Hi folks. This is a list of talking points on church tradition and how it is possibly viewed differently betweetn Protestants, Catholics and Orthodox. It may be representative, or not. I invite you to comment on that and to say how and to what extent. It is not always clear where the writer of these points is coming from, but he is definitely Protestant. Saying more than that is, as I've said, a job for my hoped-for readers and commenters. Let's talk about it in the comments section below the post. This is the original url, for those who might be interested. it seems this guy likes stirring up trouble. http://www.bible.ca/sola-scriptura-tradition-top-10-list.htm
"Top ten list of why the Roman Catholic and Orthodox take the wrong view of tradition"
1. Scripture itself is called "apostolic tradition" both in the Bible and the Church Fathers. It is wrong to assume every time the fathers used the word "tradition", that they are referring exclusively to "oral tradition" and not scripture.
2.The Church Fathers continued to quote scripture to refute the Gnostics and the Arians even after they misquoted scriptures of their own. The idea that the early church gave up on "proof-texting" to fight heresy and began to rely upon tradition is utterly false.
3.The "Rule of Faith" creeds drafted by the post apostolic church were 100% based upon scripture phrase by phrase. The idea that they had their origin in extra-biblical oral tradition is utterly false.
4.It is wrong to view creeds, like the Nicene creed, as proof that oral tradition continues today, since these creeds were in fact written down and being written, were no longer "oral" traditions!
5. When the Church Fathers made reference to a "oral apostolic tradition" separate from scripture, they always viewed such tradition as duplicating what the apostles later revealed in scripture as a parallel witness. In other words, all doctrines that originated from apostolic oral traditions were finally recorded in the text of scripture. The substance of Oral tradition doctrines is identical with scripture.
6. When the Church Fathers made reference to liturgical "traditions" that were not taught in scripture, they were optional and unnecessary things like drinking milk mixed with honey after being baptized, making the sign of the cross on the forehead, and never kneeling in worship. Although sola Scriptura advocates can confidently say the fathers mistakenly viewed such "traditions" as binding, Roman Catholic and Orthodox "tradition advocates" have no choice but to also take them as binding. Yet in theological schizophrenia, they claim the "tradition of the Church Fathers" must be followed, but then refuse to follow the specific traditions that the Church Fathers recorded.
7. Virtually all the apostolic fathers viewed a progressive sequence of revelation passing through three stages: 1. Oral teachings of Christ to his apostles. 2. Oral teachings of the apostles based upon Christ’s oral tradition and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit for new information Christ never discussed. 3. All of Christ’s and the apostles teachings were recorded in scripture. The early post-apostolic church viewed scripture as the final process of complete revelation.
8. The Church Fathers viewed the scriptures as all sufficient and complete.
9. The Church Fathers believed what Paul said in Eph 3:3-5, that the scripture could be understood by merely reading it. They indicated that the scriptures themselves were clear, so clear, they even criticized the heretics for getting it wrong. If those outside the church and common pew dwellers are unable to understand the Bible themselves as the Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches teach, then why did the church expect the heretics to understand the Bible with their own human skills? (Tertullian, The Flesh of Christ, ch 20), (Athanasius, On the Incarnation of the Word, 56), (Hilary of Poitiers, On the Trinity, Book 1, 35), (Hilary of Poitiers, On the Trinity, Book 7, 16)
10. When Basil and the Arians both claimed their tradition was correct, Basil said, "let God-inspired Scripture decide between us; and on whichever side be found doctrines in harmony with the word of God, in favour of that side will be cast the vote of truth." (Basil, Letter 189, 3) This proves that scripture was viewed by the Church Fathers as the supreme court of determining truth, when traditions contradict each other. Today, the Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches each claim their tradition is the "true apostolic tradition". They would do well to follow the advice of Basil and let scripture decide!
(originally written) By Steve Rudd
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Rumi Show Transcript S.O.F.
people, this is the entire transcript from the Rumi show done by my favorite NPR radio program: Speaking of Faith, which I mentioned in my last post. It seems like a perfect fit for the Rumi kick I have been on since I went to Turkey. So, I put it here for your (possibly whirling and ecstatic) reading pleasure.
Krista Tippett, host: I'm Krista Tippett. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi." The 13th-century mystic Rumi left behind lyric poetry that has long shaped Muslims around the world and has now become popular in the West. This hour we'll delve into Rumi's world and its echoes in our own. He created a new language of love within the Islamic spiritual tradition of Sufism. Rumi also inspired the whirling dervishes. He sought a way to stay centered while moving.
Ms. Fatemeh Keshavarz: If you don't plow the earth, it's going to get so hard nothing grows in it. You just plow the earth of yourself. You just get moving. And even don't ask exactly what's going to happen. You allow yourself to move around, and then you will see the benefit.
Ms. Tippett: This is Speaking of Faith. Stay with us. [Announcements]
Ms. Tippett: I'm Krista Tippett. This hour we'll enter the exuberant world of Rumi, the 13th-century Muslim mystic and poet. Now a best seller in the West, Rumi's words and ideas have long influenced Islamic spirituality. But Rumi's Muslim identity is often lost in translation. We'll explore that, and we'll hear the lyrical words Rumi put to the common human search for meaning. He understood searching and restlessness as a kind of arrival. He saw every form of human love as a mirror of the divine.
Mr. Soleyman Vaseghi: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian)
Ms. Keshavarz: (translating) Wherever you are, whatever you do, be in love.
Ms. Tippett: From American Public Media, this is Speaking of Faith, public radio's conversation about religion, meaning, ethics, and ideas. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi." In his lifetime, the poet known in the West as Rumi was called Muhammad Jalal al-Din al-Balkhi al-Rumi. He was born in 1207 near the city of Balkh in what is now Afghanistan. When he was a child, his family fled Mongol invaders and settled in Konya in present-day Turkey. Rumi wrote in Persian, the literary and spiritual lingua franca of a civilization that stretched from the Mediterranean Sea to India. To most of the people who read him today from Tajikistan to Iran, he is known as Mevlana or Mawlana, our master. Rumi left behind a vast body of lyric poetry, metaphysical writings, lectures, and letters which have influenced Persian, Urdu, and Turkish literature across the centuries. Rumi also inspired the whirling dervishes, ascetics who base their practices on Rumi, including the dancing meditation that was part of his spiritual life. And in the late 20th century, Rumi's thought and poetry swept the United States in English translation. Lines from Rumi became widely quoted in diverse settings, lines such as "out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there." Those who enjoyed such words often knew little about the man behind them or his Islamic mystical tradition of Sufism. My guest today, Fatemeh Keshavarz, calls Rumi a world-class thinker, relevant to our painfully compartmentalized world.
Ms. Keshavarz: One of the reasons why he addresses the issues that are of concern to us so much today is because he belongs to a tradition, the Sufi tradition or the mystical tradition within Islam, which has always been concerned with the way human beings view themselves and each other and are able to relate to each other.
Ms. Tippett: Fatemeh Keshavarz will be our guide as we explore some of the large themes of Rumi's spirituality that may be only partially understood even as they echo in modern culture. She is chair of the Department of Asian and Near Eastern Languages and Literatures at Washington University in St. Louis. She is also a poet and often sets Rumi's words to music. She grew up speaking the Persian in which Rumi wrote, in the Iranian city of Shiraz.
Ms. Keshavarz: I grew up in a family in which people played chess, read poetry, or argued about poetry. That was basically — only after I left Iran I realized that that's probably not what everyone else does all the time.
Ms. Tippett: So in this landscape where poetry of all kinds, including poetry woven into religious sensibility, I mean, what did Rumi mean in that landscape? How was he part of the spiritual sensibility of that world you grew up in? Ms. Keshavarz: Well, he was a voice that echoed something that was, on one level, very familiar because a lot of other people had talked about it, but on another level, it was completely new because of the way he played with it, the way he made it his own game. And I mean "game" because playing is very serious for him. Laughing and playing are the most serious things in his poetry. So for me, he came into the picture as someone who said, 'OK, you've read the text. You know the words. You've looked at the history. Now transcend all that. Put it aside and live it. Encounter it.' If you ask me to think of a few words that, for me, describe his poetry, one of them is it's an encounter. You come face to face with something. I never forget, I was once reading a ghazal that described a beautiful bird. You know, he said…
Ms. Tippett: The ghazals are odes, what we would translate as something a little bit different than a poem, right?
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. Ghazal is about eight to 10, 12 lines normally, although his could be much shorter or much longer, and the main theme is love and these are like flashes of ideas as that come.
Ms. Tippett: OK.
Ms. Keshavarz: So I was reading one of those and he was describing these beautiful birds. You know, some can sing, some are colorful, and so forth. And I was, you know, enjoying this, walking the aviary, and he suddenly said, 'Well, what kind of a bird are you?' All of a sudden I realize I can't stay on the margins. You have to join in. And I think, in a way, the whirling is exactly a reflection of that. So he kind of comes into the tradition with all the intellectual legacy, but he says that's not enough, you have to do something else with it. Face it, play with it, dance it, bring it into your everyday life.
Ms. Tippett: You know, something that strikes me, there are a lot of themes in his writing, in his poetry, that you might call ascetic. You know, he's very aware of the limits of the physical and of the importance of the spiritual in that equation. And yet there's something incredibly sensual at the same time when you mention the whirling, the weeping of the whirling dervishes. There's dance and music.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. I would say that it's all on the same continuum of human experience. We are not divided into body and soul in a way, although he does talk about body and soul and there's no question about the fact that the soul is exalted. Ultimately the goal is to purify the soul and so on and so forth. But we don't have to think about the rest of ourselves as base or as not — in fact, it's a tool. It's a part of us that's very important. He does say — in one verse, he says, 'Love, whether of this kind or that kind' — and obviously it's either, you know, the kind of divine, spiritual, or the human-to-human love — 'ultimately leads you to the same king.' The body is not an obstacle on the way of the soul. It's a tool to be used for that journey.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar and poet Fatemeh Keshavarz. After Rumi's death, some of his followers founded the Mevlevi order, commonly known as the community of the whirling dervishes. "Dervish" is a Persian word which described wandering Muslim ascetics of the medieval Persian Empire. Dervishes were and are Sufis, part of the Islamic mystical tradition that emerged as a spiritual renewal movement after the death of the prophet Mohammed. Rumi imprinted that movement with a vividly sensual and poetic practice of spirituality that has been provocative and controversial across the ages. He crafted some of his most religious ideas in the form of erotically toned love poetry which seems at once addressed to Allah or God and to an earthly beloved. Rumi inspired the practice of the whirling dervishes by spinning around a column as he recited his poems.
Ms. Tippett: Something you wrote about whirling that was so gripping to me said, for Rumi, the whirling is one way to stay centered while moving.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And, you know, I do some speculation in my work: Does this have something to do with the fact that he traveled so young when he went all the way westward from the province of Khorasan to where is the city of Konya today, present-day Turkey, and the journey lasted about two years. He must have encountered so many different people and cultures and incidents, so it may have something to do with that. But he's certainly very appreciative of the ability to change your vantage point. At some point in his discourses he said, 'If you don't plow the earth, it's going to get so hard nothing grows in it. You just plow the earth of yourself. You just get moving. And even don't ask exactly what's going to happen. You allow yourself to move around, and then you will see the benefit.'
Ms. Tippett: Is there also something in the whirling that strikes you as very compatible with Islamic theology in general, or with Sufi theology, that might not be apparent to an outsider?
Ms. Keshavarz: Well, I think you could say that everything in the universe is whirling, is quickened with the force of love. That fits with the Sufi theology. We are like planets. We have to appreciate that, and in order to appreciate that, you have to join the dance. But there are also — there are interpretations. We can now look at whirling and say things like — for example, one hand is pointed towards the sky and the other one to the earth, so that's usually interpreted as bringing the heaven and the earth together, like staying connected with the two. Or the dervishes wear a black robe and a white robe underneath, and then they disrobe the black robe and they dance in the white. That's interpreted as the shedding of the ego. But then the master standing in the center doesn't have to do it because he supposedly has tamed his ego. But all of these things have been interpretations later, done of the activity of whirling. Beyond that, you know, to me, it comes across as something much broader and more universal than Islam or any other religion. It's a kind of getting in tune with the moving earth.
Ms. Tippett: You've spoken a lot about love and love as the core of this spirituality. I think that also in the Persian culture in which you grew up, and Rumi as well, there is a connection between love poetry and imagery of the beloved and lovers, with religious ideas, which again you kind of have to introduce a Westerner into.
Ms. Keshavarz: The imagery is very often almost identical with profane, you know, mundane love poetry. By this, I don't mean to give any negative connotation to it, but love that is purely sensual and emotional, human love. To me, I think it's a statement by poets like Rumi and others like him, that there isn't really a boundary between the two. It's the same thing. It's the same human experience. And there is another medieval Sufi, actually a bit later than Rumi, who says that you can't look at the sun directly, but you can look at its reflection in the water. Our humanly experience of love is that reflection in the water of our senses, and it's God's way of teaching us and guiding us from this to the actual looking at the sun when you have gained the ability. I was just thinking of a particular ghazal as I was saying that and, you know…
Ms. Tippett: Yes, I wanted to ask you if you had anything you would read or recite, yes.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yeah, I think that that actually could help see how one would lead to the other and actually the ambiguity between the two. It's a source of great poetic force.
Ms. Tippett: And you mean one — and the other would be human love and divine love.
Ms. Keshavarz: Human love and divine love, exactly.
Mr. Soleyman Vaseghi: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian) Ms. Keshavarz:
(translating) If anyone asks you about the houris, show your face, say: like this. If anyone asks you about the moon, climb up on the roof, say: "Like this." If anyone seeks a fairy, let them see your countenance. If anyone talks about the aroma of musk, untie your hair and say: "Like this." If anyone asks: "How do the clouds uncover the moon?" untie the front of your robe, knot by knot, say: "Like this." If anyone asks: "How did Jesus raise the dead?' kiss me on the lips, say: "Like this." If anyone asks: "What are those killed by love like?" direct him to me, say: "Like this." If anyone kindly asks you how tall I am, show him your arched eyebrows, say: "Like this."
Ms. Keshavarz: So the whole ghazal is a description of the physical beauty of the lover, but at the same time, it's a fairly long poem. At the end, it leads us to blind with envy the one who says, "How can a human being reach God?" Give each of us a candle of purity, say: "Like this." In the end, human beings can get to that candle of purity and reach God, and all human beings can do that.
Ms. Tippett: It is also an act of pointing at what is now — right? — what is physical and human, as you say, as the only way we have of imagining.
Ms. Keshavarz: Exactly. Exactly. There's a famous Sufi tale that this young disciple approached the master to enter the order day after day. And finally the master said, 'Have you ever fallen in love with a woman?' He said, 'No, not yet. I'm only 18.' He said, 'Well, go try that first.'
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz. Our Web site, speakingoffaith.org, shows images and explanations of the whirling dervishes. I'm Krista Tippett and this is Speaking of Faith from American Public Media. Today we're dipping into the ideas and spiritual background of Rumi, the 13th-century Muslim mystic whose poetry is celebrated by an array of modern readers. In the song of the reed, Rumi reflects on the human spirit through the metaphor of the ancient reed flute or ney that is popular in middle-eastern music. This poem opened the Masnavi, Rumi's compendium of rhyming couplets that explored issues of Sufi theology and the spiritual journey.
Ms. Keshavarz: Listen to the story told by the reed of being separated. Since I was cut from the reed bed, I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back. At any gathering, I'm there, lingering and laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will hear the secrets hidden within the notes. No ears for that. Body flowing out of spirit, spirit out from body, no concealing that mixing. But it's not given us to see, so the reed flute is fire, not wind. Leave that empty.
Ms. Tippett: There's a theme that is part of that, that runs all the way through, about separation and longing as part of — well, not just the spiritual life, but being human, and also a kind of sense that the separation and the longing themselves are a kind of arrival. Ms. Keshavarz: On one level, you have to get on the road. You have to get started, you know, just like the earth that, you know, have to plow the earth, you have to get moving. On another level, time and again he reminds us that the destination is the journey itself. So there isn't a point where you say, 'OK, I'm here, I've reached, I'm done, I'm perfect. I don't need to do anything anymore.' In the incompleteness of that, the need to move forward is inherent in that incompleteness, in the process of going forward that you make yourself better and better and you, in a way, never reach. So the separation is the powerful force that keeps you going. If you ever felt that I have arrived I've reached, this is it, then you wouldn't go any further.
Ms. Tippett: You know, and I think it is counterintuitive in our culture — not that we necessarily think this through very often, but we think of desires and longings as something that we need to find something to meet, right?
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes, yes. And we want to meet it really fast.
Ms. Tippett: Yes.
Ms. Keshavarz: Exactly.
Ms. Tippett: Because somehow the feeling of longing and separation from whatever it is, especially if we don't know what it is we want, that that is unsatisfying and there's something wrong with that. And yet what Rumi is saying is that, you know, the longing itself is redemptive and is progress, kind of.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And the longing itself — and also not to understand exactly what that longing is, in itself, is very productive. I think one idea or major concept that the Sufi tradition and Rumi in particular have to contribute to our current culture is value in perplexity, the fact that not knowing is a source of learning, something that propels us forward into finding out. Longing, perplexity, these are all very valuable things. We want to unravel things and get answers and be done, but as far as he's concerned, it's a continual process. We can't be done. And that's good.
Ms. Tippett: I also have a feeling that Rumi is saying we also, though, at the same time need to be intentional about what we choose to be perplexed by. Does that make sense? I mean there's this poem: "Stay bewildered in God and only that. Those of you who are scattered, simplify your worrying lives. There is one righteousness. Water the fruit trees and don't water the thorns. Be generous to what nurtures the spirit and God's luminous reason-light. Don't honor what causes dysentery and knotted-up tumors. Don't feed both sides of yourself equally. The spirit and the body carry different loads and require different attentions."
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. Yes. I think the energy can't go in all directions completely in control and you have to choose because you have one life. You have to spend it wisely. So absolutely, he would say choose, be selective, recognize your own value. At another point he says, 'You are an astrolabe to God, you know, don't use yourself for things that are not worthwhile.' But I want to linger a little bit on that idea of being scattered because that's a key concept in Sufi thought. And actually it's something that the Buddhists also talk about a lot. And that is our mind just jumps from one thing to the other and, you know, the Sufis call it the onrush of ideas into our minds. And in some ways, if we allow it, it takes us over, you know. You know, what am I going to do about that credit card? You know, how am I going to--what do I do about this student paper, you know, whatever else is that you're concerned with, my family, my kids, my future. So it all invades your life and so in a way you're pulled in all directions. You're scattered. So one of the purposes of his poetry and one of the concepts the Sufis talk about is to collect that scatteredness.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz. Here is one of Rumi's ghazals, which she translated and recites with the Liän Ensemble, a group that often sets Rumi's words to Persian music.
Mr. Houman Pourmehdi: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian)
Ms. Keshavarz: (translating) When pain arrives side by side with your love, I promise not to flee. When you ask me for my life, I promise not to fight. I'm holding a cup in my hand but, God, if you do not come till the end of time, I promise not to pour out the wine nor to drink a sip. Your bright face is my day. Your dark curls bring the night. If you do not let me near you, I promise not to go to sleep nor rise. Your magnificence has made me a wonder. Your charm has taught me the way of love. I am the progeny of Abraham. I'll find my way through fire.
Ms. Tippett: What do you hear in that? What do you reflect on in that?
Ms. Keshavarz: It's about steadfastness, about staying centered and keeping your eye on the goal. But at the same time, very much being in love and allowing the ecstasy of love take over. You see, he is very aware of the fact that, as human beings, we are limited. We have our limits. We just are not able to do everything that we desire to do. Our rationality is there, is very helpful. It does its job in questioning things and showing the way, but that has its limits, too. What opens the way beyond that is love. What enables us to feel the pain and still go forth in the face of all of that, is experiencing that love. And if you look at our lives, you know, people who produce great works of art, who are creative, who do something that goes beyond day-to-day activity, have that kind of steadfastness, that kind of devotion that lets them go through. What I see in that poem is that I promise to have that, but that comes from you. It's your magnificence, your love that gives me that energy, that power to stay, and I promise to hold onto it.
Ms. Tippett: And "you" is — the beloved is God, is Allah.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes, and that's where
the ambiguity comes in, of course, because you should be able to relate to it as a human being in love with another human being. That would be your entry into the poem. Ms. Tippett: It's also probably important to note that Rumi had a great turning point with a friendship, with Shams, a Sufi master. I think it is actually helpful that the love relationship out of which Rumi drew so many of his analogies, you know, is not a romantic love relationship. And what you're saying to me is that love is the core, but to think about the many forms that love takes in our lives. I mean, there's also the passionate love that we have for our children.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes, and so they are a blessing and they all have their own place. And in the end, we don't replace them with the divine. It's like warming up, in a way, like getting you ready for a major exercise, a physical activity. You warm up gradually. You get yourself to a state where you can do it, test your abilities, see your problems and issues, ask your questions, quarrel with yourself, and get ready for it. And I think all these forms of experience of attachment with other human beings are various ways of experiencing that.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz this is Speaking of Faith. After a short break, how Rumi might speak to the spirit of Islam, past and present. Our award-winning Web site, speakingoffaith.org, reveals the world of Rumi from many directions. You can see a video performance of our guest, Fatemeh Keshavarz, and the Liän Ensemble, with Rumi's poetry set to the ney, santur, and other classic Persian instruments. And we've selected some of Rumi's poems for you to hear and to read. Also, sign up for our weekly e-mail newsletter with my journal. Subscribe to our podcast — an iTunes' Best of 2006 selection — which offers a free download of our weekly program. Our podcast now includes selected audio clips from my new book, Speaking of Faith. Listen when you want, where you want. Discover something new at speakingoffaith.org. I'm Krista Tippett. Stay with us. Speaking of Faith comes to you from American Public Media. [Announcements]
Ms. Tippett: Welcome back to Speaking of Faith, public radio's conversation about religion, meaning, ethics, and ideas. I'm Krista Tippett. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi," the 13th-century Persian poet and mystic. In recent years, English translations of Rumi's poetry by the American poet Coleman Barks have sold more than half a million copies in the U.S. UNESCO has declared 2007 International Rumi Year to honor the 800th anniversary of his birth. Rumi has been the subject of creative work by contemporary artists from composer Philip Glass to pop icon Madonna. But such popular renditions of Rumi often give little hint of his Islamic identity. He was the son of a Muslim teacher, born in the center of Persian Islamic civilization. He spent time as the head of a madrassa, religious schools which were centers of great learning, at the same time that Western Europe had fallen into the dark ages. Rumi's themes of separation and longing come straight from the heart of Islamic theology. There is no idea of original sin, but rather of a human tendency to forget and thus become separated from Allah or God. Islam imagines faith as zikr or remembrance of a knowledge that is embedded in human beings. My guest, Fatemeh Keshavarz, finds resonance in Rumi for the deepest challenges before the world and Islam today.
Ms. Tippett: I'd like to talk about Rumi's Islamic grounding and identity. That gets lost in 21st-century translations. Ms. Keshavarz: Absolutely. Ms. Tippett: Coleman Barks' translations are the ones that many people have read, that became popular, I assume. I was reading his introduction to The Essential Rumi. You know, he suggested that with a mystical writer like this, you know, he suggested that placing this person in historical and cultural context is simply not a central task. And he wrote, "My more grandiose project is to free his text into its essence." Ms. Keshavarz: I think one thing that Coleman Barks has done, he has written Rumi's ideas in the American poetic idiom. He's made it accessible to the broad readership, and that should definitely be valued. And, you know, don't hear me saying anything else on that. But I don't think you can free people from the context in which they live, and I don't think even if you try to do that, that that serves a useful purpose. I don't see Rumi as detached from the Islamic context at all. In fact, I see his work as actually and completely immersed in the Islamic tradition. I tell you, it would be hard to read a single ghazal, not even the Masnavi, which is expressly a work with theological and mystical intentions, but even a ghazal, it would be hard to read a ghazal and not find quite a few illusions to Qur'anic verses, to sayings of the prophet, to practices in the Muslim world, so I don't think we need to separate him from his Islamic context. The way first I visualize this myself is that he goes through the religion, he lives it, absorbs it, and uses it in his way. So in the process, he self-births a lot of things. He changes a lot, reinterprets a lot of things, but he does not step outside of it. He lives in it. Let me give you an example. Ms. Tippett: Good. Ms. Keshavarz: You know that in his discourses — I try not to use the word "sermons" because "sermon" brings such a specific connotation that's probably not there. But the discourses are when Rumi is sitting in a local mosque, in the local gathering, talking to people. It's very interactive, it's very informal, and he kind of steps down the pulpit in a way and reaches out to the people and it's very poetic even though it's in prose and he didn't write it down. His students and, you know, people around him took it down. On one of these occasions, he quotes a Qur'anic verse, if I might quote the Arabic, is (recites Qur'anic verse in Arabic). We — this is the royal "we," God — we stand down the zikr and we will be its protector. Now, the word zikr in Arabic means "remembers" and traditionally the commentators have defined the word zikr as the Qur'an itself, and they have good reason to do so because elsewhere in the Qur'an, the Qur'an refers to itself as zikr and remembrance, in part because humanity is described as forgetful, so the Qur'an is a way of remembering. Now, he says the commentators have said that this verse refers to the Qur'an itself, that God says we have given you the Qur'an and we are — that I am the protector of it. And he said (foreign language spoken). That's fine. (Foreign language spoken), but there is this interpretation, too, that God says (foreign language spoken). "We have put in you a desire and a quest, and I, God, am the protector of that desire." That's a very different interpretation. First of all, it opens it immediately to all humanity.
Ms. Tippett: I think that there is something in Rumi's writing which is so large, so generous. I don't like the word "universal" because I think in some ways it waters things down. Ms. Keshavarz: I agree with you. "Generous" is a very good…
Ms. Tippett: Yeah. But it's easy to read this and also I think people from many different religious traditions can read this poetry or his discourses, or people who are not people of faith can read it and feel themselves addressed and feel their spiritual lives addressed.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And I think sometimes people feel that if they take away or overlook the Islamic flavor of it, maybe that makes him more accessible, more theirs. I think generosity and openness is a very good way of putting it. If you're not rooted in the specific and in the small, in the local, you can never see the broader vision. You have to love a tradition and to be completely immersed in it before you can subvert it and transcend it. You have to…
Ms. Tippett: Before you can subvert it from the inside.
Ms. Keshavarz: Exactly. And you have to love it for you to think that I want to open it up, I want to make it better, and then go forward with it. And, you know, you can't break laws in an acceptable way unless you know them really well and practice them with tradition. That's the only time. And that's what I think he does. He's so well rooted in the Islamic tradition, so completely aware of the nuances, that he says, you know, 'Hey guys, we can open it up here. Look. Look at this. This is what you always thought, but now look one step beyond.' And he can do that precisely because he's rooted in the tradition.
Ms. Tippett: And I think it's true also that around the same time that Rumi was entering popular imaginations by way of poetry, there were images of Islam suddenly in the news in this post-9/11 world which were so very different from that. I mean — and, you know, you've written that Rumi is a true child of an adventurous and cosmopolitan Islam. And, you know, those are not two words that you would associate with headline Islam that we've had these past years.
Ms. Keshavarz: I'm actually, you know, really glad you bring this up because I think one thing that's desperately needed at this point, to show the adventureness, the surprise, the play, the aspects of his work that now are not normally associated with that part of the world. You kind of think that, you know, people just — it's all religion, and it's religion followed in a fairly institutionalized and stylized and, you know, planned form. Not at all. I mean, he's playing with it all the time. So I think another contribution he could do for us right now, exactly in this post-9/11 environment, is to bring out that side of the Muslim culture, that contribution to the world.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz. I'm Krista Tippett and this is Speaking of Faith from American Public Media. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi." Ironically, just as Rumi has been rediscovered in the U.S. and Western Europe, the Sufi brotherhood formed by his followers has been banned in periods of recent history in Turkey, where Rumi did most of his writing and where he's buried. The whirling of the whirling dervishes, which Rumi first innovated as a form of dancing meditation, have been reduced, some say, to mere entertainment. I asked Fatemeh Keshavarz about Rumi's legacy in Iran, where she grew up, the center of the Persian world of literature and culture to which Rumi also belonged.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi still as much alive in Iran now as when you were growing up? How does that look?
Ms. Keshavarz: Well, I tell you I can't keep up with the books that are published in Iran about him. Yes, absolutely. You know, there's this debate whether he was a Persian or a Turk or an Afghan. You know, it is completely really irrelevant again, but for Iranians he is just such a household name. You will have — in your house you will have the Qur'an, you will have the volume of poetry of Hafez, another great figure from the little bit later period, and the Masnavi of Rumi. And then depending, of course, like any other culture, you have people who more immersed in his work and more familiar. They know him at different levels obviously. But, yeah, I wouldn't say that the interest in him has changed or lessened at all.
Ms. Tippett: I mean, I hear in my conversations that Islam in Iran is — there's great intellectual discourse and study and, you know, that's just not a story that we hear. So I mean, I'm just curious, you know. This subversive, playful, cosmopolitan quality of — are those also part of the discourse in Iran?
Ms. Keshavarz: Absolutely. You know, I send out lists to my friends called "Windows on Iran," precisely for that. Just once a week I send out information about Iran that they don't get to see in the media. Like in the month of June, for example, there's a book fare in Iran. You know how many people visited this past book fare in June in one week? Two million people visited the book fare. You know, I send this out and then I get these messages: Wow, this is happening in Iran? Or I send pictures. I just realized afterwards that our visual vocabulary has been affected. If we think of Iran, we only have certain visions of unfortunate moments in recent history that get repeated. And our language — Rumi is so aware of that. Language can take over our lives and make us not see things. He actually has a fabulous verse, he says (Persian spoken). "Speak a new language so that the world will be a new world." I mean this is the most sophisticated, philosophical approach to language. Now we talk of language as being constitutive of experience, but that's exactly what he said. You know, 'get yourself a new language and then you will be able to see a new world.' And that's definitely what we need to do in relation to that part of the world, certainly with Iran, to see the dynamics. A tremendous amount is going on that we don't get to hear about.
Ms. Keshavarz: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian) (translating) To speak the same language is to share the same blood, to be related. To live with strangers is a life of captivity. Many are Hindus and Turks who share the same language. Many are Turks who may be alien to one another. The language of companionship is a unique one. To reach someone through the heart is other than reaching them through words. Besides words, illusions, and arguments, the heart knows a hundred thousand ways to speak.
Ms. Tippett: You know, I can't help but look at Rumi's life and be struck by how the poles of culture and place in terms of, you know, where he moved and where he lived and settled, are all such important poles in our world today. There's Afghanistan, there's Turkey, which is somehow becoming symbolic of the struggle to define what is Western, right, what is not. There's Persia, there's Iran. Do you ever think about that, about Rumi's legacy and where he came from and how that echoes in the world today?
Ms. Keshavarz: I consider myself tremendously lucky to be able to grow up with that language. But to tell you the truth, I think that all parts of the world have their own Rumi. I believe that we just need only to explore those traditions and look for them. So in a sense, I think he is just one other giant, you know, one other figure who is very important right now. I agree with you, it's very important to read him, to look at the vision that he has for humanity because it's so healing, it's so needed to correct some of our short-sightedness and, you know, some of the problems we have with not being able to see the larger picture. So in that sense, I agree with you. But I don't know if I want to think of that part of the world as having any kind of monopoly on this.
Ms. Tippett:
OK. Ms. Keshavarz: I think, if anything, his vision is that all humanity is pregnant with God. You know, we all in various parts of worlds and traditions. We have people like him. We just have to find them.
Ms. Tippett: You ask a question in something you've written: "How is one to nurture this God buried like a ruin in the treasure of one's being, and let it permeate all of life?" How does your encounter with Rumi — your ongoing encounter with Rumi, how does it help you live with that question, answer that question in your life?
Ms. Keshavarz: You know, the most important tool he has, which is hope, is what we need to nurture in ourselves. And hope, the energy to move, the energy to go, to never think that this is not worth it or I am done, I am tired, that's what he's given me. I can read them for hours, I can teach them for hours. I can come back to it and be surprised again. The gift is a kind of whirling that keeps your life to be a constant move on the road, and then according to your abilities, what you can see, what you can hear, what you can cherish, you get your own rewards. You put it together. Again, you give birth to your own God. Life kind of comes to life with his works.
Ms. Tippett: With Rumi's words.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And, you know, depending on where I am and who I am at that point and I'm doing, I get something out of it. It actually has a fascinating verse. He says (Persian spoken), says, "I am fire. If you have doubts about that, bring your hands forth." That's the dramatic flare I was talking about, you know. 'Bring your hands forth, touch me, and I'll tell you what I'm about.'
Ms. Tippett: Fatemeh Keshavarz is professor of Persian and Comparative Literature and chair of the Department of Asian and Near Eastern Languages and Literatures at Washington University in St. Louis. She's the author of Reading Mystical Lyric: The Case of Jalal Al-din Rumi and a forthcoming book, Jasmine and Stars: Reading More Than Lolita in Tehran. Visit us online at speakingoffaith.org. If you've encountered Rumi's writings, tell us how they've spoken to you. What in his spirituality surprises or draws you in? Look for "Share Your Story" on our home page. While you're there, learn much more about Rumi's world and his writings, watch video of musical performances of Rumi's poetry, and listen to readings from his poetry in Persian and in English. Also, subscribe to our e-mail newsletter and podcast and never miss another program again. In addition to each week's full program, our podcast now includes excerpts from my new book, Speaking of Faith. Listen when you want, where you want. Discover something new at speakingoffaith.org. Special thanks this week to Houman Pourmehdi, Soleyman Vaseghi, the Liän Ensemble, Omid Safi, Shiraz Janjua, and Stanford University's Continuing Studies Department. The senior producer of Speaking of Faith is Mitch Hanley, with producers Colleen Scheck and Jody Abramson. Our online editor is Trent Gilliss. Our consulting editor is Bill Buzenberg, Kate Moos is the managing producer of Speaking of Faith, and I'm Krista Tippett.
Krista Tippett, host: I'm Krista Tippett. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi." The 13th-century mystic Rumi left behind lyric poetry that has long shaped Muslims around the world and has now become popular in the West. This hour we'll delve into Rumi's world and its echoes in our own. He created a new language of love within the Islamic spiritual tradition of Sufism. Rumi also inspired the whirling dervishes. He sought a way to stay centered while moving.
Ms. Fatemeh Keshavarz: If you don't plow the earth, it's going to get so hard nothing grows in it. You just plow the earth of yourself. You just get moving. And even don't ask exactly what's going to happen. You allow yourself to move around, and then you will see the benefit.
Ms. Tippett: This is Speaking of Faith. Stay with us. [Announcements]
Ms. Tippett: I'm Krista Tippett. This hour we'll enter the exuberant world of Rumi, the 13th-century Muslim mystic and poet. Now a best seller in the West, Rumi's words and ideas have long influenced Islamic spirituality. But Rumi's Muslim identity is often lost in translation. We'll explore that, and we'll hear the lyrical words Rumi put to the common human search for meaning. He understood searching and restlessness as a kind of arrival. He saw every form of human love as a mirror of the divine.
Mr. Soleyman Vaseghi: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian)
Ms. Keshavarz: (translating) Wherever you are, whatever you do, be in love.
Ms. Tippett: From American Public Media, this is Speaking of Faith, public radio's conversation about religion, meaning, ethics, and ideas. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi." In his lifetime, the poet known in the West as Rumi was called Muhammad Jalal al-Din al-Balkhi al-Rumi. He was born in 1207 near the city of Balkh in what is now Afghanistan. When he was a child, his family fled Mongol invaders and settled in Konya in present-day Turkey. Rumi wrote in Persian, the literary and spiritual lingua franca of a civilization that stretched from the Mediterranean Sea to India. To most of the people who read him today from Tajikistan to Iran, he is known as Mevlana or Mawlana, our master. Rumi left behind a vast body of lyric poetry, metaphysical writings, lectures, and letters which have influenced Persian, Urdu, and Turkish literature across the centuries. Rumi also inspired the whirling dervishes, ascetics who base their practices on Rumi, including the dancing meditation that was part of his spiritual life. And in the late 20th century, Rumi's thought and poetry swept the United States in English translation. Lines from Rumi became widely quoted in diverse settings, lines such as "out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there." Those who enjoyed such words often knew little about the man behind them or his Islamic mystical tradition of Sufism. My guest today, Fatemeh Keshavarz, calls Rumi a world-class thinker, relevant to our painfully compartmentalized world.
Ms. Keshavarz: One of the reasons why he addresses the issues that are of concern to us so much today is because he belongs to a tradition, the Sufi tradition or the mystical tradition within Islam, which has always been concerned with the way human beings view themselves and each other and are able to relate to each other.
Ms. Tippett: Fatemeh Keshavarz will be our guide as we explore some of the large themes of Rumi's spirituality that may be only partially understood even as they echo in modern culture. She is chair of the Department of Asian and Near Eastern Languages and Literatures at Washington University in St. Louis. She is also a poet and often sets Rumi's words to music. She grew up speaking the Persian in which Rumi wrote, in the Iranian city of Shiraz.
Ms. Keshavarz: I grew up in a family in which people played chess, read poetry, or argued about poetry. That was basically — only after I left Iran I realized that that's probably not what everyone else does all the time.
Ms. Tippett: So in this landscape where poetry of all kinds, including poetry woven into religious sensibility, I mean, what did Rumi mean in that landscape? How was he part of the spiritual sensibility of that world you grew up in? Ms. Keshavarz: Well, he was a voice that echoed something that was, on one level, very familiar because a lot of other people had talked about it, but on another level, it was completely new because of the way he played with it, the way he made it his own game. And I mean "game" because playing is very serious for him. Laughing and playing are the most serious things in his poetry. So for me, he came into the picture as someone who said, 'OK, you've read the text. You know the words. You've looked at the history. Now transcend all that. Put it aside and live it. Encounter it.' If you ask me to think of a few words that, for me, describe his poetry, one of them is it's an encounter. You come face to face with something. I never forget, I was once reading a ghazal that described a beautiful bird. You know, he said…
Ms. Tippett: The ghazals are odes, what we would translate as something a little bit different than a poem, right?
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. Ghazal is about eight to 10, 12 lines normally, although his could be much shorter or much longer, and the main theme is love and these are like flashes of ideas as that come.
Ms. Tippett: OK.
Ms. Keshavarz: So I was reading one of those and he was describing these beautiful birds. You know, some can sing, some are colorful, and so forth. And I was, you know, enjoying this, walking the aviary, and he suddenly said, 'Well, what kind of a bird are you?' All of a sudden I realize I can't stay on the margins. You have to join in. And I think, in a way, the whirling is exactly a reflection of that. So he kind of comes into the tradition with all the intellectual legacy, but he says that's not enough, you have to do something else with it. Face it, play with it, dance it, bring it into your everyday life.
Ms. Tippett: You know, something that strikes me, there are a lot of themes in his writing, in his poetry, that you might call ascetic. You know, he's very aware of the limits of the physical and of the importance of the spiritual in that equation. And yet there's something incredibly sensual at the same time when you mention the whirling, the weeping of the whirling dervishes. There's dance and music.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. I would say that it's all on the same continuum of human experience. We are not divided into body and soul in a way, although he does talk about body and soul and there's no question about the fact that the soul is exalted. Ultimately the goal is to purify the soul and so on and so forth. But we don't have to think about the rest of ourselves as base or as not — in fact, it's a tool. It's a part of us that's very important. He does say — in one verse, he says, 'Love, whether of this kind or that kind' — and obviously it's either, you know, the kind of divine, spiritual, or the human-to-human love — 'ultimately leads you to the same king.' The body is not an obstacle on the way of the soul. It's a tool to be used for that journey.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar and poet Fatemeh Keshavarz. After Rumi's death, some of his followers founded the Mevlevi order, commonly known as the community of the whirling dervishes. "Dervish" is a Persian word which described wandering Muslim ascetics of the medieval Persian Empire. Dervishes were and are Sufis, part of the Islamic mystical tradition that emerged as a spiritual renewal movement after the death of the prophet Mohammed. Rumi imprinted that movement with a vividly sensual and poetic practice of spirituality that has been provocative and controversial across the ages. He crafted some of his most religious ideas in the form of erotically toned love poetry which seems at once addressed to Allah or God and to an earthly beloved. Rumi inspired the practice of the whirling dervishes by spinning around a column as he recited his poems.
Ms. Tippett: Something you wrote about whirling that was so gripping to me said, for Rumi, the whirling is one way to stay centered while moving.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And, you know, I do some speculation in my work: Does this have something to do with the fact that he traveled so young when he went all the way westward from the province of Khorasan to where is the city of Konya today, present-day Turkey, and the journey lasted about two years. He must have encountered so many different people and cultures and incidents, so it may have something to do with that. But he's certainly very appreciative of the ability to change your vantage point. At some point in his discourses he said, 'If you don't plow the earth, it's going to get so hard nothing grows in it. You just plow the earth of yourself. You just get moving. And even don't ask exactly what's going to happen. You allow yourself to move around, and then you will see the benefit.'
Ms. Tippett: Is there also something in the whirling that strikes you as very compatible with Islamic theology in general, or with Sufi theology, that might not be apparent to an outsider?
Ms. Keshavarz: Well, I think you could say that everything in the universe is whirling, is quickened with the force of love. That fits with the Sufi theology. We are like planets. We have to appreciate that, and in order to appreciate that, you have to join the dance. But there are also — there are interpretations. We can now look at whirling and say things like — for example, one hand is pointed towards the sky and the other one to the earth, so that's usually interpreted as bringing the heaven and the earth together, like staying connected with the two. Or the dervishes wear a black robe and a white robe underneath, and then they disrobe the black robe and they dance in the white. That's interpreted as the shedding of the ego. But then the master standing in the center doesn't have to do it because he supposedly has tamed his ego. But all of these things have been interpretations later, done of the activity of whirling. Beyond that, you know, to me, it comes across as something much broader and more universal than Islam or any other religion. It's a kind of getting in tune with the moving earth.
Ms. Tippett: You've spoken a lot about love and love as the core of this spirituality. I think that also in the Persian culture in which you grew up, and Rumi as well, there is a connection between love poetry and imagery of the beloved and lovers, with religious ideas, which again you kind of have to introduce a Westerner into.
Ms. Keshavarz: The imagery is very often almost identical with profane, you know, mundane love poetry. By this, I don't mean to give any negative connotation to it, but love that is purely sensual and emotional, human love. To me, I think it's a statement by poets like Rumi and others like him, that there isn't really a boundary between the two. It's the same thing. It's the same human experience. And there is another medieval Sufi, actually a bit later than Rumi, who says that you can't look at the sun directly, but you can look at its reflection in the water. Our humanly experience of love is that reflection in the water of our senses, and it's God's way of teaching us and guiding us from this to the actual looking at the sun when you have gained the ability. I was just thinking of a particular ghazal as I was saying that and, you know…
Ms. Tippett: Yes, I wanted to ask you if you had anything you would read or recite, yes.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yeah, I think that that actually could help see how one would lead to the other and actually the ambiguity between the two. It's a source of great poetic force.
Ms. Tippett: And you mean one — and the other would be human love and divine love.
Ms. Keshavarz: Human love and divine love, exactly.
Mr. Soleyman Vaseghi: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian) Ms. Keshavarz:
(translating) If anyone asks you about the houris, show your face, say: like this. If anyone asks you about the moon, climb up on the roof, say: "Like this." If anyone seeks a fairy, let them see your countenance. If anyone talks about the aroma of musk, untie your hair and say: "Like this." If anyone asks: "How do the clouds uncover the moon?" untie the front of your robe, knot by knot, say: "Like this." If anyone asks: "How did Jesus raise the dead?' kiss me on the lips, say: "Like this." If anyone asks: "What are those killed by love like?" direct him to me, say: "Like this." If anyone kindly asks you how tall I am, show him your arched eyebrows, say: "Like this."
Ms. Keshavarz: So the whole ghazal is a description of the physical beauty of the lover, but at the same time, it's a fairly long poem. At the end, it leads us to blind with envy the one who says, "How can a human being reach God?" Give each of us a candle of purity, say: "Like this." In the end, human beings can get to that candle of purity and reach God, and all human beings can do that.
Ms. Tippett: It is also an act of pointing at what is now — right? — what is physical and human, as you say, as the only way we have of imagining.
Ms. Keshavarz: Exactly. Exactly. There's a famous Sufi tale that this young disciple approached the master to enter the order day after day. And finally the master said, 'Have you ever fallen in love with a woman?' He said, 'No, not yet. I'm only 18.' He said, 'Well, go try that first.'
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz. Our Web site, speakingoffaith.org, shows images and explanations of the whirling dervishes. I'm Krista Tippett and this is Speaking of Faith from American Public Media. Today we're dipping into the ideas and spiritual background of Rumi, the 13th-century Muslim mystic whose poetry is celebrated by an array of modern readers. In the song of the reed, Rumi reflects on the human spirit through the metaphor of the ancient reed flute or ney that is popular in middle-eastern music. This poem opened the Masnavi, Rumi's compendium of rhyming couplets that explored issues of Sufi theology and the spiritual journey.
Ms. Keshavarz: Listen to the story told by the reed of being separated. Since I was cut from the reed bed, I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back. At any gathering, I'm there, lingering and laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will hear the secrets hidden within the notes. No ears for that. Body flowing out of spirit, spirit out from body, no concealing that mixing. But it's not given us to see, so the reed flute is fire, not wind. Leave that empty.
Ms. Tippett: There's a theme that is part of that, that runs all the way through, about separation and longing as part of — well, not just the spiritual life, but being human, and also a kind of sense that the separation and the longing themselves are a kind of arrival. Ms. Keshavarz: On one level, you have to get on the road. You have to get started, you know, just like the earth that, you know, have to plow the earth, you have to get moving. On another level, time and again he reminds us that the destination is the journey itself. So there isn't a point where you say, 'OK, I'm here, I've reached, I'm done, I'm perfect. I don't need to do anything anymore.' In the incompleteness of that, the need to move forward is inherent in that incompleteness, in the process of going forward that you make yourself better and better and you, in a way, never reach. So the separation is the powerful force that keeps you going. If you ever felt that I have arrived I've reached, this is it, then you wouldn't go any further.
Ms. Tippett: You know, and I think it is counterintuitive in our culture — not that we necessarily think this through very often, but we think of desires and longings as something that we need to find something to meet, right?
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes, yes. And we want to meet it really fast.
Ms. Tippett: Yes.
Ms. Keshavarz: Exactly.
Ms. Tippett: Because somehow the feeling of longing and separation from whatever it is, especially if we don't know what it is we want, that that is unsatisfying and there's something wrong with that. And yet what Rumi is saying is that, you know, the longing itself is redemptive and is progress, kind of.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And the longing itself — and also not to understand exactly what that longing is, in itself, is very productive. I think one idea or major concept that the Sufi tradition and Rumi in particular have to contribute to our current culture is value in perplexity, the fact that not knowing is a source of learning, something that propels us forward into finding out. Longing, perplexity, these are all very valuable things. We want to unravel things and get answers and be done, but as far as he's concerned, it's a continual process. We can't be done. And that's good.
Ms. Tippett: I also have a feeling that Rumi is saying we also, though, at the same time need to be intentional about what we choose to be perplexed by. Does that make sense? I mean there's this poem: "Stay bewildered in God and only that. Those of you who are scattered, simplify your worrying lives. There is one righteousness. Water the fruit trees and don't water the thorns. Be generous to what nurtures the spirit and God's luminous reason-light. Don't honor what causes dysentery and knotted-up tumors. Don't feed both sides of yourself equally. The spirit and the body carry different loads and require different attentions."
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. Yes. I think the energy can't go in all directions completely in control and you have to choose because you have one life. You have to spend it wisely. So absolutely, he would say choose, be selective, recognize your own value. At another point he says, 'You are an astrolabe to God, you know, don't use yourself for things that are not worthwhile.' But I want to linger a little bit on that idea of being scattered because that's a key concept in Sufi thought. And actually it's something that the Buddhists also talk about a lot. And that is our mind just jumps from one thing to the other and, you know, the Sufis call it the onrush of ideas into our minds. And in some ways, if we allow it, it takes us over, you know. You know, what am I going to do about that credit card? You know, how am I going to--what do I do about this student paper, you know, whatever else is that you're concerned with, my family, my kids, my future. So it all invades your life and so in a way you're pulled in all directions. You're scattered. So one of the purposes of his poetry and one of the concepts the Sufis talk about is to collect that scatteredness.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz. Here is one of Rumi's ghazals, which she translated and recites with the Liän Ensemble, a group that often sets Rumi's words to Persian music.
Mr. Houman Pourmehdi: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian)
Ms. Keshavarz: (translating) When pain arrives side by side with your love, I promise not to flee. When you ask me for my life, I promise not to fight. I'm holding a cup in my hand but, God, if you do not come till the end of time, I promise not to pour out the wine nor to drink a sip. Your bright face is my day. Your dark curls bring the night. If you do not let me near you, I promise not to go to sleep nor rise. Your magnificence has made me a wonder. Your charm has taught me the way of love. I am the progeny of Abraham. I'll find my way through fire.
Ms. Tippett: What do you hear in that? What do you reflect on in that?
Ms. Keshavarz: It's about steadfastness, about staying centered and keeping your eye on the goal. But at the same time, very much being in love and allowing the ecstasy of love take over. You see, he is very aware of the fact that, as human beings, we are limited. We have our limits. We just are not able to do everything that we desire to do. Our rationality is there, is very helpful. It does its job in questioning things and showing the way, but that has its limits, too. What opens the way beyond that is love. What enables us to feel the pain and still go forth in the face of all of that, is experiencing that love. And if you look at our lives, you know, people who produce great works of art, who are creative, who do something that goes beyond day-to-day activity, have that kind of steadfastness, that kind of devotion that lets them go through. What I see in that poem is that I promise to have that, but that comes from you. It's your magnificence, your love that gives me that energy, that power to stay, and I promise to hold onto it.
Ms. Tippett: And "you" is — the beloved is God, is Allah.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes, and that's where
the ambiguity comes in, of course, because you should be able to relate to it as a human being in love with another human being. That would be your entry into the poem. Ms. Tippett: It's also probably important to note that Rumi had a great turning point with a friendship, with Shams, a Sufi master. I think it is actually helpful that the love relationship out of which Rumi drew so many of his analogies, you know, is not a romantic love relationship. And what you're saying to me is that love is the core, but to think about the many forms that love takes in our lives. I mean, there's also the passionate love that we have for our children.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes, and so they are a blessing and they all have their own place. And in the end, we don't replace them with the divine. It's like warming up, in a way, like getting you ready for a major exercise, a physical activity. You warm up gradually. You get yourself to a state where you can do it, test your abilities, see your problems and issues, ask your questions, quarrel with yourself, and get ready for it. And I think all these forms of experience of attachment with other human beings are various ways of experiencing that.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz this is Speaking of Faith. After a short break, how Rumi might speak to the spirit of Islam, past and present. Our award-winning Web site, speakingoffaith.org, reveals the world of Rumi from many directions. You can see a video performance of our guest, Fatemeh Keshavarz, and the Liän Ensemble, with Rumi's poetry set to the ney, santur, and other classic Persian instruments. And we've selected some of Rumi's poems for you to hear and to read. Also, sign up for our weekly e-mail newsletter with my journal. Subscribe to our podcast — an iTunes' Best of 2006 selection — which offers a free download of our weekly program. Our podcast now includes selected audio clips from my new book, Speaking of Faith. Listen when you want, where you want. Discover something new at speakingoffaith.org. I'm Krista Tippett. Stay with us. Speaking of Faith comes to you from American Public Media. [Announcements]
Ms. Tippett: Welcome back to Speaking of Faith, public radio's conversation about religion, meaning, ethics, and ideas. I'm Krista Tippett. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi," the 13th-century Persian poet and mystic. In recent years, English translations of Rumi's poetry by the American poet Coleman Barks have sold more than half a million copies in the U.S. UNESCO has declared 2007 International Rumi Year to honor the 800th anniversary of his birth. Rumi has been the subject of creative work by contemporary artists from composer Philip Glass to pop icon Madonna. But such popular renditions of Rumi often give little hint of his Islamic identity. He was the son of a Muslim teacher, born in the center of Persian Islamic civilization. He spent time as the head of a madrassa, religious schools which were centers of great learning, at the same time that Western Europe had fallen into the dark ages. Rumi's themes of separation and longing come straight from the heart of Islamic theology. There is no idea of original sin, but rather of a human tendency to forget and thus become separated from Allah or God. Islam imagines faith as zikr or remembrance of a knowledge that is embedded in human beings. My guest, Fatemeh Keshavarz, finds resonance in Rumi for the deepest challenges before the world and Islam today.
Ms. Tippett: I'd like to talk about Rumi's Islamic grounding and identity. That gets lost in 21st-century translations. Ms. Keshavarz: Absolutely. Ms. Tippett: Coleman Barks' translations are the ones that many people have read, that became popular, I assume. I was reading his introduction to The Essential Rumi. You know, he suggested that with a mystical writer like this, you know, he suggested that placing this person in historical and cultural context is simply not a central task. And he wrote, "My more grandiose project is to free his text into its essence." Ms. Keshavarz: I think one thing that Coleman Barks has done, he has written Rumi's ideas in the American poetic idiom. He's made it accessible to the broad readership, and that should definitely be valued. And, you know, don't hear me saying anything else on that. But I don't think you can free people from the context in which they live, and I don't think even if you try to do that, that that serves a useful purpose. I don't see Rumi as detached from the Islamic context at all. In fact, I see his work as actually and completely immersed in the Islamic tradition. I tell you, it would be hard to read a single ghazal, not even the Masnavi, which is expressly a work with theological and mystical intentions, but even a ghazal, it would be hard to read a ghazal and not find quite a few illusions to Qur'anic verses, to sayings of the prophet, to practices in the Muslim world, so I don't think we need to separate him from his Islamic context. The way first I visualize this myself is that he goes through the religion, he lives it, absorbs it, and uses it in his way. So in the process, he self-births a lot of things. He changes a lot, reinterprets a lot of things, but he does not step outside of it. He lives in it. Let me give you an example. Ms. Tippett: Good. Ms. Keshavarz: You know that in his discourses — I try not to use the word "sermons" because "sermon" brings such a specific connotation that's probably not there. But the discourses are when Rumi is sitting in a local mosque, in the local gathering, talking to people. It's very interactive, it's very informal, and he kind of steps down the pulpit in a way and reaches out to the people and it's very poetic even though it's in prose and he didn't write it down. His students and, you know, people around him took it down. On one of these occasions, he quotes a Qur'anic verse, if I might quote the Arabic, is (recites Qur'anic verse in Arabic). We — this is the royal "we," God — we stand down the zikr and we will be its protector. Now, the word zikr in Arabic means "remembers" and traditionally the commentators have defined the word zikr as the Qur'an itself, and they have good reason to do so because elsewhere in the Qur'an, the Qur'an refers to itself as zikr and remembrance, in part because humanity is described as forgetful, so the Qur'an is a way of remembering. Now, he says the commentators have said that this verse refers to the Qur'an itself, that God says we have given you the Qur'an and we are — that I am the protector of it. And he said (foreign language spoken). That's fine. (Foreign language spoken), but there is this interpretation, too, that God says (foreign language spoken). "We have put in you a desire and a quest, and I, God, am the protector of that desire." That's a very different interpretation. First of all, it opens it immediately to all humanity.
Ms. Tippett: I think that there is something in Rumi's writing which is so large, so generous. I don't like the word "universal" because I think in some ways it waters things down. Ms. Keshavarz: I agree with you. "Generous" is a very good…
Ms. Tippett: Yeah. But it's easy to read this and also I think people from many different religious traditions can read this poetry or his discourses, or people who are not people of faith can read it and feel themselves addressed and feel their spiritual lives addressed.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And I think sometimes people feel that if they take away or overlook the Islamic flavor of it, maybe that makes him more accessible, more theirs. I think generosity and openness is a very good way of putting it. If you're not rooted in the specific and in the small, in the local, you can never see the broader vision. You have to love a tradition and to be completely immersed in it before you can subvert it and transcend it. You have to…
Ms. Tippett: Before you can subvert it from the inside.
Ms. Keshavarz: Exactly. And you have to love it for you to think that I want to open it up, I want to make it better, and then go forward with it. And, you know, you can't break laws in an acceptable way unless you know them really well and practice them with tradition. That's the only time. And that's what I think he does. He's so well rooted in the Islamic tradition, so completely aware of the nuances, that he says, you know, 'Hey guys, we can open it up here. Look. Look at this. This is what you always thought, but now look one step beyond.' And he can do that precisely because he's rooted in the tradition.
Ms. Tippett: And I think it's true also that around the same time that Rumi was entering popular imaginations by way of poetry, there were images of Islam suddenly in the news in this post-9/11 world which were so very different from that. I mean — and, you know, you've written that Rumi is a true child of an adventurous and cosmopolitan Islam. And, you know, those are not two words that you would associate with headline Islam that we've had these past years.
Ms. Keshavarz: I'm actually, you know, really glad you bring this up because I think one thing that's desperately needed at this point, to show the adventureness, the surprise, the play, the aspects of his work that now are not normally associated with that part of the world. You kind of think that, you know, people just — it's all religion, and it's religion followed in a fairly institutionalized and stylized and, you know, planned form. Not at all. I mean, he's playing with it all the time. So I think another contribution he could do for us right now, exactly in this post-9/11 environment, is to bring out that side of the Muslim culture, that contribution to the world.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi scholar Fatemeh Keshavarz. I'm Krista Tippett and this is Speaking of Faith from American Public Media. Today, "The Ecstatic Faith of Rumi." Ironically, just as Rumi has been rediscovered in the U.S. and Western Europe, the Sufi brotherhood formed by his followers has been banned in periods of recent history in Turkey, where Rumi did most of his writing and where he's buried. The whirling of the whirling dervishes, which Rumi first innovated as a form of dancing meditation, have been reduced, some say, to mere entertainment. I asked Fatemeh Keshavarz about Rumi's legacy in Iran, where she grew up, the center of the Persian world of literature and culture to which Rumi also belonged.
Ms. Tippett: Rumi still as much alive in Iran now as when you were growing up? How does that look?
Ms. Keshavarz: Well, I tell you I can't keep up with the books that are published in Iran about him. Yes, absolutely. You know, there's this debate whether he was a Persian or a Turk or an Afghan. You know, it is completely really irrelevant again, but for Iranians he is just such a household name. You will have — in your house you will have the Qur'an, you will have the volume of poetry of Hafez, another great figure from the little bit later period, and the Masnavi of Rumi. And then depending, of course, like any other culture, you have people who more immersed in his work and more familiar. They know him at different levels obviously. But, yeah, I wouldn't say that the interest in him has changed or lessened at all.
Ms. Tippett: I mean, I hear in my conversations that Islam in Iran is — there's great intellectual discourse and study and, you know, that's just not a story that we hear. So I mean, I'm just curious, you know. This subversive, playful, cosmopolitan quality of — are those also part of the discourse in Iran?
Ms. Keshavarz: Absolutely. You know, I send out lists to my friends called "Windows on Iran," precisely for that. Just once a week I send out information about Iran that they don't get to see in the media. Like in the month of June, for example, there's a book fare in Iran. You know how many people visited this past book fare in June in one week? Two million people visited the book fare. You know, I send this out and then I get these messages: Wow, this is happening in Iran? Or I send pictures. I just realized afterwards that our visual vocabulary has been affected. If we think of Iran, we only have certain visions of unfortunate moments in recent history that get repeated. And our language — Rumi is so aware of that. Language can take over our lives and make us not see things. He actually has a fabulous verse, he says (Persian spoken). "Speak a new language so that the world will be a new world." I mean this is the most sophisticated, philosophical approach to language. Now we talk of language as being constitutive of experience, but that's exactly what he said. You know, 'get yourself a new language and then you will be able to see a new world.' And that's definitely what we need to do in relation to that part of the world, certainly with Iran, to see the dynamics. A tremendous amount is going on that we don't get to hear about.
Ms. Keshavarz: (Lines of Rumi poetry recited in Persian) (translating) To speak the same language is to share the same blood, to be related. To live with strangers is a life of captivity. Many are Hindus and Turks who share the same language. Many are Turks who may be alien to one another. The language of companionship is a unique one. To reach someone through the heart is other than reaching them through words. Besides words, illusions, and arguments, the heart knows a hundred thousand ways to speak.
Ms. Tippett: You know, I can't help but look at Rumi's life and be struck by how the poles of culture and place in terms of, you know, where he moved and where he lived and settled, are all such important poles in our world today. There's Afghanistan, there's Turkey, which is somehow becoming symbolic of the struggle to define what is Western, right, what is not. There's Persia, there's Iran. Do you ever think about that, about Rumi's legacy and where he came from and how that echoes in the world today?
Ms. Keshavarz: I consider myself tremendously lucky to be able to grow up with that language. But to tell you the truth, I think that all parts of the world have their own Rumi. I believe that we just need only to explore those traditions and look for them. So in a sense, I think he is just one other giant, you know, one other figure who is very important right now. I agree with you, it's very important to read him, to look at the vision that he has for humanity because it's so healing, it's so needed to correct some of our short-sightedness and, you know, some of the problems we have with not being able to see the larger picture. So in that sense, I agree with you. But I don't know if I want to think of that part of the world as having any kind of monopoly on this.
Ms. Tippett:
OK. Ms. Keshavarz: I think, if anything, his vision is that all humanity is pregnant with God. You know, we all in various parts of worlds and traditions. We have people like him. We just have to find them.
Ms. Tippett: You ask a question in something you've written: "How is one to nurture this God buried like a ruin in the treasure of one's being, and let it permeate all of life?" How does your encounter with Rumi — your ongoing encounter with Rumi, how does it help you live with that question, answer that question in your life?
Ms. Keshavarz: You know, the most important tool he has, which is hope, is what we need to nurture in ourselves. And hope, the energy to move, the energy to go, to never think that this is not worth it or I am done, I am tired, that's what he's given me. I can read them for hours, I can teach them for hours. I can come back to it and be surprised again. The gift is a kind of whirling that keeps your life to be a constant move on the road, and then according to your abilities, what you can see, what you can hear, what you can cherish, you get your own rewards. You put it together. Again, you give birth to your own God. Life kind of comes to life with his works.
Ms. Tippett: With Rumi's words.
Ms. Keshavarz: Yes. And, you know, depending on where I am and who I am at that point and I'm doing, I get something out of it. It actually has a fascinating verse. He says (Persian spoken), says, "I am fire. If you have doubts about that, bring your hands forth." That's the dramatic flare I was talking about, you know. 'Bring your hands forth, touch me, and I'll tell you what I'm about.'
Ms. Tippett: Fatemeh Keshavarz is professor of Persian and Comparative Literature and chair of the Department of Asian and Near Eastern Languages and Literatures at Washington University in St. Louis. She's the author of Reading Mystical Lyric: The Case of Jalal Al-din Rumi and a forthcoming book, Jasmine and Stars: Reading More Than Lolita in Tehran. Visit us online at speakingoffaith.org. If you've encountered Rumi's writings, tell us how they've spoken to you. What in his spirituality surprises or draws you in? Look for "Share Your Story" on our home page. While you're there, learn much more about Rumi's world and his writings, watch video of musical performances of Rumi's poetry, and listen to readings from his poetry in Persian and in English. Also, subscribe to our e-mail newsletter and podcast and never miss another program again. In addition to each week's full program, our podcast now includes excerpts from my new book, Speaking of Faith. Listen when you want, where you want. Discover something new at speakingoffaith.org. Special thanks this week to Houman Pourmehdi, Soleyman Vaseghi, the Liän Ensemble, Omid Safi, Shiraz Janjua, and Stanford University's Continuing Studies Department. The senior producer of Speaking of Faith is Mitch Hanley, with producers Colleen Scheck and Jody Abramson. Our online editor is Trent Gilliss. Our consulting editor is Bill Buzenberg, Kate Moos is the managing producer of Speaking of Faith, and I'm Krista Tippett.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Arabii in na house ya'll!!!
If anyone reading my pages is interested in Arabic, keep reading this post. If you are as frustrated as I have been for years at how difficult Arabic is to learn (even when you have gone to the trouble of moving to a corner of the Middle East like I have), then you need to know about the Arab Academy. Despite their rather dumb-sounding name (which makes it sound like a place where you go to learn to be an Arab), it is everything an online study course should be and more. It is not expensive. It is very well done. It has lots and lots of excellent materials, study modules, exercises, online tests and even parts where you can interactive with live teachers. I discovered it about a month ago, just paid my money and signed on yesterday and cannot recommend it highly enough, especially for what it costs.
Here is the url: http://www.arabacademy.com/
Here is the url: http://www.arabacademy.com/
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Rumi's Song of the Reed
Being from the U.S. and being a good liberal, I am used to listening to National Public Radio. Luckily, us U.S. ex-pats and other NPR fans can hear most NPR programs online these days, no matter where you are. One of my favorite NPR shows is a show called Speaking of Faith--a very well done, cosmopolitan, pluralistic, but just-Judeo-Christian-enough-to-make-it-believable-hour of discussion on "faith, meaning and values" (as I believe they put it). This week's show was a repeat of a show I heard earlier in the year on the 13th century Persian Sufi theologian and poet (he was also a jurist) Jalaladin Rumi. What a coincidence, you might say, since I have been talking about Rumi in the last couple of posts! No, I say, there are no coincidences. Rumi has appeared in my life and will reappear on this blog site today for a reason. Here's the reason.
The Rumi "poem" (azul, actually, sometimes translated as "ode") I will put here today is called "The Song of the Reed." It speaks to me now especially eloquently because I happen to be going through a period of very confusing heartbreak. An old friend who I was in love with earlier in the year finds it no longer possible, at least at the present time, to talk to me. There are not many salves for these wounds. But interestingly, in this poem Rumi talks about how longing and the ability to love, even when these feelings are not returned, can be a kind of medication for the soul when seen in the right "light." He calls the reed song "hurt and salve combining."
Anyone who has gone through such times, and this is most of us, reaches a layer of clarity when we realize we should "give ourselves a break" because, as it runs in my head, "at least we had the guts to put ourselves out there," as it were, regardless of what happend in response. How the "song of the reed" can be "intimacy and longing in one song,"as Rumi puts it, or rather how our heartbreak can become a "song of the reed," is apparent to me when we reach a second layer of clarity about how the ability to love comes from our own ability to reflect divinity, divine qualities and divine love (sorry for the theism here, but hey, it's my blog and Rumi was a medieval Muslim). The ability to love and feel love has, in my view at least, something to do with manifesting and recognizing universal qualities within ourselves and our social behavior, and not with manifesting and recognizing qualities known ONLY to our lovers.
A corrolary, hopefully, to this is that at some point in the healing process we realize that the things we thought and felt with our loved ones are real, and just as real with them as without the lover. It is at this point, in my view, that we begin to learn about the designs God has for us and learn that these designs are made just as apparent in cases of love being given and not returned as in cases of it being returned by another human. This is one way, for me at least, that unrequited love becomes the Song of the Reed.
But don't let me stop you from reading the poem itself and finding other ways. There is much packed into a Rumi poem, which is the reason he's been read and re-read constantly since the days of Aquinas and St. Francis, two more important teachers of how and why we need to love, need to love loudly and proudly, but also need to do it observantly, very observantly. On a related but scholarly (read "geeky") note, for those who know Aquinas and Christian Platonism, there is a bit of Platonic "remembrance" going on in this poem too that would make a wonderful basis for trying to compare the two contemporary thinkers. I also really like how Rumi refers to us lovers as "fish" in a sea, as surrounded by grace as fish are water, yet unaware of it. To this little piscean believer in the law of attraction, this is powerful stuff.
The Song of the Reed
Since I was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back.
At any gathering I am there, mingling in the laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will hear the secrets hidden within the notes. No ears for that. Body flowing out of spirit, spirit up from body: no concealing that mixing. It's not given us to see the soul.
The reed flute is fire, not wind. Be that empty. Hear the love fire tangled in the reed notes, as bewilderment melts into wine. The reed is a friend to all who want the fabric torn and drawn away. The reed is hurt and salve combining. Intimacy and longing for intimacy, one song. A disastrous surrender and a fine love, together.
The one who secretly hears this is senseless. A tongue has one customer, the ear. A sugarcane flute has such effect because it was able to make sugar in the reedbed. The sound it makes is for everyone.
Days full of wanting, let them go by without worrying that they do. Stay where you are inside such a pure, hollow note. Every thirst gets satisfied except that of these fish, the mystics, who swim a vast ocean of grace still somehow longing for it! No one lives in that without being nourished every day.
But if someone doesn't want to hear the song of the reed flute, it's best to cut conversation short, say good-bye, and leave.
The Rumi "poem" (azul, actually, sometimes translated as "ode") I will put here today is called "The Song of the Reed." It speaks to me now especially eloquently because I happen to be going through a period of very confusing heartbreak. An old friend who I was in love with earlier in the year finds it no longer possible, at least at the present time, to talk to me. There are not many salves for these wounds. But interestingly, in this poem Rumi talks about how longing and the ability to love, even when these feelings are not returned, can be a kind of medication for the soul when seen in the right "light." He calls the reed song "hurt and salve combining."
Anyone who has gone through such times, and this is most of us, reaches a layer of clarity when we realize we should "give ourselves a break" because, as it runs in my head, "at least we had the guts to put ourselves out there," as it were, regardless of what happend in response. How the "song of the reed" can be "intimacy and longing in one song,"as Rumi puts it, or rather how our heartbreak can become a "song of the reed," is apparent to me when we reach a second layer of clarity about how the ability to love comes from our own ability to reflect divinity, divine qualities and divine love (sorry for the theism here, but hey, it's my blog and Rumi was a medieval Muslim). The ability to love and feel love has, in my view at least, something to do with manifesting and recognizing universal qualities within ourselves and our social behavior, and not with manifesting and recognizing qualities known ONLY to our lovers.
A corrolary, hopefully, to this is that at some point in the healing process we realize that the things we thought and felt with our loved ones are real, and just as real with them as without the lover. It is at this point, in my view, that we begin to learn about the designs God has for us and learn that these designs are made just as apparent in cases of love being given and not returned as in cases of it being returned by another human. This is one way, for me at least, that unrequited love becomes the Song of the Reed.
But don't let me stop you from reading the poem itself and finding other ways. There is much packed into a Rumi poem, which is the reason he's been read and re-read constantly since the days of Aquinas and St. Francis, two more important teachers of how and why we need to love, need to love loudly and proudly, but also need to do it observantly, very observantly. On a related but scholarly (read "geeky") note, for those who know Aquinas and Christian Platonism, there is a bit of Platonic "remembrance" going on in this poem too that would make a wonderful basis for trying to compare the two contemporary thinkers. I also really like how Rumi refers to us lovers as "fish" in a sea, as surrounded by grace as fish are water, yet unaware of it. To this little piscean believer in the law of attraction, this is powerful stuff.
The Song of the Reed
Since I was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back.
At any gathering I am there, mingling in the laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will hear the secrets hidden within the notes. No ears for that. Body flowing out of spirit, spirit up from body: no concealing that mixing. It's not given us to see the soul.
The reed flute is fire, not wind. Be that empty. Hear the love fire tangled in the reed notes, as bewilderment melts into wine. The reed is a friend to all who want the fabric torn and drawn away. The reed is hurt and salve combining. Intimacy and longing for intimacy, one song. A disastrous surrender and a fine love, together.
The one who secretly hears this is senseless. A tongue has one customer, the ear. A sugarcane flute has such effect because it was able to make sugar in the reedbed. The sound it makes is for everyone.
Days full of wanting, let them go by without worrying that they do. Stay where you are inside such a pure, hollow note. Every thirst gets satisfied except that of these fish, the mystics, who swim a vast ocean of grace still somehow longing for it! No one lives in that without being nourished every day.
But if someone doesn't want to hear the song of the reed flute, it's best to cut conversation short, say good-bye, and leave.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Rumi on Darkness, Friends and....Blogging?
well, since yesterday I found myself mentioning Rumi and Saudi in the same breath (something not easy to do), it seems it's time for a bit of Rumi himself. I especially like this Rumi "poem" because of what it might say about bloggers, blogger communities and other possible digital sufis.
Search the Darkness
Sit with your friends, don't go back to sleep.
Don't sink like a fish to the bottom of the sea.
Surge like an ocean, don't scatter yourself like a storm.
Life's waters flow from darkness. Search the darkness, don't run from it.
Night travelers are full of light, and you are too: don't leave this companionship.
Be a wakeful candle in a golden dish, don't slip into the dirt like quicksilver.
The moon appears for night travelers, be watchful when the moon is full.
Search the Darkness
Sit with your friends, don't go back to sleep.
Don't sink like a fish to the bottom of the sea.
Surge like an ocean, don't scatter yourself like a storm.
Life's waters flow from darkness. Search the darkness, don't run from it.
Night travelers are full of light, and you are too: don't leave this companionship.
Be a wakeful candle in a golden dish, don't slip into the dirt like quicksilver.
The moon appears for night travelers, be watchful when the moon is full.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Sufism in Saudi?
This topic deserves far more seriousness and time than I am going to give it here and now, but the question of where Sufism is and was in Saudi is an important one. Let me offer these cursory half-"baked" reflections.
The one Imam in Saudi Arabia I have had one-on-one visits with (for about six weeks during Arabic lessons) did not like Rumi, one of the central figures in Sufism, at all. When I asked him why he said "Rumi thinks God is in everything." He did not go on to say "there is no God but God," but he was definitely heading in this direction. But am I turning him into a charicature by stopping here? How do we contextualize what he said, do it in an intelligent manner, take it seriously, and go beyond the cliche's?
First of all we need to bring in the Wahabi sect (see Wikipedia on this if needed), a conservative version of Islam connected to, and in many ways stemming from, the two-century old religious establishment of the same name. The sect gets its name from its founder: a man named Ibn Wahab who teamed up with the House of Saud in the 18th century to found a partnership that eventually became the country. In the past, the Wahabis are said to be responsible for doing less admirable things, like destroying "idoloatrous" shrines to various Islamic saints and manifestations of popular religion, some of which did and does stem from Shi-ism, that other major Iranian religious export. Today the Wahabis are supposedly in control of Saudi education.
I must stress again that this needs to be explored further than I am doing now. The only thing I am offering is a small, tiny even, bit of insight into this society today and where the Sufis are in it. So then, what I think we can say is this: the anti-Sufism we hear, and imagine we might hear, about in Saudi is there and is alive. We can also speculate that it is part of Saudi's top madrasas or "seminaries." Why? The guy I witnessed air these views graduated from Medina university, one of the most importnat schools in the country and trainer of its religious establishment. He works for this state supported religious establishment now. And as they say, the acorn never falls far from the tree.
But what do we do about this? Does this mean Sufism does not and cannot exist here? Is this a question we should even be asking?
The only hope, I envision is in reminding ouselves of the geopolitical nexus Saudi sits in with respect to India, Bangladesh and Pakistan. These places are soooo close to Saudi and the Gulf and gives it millions of workers. A third of the 20 million people in Saudi are foreign workers from south Asia. Many of them are semi-permanent residents here and in the Gulf. Another intersting tidbit is that India and what I will call "greater-Persia" are also the places where Sufism survived and thrived the most heartily in centuries past. These areas produced schools of Sufi thought and learning that survive right up to the present day and which kept the teaching alive throughout the "middle east." Why should this not be the case even now? Without doing any real research on this other than observing what I see in the small but possibly representative speck of this country's social world, I'd say the Sufi mindset could still be lurking and limping along here, but also confident of who and what it is, and that it is. How do I know? Because you, by reading this, and I, by writing it, are "brining it," even though neither one us might be "Asian."
M XYZ
The one Imam in Saudi Arabia I have had one-on-one visits with (for about six weeks during Arabic lessons) did not like Rumi, one of the central figures in Sufism, at all. When I asked him why he said "Rumi thinks God is in everything." He did not go on to say "there is no God but God," but he was definitely heading in this direction. But am I turning him into a charicature by stopping here? How do we contextualize what he said, do it in an intelligent manner, take it seriously, and go beyond the cliche's?
First of all we need to bring in the Wahabi sect (see Wikipedia on this if needed), a conservative version of Islam connected to, and in many ways stemming from, the two-century old religious establishment of the same name. The sect gets its name from its founder: a man named Ibn Wahab who teamed up with the House of Saud in the 18th century to found a partnership that eventually became the country. In the past, the Wahabis are said to be responsible for doing less admirable things, like destroying "idoloatrous" shrines to various Islamic saints and manifestations of popular religion, some of which did and does stem from Shi-ism, that other major Iranian religious export. Today the Wahabis are supposedly in control of Saudi education.
I must stress again that this needs to be explored further than I am doing now. The only thing I am offering is a small, tiny even, bit of insight into this society today and where the Sufis are in it. So then, what I think we can say is this: the anti-Sufism we hear, and imagine we might hear, about in Saudi is there and is alive. We can also speculate that it is part of Saudi's top madrasas or "seminaries." Why? The guy I witnessed air these views graduated from Medina university, one of the most importnat schools in the country and trainer of its religious establishment. He works for this state supported religious establishment now. And as they say, the acorn never falls far from the tree.
But what do we do about this? Does this mean Sufism does not and cannot exist here? Is this a question we should even be asking?
The only hope, I envision is in reminding ouselves of the geopolitical nexus Saudi sits in with respect to India, Bangladesh and Pakistan. These places are soooo close to Saudi and the Gulf and gives it millions of workers. A third of the 20 million people in Saudi are foreign workers from south Asia. Many of them are semi-permanent residents here and in the Gulf. Another intersting tidbit is that India and what I will call "greater-Persia" are also the places where Sufism survived and thrived the most heartily in centuries past. These areas produced schools of Sufi thought and learning that survive right up to the present day and which kept the teaching alive throughout the "middle east." Why should this not be the case even now? Without doing any real research on this other than observing what I see in the small but possibly representative speck of this country's social world, I'd say the Sufi mindset could still be lurking and limping along here, but also confident of who and what it is, and that it is. How do I know? Because you, by reading this, and I, by writing it, are "brining it," even though neither one us might be "Asian."
M XYZ
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The Ramadan Gestapo
I actually wrote this during Ramadan and put it on my myspace page. nobody reads myspace blogs. So I stick it here for your reading pleasure, or not.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
 | Ramadan and The Saudi Religious Gestapo It is now the month of Ramadan in the Muslim world. Ramadan is something people hear about outside of this area, but unless you've actually been here duing this time you can't quite understand what it's about. Ramadan requires all Muslims to fast from sun up until sundown. It is supposedly a time of experiencing God's mercy. I guess you take the food, sex and pleasure away during the daylight hours (even though there was not much of it here to begin with) and you appreciate it more at night. You begin to appreciate the little things I suppose, and where they supposedly come from. |
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Lives of Saudi Women: A Sketch
I work at the male branch of a university in Saudi Arabia. Some of us on occasion go over to the women's branch after hours when the women are gone to do various kinds of work: set up computers, deliver exams etc. A couple of months ago, one of the male teachers was at the female campus after hours one day and was setting up a computer in the computer lab. He looked down and noticed that one of the girls had left her art pad/sketch pad under one of the computers. Her name was written on the front of the pad in Roman letters. The male teacher started looking through the sketch pad and was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the sketches and at how talented the girl was.
The teacher was even more surprised when in the middle of the sketch pad he saw a sketch of a man and a woman in the middle of a very engaging coital bout: in formus caninus to be precise, and drawn expertly in minute and exquisite detail. Bulging veins, sweat covered limbs, entwined torsos and faces showing bodies mired deep in the raptures of pleasure were all captured in the finest and most skilled detail.In Saudi Arabian universities for women, women are allowed to uncover their faces and take off their black cloak, known as an abayya, as long as they are indoors. The female teachers who work there tell me "it's a fashion show." And that the students are nearly always better dressed and are more fashionable than their teachers.
Are Saudi women are more normal than we think they are, and as they appear (or don't appear) in public? It seems their fantasy lives and aesthetic sense are about as well honed and active as they rest of ours are.The particular male teacher who saw this sketch was an American. There was a very pious Muslim, who happened to be Somali, standing next to him who was horrified at the picuture and immediately started ripping it out of the sketch pad and ripping it to shreds. The American asked why, and was told, wisely, that the girl's name was on the outside of the pad and that if the picuture was found by the wrong people she might find herself in a lot of trouble. So, the strictures on pleasure that exist in a conservative country like this come from all directions, and are both opposed and supported from all directions as well. While there is a lot about this place that is black and white, and very annoyingly so. But there is much that is gray as well. Salam Alaykum
The teacher was even more surprised when in the middle of the sketch pad he saw a sketch of a man and a woman in the middle of a very engaging coital bout: in formus caninus to be precise, and drawn expertly in minute and exquisite detail. Bulging veins, sweat covered limbs, entwined torsos and faces showing bodies mired deep in the raptures of pleasure were all captured in the finest and most skilled detail.In Saudi Arabian universities for women, women are allowed to uncover their faces and take off their black cloak, known as an abayya, as long as they are indoors. The female teachers who work there tell me "it's a fashion show." And that the students are nearly always better dressed and are more fashionable than their teachers.
Are Saudi women are more normal than we think they are, and as they appear (or don't appear) in public? It seems their fantasy lives and aesthetic sense are about as well honed and active as they rest of ours are.The particular male teacher who saw this sketch was an American. There was a very pious Muslim, who happened to be Somali, standing next to him who was horrified at the picuture and immediately started ripping it out of the sketch pad and ripping it to shreds. The American asked why, and was told, wisely, that the girl's name was on the outside of the pad and that if the picuture was found by the wrong people she might find herself in a lot of trouble. So, the strictures on pleasure that exist in a conservative country like this come from all directions, and are both opposed and supported from all directions as well. While there is a lot about this place that is black and white, and very annoyingly so. But there is much that is gray as well. Salam Alaykum
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Tariki and Jiriki
In discussions of Japanese Buddhism you occassionally run across the notion of "tariki" and "jiriki." The Japanese character "ta," which is straight from Chinese actually, means "other, outiside." "Riki" means "power." "Ji," or "si" in modern Chinese, means "self." The notions tariki and jiriki have been part of Japanese Buddhist discourse since Buddhism arrived in Japan from China since the sixth century. Pure Land Buddhism, for example, is often compared to Lutheranism because of its emphasis on grace and the idea that the individual cannot save themselves and must rely upon the Buddha Amitaba to do so. Pure Land Buddhism was and is often distinguished from Zen where the emphasis was placed on individual initiative and the need for working out one's own salvation---a jiriki religion in other words.
Many of us who come to work in Saudi Arabia often see a similar distintion at work between "us" (as if we are all the same) and the Saudis. Saudis, for example, constantly utter the phrase "in sha Allah" meaning "God willing." This phrase is heard especially coming from those who might or might not do what you are asking of them. It is thus heard from bureaucrats when you want them to fix something in your government issued apartment, people in the personnel department where you work when you are waiting for them to process your immigration pepers, and from students when ask them to do some form of homework.
So are Saudis really less used to doing things for themselves than are people in the west? Judging from the Saudi students to whom I teach English and from other Saudis I encounter at my job and in the community, the answer seems to be yes. These students drive like complete maniacs on the highway and in residential areas. One of the leading causes of death in Saud Arabia is car accidents. I have not yet been here six months and have heard of three deaths among the friends or family members of my studednts. And this is only in my classes. There are other teachers I know who can vouch for similar numbers. So the reigning mindset on Saudi highways certainly seems to be a tariki one rather than a jiriki one.
The students I teach also seem to have a similar view when studying for exams or when doing homework. These students are in an institution where the entire second year is taught in English and where students will take courses in business and science and have to listen to lectures in English taught by speactialists in these disciplines. Some of the first year courses too are mathematics and computer science which are also taught completely in English. At least 60% of the students I teach (who are in the first year, or "prep year" of the program) are at a level of English that prevents them from carrying on a simple conversation in the language; yet they will not do the homework that I give them to help them improve in their handling of basic grammar structures and to acquire the needed vocabulary to communicate on basic topics in English.
So, the "tariki' mentality seems to be widespread here. But does it come from Islam (the word itself means "submission") , which stresses submission, obedience and the denial of the self and putting the family and uluma (the world of Islam) first? Or does it come from living under a welfare state run off of petro-dollars and where self-initiative is not needed? Here, much of the real work is done either by foreigners or by a small band of elite Saudis who actually posses the real skill and knowhow and run the country.
The answer, as usual, lies somewhere in between. The real contradiction however, and the saddest and most confusing thing, is that the few Saudis who do seem to realize that their instututions are set up to engender passivity are the ones who become the new elite. This elite, as far as I can tell, is the only patrioitc group of individuals here. The rest of them, however proud they are of at least thingking of themselves as Saudi, do not seem to realize how they constantly undercut the building and improving of their nation. It is for this reason that I feel like I, who have not even been here six months, am often a better Saudi than those self-understood real Saudis that I encounter everyday living out their bewildering, unconcered and "tariki" lives.
Many of us who come to work in Saudi Arabia often see a similar distintion at work between "us" (as if we are all the same) and the Saudis. Saudis, for example, constantly utter the phrase "in sha Allah" meaning "God willing." This phrase is heard especially coming from those who might or might not do what you are asking of them. It is thus heard from bureaucrats when you want them to fix something in your government issued apartment, people in the personnel department where you work when you are waiting for them to process your immigration pepers, and from students when ask them to do some form of homework.
So are Saudis really less used to doing things for themselves than are people in the west? Judging from the Saudi students to whom I teach English and from other Saudis I encounter at my job and in the community, the answer seems to be yes. These students drive like complete maniacs on the highway and in residential areas. One of the leading causes of death in Saud Arabia is car accidents. I have not yet been here six months and have heard of three deaths among the friends or family members of my studednts. And this is only in my classes. There are other teachers I know who can vouch for similar numbers. So the reigning mindset on Saudi highways certainly seems to be a tariki one rather than a jiriki one.
The students I teach also seem to have a similar view when studying for exams or when doing homework. These students are in an institution where the entire second year is taught in English and where students will take courses in business and science and have to listen to lectures in English taught by speactialists in these disciplines. Some of the first year courses too are mathematics and computer science which are also taught completely in English. At least 60% of the students I teach (who are in the first year, or "prep year" of the program) are at a level of English that prevents them from carrying on a simple conversation in the language; yet they will not do the homework that I give them to help them improve in their handling of basic grammar structures and to acquire the needed vocabulary to communicate on basic topics in English.
So, the "tariki' mentality seems to be widespread here. But does it come from Islam (the word itself means "submission") , which stresses submission, obedience and the denial of the self and putting the family and uluma (the world of Islam) first? Or does it come from living under a welfare state run off of petro-dollars and where self-initiative is not needed? Here, much of the real work is done either by foreigners or by a small band of elite Saudis who actually posses the real skill and knowhow and run the country.
The answer, as usual, lies somewhere in between. The real contradiction however, and the saddest and most confusing thing, is that the few Saudis who do seem to realize that their instututions are set up to engender passivity are the ones who become the new elite. This elite, as far as I can tell, is the only patrioitc group of individuals here. The rest of them, however proud they are of at least thingking of themselves as Saudi, do not seem to realize how they constantly undercut the building and improving of their nation. It is for this reason that I feel like I, who have not even been here six months, am often a better Saudi than those self-understood real Saudis that I encounter everyday living out their bewildering, unconcered and "tariki" lives.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Saudi: first impressions..oh jeez!
yes, living in Saudi Arabia as an English teacher totally sucks, on one level that is. It is absolutely oppressive in every way: for almost two weeks now I have not talked face to face with a woman except for the four words I exchanged with a Philipino nurse in the medical center. The Saudis look down on everybody, including other Muslims. College students are paid to attend class and are therefore more arrogant and lazy in class than they otherwise might be. There are no restaurants, movie theatres, cafes, book shops of any kind in the town I live in. There are coffee shops, books stores and restaurants in other cities, but forget movie theatres. Where I live is also a terrible place to learn Arabic, the one thing--besids a conservative version of Islam--you'd think would be in ample supply here.
But on the proverbial other hand, there are 20 million Saudis here and another batch of 8 million foreign workers, all of whom happen to be living in one of the pivotal countries of the Middle East. However difficult the Saudis may or may not be to deal with, they have been relatively cooperative and friendly in the US's project to keep it's feet in the middle east and deal with Islamic fundamentalists. They are also rather enamored of the West and with education in English speaking countries. So, even though it may be skewed at times, there are some bases for a good working relationship and one where we can learn from one another.
But I have only been here two weeks. Let's see how this looks in two months.
But on the proverbial other hand, there are 20 million Saudis here and another batch of 8 million foreign workers, all of whom happen to be living in one of the pivotal countries of the Middle East. However difficult the Saudis may or may not be to deal with, they have been relatively cooperative and friendly in the US's project to keep it's feet in the middle east and deal with Islamic fundamentalists. They are also rather enamored of the West and with education in English speaking countries. So, even though it may be skewed at times, there are some bases for a good working relationship and one where we can learn from one another.
But I have only been here two weeks. Let's see how this looks in two months.
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