; also vol. III 121 above, and Blachère, Histoire de la littérature arabe I 731, n. 4). 21  Goodblatt 76. 22  I.e. not to the general public without restrictions. Meetings also took place in private houses; in some cases rich (widowed?) women offering their estates (see vol. II 233 above; also Savage in: Bull. BriSMES 17/1990/8). 23  Khulayfāt, Nashʾat al-ḥaraka al-Ibāḍiyya 106ff.; Khulayfāt also mentions the majālis of the executive committee which, however, are not part of this context as they discussed organisational matters of the daʿwa. Cf. also Ennami, Studies in Ibāḍism I 104ff. 24  See vol. II 621 or III 114 above. Junayd wrote a letter to Abū ʿUthmān al-Makkī, impressing upon him not to take any money for instruction – albeit in mysticism in his case (Deladrière, Enseignement spiritual 106). This was called ‘teaching for the love of God (lillāh)’ (see vol. II 621 above), or ‘on account (iḥtisāban; sc. in the otherworld)’; cf. Berkey, Transmission 87. According to the Mishnah people did not ask for payment in the judge’s office and for being court witnesses (Neusner, Language as Taxonomy 166). 25  TB X 160, 14f. tells us that a lecture ‘privatissime et gratis’ was a rare occurrence. 26  Regarding the salaries of scholars at the time and the tuition fees they asked cf. Makdisi, Rise of Colleges 159ff., and Rise of Humanism 242ff. When the Niẓāmiyya was founded in

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some scholars held a monopoly, and in the religious subjects, in particular hadith, demand was high.27 It was said mockingly of one of Abū Hurayra’s pupils that he would deliver 70 hadiths on the spot if someone gave him a penny, meaning that he was not too concerned with the authenticity of his material as long as he was paid.28 On the other hand the requests and pestering for reliably witnessed prophetic dicta might have got on anyone’s nerves.29 Aʿmash was said to have stopped going to the barber as he feared his garrulousness.30 Circumstances looked different once the authorities became involved; religious policy had always been linked to the ‘department of education’. During the Umayyad era the quṣṣāṣ had become a kind of clergy;31 many traditionists, qurrāʾ etc. received a pension.32 Later, under the Abbasids, the mutakallimūn were sponsored above all, at least until the end of the miḥna. Ministry officials (kuttāb) would sometimes be entrusted with theological correspondence,33 but frequently they engaged in kalām out of interest, perhaps in order to debate with those of different faiths, or to halt the influence of the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth.34 The situation of judges was similar, Ḍirār is a good example,35 as is Ibn Abī Duwād. The caliph’s court was happy to award particular honours. Theologians were appointed as ambassadors – probably because they were best able to defend their faith; after all, when a Muslim received an official invitation to Baghdad, scholars in Transoxiana were said to have gone into mourning because scholarship could now be bought (Nahrawālī in Wüstenfeld, Chroniken der Stadt Mekka III 174, 11ff.). 27  Cf. e.g. vol. II 488. 28  Dhahabī, Mīzān no. 9701 = IV 426, 9. ‘Penny’ translates the word fils. Cf. also vol. I 217 and II 733 above. 29  See vol. II 430, and I 123 above. 30  Dhahabī, Ta‌ʾrīkh al-Islām VI 77, –6ff. = 2Ṭabaqa XV, p. 165, 15ff. 31  See vol. I 15 and 17 above; Maqrīzī, Khiṭaṭ II 253, –5ff. after Layth b. Saʿd. In general Jūda in: Dirāsāt ta‌ʾrīkhiyya 33–34/1989/105ff., and Athamina in: SI 76/1992/53ff. 32  Cf. the examples in Ibn Ḥanbal, ʿIlal 120 no. 716 = 386 no. 2574; also vol. II 47, n. 11, and III 229 above. In some cases, such as e.g. Ḥasan al-Baṣrī, it is difficult to determine whether this was based on military service after all (ibid.). Gifts – or, as we might say, ‘prizes’ – were customary as well (see vol. II 402 or III 171 and 193 above). 33  Cf. e.g. vol. III 28f. above. Could Ghaylān al-Dimashqī’s lost Rasāʾil, which presumably contained theological arguments among other things (see vol. I 153 above), have been composed at the request of the authorities? 34  Among the theologically versed kuttāb were Thumāma (vol. III 173 above) and the younger Iskāfī (see p. 88 and 91 above). Regarding the training of the kuttāb in general cf. Makdisi, Rise of Humanism 283f. Concerning the expenses the Abbasid authorities thought justified for scholars, physicians, entertainers etc., cf. Ḍāyfallāh Yaḥyā al-Zahrānī, Al-nafaqāt wa-idāratuhā fī l-dawla al-ʿabbāsiyya, Mecca 1986. 35  See vol. III 35 above. We do not know how much of his work was composed at the request of the authorities.

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a religious debate in a country of unbelievers, he could hardly refuse.36 The mutakallimūn might also be considered as tutors for princes, but philologists, poets or historians beat them to it;37 a prince was better off with knowledge of language, poetry and history.38 Teaching circles might develop into centres of political agitation. The Muʿtazilites were the first besides the Ibāḍites who devoted themselves to becoming missionaries to their own people; among the texts linked to Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ one was a kitāb fī l-daʿwa.39 We have shown, using the examples of the uprising in AH 145 and the expulsion of the poet Ibn Munādhir, the degree to which they were able to stage concerted events during their heyday,40 but even at the end of the third century they still had quṣṣāṣ in Basra who spread their teachings among the populace; many people continued to profess the khalq al-Qurʾān at that time.41 When its opponents persuaded the governor to issue a prohibition one of the quṣṣāṣ, a certain Ismāʿīl al-Ṣaffār, was able to round up more than a thousand supporters to take action against it.42 However, when Abū Hāshim’s sister canvassed for the Muʿtazila among the women, she was apparently only trying to establish a ‘Bible study group’; it seems there were women’s organisations at the time as well.43 In Kufa there had been fistfights between students of different teaching sessions (majālis).44 It is well known that the Ḥanbalites in particular had their people patrol the streets of Baghdad later; there were probably ‘students’ among these, too. Solidarity would be guaranteed by shared principles or manifestos. The Muʿtazila’s uṣūl al-khamsa were such principles,45 as were later Sunni ʿaqāʾid.46 All the same, in a teaching environment the wider context was often lost. With all the squabbling over individual issues it is barely perceptible in a summa 36  See vol. III 28 and 97f. above; well-known instances are Shaʿbī (cf. GAS 1/277) and, from a later time, Bāqillānī (cf. Nagel, Festung des Glaubens 119). 37  Cf. A. Dietrich in: REI 44/1976/93ff. Kindī was Aḥmad b. al-Muʿtaṣim’s tutor, Ibn Abī Duwād may have been Wāthiq’s (see vol. III 532 above); the former, however, because of his fame as a philosopher, and the latter because he was an expert in the Arab past, or because he was a jurist. 38  Chess might also have been taught, and even medicine and geometry, but not theology (cf. the way in which Ma‌ʾmūn’s father-in-law Ḥasan b. Sahl defined the ādāb: Dietrich, ibid. 92). 39  Catalogue of Works IX, no. 11. 40  Vol. II 328 and 444f. above. 41  Tanūkhī, Faraj baʿd al-shidda II 33, 8. 42  Ibid. 32, 4ff.; cf. Tanūkhī’s description of the same event in Nishwār al-muḥāḍara II 208, 7f. 43  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 330, 10ff. 44   Yaqtatilūna fī lʿaṣabiyya; Kashshī 252, 1f. They were probably Sunnites and Shīʿites. 45  See p. 400 and vol. III 240 above. 46  Cf. e.g. vol. II 714; also p. 763 above.

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such as Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s Mughnī, which was the result of a dictation.47 In fact he wrote a brief summary entitled K. al uṣūl al-khamsa.48 Elsewhere, however, an overview is easier from the periphery: for instance in the K. uṣūl al-ʿadl wal-tawḥīd, composed by an unknown author under the name of Qāsim b. Ibrāhīm,49 or a treatise by al-Hādī ilā l-ḥaqq that was given the title Kitāb fīhi maʿrifat Allāh min al-ʿadl wal-tawḥīd wa-taṣdīq al-waʿd wal-waʿīd wa-ithbāt al-nubuwwa wal-imāma fī l-nabī wa-ālihī.50 Leaving aside the fact that their writings have not survived in any case, not even the early heads of the school wrote much on the uṣūl al-khamsa: Abū l-Hudhayl did, of course,51 but only Hishām al-Fuwaṭī followed him.52 Murdār may have been the first to compose a K. uṣūl al-dīn,53 Jāḥiẓ then wrote one, too,54 and Iskāfī wrote K. jumal qawl ahl al-ḥaqq.55 Overall energy was most likely to be channelled into polemic and refutations,56 at first directed at particular groups,57 but then increasingly against individuals.58 This personalisation is not least an indication of the fact that the teaching on offer within the school had grown more varied; not every treatise with the words Naqḍ or al-radd ʿalā in the title was necessarily hostile in its intention.59 The consequence, however, was that the image became fragmented; even a comprehensive thinker like Naẓẓām never seems to have had the opportunity to present his ‘system’ in a coherent form.

47  See p. 247 above. 48  Ed. Gimaret in: Ann. Isl. 15/1979/79ff. 49  Or rather, attributed to him (cf. ʿImāra, Rasāʾil al-ʿadl wal-tawḥīd I 95ff.; regarding its authenticity see Madelung, Qāsim 100). The short list of the uṣūl al-khamsa in ʿImāra I 142 probably does go back to Qāsim himself (cf. Madelung 104); furthermore only the first three uṣūl correspond with Abū l-Hudhayl’s. 50  ʿImāra II 69ff. 51  Perhaps, however, without the corresponding book title (see vol. III 240 above). 52  Catalogue of Works XXIV, no. 1. Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb’s K. al-uṣūl presumably dealt with a different topic (Catalogue of Works XXVIII, no. 4). 53  Catalogue of Works XVIII b, no. 1. 54  Catalogue of Works XXX, no. 1. 55  Catalogue of Works XXIX, no. 1. Among the mystics Kharrāz used the phrase uṣūl al-dīn (Rasāʾil 41, ult.; 42, 7; aṣl al-dīn also 45, ult.). 56  These are the kind of titles we know for Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s works; in the case of Muʿammar, on the other hand (who does seem to have written less in any case) not a single one. 57  Thus e.g. Ḍirār b. ʿAmr. 58  Thus e.g. Abū l-Hudhayl and Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir. 59  Cf. in general the Index of titles; also Gimaret in EI2 VIII 362f. s. v. Radd.

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The first one to write a summa, or at least explored the entire field of theology in a coherent study, may well have been Muḥammad b. Shabīb in his K. al-tawḥīd (see p. 142 above). The oldest extant text of this kind is Māturīdī’s book of the same title; in fact, he refers to his predecessor and probably attempted to imitate if not surpass him. This kind of summarising work meant that many earlier texts became superfluous; the same was true in historiography or in hadith. These had the structure of monographs and were formally similar to the risāla, the letter, a literary form that had been cultivated by the kuttāb since the days of ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd b. Yaḥyā, who had probably introduced the style, too (cf. Schoeler in: Der Islam 69/1992/18f., and Arazi/Ben Shammay in EI2 VIII 532ff.; in general Cheikh-Moussa in: SI 72/1990/82ff., in discussion with Beeston). This does not necessarily mean that these texts were intended for a broader public; in some instances, as Schoeler suggested, these may have been ‘texts by the school for the school’ (Charakter und Authentie 6 and 41 with n.). We may wonder whether in the case of early theologians such as Naẓẓām the concept of ‘system’ is really applicable at all. Of course he embraced certain fundamental axioms, not only in his theology but also in his ideas on natural history, but he thought in the moment, pointillist, as it were, in his confrontation with a particular opponent or a particular problem. Theology had not yet left the draft stage; systematic cohesion was reached gradually whenever someone became aware of how an issue which had been intellectually moved forward went on to cause problems in another context.60 At first people mainly reacted, and even later communication within the school mainly took the form of inquiries (masāʾil) and opinions ( jawābāt).61 Theologians were rather similar to jurists in their style; a muftī, too, was originally required to answer specific questions.62 Both adhered not so much to a system as to a paradigm.63 Reacting was learnt in the disputatio (munāẓara), during which one argued with members of other schools, but also with colleagues from the same ‘stable’, and the closer they were, the more subtle the differences became. The course of the argument was often written down during the debate, or summarised 60  With reference to Gnosticism Harnack once used the phrase ‘premature scientificness’ (in: ThLZ 33/1908/11); in a way, this applies to Naẓẓām as well. 61  See p. 798 above. 62  Cf. D. S. Powers, Legal Consultation (Futyā) in Medieval Spain and North Africa, in: Ch. Mallat (ed.), Islam and Public Law 85ff. 63  We could, of course, devise a semantics of this paradigm, but we must not look in idealtypical terms at the early period.

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afterwards;64 we are familiar with this kind of record from as early as the days of the Church Fathers.65 The refutations mentioned above profited from them, as did doxography; chains of arguments and conclusions were of interest to pupils and opponents alike.66

64  Cf. e.g. Catalogue of Works XXI, no. 22 (also vol. III 240 above), and Catalogue of Works XXVIII, refutation b, and XXIX, refutation a2; also Text XXI 55 A and XXII 223. 65  Thus e.g. with reference to a discussion between Origen and the Egyptian bishops (J. Scherer, Entretien d’Origène avec Héraclide et les Evêques ses collègues sur le Père, le Fils et l’âme, Cairo 1949). 66  Abū Qurra’s opuscula directed against Islam are nearly all in the form of disputations (cf. Glei/Khoury, Schriften zum Islam); the majority of Jewish tradition literature, too, evolved out of records of debates.

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5.2.1 Disputations and the Appearance of Theology The munāẓara was a way of putting ideas as well as persons to the test. Someone recently arrived in a city, or hoping to prevail over an old-established authority, would have to step into the arena. When Khalīl came to Basra, he wanted to have a public ‘argument’ with Abū ʿAmr Ibn al-ʿAlāʾ, but desisted in the end, in order not to embarrass the old gentleman who had been teaching there for decades.1 Sometimes teachers would send a pupil in their stead, demonstrating that they considered such activities beneath themselves; for the student, on the other hand, it was an opportunity to distinguish himself.2 During official occasions, such as at court, however, only the most highly qualified scholars took the floor; here, the munāẓara was a kind of intellectual joust. When the Nestorian bishop Israel of Kaskar (d. 872) visited the capital and stayed at Mar Pethion’s monastery,3 the philosopher Aḥmad al-Sarakhsī came to find him together with his pupils; he was accompanied not only by Muʿtazilites but also by Jews. This is one of the instances of which the record is extant; the discussion concerned the use of the kunya among the Arabs (i.e. the Muslims), and about the nature of numbers. These subjects were not as neutral as it might sound: a Christian holding forth on the subject of numbers had to be aware that his audience would have the trinity in mind, and there was laughter and jeering when the reverend gentleman became embroiled in his own ­arguments.4 At court the main concern was frequently social entertainment. A recently deciphered fragment from the Cairo Genizah mentions gatherings, apparently in the presence of the Fatimid vizier Ibn Killis, during which men of letters, theologians, philosophers and physicians discussed the various religions (sharāʾiʿ).5 Similar events had also been arranged by the Barmakids and during al-Ma‌ʾmūn’s caliphate.6 Shāfiʿī took part in a disputation an Egyptian official hosted in his house.7

1  Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 67, 19ff. 2  Kashshī 279f. no. 500; also REI 44/1976/35; also vol. I 333 and III 283 above. 3  Regarding this place see p. 214 above. 4  Cf. M. Nousa in: JAOS 92/1972/19ff., and Holmberg, Treatise 50ff. and 90ff. The bishop spoke Syriac; his words were translated into Arabic by a pupil. 5  Cf. M. R. Cohen and S. Somekh in: JQR 80/1990/283ff. 6  See vol. III 33 and 214f. above. In later times there are reports of lectures attended by nonMuslims, too (Yunīnī, Dhayl mirʾāt al-zamān II 165, 12f. = Kutubī, Fawāt al-wafayāt I 362, 5 ʿAbbās. 7  See vol. II 820 above.

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I have explored technique and function of the munāẓara in more detail in my article in: REI 44/1975/23ff. Since then, G. Makdisi has contributed to the subject in some detail (in Rise of Colleges, briefly also in Rise of Humanism 210f.). B. Holmberg’s article The Public Debate as a Literary Genre in Arabic Literature, in Or. Suec. 38–39/1989–90/45ff., should also be taken into account although the title promises rather too much. Regarding public disputations cf. Makdisi, Colleges 133ff., and the material collected in Aḥmad Amīn, Ḍuḥā l-Islām II 54ff. Concerning the literary form cf. e.g. Ḥamīd al-Dīn-i Balkhī, Maqāmāt, ed. ʿAlī Akbar Abarqūʾī (Isfahan 1339 SH/1961), p. 99ff. (debate between a sunnī and a mulḥid). Regarding the practice of disputations in the older Academy cf. Krämer, Platonismus 25ff.; also G. Ryle in: R. Bombrough (ed.), New Essays on Plato and Aristotle 39ff., and in G. E. L. Owen (ed.), Aristotle on Dialectics 69ff. Regarding the disputatio in the Latin curriculum cf. A. Kenny and J. Pinborg in: Cambridge History of Later Medieval Philosophy 21ff. Disputation structures are already found in the Quran.8 The dialogue pattern qāla – qultu or in qāla – qīla lahū is used in Iraq in early legal as well as theological texts.9 Even so, we have but little information on the specifically academic practice. It does not seem as though the munāẓara of the early period was regarded as a kind of final exam anywhere within higher education; the verb naẓara was used by Iraqi jurists at all.10 We are not even able to say whether disputations were used at that time, as they had been in the schools of rhetoric during antiquity, to practise dialectical skill in juristic, theological or grammatical education. There was not genuine ‘education’ for theologians at all. Presumably, jurisprudence was different; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī recommended that on Fridays, students should be tested at the chief mosque – presumably after the service – and asked to debate on certain subjects.11 However, this record is too late for our argument. The munāẓara remains hypothetical as a possible examination even in the later madrasas.12

8  See vol. I 55 above; in more detail Leemhuis in: Reinink/Vanstiphout (eds.), Dispute Poems and Dialogues 165ff. However, this volume – i.e. the colloquium on which it was based – makes no reference to theology at all. 9  Regarding the Ḥanafites cf. Calder, Studies in Early Muslim Jurisprudence 40f. 10  Ibid. 169. 11   Al-faqīh wal-mutafaqqih II 131, 2ff. In antique rhetoric the disputatio was one of the socalled προγυμνάσματα, the preliminary exercises (cf. the material in: REI 44/1976/53f.). 12  Cf. in general Makdisi, Rise of Colleges 109ff., 128, 131; also Rise of Humanism 211. Slightly divergent Munir-ud-din Ahmad, Education 59ff.

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In a public debate there was always a hint of expectation that the loser would be obliged to ‘convert’. He, of course, would have disagreed; consequently the early Shīʿa recommended consulting the imām.13 It was possible to refuse to take part in such a display;14 some people did this even on occasions when the ruler himself had called them to take part in a munāẓara.15 Over the course of the centuries they fizzled out; the arguments were repeated, and the theatrical aspect lost its appeal.16 The ‘conversion’ remained a predominantly literary topos.17 People were probably aware of the immanent limitations to which they subjected themselves. After all, one had to be attuned to the opponents’ way of thinking; the winner’s triumph was usually due to a muʿāraḍa in which he turned his opponent’s point of view into an argument for his own position. This had already been the procedure of sceptics in antiquity18 – scepticism, too, had not possessed its own system, or, rather, had seen its system in the fact that it was impossible to establish a system. The opponents were made to eat their own conclusions; in the Middle Ages, this was called autophagia.19 It was effective, but not particularly sensitive; nor was it always easy to find a criterion to determine who was right in the end. Sometimes one tried to shout the other down.20 This was most certainly not quiet scholarship behind closed doors. In this way kalām acquired the reputation of being an eristic discipline. And indeed, the difference to hadith, mysticism or, later, to philosophy, was obvious. Hadith was received, one would read Aristotle at home21 or studied him with a master, but not in public.22 Muḥāsibī presumed that people would read his mystical works in seclusion, alone.23 Jāḥiẓ was aware that the noisy 13  This is the meaning of the anecdote about Hishām b. al-Ḥakam and Abū l-Hudhayl preserved by Ibn Bābōya, Iʿtiqādāt/transl. Fyzee, A Shīʿite Creed 44; cf. also vol. I 396 and 413 above. 14  Cf. REI 44/1976/34f. 15  Cf. the story in Qāḍī Nuʿmān, Majālis 365, 2ff. 16  Subkī notes that in his day, i.e. the eighth/fourteenth century, the fuqahāʾ showed little inclination to debate with the ahl al-dhimma (Muʿīd al-niʿam 108, 2ff./transl. Rescher, Ges. Werke II 2, p. 763). 17  REI, ibid. 45ff.; also vol. II 292f. and 355 above. 18  E.g. Arcesilaus, a member of the Middle Academy (Krämer, Platonismus 44). 19  Perelman/Olbrechts-Tyteca, La nouvelle rhétorique 2274. 20  Cf. the poet Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā al-Riyāshī’s remark in Agh. XIV 43, 9ff.; also REI 44/1976/23. 21  See vol. III 221 above. 22  Regarding the philosophical education cf. Abū Sahl al-Masīḥī’s canon in Gutas, Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition 149ff. 23   Gedankenwelt 67.

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public performances were the weak spot of theology.24 He was not a man who enjoyed public appearances – his looks may have discouraged him; he wrote rasāʾil hoping that the sponsor to whom he dedicated them, or who had commissioned them, would have them read to him.25 He also knew that the lively exchange of arguments might lead to the boundary between one’s own and the opponent’s positions becoming blurred. There was no harm in this while one was simply putting oneself in the other’s place as a literary device, but it became a nuisance when during a public debate one attributed a certain opinion to someone only in order to be able to refute him the better.26 This was why the philosophers would later call the mutakallimūn ‘sophists’,27 and some sophistic traits may indeed be perceived; experienced dialecticians do not seem to have any qualms about making even ethical principles the subject of discussions.28 In the eyes of the populace this was not only a question of intellectual approach but also of character: the constant patronising hardened, they said, the hearts.29 Muqaddasī, while admitting that the Muʿtazilites possessed subtlety and competence, also points out that they were given to loose behaviour ( fisq) and sarcasm.30 People thus remembered with nostalgia that there had been a time during which no kalām had been necessary – among the companions of the prophet31 – and that important men had intended even later to banish it from religion altogether. These were not only men who had experienced its power, like Ibn Ḥanbal; Shāfiʿī, too, was quoted with similar statements.32 Kalām was an ‘innovation’ (bidʿa).33 In his K. al-ḥathth ʿalā l-baḥth, known to us previously under the title Risālat istiḥsān al-khawḍ fī ʿilm al-kalām, Ashʿarī tried to discourage this attitude.34 He had good reason to do so, for in 279/892, when he was a student, the caliph al-Muʿtaḍid had issued a decree forcing booksellers to stop

24  See p. 132 above. 25  He says this with reference to his K. al-futyā and Ibn Abī Duwād (Rasāʾil I 319, 3). 26   Risāla fī l-Ḥakamayn in: Mashriq 52/1958/475, 1ff./transl. Nagel, Rechtleitung 156; cf. also the text in: REI 44/1976/48f. 27  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 361, 13f. 28  Cf. vol. III 68 and 205 above. 29  Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir I 406, –4ff./2II 105, 9ff.; cf. also the lament ibid. III 431, 6ff./2III 17f. no. 14. 30   Aḥsan al-taqāsīm 41, 6. 31  Thus noted in K. al-ʿālim wal-mutaʿallim which was traced back to Abū Ḥanīfa in Samarqand (p. 33, 3ff.; cf. vol. II 629f. above, and Erkenntnislehre 318). 32  Cf. e.g. Bayhaqī, Manāqib al-Shāfiʿī I 452ff.; also Erkenntnislehre 318f., and REI 44/1976/50; also vol. II 821 above. This material also reflects the fact that many Shāfiʿites would later turn their backs on kalām. In general see Turki in: SI 42/1975/63ff. 33   Erkenntnislehre 320; also the deliberations by Frank in: MIDEO 18/1988/114ff. 34  Newly edited and analysed by Frank, ibid. 83ff.

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selling books about ‘theology and dialectic ( jadal)’.35 The choice of words is revealing: the Umayyad scholar Maymūn b. Mihrān36 had already warned against dispute ( jidal) – also: litigiousness – and advised people to rely on the Quran instead.37 In the Quran, of course, it was the unbelievers who were marked out by their quarrels and bickering.38 The ahl al-ḥadīth had a different understanding of knowledge; dialectic or dispute had no place in it.39 The jurist Ibn al-Mājashūn complained of theologians’ ‘delving too deeply’ (taʿammuq) during al-Mahdī’s time;40 the term was also used with negative connotation in hadiths.41 Hārūn al-Rashīd appears to have prohibited kalām for a time;42 interestingly, Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir wrote an apology, presumably around the same time.42a Another prohibition was issued under al-Mutawakkil.42b Five years after his first edict, Muʿtaḍid issued another one in 284/897, prohibiting all public disputations.43 Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī approved of these measures for the sake of the public weal.44 Among the traditionalists polemic against dialectic and the obsession with dispute always remained a topos; cf. e.g. the relevant chapter in Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Jāmʿ bayān al-ʿilm II 92ff., or Ibn Qudāma, Taḥrīm al-naẓar § 26ff. Saʿadyā had to expect it among Jews as well (Amānāt, intro. cap. VI = p. 20, –4ff. Landauer/transl. Rosenblatt 27f.). All the more interesting, then, that later there were supporters of jadal that was ‘good’ and in accordance with the Quran even among the Ḥanbalites; cf. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Najm al-Ḥanbalī’s (d. 634/1236) treatise Istikhrāj al-jidāl min al-Qurʾān al-karīm (in: Majmūʿat al-rasāʾil al-Munīriyya III 40ff.), and especially Najm al-Dīn al-Ṭūfī’s (d. 716/1316) K. ʿalam al-jadhal fī ʿilm al-jadal, ed. W. Heinrichs, Wiesbaden 1987. 35  Ṭabarī III 2131, 5f. > Ibn al-Jawzī, Muntaẓam V 122, 16f.; both passages also name philosophy. Cf. p. 161 above. 36  Regarding him see vol. I 25 and 175 above. 37  Qushayrī, Ta‌ʾrīkh Raqqa 28, apu. ff. 38  Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān 154f. 39  Ashʿarī, Maq. 294, 4ff. 40  See vol. II 778 above. 41   Conc. IV 369. Taʿammaqa also means ‘to go too far’ (cf. e.g. Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aʿlām alnubuwwa 43, 3ff.). 42  See vol. III 97 and 107 above; cf. also vol. I 338. 42a  Catalogue of Works XVII, no. 14. 42b  See p. 227 above. 43  Ṭabarī III 2165, 12f. > Ibn al-Jawzī V 171, 16f.; also Makdisi, Rise of Colleges 136f. In general also Glagow, Kalifat des al-Muʿtaḍid billāh 148, which emphasises that Muʿtaḍid was by no means an enemy of the Muʿtazila (156ff.). 44   Imtāʾ III 188, pu. f.

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The dislike of theology was also sparked by its exaggerated intellectuality. The reaction to the language employed was similar to the reaction to the jargon of present-day social sciences. The pseudo-philosophical vocabulary had exuded a certain precious charm, which was the origin of the madhhab kalāmī in ­poetry.45 In some regions the interest in theology gripped all social classes;46 in fact, the subject in itself was – and is – not regarded as esoteric by any means.47 All the same, Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir’s advice for orators had already recommended taking the respective audience into account,48 and Jāḥiẓ, who preserved the text, states in another passage that the mutakallimūn should spare the lay audience their terminology.49 On the other hand he was not greatly in favour of excessive popularisation;50 the focus on the common people that Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir attempted and that led his pupil Murdār to avoid all subtle issues (daqīq) in his later years51 was continued only by the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila.52 As long as Islamic theology was searching for its own form of expression, its language had depended on fashions; Naẓẓām is a good instance of this.53 Of course the field to which one was linked played a major part: whether to natural philosophy like Naẓẓām, or grammar like ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, or jurisprudence like Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir. In due course the terminology and the repertoire of problems discussed took shape that would become characteristic of the later Muʿtazilites, such as Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, as well as the Ashʿarites. Linguistic differences to the neighbouring sciences remained; ṣifa meant different things in grammar and in theology.54 Still, people were aware of this, and could also read up on it in the Furūq works. Within the ‘Islamic’ sciences communication was on the whole good; after all, many scholars were experts in more than one subject. The only difficulties were in finding common ground with philosophy. The philosophers were intent on interpreting antique concepts such as ‘substance’ and ‘accident’ and antique theorems such as the 45  See vol. III 328 above. 46  See p. 276 above. 47  Much less than juristic or grammatical issues, according to Jāḥiẓ (ʿUthmāniyya 253, 1pu. ff.; transl. Pellat/Müller, Arabische Geisteswelt 130). 48  See vol. III 122 above. 49   Ḥayawān III 368, 9ff.; cf. Qāḍī in: SI 78/1993/54f. 50  Ibid. 369, 1ff. 51  See vol. III 118ff. and 150f. above. 52  With clearly sceptical tendencies (see p. 105f. above). Less pronounced also Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb (see p. 80 above). 53  Vol. III 359ff., also 122 above. 54  See p. 24 above; also EI2 IX 551f. Even in theology it did not always have the same meaning, as R. M. Frank demonstrated (Beings and their Attributes 26f., with the information in the index ibid. 198f.).

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infinite divisibility in their original context, and refused to get involved in the changed environment of kalām. Even Muʿtazilites now found themselves looking like ignoramuses. Kindī emphasised that philosophy was the highest of the sciences because it grasped the essence of things; Ibn Ḥazm was unable to stop himself from expressing his disagreement in vehement terms.55

55   Al-radd ʿalā Ibn al-Naghrīlla wa-rasāʾil ukhrā, ed. ʿAbbās 189ff.; discussed by Daiber in: Der Islam 63/1986/284ff. Ibn Ḥazm refers to Kindī’s treatise Fī l-falsafa al-ūlā (Rasāʾil I 81ff. Abū Rīda) which he knew under the title K. al-tawḥīd. The title may have been his main grievance against the text.

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Environment and Intellectual Structure

The sociology of knowledge with which we are confronted in this context is thrown into further relief when we inquire into the relation between the categories employed by the mutakallimūn and the environment in which they lived. They had to share their domain with two other groups: the traditionists and the philosophers, never quite coming to terms with either. They felt superior to the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth because the latter, they said, did not reflect but only collected;1 the philosophers, on the other hand, they found too elitist. There were points of contact – with the traditionists the shared interest in religious law, and with the philosophers the openness for the ideas of antiquity – but the philosophers read (translations of) Aristotle’s works and those attributed to him, while the kalām was part of a diffuse, refracted, and unconsciously adapted tradition. If it had consciously referred to Greek ideas, we should expect it to have made use of the original texts as soon as these became available in Arabic.2 This, however, did not happen; Ḍirār was the first to attack Aristotle,3 and the effectiveness of the bayt al-ḥikma passed people such as Abū l-Hudhayl or Naẓẓām, to say nothing of later Muʿtazilites,4 by without leaving a trace. Just how unfamiliar they remained is demonstrated by the legend according to which Abū Hāshim died of a bloodletting because his Jewish physician was so incensed by his criticising Aristotle.5 It seems that the enmity with the traditionists ran just as deep. While prophetic tradition would have to be taken into account over time, the criteria and rules developed by the experts proved to be unsuitable for kalām.6 Nearly all theologians, on the other hand, were also legal scholars, and while they did not necessary practise as lawyers or explore individual details, they would have an eye for the fundamental epistemological issues arising in fiqh. Consequently the structure they gave to their thought processes was a juristic one, in the arrangement of the arguments as well as in their way of looking at things. The central idea on which they focussed was, it could be said, the taklīf,

1  ʿĀmirī, Iʿlām bi-manāqib al-Islām 111, 11ff.; regarding the aṣḥāb al-ḥadīth’s counter-criticism ibid. 114, 1ff. Cf. also already Abū Muqātil al-Samarqandī, K. al-ʿālim wal-mutaʿallim § 1ff. and § 30ff. 2  This argument was adduced by G. Hourani in: IJMES 7/1976/83. 3  Catalogue of Works XV, no. 8. Cf. also Catalogue of Works IV c, no. 8 regarding Hishām b. al-Ḥakam. 4  Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī being the only exception; cf. Madelung in EI2, Suppl. 25b. 5  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt 628, 7ff. 6  See p. 722ff. above.

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the human’s obligation to God.7 This explained why there could be a period of grace for coming to know God;8 and the concept of tawallud, too, acquired a specific character.9 We noticed that the concept of will played a marginal part only,10 which corresponds to the fact that in jurisprudence the intentio acquired relevance only very gradually.11 The idiosyncrasy is noticeable in comparison with contemporary Jewish and Christian theologians: Muqammis included a doctrine of virtues inspired by Aristotle in his ʿIshrūn maqāla;12 but nothing similar is found in Muʿtazilite works. In the Neoplatonic texts translated by Christians under Kindī’s supervision, good is the most important value; the Arabic title of Liber de Causis is, of course, K. al-īḍāḥ fī l-khayr al-maḥḍ. When Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār speaks of ethics, on the other hand, evil is the first thing he explores. Evil (qabīḥ) is defined affirmatively, while good is merely its opposite.13 This is a jurist’s view of the world: he deals primarily with transgressions he must punish.14 In the early days, during the Umayyad era, Neoplatonism had seemed attractive to Islamic theologians,15 but in those days they were not jurists but public officials: Ghaylān al-Dimashqī,16 Jaʿd b. Dirham,17 Jahm b. Ṣafwān.18 Even quṣṣāṣ could be public employees,19 occasionally they held the position of judge.20 This changed under the Abbasids.21 Religious establishment and the administration of the state drifted apart, with the miḥna accelerating 7   Cf. ʿAbd al-Karīm ʿUthmān’s book Naẓariyyat al-taklīf, ārāʾ al-Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār alkalāmiyya, Beirut 1971. 8  See p. 405 and 742 above. 9  P. 543, also vol. III 126 and 249 above. 10  See p. 538 and 541 above, also 121. 11  The term is not Quranic, and did not acquire technical meaning in hadith, either (cf. Wensinck, De intentie in recht, ethiek en mystiek der semietische volken, in: Semietische Studiën 61ff.; also EI1 III 1005 > 2VIII 66, s. v. Niyya). One exception is Text II 8, which is believed to go back to Abū Ḥanīfa, but so far it is isolated. Regarding the development in mysticism see p. 654, n. 85 above. 12  XV 17ff. = p. 282ff. 13  G. Hourani, Islamic Rationalism 48ff. 14  It might be worthwhile to compare to what degree canonists like Bernold of Constance or Ivo of Chartres influenced the thought of western theology at the time. 15  See p. 467 and 476f. above. 16  Vol. I 83 above. 17  Vol. II 510f. above. 18  Ibid. 558. 19  See p. 802 above. 20  Cf. Jūda in: Dirāsāt ta‌ʾrīkhiyya 33–34/1989/117. 21  Even in Egypt, where the quṣṣāṣ survived until the fourth century, they appear to have lost the office of qāḍī under the Abbasids (ibid. 121). Their wages were probably lowered as well; previously they were paid as much as a judge (Kindī, Quḍāt Miṣr 317, 3f.).

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the process. While there were still kuttāb who were interested in theological questions – after all they could earn great prestige at court, especially if the ruler himself considered theology important22 – but their reputation was, not least because of this, ambiguous. Ma‌ʾmūn was quoted as having said that the kuttāb were kings ruling over the people,23 while Jāḥiẓ regarded them as creatures of their masters.24 Jāḥiẓ, of course, knew all about being a sycophant. While he was not an official but a free-lancing writer, his craft had to provide his daily bread. Only those who had a civilian profession were free. Unfortunately it was not possible to make a living with kalām alone; if one wanted to make one’s fortune out of religious knowledge, the best way, as Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār stressed, was to become a jurist.25 People would hold on to their legal profession and dynasties of scholars emerged. There are hardly any instances of this among theologians; those who had one son who shared their interest were exceptions, such as Hishām b. al-Ḥakam26 or Iskāfī.27 They were not in the spotlight of the media, either; poets addressed their panegyrics to judges and kuttāb and not to mutakallimūn.28 Adab literature preserves a number of stories about theologians active at court (once again mainly about Thumāma), but later Muʿtazilites, even those who displayed a certain originality, such as Hishām al-Fuwaṭī or ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān, are not mentioned in these works at all. Most of them came from the middle class, and some were social climbers,29 which probably explains their versatility and open-mindedness; they did not follow prescribed paths, and of course they had to prove that they had a purpose. Even so they always studied with men of their own class, and should they happen to be interested in philosophy they looked to private citizens dabbling in the subject, such as Maʿmar b. Abū l-Ashʿath.30 The bayt al-ḥikma would have been out of reach to them during their studies; they probably believed other things to be more important in any case. It is frequently not clear how they made a living. In the time we are studying, the biographical sources are too incomplete for us to be able to provide 22  See p. 88 above. 23  Cf. Kister in: Oriens 25–26/1976/50 after Ibn Ḥamdūn. 24  Cf. Mottahedeh in: Abhath 29/1981/26. 25  Thus after Ḥākim al-Jushamī in: Faḍl 367, 5f. 26  See vol. I 454 and II 482 above. 27  See p. 88 and 91f. above. 28  The panegyrics to Ibn Abī Duwād (see vol. III 539f. above) praised his influence as a courtier and chief qāḍī. Cf. also p. 5 above. 29  Thus e.g. Naẓẓām or Iskāfī (see p. 89 and vol. III 320ff. above). 30  See vol. II 42 above.

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as much detail as e.g. C. Petry did regarding the scholars of the Mamluk era.31 However, not even the professions of slave dealer32 or money changer33 were so offensive that nobody listened to these mens’ kalām. Civilian status provided a link; after all, one could check everyone’s ʿadāla in everyday life. Religious sciences were the domain of probi homines.34 Piety and business went hand in hand; in business relations over greater distances in particular people were glad to cooperate with a partner whose religious convictions resembled their own. In the ‘feudal’ Middle Iranian society merchants had been accorded servant status only; warriors, clergy, and ‘scribes’ were superior to them.35 Islam had had this option, too; during the conquests the warriors had been seen as the true Muslims.36 But there was also the spiritual heritage of the mercantile aristocracy of the Quraysh; in fact, it had already influenced the language used in the Quran.37 Once the rise of the mawālī was under way, the merchant class had become emancipated for good,38 and theology, just like hadith and jurisprudence, was part of its culture. ‘The believer is like a clever merchant’, Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb said, ‘he looks to see which transaction will profit him the most …’.39 However, we cannot leave it at this phrase. The ‘scribes’, too, are part of the picture, as kalām – much more than e.g. hadith – was practised across disciplines. After all, theology employed a medium that had been developed in the state chancellery: the risāla,40 another feature that distinguished it from hadith, as the latter retained the characteristics of oral tradition for a long time. Prophetic traditions could be collected and passed on even by someone illiterate;41 in kalām, on the other hand, he would not have stood a chance.42 As long as one focusses on hadith alone among the religious sciences one may 31   The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the later Middle Ages (Princeton 1981); cf. esp. the tables p. 343ff. Regarding the jurists of the early period cf. Calder, Studies 181ff. 32  Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir (see vol. III 116 above). 33  Shayṭān al-Ṭāq (see vol. I 394f. above); cf. also vol. II 480, n. 10. 34  In Altwürttemberg the circle of those families from whom the members of the civilian leadership were drawn was called the ‘Ehrbarkeit’ (‘respectability’). 35  These included physicians, astrologers and poets; cf., agreeing nearly entirely, the letter of Tansar (Boyce, Letter 38), and the ʿAhd Ardashīr (p. 63, 1ff.). 36  Kister in: JESHO 34/1991/280ff. 37  Cf. C. C. Torrey, The Commercial-Theological Terms in the Koran. PhD Strasburg 1892. 38  See vol. I 46ff. above. The companions of the prophet did not usually end their lives as warriors, but their objective was land ownership rather than trade (Kister, loc. cit. 304ff.). 39   Faḍl 282, apu. ff. 40  See p. 805 above. 41  Cf. e.g. vol. II 80 above. 42  We read in one place that Naẓẓām could not read or write, but this is an isolated remark (see vol. III 311, n. 16 above).

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try to speak of ‘two cultures’ – or two ‘blocks’, to use W. M. Watt’s term:43 the traditionists, who mainly came from the class of craftsmen and merchants, and the officials whose main interest was more likely to be adab, literature. Kalām, however, was a game they both enjoyed. Consequently people were able to move from one context to the other; Abū l-Hudhayl, originally a merchant, was persuaded in his old age – or he may have put himself forward – to visit the court.44 In this science it might also happen when the ‘blocks’ collided that people from similar social backgrounds met; Muʿtaṣim was said to have planned to deploy Iskāfī, who came from a humble background, theologically against the Nābita.45 This blurring of dividing lines was to the detriment of theology, as it found itself the accomplice of matters no pious person could approve of, and led to the abolition of the fundamental pietistic consensus. Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ, a cloth merchant, was praised for his asceticism and integrity;46 Naẓẓām, on the other hand, a nameless social climber, became a poet only two generations later, and was believed to be a wine drinker and a pederast.47 The resultant polarisation gave rise to the ṣūfiyyat al-Muʿtazila who introduced an entirely new emphasis. By rejecting any kind of gainful employment they conferred the odium of worldliness to the middle class as well. At the time it was not the contrast between civilian – intellectual and ascetic – spiritual education emerging, as it would later among the mystics, or had previously in early Christianity among the Fathers of the Scetic Desert.48 On the contrary, as we have seen49 it was in particular the defensive attitude against the state that had grown. It had always been felt, though never formulated as a principle, that someone serving the word of God should not be paid by the authorities.50 The Kufan qāḍī Sharīk b. ʿAbdallāh al-Nakhaʿī51 rejected the testimony of a qāṣṣ because the latter ‘sold the prayer’: he received a monthly salary of two dinars from the state.52 Now, however, it was believed that anyone touching money became contaminated. People had lost all hope of a just order being established; Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir lamented that in Baghdad ‘sin appeared unchallenged in the streets and on the 43  Cf. e.g. Formative Period 174ff.; also German in Der Islam (Stuttgart 1985; Die Religionen der Menschheit, vol. 25) II 177ff. 44  See vol. III 228 above. 45  See p. 88 above. 46  See vol. II 273 and 290f. above. 47  See vol. III 327ff. above. 48  Regarding the latter cf. Marrou, Histoire de l’éducation 435ff. 49  P. 795 above. 50  See p. 802 above. 51  Regarding him see vol. I 246 above. 52  TB XIII 432, 21ff.

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markets’.53 Did he have economic crime in mind, such as grain speculation or other kinds of price rigging?54 We are unable to tell, as the sources are too vague. What is certain is that Jaʿfar rejected financial support not only from the authorities but also from a merchant.55 Trade and property were tainted with the odium of collaboration; now a merchant was as dishonourable as a public official. Murdār left his property to the poor,56 and later some people began to doubt Muḥammad’s suitability as an example because he had not renounced the world in the same way that Jesus had done.57 In the Muʿtazila this trend petered out; theology, especially if it aspired to developing academic influence, could not be realised unless it was a civilian enterprise. This did not rule out asceticism. Followers of Hishām al-Fuwaṭī and of ʿAbbād b. Sulaymān seem to have retired to ʿAbbādān,58 on the edge of the busy world ‘behind which there was no larger conurbation’,59 and similar trends were also found in ʿAskar Mukram in Jubbāʾī’s environment.60 Baghdad rigorism, however, spent itself; access to the people would soonw be closed off by the Ḥanbalites anyway. Jubbāʾī, as we have seen, only had the old-­ewstablished dogmatic troubles in mind when he, like Jaʿfar b. Mubashshir, had described the ‘House of Islam’ as ‘House of Unbelief’.61 Only the choice of words was radical; Ibn Mubashshir, while using the milder phrase ‘house of sin’ had gone much further in the substance. It was non-committal in a similar fashion to the philosopher al-ʿĀmirī’s later exhortation that the wise man should not be interested in worldly possessions or political offices.62 But as late as the first half of the fourth century a Muʿtazilite grammarian known as Sībawayh tried to limit gainful employment in Egypt to mere subsistence;63 he seems to have been

53  Text XXVII 9, c; cf. p. 66 above. 54  Cf. p. 557f. above. Dicta against hoarding (iḥtikār) may be found in Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb II 226, –ff./transl. Gramlich III 624f. 55  Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Faḍl 283, 6ff. 56  See vol. III 146 above. 57  See p. 104 and 667f. above, also vol. III 193 and 474. 58  Cf. Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb I 238, –6/transl. Gramlich II 193f.; cf. p. 259 above. 59   Laysa qarya warāʾa ʿAbbādān; thus Niẓāmī, Haft paykar 176, ult. Dastgirdī. I am grateful to B. Reinert for bringing the quotation to my notice. 60  Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī, ibid.; cf. p. 274 above. 61  See p. 795 above. 62  ʿĀmirī adds this to the speech Socrates addresses to his friends in Phaidon (64 D–66 C; cf. Al-amad ʿalā l-abad in Rowson, A Muslim Philosopher 100, 3f./comm. 269).). 63  He mentions the manufacture of simple rush mats (Ibn Zūlāq, Akhbār Sībawayh al-Miṣrī 27, –6ff.).

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wearing the habit of a Sufi (khirqa),64 and he believed Egypt to be a ‘House of Unbelief’.65 For literature on the taḥrīm al-makāsib see vol. III 144 above. The difference between the honourable but ultimately egotistical morals of the merchants and an ethics based on religion as proposed by e.g. Ghazzālī has already been explored by Ritter in the context of his discussion of Jaʿfar b. ʿAlī al-Dimashqī’s K. al-ishāra ilā l-maḥāsin al-tijāra (Der Islam 7/1917/26ff.). Regarding the attitude to trade cf. Heffening in EI1 IV 808ff. s. v. Tid̲ jā̲ ra, and Goitein, The Rise of the Near Eastern Bourgeoisie in Early Islamic Times, in: Cahiers d’Histoire Mondiale 3/1957/583ff.; briefly also Wichard, Zwischen Markt und Moschee 35ff.; less satisfying: E. Bussi, Del concetto di commercio e di commerciante nel pensiero giuridico musulmano, in: Studi in memoria di Aldo Albertoni, vol. III (Padua 1938), p. 7ff., and, more recently, M. Shatzmiller, Labour in the Medieval Islamlic World 376ff. ‘Sībawayh’ probably did not teach Muʿtazilite theology any more. He was playing the fool; maybe that was his way of ensuring he could air his views, although they would not find broad support any more.66 On the other hand kalām did not succumb to the onslaught of its opponents, either; its complete dismissal from the curriculum – such as in present-day Saudi Arabia – is a comparatively recent, and fundamentally reactionary, phenomenon. Theologians have not all taught at mosques for a long time, probably since the third century, but rather in their own homes; they had this in common with their grammarian colleagues.67 Of course there was an identity crisis from which trends promising new meaning profited: mysticism, Ḥanbalite fideism, Ismāʿīlite Gnosticism, but when theologians turned their backs on the Muʿtazila, they frequently did not follow these trends but looked to the Ashʿariyya.68 As we have learnt from Ibn Fūrak’s Mubarrad, Ashʿarī adopted not only the way of thinking and the questions as such from his Muʿtazilite predecessors, but frequently their 64  Ibid. 38, 5. 65  Once again for dogmatic rather than social reasons: because they did not believe in the khalq al-Qurʾān (Maqrīzī, Muqaffā VII 314, 2). 66  I mentioned this in many respects remarkable man briefly in Chiliastische Erwartungen und die Versuchung der Göttlichkeit 32, n. 169. Just how isolated he was is made clear in the story in Maqrīzī, Muqaffā VII 314, 1ff.: besides a Persian immigrant he was the only Muʿtazilite. 67  Ahmad, Education 140; Makdisi, Rise 281f. and 393. 68  Thus already Cahen in: L’Elaboration de l’Islam 18f.

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answers, too. The mutakallimūn’s prestige remained high in many regions in spite of challenges. The Spanish Mālikite Aḥmad b. Mūsā b. Saʿdī, who went on his grand tour to Iraq before 400/1010, noted with surprise that during the ‘sessions’ in Baghdad where the ‘sects’ debated everyone rose when the head of a school entered the room, even in the case of representatives of another religion, such as Jews, Christians, Zoroastrians.69 The type of the ‘court theologian’ continued to exist; Qāḍī ʿAbd al-Jabbār was one, as was Juwaynī in some respects,70 and certainly Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī;71 earlier of course Ghazzālī, although he ‘dropped out’ at the height of his career. Kalām was not carried by an institution like Christian theology, and was consequently less able to withstand crises and changes of direction. When it grew old it could not fulfil the hopes that had originally been tied to it any more, but scholasticism, towards which it turned at the time when we concluded our exploration, may be understood as an indication of maturity.72 Not only did it nurture important theologians within the Muʿtazila, e.g. Jubbāʾī, Abū Hāshim and Kaʿbī, it also enabled Ashʿarī and Māturīdī to found new schools. We must hope that this phase, too, will be the subject of a comparative study one day.

69  Ḥumaydī, Jadhwat al-muqtabis 101, 12ff. > Ḍabbī, Bughyat al-multamis 145, 6ff./156a, 7ff. 70  Regarding him cf. Nagel, Die Festung des Glaubens, esp. 276ff. 71  Cf. Meier, Bahāʾ-i Walad 20ff. 72  Thus Nettler in: Humaniora Islamica 2/1974/211f.