Arash Naraghi's Article: “Read Me!”

Monotheistic mysticism is structured upon the interpersonal relationship between the human being and God. The most important manifestation of this interpersonal bond is a fundamentally linguistic relationship between God and the human being. If God opens the door of dialogue with the human being, this phenomenon is called “revelation,” and if the human being initiates this linguistic relationship, it is called “supplication” (du‘ā). Revelation and supplication are the essence of monotheistic mysticism.

In the Qur’an, God considers the purpose of creating human beings to be “worship” (‘ibāda) (al-Dhāriyāt/56), and it is also narrated from the noble Prophet of Islam that “the kernel of worship is supplication.” From these two statements, a somewhat astonishing conclusion emerges: as if, from a religious perspective, the purpose of creating human beings was to supplicate.

In the Qur’an, God has called upon human beings to supplicate and has promised them a response (Ghāfir/60). This invitation has an important consequence from a theological perspective: God is a being who can be called upon, and from whom one can expect an answer. This is the God of the mystics, who enters into a linguistic relationship of dialogue with human beings. The God of the mystics, in pure moments of manifestation, reveals Himself to the human being more in the form of a personal being, a being who can establish an interpersonal relationship with the individual human, that is, to speak with him and hear from him.

The possibility of the answering of supplication makes the phenomenon of supplication the focal point of spiritual life. The spiritual wayfarer calls upon God in the hope of hearing a response from Him. God’s response or address is a transformative experience that completely alters the existence of the spiritual wayfarer. In the Qur’an, the answering of human beings’ supplication is guaranteed particularly in one specific situation: the situation of dire constraint (iḍṭirār) (al-Naml/2). But why does dire constraint lead to the answering of supplication? Perhaps the answer should be sought in the relationship between the existential state of dire constraint and the existential state of sincerity (ikhlāṣ). The Qur’an emphasizes the role of sincerity in supplication (for example, Ghāfir/14 and 65), as if sincerity is the condition for having one’s supplication answered. And dire constraint is a situation in which the human being can observe sincerity from its depths. In the Qur’an, there is the story of a group of ship passengers whose ship was on the verge of destruction, and they clearly saw their existence on the threshold of non-existence. When the ship passengers realized that no thread of hope could rescue them, they detached their hearts from everything, turned sincerely to God, and called upon Him. (al-‘Ankabūt/65) It is as if the human being who is caught in the destructive storms of existence and finds no refuge or way out draws near to the perception of the experience of sincerity; dire constraint on the outside may perhaps lead to sincerity on the inside. But here, the experience of sincerity is realized on two levels:

The first level can be called the experience of “negative or privative sincerity.” Here, the individual who sees their entire existence on the threshold of non-existence suddenly realizes with complete clarity that none of the pretexts to which they had pinned their hopes are of any use. The ship passengers, in that terrifying moment, realize that wealth, fame, and a multitude of companions cannot save them from this peril. All conventional solutions are ineffective and useless. As soon as the individual severs hope from everyone, the first step of sincerity has been taken.

The second level can be called the experience of “positive or affirmative sincerity.” When the individual, in the words of Rumi, sees the “impotence of the wise,” that is, realizes that conventional pretexts are useless, they head “barefoot towards the mosque.” That is, the constrained human being who sees their hand cut off from every pretext suddenly finds themselves clinging to a superior being. And they clearly realize that the destinies of their existence are being determined in the hands of the providence of a being of a different kind. As soon as the individual detaches from all that is other than God (mā siwā Allāh), they turn their attention towards God. The one who detaches their heart from the other entrusts their heart to God. And this second step is precisely “positive or affirmative sincerity.”

But the existential state of sincerity is accompanied by a kind of “burning” or “suffering.” And it is this burning that elevates supplication from the carpet to the Throne. Rumi teaches us that supplication has a shell and a kernel. The shell of supplication is the words and outward formalities that flow from the individual’s tongue and limbs. But the kernel of supplication is precisely the burning and pain that the supplicating individual experiences in the core of their soul. In the story of Moses and the Shepherd, Rumi complains sorrowfully that human beings have abandoned the spirit of supplication and clung to its shell:

How long these words, implications, and metaphors?

I want burning, burning; befriend that burning

Kindle a fire of love in your soul,

Burn up thought and expression entirely.

Moses, those who know the rites are one sort,

Those whose souls and spirits are burnt are another. (Masnavi, 2/1762 ff.)

In expressing this wisdom—that the truth of prayer is inner burning, not outer rites—he recounts a sweet story in the Masnavi. He says that in the time of the Prophet of Islam, a man went to the Prophet's mosque hoping to perform the prayer behind the Prophet. But he saw people who had already performed their prayer and were coming out of the mosque. Having lost the chance to pray behind the Prophet, he heaved a deep, burning sigh of regret. One of those worshippers who heard that sorrowful sigh said to him, "Give me the reward of that sigh, and in return, the reward of my prayer is yours." He accepted this exchange. The man who had taken the sorrowful sigh saw a heavenly voice in his dream at night, giving him the glad tidings that the reward of that sigh was greater than two hundred prayers and invocations, and that God, out of respect for that sigh, had also accepted the prayer of those worshippers:

A certain man was going into the mosque,

The people were coming out of the mosque.

He began to ask what had happened to the congregation,

That they were coming out of the mosque so soon.

One of them said to him, "The Prophet,

Performed the prayer with the congregation and finished the mystery."

He said, "Ah!" and smoke rose from that sigh;

His sigh was giving out the scent of blood from his heart.

Another man said, "Give me that sigh,

And let this prayer of mine be a gift to you."

He said, "I gave the sigh and accepted the prayer."

He took that sigh with a hundred entreaties.

At night, in sleep, a heavenly voice said to him,

"You have bought the water of life and healing.

Out of respect for this choice and this entering,

The prayer of all the people was accepted.

That regret, that lamentation, and that entreaty

Surpassed two hundred invocations and prayers." (Masnavi, 2/2776 ff.)

In any case, all this speaks to the importance of prayer in religious life and mystical conduct. In this article, I wish to briefly examine the concept and levels of prayer within the context of the Islamic mystical tradition, and particularly from the perspective of Rumi.

The Prayer of Need

The first and most common level of prayer is the "prayer of need." At this station, a person calls upon God to fulfill one of their needs. The supplicant has their eye on the beneficence of the Generous God and hopes for Him to untie a knot. Here, God's "answer" is precisely the fulfillment of that need or the untying of that knot. That external event is such that the supplicant considers it the answer to their request. The prayer of need is, in reality, asking for something other than God, and from the mystics' point of view, asking God for anything other than God is an extremely displeasing act, the very essence of ingratitude and discourtesy. However, God has permitted humans to call upon Him for other than Him for at least two reasons: The first reason is that although in this type of prayer the object of need is something other than God, the supplicant is nonetheless calling upon God for help, not upon other than God. By calling upon God, the individual shows that they trust and rely upon His power and generosity more than any other being. And this hope and reliance are effective in the growth and flourishing of the wayfarer's soul. The second reason is that God draws heedless people towards Himself with the lasso of these very needs, in the hope that they will gradually take their eyes off the blessing and fix them upon the Bestower of the blessing. In Rumi's words:

Need brought him from heedlessness towards Me,

It dragged him by the hair into My lane. (Masnavi, 2/4222)

Up to this point, I came for the sake of dinars,

When I arrived, I became drunk on the sight.

For bread, a person ran to the baker,

He gave his life when he saw the baker's beauty.

One went to the garden for a stroll,

His stroll became the gardener’s beauty. (Masnavi, 1/2789 ff.)

The state of one who, in supplication, calls upon God for something other than God is like someone who goes to a bakery to buy bread but is captivated by the baker’s beauty, or like someone who goes to a garden for a walk but is entranced by the gardener’s loveliness. Therefore, although the supplicant’s initial motive is the fulfillment of a need other than God, when drawn by this snare into the divine presence, there is hope that they will be enchanted by the Creator’s beauty, and will detach their heart from the blessing and entrust it to the Bestower.

But the devout and the wayfarers on the path often felt that their prayers remained unanswered, and they received no fitting response from God. This despair gradually disheartened them and muddied and darkened their spiritual life. Rumi believes that the delay or non-answering of prayer can be for various reasons. It is good to review some of those reasons here:

First Reason— Sometimes the non-fulfillment of a prayer is the very essence of God’s mercy. God, in His knowledge, sees that the fulfillment of that need entails an evil for the supplicant whose occurrence is not apparent to that person, and therefore God, out of kindness, does not answer that prayer:

Many a prayer is loss and destruction,

And out of generosity, the Pure God does not hear it. (Masnavi, 2/140)

To explain this meaning, Rumi recounts the story of a snake-charmer whose snake is stolen by a wicked thief who flees. After searching for a while, the snake-charmer despairs of recovering his snake. But suddenly he comes upon the thief’s lifeless body, who had perished from the snake’s bite. And he who had previously prayed to God to recover his snake, now gives thanks to God that his prayer was not granted, for otherwise it would have been him who died from the snake’s venomous bite:

A petty thief stole a snake from a snake-charmer,

Out of folly, he counted it as a prize.

That snake-charmer was spared the snake’s bite,

The snake killed that thief of his, pitiably.

The snake-charmer saw him then and recognized him,

He said, “My snake dispatched him from life.

In prayer, I was begging for my life from it,

That I might find it and take my snake back from him.

Thanks be to God that that prayer was rejected,

I thought it loss, it turned out to be gain.”

Many a prayer is loss and destruction,

And out of generosity, the Pure God does not hear it. (Masnavi, 2/135 ff.)

Second Reason— According to Rumi, sometimes the fulfillment of a prayer causes a person to become heedless of God. Sometimes, as long as a person is in need, they are turned towards God, but as soon as their need is met, they become heedless of God. God sometimes, out of grace, delays answering a prayer lest His beloved servant be afflicted with the blight of heedlessness of the Lord:

Oh, many a sincere one who wails in prayer,

So that the smoke of their sincerity rises to the sky,

So that the scent of the censer from the sinners’ groaning

Rises above this lofty ceiling.

Then the angels lament piteously to God,

“O Answerer of every prayer, O Refuge,

The faithful servant is entreating,

He knows no support but You.

You bestow gifts upon strangers,

Every desirer holds their hope from You.”

God decrees, “It is not from his abasement,

The very delay of the gift is His aid to him.

Need brought him from heedlessness towards Me,

It dragged him by the hair into My lane.

If I fulfill his need, he will turn back,

And become immersed in that same plaything.” (Masnavi, 6/4216 ff.)

In other words, God foresees that if He grants the supplicant’s prayer, the supplicant’s gaze will shift from the Bestower to the bestowed, and he will become so immersed in that blessing that he forgets the hands of the blessing-giving God.

The Third Reason— Sometimes the very cause of the delay in answering a prayer is the special affection God holds for His beloved servant. He loves to hear the voice of His beloved servant, and knows that if He grants his request, He will be deprived of the pleasure of hearing his voice:

Though he laments in his soul, crying ‘O refuge!’

Broken-hearted, wounded of breast, let him lament.

His voice is so pleasing to Me,

And that calling out ‘O God’ and his secret entreaty.

To explain this meaning, Rumi relates a parable: Two customers come to a baker who is fond of beautiful faces; one is an ugly old woman and the other a young, fair-faced woman. The baker tries to hastily give the old woman her bread, even if it comes out doughy, and send her on her way. But out of his fondness for gazing at beauty, he tries to delay the beautiful woman’s business and detains her with a thousand tricks. This delay stems from the utmost desire. The matter of the delay in answering the prayers of believers is like that beauty-gazing baker and the beautiful customer:

When two persons come before one who is fond of beautiful faces,

One an old crone and the other with a lovely chin,

Both ask for bread; he quickly brings out the unleavened bread

And tells the old crone, ‘Take this.’

But to the other, whose stature and cheeks are beautiful,

How would he give bread? Rather, he puts her off.

He tells her, ‘Sit down a while, without harm,

For they are baking fresh bread at home.’

When that warm bread arrives after some time,

He tells her, ‘Sit down, for the halva is coming.’

In this very manner, he detains her,

And secretly makes a prey of her,

Saying, ‘I have some business with you for a moment,

Wait, O beauty of the world.’

The unfulfilled desires of believers, from good and bad,

Know for certain, were for this reason. (Masnavi, 6/4229 ff.)

Rumi then uses another parable to express the same meaning, saying that the relationship between God and the praying believer is like the relationship we have with sweet-singing birds. We always put the sweet-singing nightingale in a cage, not the tuneless crow. Because God loves the voice of the praying believer, He sometimes keeps him in the narrow cage of afflictions to hear the heart-pleasing sound of his prayer, and this favor is a blessing denied to the tuneless crow:

Parrots and nightingales, because of their pleasing song,

Are put into cages for their sweet voice.

But the crow and the owl, into a cage—

Who would ever do that? This has never been told in tales. (Masnavi, 6/4227 and 4228)

Fourth Reason— But the most important reason for the delay or non-fulfillment of prayer, from Rumi’s perspective, is something else. Rumi tells us that many of those who complain and lament about their prayers going unanswered in fact lack a correct understanding of the true nature of prayer and the meaning of its fulfillment. Their complaint stems from a misunderstanding. From Rumi’s perspective, the true answer or “Here I am” from God is, more than the fulfillment of an external need, the very success granted in calling upon God. The very success in praying is itself the fulfillment by the Creator. A person who sits in prayer and calls upon God with fervor has, in fact, already found in the depths of their being a subtlety and a turning of attention that has driven them toward God, and not toward other than Him. This spiritual subtlety and attention to the sacred is itself God’s “Here I am” and His answer to the soul of the supplicant. To explain this point, Rumi recounts the story of a man who, for years, called upon God every night with the utmost fervor and longing. One night, Satan came to him and asked temptingly whether, after all this calling, he had ever heard a response from that court. Beware, for perhaps you are not the object of God’s favor and you are being stubborn in vain; it is better to give up praying and go about your business. The supplicant became heartbroken and went to bed that night without praying. In a dream, Khidr came to him and asked the reason for his abandoning prayer. The man recounted the story to him and lamented that his warm and fervent prayers had never received an answer. It is here that Khidr (and in reality, Rumi) tries to correct that man’s conception of prayer and the true nature of its fulfillment: Khidr reminds the supplicant that the real answer is, in fact, the very success granted in calling upon God. Every “Allah” that settles upon his heart and tongue is preceded by a “Here I am” that God had already sent toward him. If there were no pull from that side, there would be no surge from this side:

One night, a certain man would say “Allah,”

Till his lips grew sweet from that remembrance.

Satan said, “At last, O man of many words,

Where is the ‘Here I am’ for all this ‘Allah’?

No answer comes from before the Throne;

How long will you cry ‘Allah’ with a grim face?”

He became heartbroken and laid down his head;

In a dream he saw Khidr amidst verdure.

He said, “Hark! Why have you ceased from remembrance?

Why do you regret having called upon Him?”

He said, “No ‘Here I am’ comes in answer;

Hence I fear that I am turned away from the door.”

He said, “That ‘Allah’ of yours is Our ‘Here I am,’

And that need, pain, and burning of yours is Our messenger.

Your tricks and your seeking of remedies

Were Our pull and the untying of your feet.

Your fear and love are the lasso of Our grace;

Beneath every ‘O Lord’ of yours are ‘Here I am’s.” (Masnavi, 3/189 ff.)

Therefore, from Rumi’s perspective, the very success in praying is a sign of God’s favor, and what fulfillment could be more delightful and desirable than this favor? Rumi adds that sometimes God is so unkind to a servant that, out of sheer unkindness, He fulfills all their needs, lest that person, out of extreme need, utter a “O Lord,” and God, out of grace and generosity, be compelled to say, “What do you want, My servant!” Rumi says that Pharaoh, in his entire life, never even suffered a simple headache, lest he inadvertently call upon God out of pain:

The ignorant soul has naught from this prayer but distance,

For saying “O Lord” is not permitted to him.

On his mouth and on his heart is a lock and a bond,

So that he does not moan to God at the time of harm.

He gave Pharaoh a hundred kingdoms and wealth,

So that he claimed might and majesty.

In all his life, he never suffered a headache,

So that that ill-natured one would not moan toward the Truth.

He gave him all the kingdom of this world,

God gave him no pain, suffering, or sorrows.

Pain came to be better than the kingdom of the world,

So that you may read God in secret

A painless reading stems from coldness

A reading with pain stems from heart's servitude (Masnavi, 3/189 onwards)

Therefore, Rumi's advice to praying souls is to look closely: perhaps their prayer has been answered before their lips even part; the one who calls upon God has already been called by Him:

Whomever you see as a lover, know him as the beloved

For relatively, he is both this and that

The Prayer of Love

In fact, Rumi's words, spoken through Khidr, show that in his view, the truth of prayer is superior to the prayer of need, and the wayfarer should not deprive themselves of the loftier stations of this spiritual experience. This higher level of prayer can be called the "prayer of love."

The prayer of need ultimately revolves around the "self" and not "God," meaning the praying individual calls upon God not for His own sake but for their own need, as if God were a tool or an agent in the service of the "I." The prayer of need is ultimately a self-centered act. In Saadi's words:

You whose eye is on the friend's beneficence

Are in the bondage of yourself, not in the bondage of the friend

But before we speak of the prayer of love, it is good to ask how the wayfarer can ascend from the station of the prayer of need to the higher levels of prayer. If the prayer of need revolves around "need," one important way to transcend this level is for the individual to attain the station of "needlessness." The prayer of love is the fruit of a kind of "needlessness." But what is meant here by "needlessness"? Generally, "needlessness" can be conceived in two senses: According to the first meaning, the condition for needlessness is that a person negates and denies their needs, that is, becomes needless by eradicating their needs. But according to the second conception, negating real human needs is impossible and, moreover, destructive and pathological. As long as a person is human and lives in this world, they have inevitable needs that must be met. And, as it happens, meeting these needs guarantees the physical health and psychological flourishing of the wayfarer. The purpose of "becoming needless," according to the second conception, is not the negation of these needs or the denial of the human existential structure, which is inevitably intertwined with need. "Becoming needless" should not be considered as exiting the realm of humanity. Here, "becoming needless" does not mean the negation and eradication of human needs; it means a change in the individual's existential relationship with those needs. According to the second conception, a needless person is one who is the commander of their needs, not their captive. It is a person who holds the reins of their needs and is not involuntarily subject to their instincts and needs. Therefore, "becoming needless" does not mean negating needs but controlling them.

But how can one free oneself from the bondage of needs? It seems that the wayfarer can attain the station of "needlessness" through at least two paths. It is good to briefly examine these two methods:

The first path – Liberation from the bondage of need is not possible unless the individual first recognizes the root of human neediness in this world and transcends it. The root of many of our needs in this world is two things: fear and sorrow. The friends of God have reached the station of self-sufficiency and independence because, in the Quranic expression, they have transcended the level of fear and sorrow: "No fear shall be upon them, nor shall they grieve." But fear and sorrow themselves arise from two important roots:

The first root is a kind of loss. Sorrow is the grief and regret we feel for a lost beloved, and fear is the anxiety and worry we feel about losing a beloved in the future. Therefore, according to the teachings of the mystics, one of the most important roots of sorrow and fear in this world is the discovery of the impermanent, transient, and treacherous nature of this world. A divine friend is one who, with foresight, does not tie their happiness and existence to perishable matters. Rumi warns us that the intelligent person should not forget the fleeting nature of worldly joys. In moments of good fortune, we must know that the world's blessings do not remain with anyone, and what has been granted to me today will flee from me tomorrow:

Whatever in the world makes you glad

Think at that moment of its parting

That which made you glad made many others glad,

But in the end it fled from them and became like the wind.

It will flee from you too—set not your heart upon it;

Before it flees from you, you flee from it. (Masnavi, 3/3696 ff.)

So what is to be done in the face of this situation? Rumi’s counsel is that the remedy for sorrow and fear in this world is for the individual not to entrust their heart to perishable beloveds, and not to stake their being and happiness on what will sooner or later be lost to them:

Choose the love of that Living One who is everlasting,

Who is the cupbearer of the wine that increases your spirit.

Choose the love of Him from whose love all the prophets

Found their might and their station.

The second root of fear and sorrow in this world is “heedlessness” (ghaflat). In many cases, people’s sorrow and fear arise because they are behind the veil of heedlessness and unaware of the outcome of affairs. The true believer either looks by the light of God, and thus, in the radiance of the Truth, attains insight and sagacity to uncover reality and penetrate beyond the veil of heedlessness, and with God’s help becomes aware of the outcome of affairs; or the believer is trusting (mutawakkil), meaning they deem God just and wise and have firm hope that whatever befalls them is in accordance with justice, and even when matters are not according to their desire, there must surely be some good hidden within it:

One must not grieve at the taunts of the envious, O heart;

Perhaps, when you look again, your good lies therein.

Therefore, the individual exerts their utmost effort to make the course of affairs conform to their desire, but if the result is not according to their wish, they trust in God’s wisdom and justice and are content with the outcome that has come about. It is from here that the second path to the station of “needlessness” begins.

The Second Path—The secret of needlessness in the tradition of the mystics is the discovery of the alchemy of “contentment” (rizā). The wayfarer who reaches the station of contentment is freed from the bondage of fear and sorrow, and hence from the bondage of needfulness. In the station of contentment, the wayfarer loses their own will in the will of the everlasting Beloved, that is, God. In expressing this meaning, Rumi recounts a salty anecdote in the noble Masnavi. According to this story, Bohlul sees a dervish who is exceedingly joyful and smiling. He asks him the secret of this joyfulness. The smiling dervish replies that the secret of his happiness is that the whole world proceeds according to his desire. Bohlul asks in amazement how it is that the whole world proceeds according to his desire? And he replies: Is it not so that the entire world is under the command and will of God, and not a leaf falls from a branch without His permission? When the servant is content with God’s contentment and loses their own will and desire in His will and desire, then in reality, whatever happens in this world will consequently also be according to the desire and will of that contented individual:

Bohlul said to a certain dervish,

“How are you, O dervish? Inform me.”

He said, “How should one be for whom the world’s affairs

Eternally proceed according to his desire?

Torrents and rivers flow according to his desire,

The stars move as he wills.

Life and death, his sergeants,

Are dispatched according to his desire, from place to place…

Not a tooth laughs in the world

Without the contentment and command of that Sovereign.”

He said, “O king, you have spoken truly, it is so;

This is evident in your glory and countenance.

This and a hundred times more, O truthful one, but

Explain this, expound it well and thoroughly…”

He said, “At least this is certain among the common folk,

That the world is submissive to the command of God.

Not a leaf falls from a tree

Without the decree and ordinance of that fortunate Sovereign.

In the earth and the heavens, not a mote

Stirs a feather or turns a wing…

When God’s decree becomes the servant’s contentment,

He became a seeker of His decree,

Without pretension, not for wage or reward,

But because his nature became so agreeable...

A servant whose disposition and character is this,

Would not the world proceed according to his command?

Why then should he entreat or pray,

Saying, 'O Lord, alter this destiny'? (Masnavi, 3/1884 ff.)

But what is the "prayer of love"? The prayer of love is the recitation of the Beloved, not for anything other than Him. Our need from Him is none other than Him. The "prayer of love" is, in truth, an affectionate dialogue between lover and Beloved. The prayer of love, unlike the prayer of need, is not a relationship based on "need," but on "longing." Therefore, the prayer of love is to avert one's gaze from the Friend's beneficence and to fix one's eyes upon His eyes. Some are ensnared by the fragrance of the Beloved's tresses and lose their hearts to Him, and some lose their hearts from beholding the Beloved's eyes:

I and the morning breeze, two poor, fruitless wanderers,

I, intoxicated by the spell of his eyes, and he, by the scent of his hair.

The prayer of love is a degree of the degrees of revelation; it is what mystics sometimes call “revelation of the heart.” Some mystics have found an instance of this loving, revelatory prayer in the mirror of the story of Moses in the sacred valley of Tuwa: Moses was returning to his people from Shuʿayb, but he lost his way in the deserts. He saw a light in the distance and told his wife and child to wait so that he might bring back a brand from that fire to warm themselves, or at least find the path by its glow. But when Moses drew near to that light, he found himself facing a wondrous phenomenon: a bush was blazing with fire, yet it was not consumed. Moses realized that a momentous and sacred event was taking place. Suddenly, a voice from the bush, or the tree, called out to him: “O Moses! I am your Lord; take off your sandals, for you are in the sacred valley of Tuwa.” God had opened the door of speech. God first chooses Moses as a prophet and gives him the mission to convey the two principal messages of the monotheistic faiths—the oneness of God and the rising of the Resurrection—to his people. Up to this point, the discourse has a vertical structure, from above to below: God speaks and Moses listens. The speaker is manifestly in a loftier position in the pyramid of power and dignity, and there is no sign of parity between him and his addressee. But suddenly the logic, tone, and structure of the discourse change with the posing of a question: “What is that in your right hand?” A question is an invitation to dialogue. With the posing of this question, the one-sided, imperative, top-down discourse turns into a two-way conversation. The vertical logic of power is transformed into a horizontal relationship of intimacy. The condition of dialogue is a kind of parity; it is as though here God suddenly descends from the lofty station of Lordship and sits beside Moses to speak with him affectionately, as a friend. But the more interesting point is Moses’s answer to God’s question: “This is my staff; I lean upon it, and with it I beat down leaves for my sheep, and I have other uses for it.” (Ṭā Hā/9 ff.) Two points are noteworthy here: The first is that God’s question seems, at least at first glance, unnecessary and superfluous; God is omniscient and undoubtedly knew perfectly well what Moses had in his right hand. The second point is that Moses’s answer is also strange and, to some extent, disproportionate to the question; a fitting answer would be no more than a single word: “A staff.” God had not asked Moses what he does with what is in his hand. Yet Moses apparently adds to his answer without cause and says things that have no bearing on the question. Why does God, in the midst of that tremendous revelatory experience, suddenly and almost without any preamble, pose such a question, and why does Moses give such a long and seemingly irrelevant answer to that question? The subtle insight of the mystics lies here: When God chose Moses as a prophet and, imperatively and from the position of holiness, charged him with his mission and taught him the essential messages, the task was accomplished and it was time to depart. But it is as though God could not bear separation from His beloved servant and sought a pretext to prolong the sweetness of conversing with Moses. It is as if a lover and beloved have told each other all the important news and know that the time for farewell has come, but they cannot tear their hearts away from one another and seek a pretext to delay the moment of parting, and so one asks the other: “What else is new?” This expression does not mean that some untold piece of news might have been overlooked. Its meaning is: say something so that the sweetness of this companionship and meeting may be prolonged; say something so that the moment of farewell may arrive later. Therefore, when God asks Moses, “What is that in your right hand?” He is in fact asking him, “What’s new?!”—that is, spin something out so that the moment of parting may be pushed further away. And Moses, having grasped this subtle point, instead of giving a short and fitting answer, spun out all manner of things so that the sweetness of the conversation and the grace of presence might last longer. Here, the content of the conversation is not important; the very companionship with the Beloved is delightful and desirable. Thus, according to this mystical interpretation, in this event—which is one of the most important instances of revelatory experience in the tradition of monotheistic faiths—we are faced with two levels of revelatory relationship: the first level is the prophetic revelation, in whose vertical structure God speaks from the station of Lordship and Moses listens from the station of servitude. And the second level is the amorous revelation, in whose horizontal structure the lover and the Beloved speak together side by side and become intoxicated by the grace of each other’s presence. This second level is what we have called the “prayer of love.”

The Prayer of Annihilation

اما دعای محبت آخرین پله نردبان ملاقات خداوند نیست. در دعای محبت هنوز میان محبّ و محبوب فاصله ای است. "من" با "تو" سخن می گویم و "تو" به "من" پاسخ می گویی. یعنی میان دو سوی رابطه نوعی فاصله ناشی از دوگانگی وجود دارد. اما عارفان معتقدند که گاه می رسد که عاشق یکسره خود را در معشوق درمی بازد و در او فانی می شود. "دعای فنا" در این مقام تحقق می یابد.

در مقام محبت یا رضا این اراده عاشق است که در معشوق فانی می شود، اما در مقام فنا عاشق نه فقط اراده خود را بلکه همه هستی اش را در وجود محبوب درمی بازد و از مقام رضا به مقام فنا برمی آید. در مقام فنا دعا کردن عین سخن گفتن خداوند است با خداوند. گویی در این مقام، "من" با "من من تر" سخن می گوید. وقتی که فاصله میان گوینده و شنونده برمی خیزد، خواندن محبوب عین خواندن خود است و خواندن خود عین خواندن محبوب. به بیان دیگر، خواندن عین حضور است. دعای مقام فنا، "دعای بی دعایی" است.

مولانا می گوید که پاره ای از اولیای خداوند اهل دعا هستند، اما طایفه ای از ایشان هستند که به مقام بی دعایی رسیده اند:

زاولیا اهل دعا خود دیگرند

گه همی دوزند و گاهی می درند

قوم دیگر می شناسم زاولیا

که دهانشان بسته باشد از دعا (مثنوی، ۳/ ۱۸۷۹ به بعد)

مولانا سپس در داستان شگفت انگیز دقوقی حکایت اولیایی را نقل می کند که به مقام بی دعایی رسیده اند و دعا کردن را عین بی ادبی می دانند. مطابق نقل مولانا، دقوقی که خود از اولیای عزیز خداوند بود، مدّتها مشتاق دیدار اولیای تحت قباب غیرت الهی بود. وقتی که در ساحل دریایی قدم یم زد در ضمن واقعه ای شگفت انگیز با هفت مرد سبزپوش از اولیای خاص خداوند روبرو شد. آن مردان الهی از دقوقی خواستند که در نماز پیش بیایستد تا به او اقتدا کنند و دوگانه ای بگزارند. در میانه نماز، دقوقی در حالت مکاشفه کشتی ای را گرفتار موجهای عظیم دریای توفان زده دید که کشتی نشینان آن با وحشت و تضرع از خداوند یاری می طبیدند. دقوقی به رحم آمد و در همان حال نماز از خداوند به دعا خلاص آن قوم را خواست:

گفت یا ربّ منگر اندر فعلشان

دستشان گیر ای شه نیکونشان

و خداوند هم به حرمت آن دعا، آن کشتی نشینان را رهایی بخشید و به ساحل امن آورد. اما پس از این واقعه، تا نماز به پایان رسید، آن اولیای سبزپوش به یکدیگر نگریستند که چه کسی جسارت ورزیده و چنان دعایی بر دل رانده است:

گفت هر یک من نکرده استم کنون

این دعا نه از برون نه از درون

گفت مانا این امام ما ز درد

بوالفضولانه مناجاتی بکرد

دریافتند که این بوالفضولی از جانب دقوقی بوده است، و تا دقوقی روی بگرداند، آن سبزپوشان در پرده غیب گریخته بودند. دعای بی دعایی، دعای انسان فانی شده در خداوند است، دعای عاشقی است که از او چیزی نمانده، و هرچه هست سرشار از محبوب است. در این وضعیت وجودی، دعای عاشق در واقع گفت معشوق است. در اینجا معشوق خود می گوید و خود اجابت می کند:

هر که را دل پاک شد از اعتلال

آن دعااش می رود تا ذوالجلال

آن دعای بی خودان خود دیگرست

آن دعا زو نیست گفت داورست

آن دعا حق می کند چون او فناست

آن دعا و آن اجابت از خداست...

کان دعای شیخ نه چون هر دعاست

فانی است و گفت او گفت خداست

چون خدا از خود سؤال و کد کند

پس دعای خویش را چون رد کند.

خوبست که این مقال را با چند دعای دل انگیز از مولانا به پایان بریم:

یاد ده ما را سخنهای دقیق

که تو را رحم آورد آن ای رفیق

هم دعا از تو اجابت هم ز تو

Safety is from You, awe is also from You

If we have spoken wrongly, You set it right

You are the Corrector, O You, Sultan of speech

You possess the alchemy to transform it

Though it be a stream, You make it the Nile

Such enameling is Your work

Such elixirs are Your secrets

Take our hand, purchase us

Lift the veil, and do not tear our veil

Redeem us from this vile ego

Whose knife has reached our very bones

From ourselves, we turn our heads toward You

Since one like You is nearer to us than ourselves

This prayer too is Your gift and teaching

Otherwise, how did a rose garden spring from a furnace?

We burned ourselves with greed and desire

And we learned even this prayer from You

This seeking within us is also from Your creation

Deliverance from injustice, O Lord, is Your justice

O You who have befriended every stranger

And bestowed the robe of the rose upon the thorn

Do not withhold the pleasure of Your bounty

Do not withhold Your sweetmeats, wine, and cup

And if You withhold, who can seek You out?

How can the painting contend with the painter?

Do not look upon us, cast not Your gaze upon us

Look instead upon Your own generosity and grace

You commanded this prayer from the very beginning

Otherwise, what audacity would a piece of earth have?

Since You commanded our prayer, O wonder

Grant this prayer of Yours an answer.

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Arash Naraghi's Article: “Read Me!”

The article “Read Me!” was originally a lecture and was later published in a revised form in the book Mirror of the Soul: Essays on the States and Thoughts of Mawlana Jalal al-Din Balkhi by Negah-e Moaser Publishing.

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