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It would be out of place to pursue the comparison further, but I think we may conclude that the Sufi theory of fana was influenced to some extent by Buddhism as well as by Perso-Indian pantheism.
The receptivity of Islam to foreign ideas has been recognised by every unbiassed{p.
20}inquirer, and the history of Sufism is only a single instance of the general rule.
But this fact should not lead us to seek in such ideas an explanation of the whole question which I am now discussing, or to identify Sufism itself with the extraneous ingredients which it absorbed and assimilated in the course of its development.
Even if Islam had been miraculously shut off from contact with foreign religions and philosophies, some form of mysticism would have arisen within it, for the seeds were already there.
Of course, we cannot isolate the internal forces working in this direction, since they were subject to the law of spiritual gravitation.
The powerful currents of thought discharged through the Mohammedan world by the great non-lslamic systems above mentioned gave a stimulus to various tendencies within Islam which affected Sufism either positively or negatively.
As we have seen, its oldest type is an ascetic revolt against luxury and worldliness; later on, the prevailing rationalism and scepticism provoked counter-movements towards intuitive knowledge and emotional faith, and also an orthodox reaction which in its turn drove many earnest Moslems into the ranks of the mystics.
How, it may be asked, could a religion founded on the simple and austere monotheism of Mohammed tolerate these new{p.
21}doctrines, much less make terms with them? It would seem impossible to reconcile the transcendent personality of Allah with an immanent Reality which is the very life and soul of the universe.
Yet Islam has accepted Sufism.
The Sufis, instead of being excommunicated, are securely established in the Mohammedan church, and the Legend of the Moslem Saints records the wildest excesses of Oriental pantheism.
Let us return for a moment to the Koran, that infallible touchstone by which every Mohammedan theory and practice must be proved.
Are any germs of mysticism to be found there? The Koran, as I have said, starts with the notion of Allah, the One, Eternal, and Almighty God, far above human feelings and aspirations--the Lord of His slaves, not the Father of His children; a judge meting out stern justice to sinners, and extending His mercy only to those who avert His wrath by repentance, humility, and unceasing works of devotion; a God of fear rather than of love.
This is one side, and certainly the most prominent side, of Mohammed's teaching; but while he set an impassable gulf between the world and Allah, his deeper instinct craved a direct revelation from God to the soul.
There are no contradictions in the logic of feeling.
Mohammed, who had in him something of the mystic, felt God both as far and{p.
22}near, both as transcendent and immanent.
In the latter aspect, Allah is the light of the heavens and the earth, a Being who works in the world and in the soul of man.
It was a long time ere they saw.
The Moslem consciousness, haunted by terrible visions of the wrath to come, slowly and painfully awoke to the significance of those liberating ideas.
The verses which I have quoted do not stand alone, and however unfavourable to mysticism the Koran as a whole may be, I cannot assent to the view that it supplies no basis for a mystical interpretation of Islam.
This was worked out in detail by the Sufis, who dealt with the Koran in very much the same way as Philo treated the Pentateuch.
But they would not have succeeded so thoroughly in bringing over the mass of religious Moslems to their side, unless the champions of orthodoxy had set about constructing a system of scholastic philosophy that reduced the divine nature to a purely formal, changeless, and absolute unity, a bare will devoid of all affections{p.
23}and emotions, a tremendous and incalculable power with which no human creature could have any communion or personal intercourse whatsoever.
That is the God of Mohammedan theology.
That was the alternative to Sufism.
Therefore, "all thinking, religious Moslems are mystics," as Professor D.
B.
Macdonald, one of our best authorities on the subject, has remarked.
And he adds: "All, too, are pantheists, but some do not know it.
"The relation of individual Sufis to Islam varies from more or less entire conformity to a merely nominal profession of belief in Allah and His Prophet.
While the Koran and the Traditions are generally acknowledged to be the unalterable standard of religious truth, this acknowledgment does not include the recognition of any external authority which shall decide what is orthodox and what is heretical.
Creeds and catechisms count for nothing in the Sufi's estimation.
Why should he concern himself with these when he possesses a doctrine derived immediately from God? As he reads the Koran with studious meditation and rapt attention, lo, the hidden meanings--infinite, inexhaustible--of the Holy Word flash upon his inward eye.
This is what the Sufis call istinbat, a sort of intuitive deduction; the mysterious inflow of divinely revealed knowledge into hearts made pure{p.
24}by repentance and filled with the thought of God, and the outflow of that knowledge upon the interpreting tongue.
Naturally, the doctrines elicited by means of istinbat do not agree very well either with Mohammedan theology or with each other, but the discord is easily explained.
Theologians, who interpret the letter, cannot be expected to reach the same conclusions as mystics, who interpret the spirit; and if both classes differ amongst themselves, that is a merciful dispensation of divine wisdom, since theological controversy serves to extinguish religious error, while the variety of mystical truth corresponds to the manifold degrees and modes of mystical experience.
In the chapter on the gnosis I shall enter more fully into the attitude of the Sufis towards positive religion.
It is only a rough-and-ready account of the matter to say that many of them have been good Moslems, many scarcely Moslems at all, and a third party, perhaps the largest, Moslems after a fashion.
During the early Middle Ages Islam was a growing organism, and gradually became transformed under the influence of diverse movements, of which Sufism itself was one.
Mohammedan orthodoxy in its present shape owes much to Ghazali, and Ghazali was a Sufi.
Through his work and example the Sufistic inter-{p.
25}pretation of Islam has in no small measure been harmonised with the rival claims of reason and tradition, but just because of this he is less valuable than mystics of a purer type to the student who wishes to know what Sufism essentially is.
Although the numerous definitions of Sufism which occur in Arabic and Persian books on the subject are historically interesting, their chief importance lies in showing that Sufism is undefinable.
Jalaluddin Rumi in his Masnavi tells a story about an elephant which some Hindoos were exhibiting in a dark room.
Many people gathered to see it, but, as the place was too dark to permit them to see the elephant, they all felt it with their hands, to gain an idea of what it was like.
One felt its trunk, and said that the animal resembled a water-pipe; another felt its ear, and said it must be a large fan; another its leg, and thought it must be a pillar; another felt its back, and declared that the beast must be like an immense throne.
So it is with those who define Sufism: they can only attempt to express what they themselves have felt, and there is no conceivable formula that will comprise every shade of personal and intimate religious feeling.
Since, however, these definitions illustrate with convenient brevity certain aspects and characteristics of Sufism, a few specimens may be given.
{p.
26}* * *"Sufism is this: that actions should be passing over the Sufi (i.
e.
being done upon him) which are known to God only, and that he should always be with God in a way that is known to God only.
"
"Sufism is wholly self-discipline.
"
"Sufism is, to possess nothing and to be possessed by nothing.
"
"Sufism is not a system composed of rules or sciences but a moral disposition; i.
e.
if it were a rule, it could be made one's own by strenuous exertion, and if it were a science, it could be acquired by instruction; but on the contrary it is a disposition, according to the saying, 'Form yourselves on the moral nature of God'; and the moral nature of God cannot be attained either by means of rules or by means of sciences.
"
"Sufism is freedom and generosity and absence of self-constraint.
"
"It is this: that God should make thee die to thyself and should make thee live in Him.
"
"To behold the imperfection of the phenomenal world, nay, to close the eye to everything imperfect in contemplation of Him who is remote from all imperfection--that is Sufism.
"
"Sufism is control of the faculties and observance of the breaths.
"
{p.
27}* * *"It is Sufism to put away what thou hast in thy head, to give what thou hast in thy hand, and not to recoil from whatsoever befalls thee.
"
The reader will perceive that Sufism is a word uniting many divergent meanings, and that in sketching its main features one is obliged to make a sort of composite portrait, which does not represent any particular type exclusively.
The Sufis are not a sect, they have no dogmatic system, the tariqas or paths by which they seek God "are in number as the souls of men" and vary infinitely, though a family likeness may be traced in them all.
Descriptions of such a Protean phenomenon must differ widely from one another, and the impression produced in each case will depend on the choice of materials and the prominence given to this or that aspect of the many-sided whole.
Now, the essence of Sufism is best displayed in its extreme type, which is pantheistic and speculative rather than ascetic or devotional.
This type, therefore, I have purposely placed in the foreground.
The advantage of limiting the field is obvious enough, but entails some loss of proportion.
In order to form a fair judgment of Mohammedan mysticism, the following chapters should be supplemented by a companion picture drawn especially from those moderate types which, for want of space, I have unduly neglected.
{p.
28}
CHAPTER I
THE PATH
MYSTICS of every race and creed have described the progress of the spiritual life as a Journey or a pilgrimage.
Other symbols have been used for the same purpose, but this one appears to be almost universal in its range.
The Sufi who sets out to seek God calls himself a 'traveller' (salik); he advances by slow 'stages' (maqamat) along a 'path' (tariqat) to the goal of union with Reality (fana fi l-Haqq).
Should he venture to make a map of this interior ascent, it will not correspond exactly with any of those made by previous explorers.
Such maps or scales of perfection were elaborated by Sufi teachers at an early period, and the unlucky Moslem habit of systematising has produced an enormous aftercrop.
The 'path' expounded by the author of the Kitab al-Luma, perhaps the oldest comprehensive treatise on Sufism that we now possess, consists of the following seven 'stages', each of which (except the first member of the series) is the result of the 'stages' immediately{p.
29}preceding it--(l) Repentance, (2) abstinence, (3) renunciation, (4) poverty, (5) patience, (6) trust in God, (7) satisfaction.
The 'stages' constitute the ascetic and ethical discipline of the Sufi, and must be carefully distinguished from the so-called 'states' (ahwal, plural of hal), which form a similar psychological chain.
The writer whom I have just quoted enumerates ten 'states'--Meditation, nearness to God, love, fear, hope, longing, intimacy, tranquillity, contemplation, and certainty.
While the 'stages' can be acquired and mastered by one's own efforts, the 'states' are spiritual feelings and dispositions over which a man has no control:"They descend from God into his heart, without his being able to repel them when they come or to retain them when they go.
"
The Sufi's 'path' is not finished until he has traversed all the 'stages,' making himself perfect in every one of them before advancing to the next, and has also experienced whatever 'states' it pleases God to bestow upon him.
Then, and only then, is he permanently raised to the higher planes of consciousness which Sufis call 'the Gnosis' (marifat) and 'the Truth' (haqiqat), where the 'seeker' (talib) becomes the 'knower' or 'gnostic' (arif), and realises that knowledge, knower, and known are One.
{p.
30}* * *Having sketched, as briefly as possible, the external framework of the method by which the Sufi approaches his goal, I shall now try to give some account of its inner workings.
The present chapter deals with the first portion of the threefold journey--the Path, the Gnosis, and the Truth--by which the quest of Reality is often symbolised.
The first place in every list of 'stages' is occupied by repentance (tawbat).
This is the Moslem term for 'conversion,' and marks the beginning of a new life.
In the biographies of eminent Sufis the dreams, visions, auditions, and other experiences which caused them to enter on the Path are usually related.
Trivial as they may seem, these records have a psychological basis, and, if authentic, would be worth studying in detail.
Repentance is described as the awakening of the soul from the slumber of heedlessness, so that the sinner becomes aware of his evil ways and feels contrition for past disobedience.
He is not truly penitent, however, unless (1) he at once abandons the sin or sins of which he is conscious, and (2) firmly resolves that he will never return to these sins in the future.
It he should fail to keep his vow, he must again turn to God, whose mercy is infinite.
A certain well-known Sufi repented seventy times and fell back into sin seventy times before he made a{p.
31}lasting repentance.
The convert must also, as far as lies in his power, satisfy all those whom he has injured.
Many examples of such restitution might be culled from the Legend of the Moslem Saints.
According to the high mystical theory, repentance is purely an act of divine grace, coming from God to man, not from man to God.
Some one said to Rabia:"I have committed many sins; if I turn in penitence towards God, will He turn in mercy towards me?" "Nay," she replied," but if He shall turn towards thee, thou wilt turn towards Him.
"
The question whether sins ought to be remembered after repentance or forgotten illustrates a fundamental point in Sufi ethics: I mean the difference between what is taught to novices and disciples and what is held as an esoteric doctrine by adepts.
Any Mohammedan director of souls would tell his pupils that to think humbly and remorsefully of one's sins is a sovereign remedy against spiritual pride, but he himself might very well believe that real repentance consists in forgetting everything except God.
"The penitent," says Hujwiri, "is a lover of God, and the lover of God is in contemplation of God: in contemplation it is wrong to remember
{p.
32}sin, for recollection of sin is a veil between God and the contemplative.
"
Sin appertains to self-existence, which itself is the greatest of all sins.
To forget sin is to forget self.
