The Sweet Kiss of the Divine

                                                The Sweet Kiss of the Divine

                                      "I am He whom I love, and He whom I love is I,

                                             We are two spirits dwelling in one body

                                                  If thou seest me, thou seest Him,

                                           And if thou seest Him, thou seest us both."

                               Husayn Ibn Mansur al-Hallaj, tenth century Sufi master

                             "Piety and moral goodness have naught to do with ecstasy;

                                               stain your prayer rug with wine!"

                                                           Sufi master Hafiz

For the greater part of my life, certainly since the earlier years of my third decade of life here, I have puzzled over the issue of the correct path towards enlightenment, and, more specifically, why it should be that it is only through the vein of the sacred that one can or, maybe, should, strive to achieve it. If the sacred is the opposite of the profane, and the two, in their extrapolated, hyperbolic, theoretically perfect forms sit at opposing poles of a range of thought and behavior, then it never made sense to me that one half of all human thought and behavior, that half that begins at the midpoint between the two and continues all the way to the capital P Profane, could in no way aide one in moving ever so slightly, in any possible manner, towards a state of enlightened being. And what about any thoughts or any behaviors which occupy the space immediately inside the half of the Sacred? Does one need to be most of the way towards the Sacred? Three quarters of the way? Ninety percent?

Has not great art, sublime poetry, transcendent music, Mozart, the eschatological child certainly not rooted in the Sacred, or Jim Morrison, the Lizard King, added any truth to the human fabric that that climbs, thread by thread towards nirvana, toward what the Sufi tradition calls fana?  Van Gough with his incessant imbibing of absinthe and Pernod? Ernest Hemingway, a stone cold alcoholic, a philanderer, a brawler, a mysogynist? Any of the pedophile philosophers  and sophistrists of ancient Greece? Do none of these get to sit at the grown up table, at the table of those who search for truth?

One of the religious traditions that I have been learning about, and which frankly fascinates me, is that of Sufism. If you are like me, you have very likely heard of Sufism but have never learned enough about it to distinguish it from the Muslim sects of the Sunni or the Shi'a. It turns out that while the latter two are in fact the two orders of Islam most well known in the West, Sufism is profoundly different. While grounded in the Qu'ran and having arisen out of the Muslim culture, adopting much of the orthopraxy, the "correct practices," of Islam, Sufism is a mix of just about every branch of the great spiritual tree that has put its roots down in the Asian continent. To borrow words from Reza Aslan's There is no God but God, "As a religious movement, Sufism is characterized as a medley of divergent philosophical and religious trends as though it were an empty cauldron into which have been poured the principles of Christian monasticism and Hindu asceticism, along with a sprinkling of Buddhist and Tantric thought, a touch of Islamic Gnosticism and Neoplatonism, and finally, a few elements of Shi'ism, Manichaeism and Central Asian Shamanism thrown in for good measure." I want to take a look at the philosophies of Sufism in light of the original point of this piece, to examine a spiritual practice all about reaching unity with the Divine, one that seems to make small to no distinctions between any methods used to achieve this aim.

Sufism began, as did Shi'ism, as a reaction against the dogmatic orthodoxy of the prevailing ruling classes and governmental structures and strictures of the Muslim imperium. Coalescing into something that could be loosely termed a religion sometime in the tenth century C.E., Sufism "represents a rare anti-intellectual strain within Islam dedicated to esotericism and devotionalism." As a response to the growing control of greater and greater portions of the known world by the Muslim rulers, the Sufis directed their energy not towards a greater participation in the management of the civil and governmental structures in which they lived, but instead sought to focus on stepping outside of those structures and to concentrate their energies on seeking oneness with God, who, in the Sufi tradition, is to be found by obliterating the individual ego and subsequently merging with the Divine, choosing to detach from the trappings of the world through a life of simplicity and devotion. "If you cannot change the kings, then change yourself."

The Sufi masters, the Pirs, meaning old men, wandered from place to place seeking oneness with the Divine. The language of the renown Sufi masters, most famously Jalal al-Din Rumi, are couched in the metaphoric imagery of a lover giving sublime praise and devotion to his beloved. The beloved with whom consummation is so eloquently and desperately sought is God, the Divine. While mainstream Islam is communally focused and frowns upon the attainment of oneness with God through the pursuit of an individual's establishment of a direct connection with God, Sufism is all about that. Whereas the formal religion of Islam deems to point the worshiper towards God, Sufism "thrusts" them into God and insists that the worshiper lose oneself in the great pool of the Divine:

         Sufis consider all orthodoxy, all traditional teachings, the Law, theology, and the 

         five pillars inadequate for attaining true knowledge of God. Even the Quran, which 

         Sufis respect as the direct speech of God, lacks the capacity to shed light upon 

         God's essence. As one Sufi master has argued, why spend timer reading a love

         letter (by which he means the Quran),in the presence of the Beloved who wrote it?

The most well known of the Sufi parables which expresses the central tenet of Sufi belief was captured by the Iranian perfumer and alchemist Farad ad-Din Hattar (d.1230), and it is from his work entitled The Conference of the Birds. In this tale, the birds of the earth have gathered to make a journey to see the King of the Birds, the Simurgh. It is the mythical hoopoe bird who is to guide the others to see the Simurgh. Before said sojourn can occur, however, the hoopoe  informs the others assembled that they must agree to obey his one rule. They must agree that, "Whatever he commands along the Way We must without recalcitrance obey." They all agree to make this simple pledge. The hoopoe explains that this oath is a necessity due to the exceptional rigors and perils of the path.

The birds set out, a giant flock that stretches across he sky, darkening the sun. The way leads across and over seven great valleys, each representing a difficult, metaphoric, internal journey. The first is the Valley of the Quest, in which each must renounce the world and repent of all of their sins. The Valley of Love comes next, where each bird is plunged into a lake of fire until his entire being is "enflamed." The Valley of Mystery is the third. Herein each bird must take a different path across because "There are so many roads, and each is fit for that pilgrim who must follow it." In the Valley of Detachment "all claims, all lust for meaning disappear." The fifth is the Valley of Unity, where "the many are merged into one. 'The oneness of diversity, not oneness locked in singularity.' " The sixth is the Valley of Bewilderment in which the birds, now tired and unsure, punch through the "veil of the emptiness of dualities" to be confronted with the emptiness of their being. As one they sing, "I have no certain knowledge anymore." They weep in confusion. "I doubt my doubt, doubt itself is unsure. I love, but who is it for whom I sigh? Not Muslim, yet not heathen. Who am I?" 

Pushing on, having passed through the first six stations of enlightenment, having been stripped of their egos, the birds arrive finally at the seventh, the Valley of Nothingness. The horizon to horizon covering mass of avians has been reduced, valley by valley, station by station, until only thirty tattered birds remain. Here they " 'put on the cloak that signifies oblivion' and become consumed by the spirit of the universe." Now, having learned to "destroy the mountain of the Self," and to give up "the intellect for love," they are led into the presence of the Simurgh.

Upon reaching the throne of the King of birds the thirty are surprised to see before them not a stately lord, but, instead, what they gaze upon is themselves. Having struggled and journeyed through difficulty and challenge, the birds are brought face to face with the understanding that it was themselves that they have been seeking, and that it is "themselves that they are." 

"I am the mirror set before your eyes, the Simurgh explains. "And all who come before my splendor see Themselves, their own unique reality."

In the Sufi tradition God's essence and substance is love. Before the universe existed there was indeed something, love. God, synonymous with the universe, synonymous with the Divine, synonymous with love, created mankind in order to be able to express his love to an "other." In other words, humanity is "God made manifest; it is God objectified through love." The proper state of worship then is to be in love with God but for that love to forever remain unrequited, to remain the lover at the altar awaiting the arrival of his bride. Thus the romantic, sexual passages made famous through Sufi masters such as Rumi. Another master, Hafiz, wrote, "The scent of your hair fulfills my life, and the sweetness of Your lips has no counterpart."

The most fascinating bit about the Sufi system of belief that I have encountered thus far is the Sufi understanding of Satan. Unlike the Western view of Lucifer as a sin filled, fallen angel, set up as the focal point of evil, the foil for God, in the Sufi understanding, Satan, Iblis, as he is called, was cast out for his refusal to bow to Adam. Devotedly committed to God, so in love with God was Iblis, that when presented with Adam he saw only a rival for his affections of his Beloved. Thus Iblis' refusal to obey God before his rival suitor, "arose from love of God, not from disobedience." For it is written that "all envy arises from love for fear lest another becomes the companion of the Beloved."

       "Cast into hell, never to see the face of God again, Iblis continues to yearn for his 

       Beloved who 'rocked my cradle' and 'found milk for me in my infancy.' He will pine

       for God forever, crying out from the depths of hell, 'I am mated by Him, mated by Him,    

       Mated by Him.' "

The rejection of the highly ordered, proscribed orthodoxic and orthopraxic conventions of the Sunni and Shi'ia branches of Islam include not just the more easily understood realms of the external and observable, such as the acceptance and practice of Shar'iah moral and jurisprudential conventions, but the internal beliefs and understandings of what constitutes a Right Way to become intoxicated and merged with the Beloved. "Faith knows of neither love nor blasphemy." As Aslan states, 

          "Only by breaking through the veil of traditional dualities, which human beings 

          have constructed in order to categorize proper moral and religious behavior, can 

          one achieve fana. [fana is the Arabic word which translates as ecstatic, intoxicating 

          self-annihilation] The Sufi knows no dualities, only unity. There is no good and 

          evil, no light and dark; there is only unity."

When I read this it had a profound affect on me. I have before referred to Ram Dass, a learned man of the twentieth century, whose teachings have had a deep impact on my understanding of truth, of the universe. Largely influenced by him, I have used the term, "bits of God," to describe humans, but it is the term, the conceptual basis, for me of everything that is. It has long been my understanding of everything that seems to be, all matter, all thought, all energy. There is, in my way of thinking, no distinction between myself and a blade of grass, a passing cloud, another person. We are all patterns of energy, we are all an aspect of the Divine, what I most commonly think of as simply the universe, what is. Certainly our brains, the pattern making machines that they are, find usefulness in differentiating between what we agree to perceive in the physical holodeck that we more or less agree exists. Those who do not agree are usually deemed insane and lose their ability to operate within the great board game that we all play, collecting our two hundred dollars each time we pass another pay day, agreeing that money is something that has some agreed upon "value," as our "confidence" in it determines its "value," etc. Yet for all the practical value of our collective understandings of what is, I can not think that any one of you reading this does not agree that there is more to our presence here in this plane than the physical. It is at this precise juncture that the world's peoples begin to split into the various and often great divisions of belief, of politics, of religion, into Us and Them.

Reading about the Sufi premises for their belief system which promotes their desire to destroy ego and merge back into the Divine has had, is having, an interesting and powerful influence on my beliefs. I think, and have for many years, that we and all that we see or feel or do exist as both an indistinguishable part of the whole and as a separate pattern or fluctuation in the cosmic, the Divine, the unified field in the same way that bits of oregano or flecks of onion exist as both separate entities within spaghetti sauce and yet it is the sauce that exists, that we see, taste, feel; we do not remark nor consciously think, as we eat or see the sauce that it is good, yes, it is good, and then go on to describe it as a nice purée of tomatoes and nice bits of onion and bits of oregano. We do not conceive, when we eat chocolate chip ice cream that we are eating a fine vanilla ice cream and we are eating tasty bit of chocolate chips, we combine them as ingredients into one part of matter that we enjoy. In this same way everything, you and I included, are bits of ingredients in the sublime, mysterious, ultimately incomprehensible soup that the universe, that the Divine, is.

The paths that we follow to pursue this truth, the stations that we travel through to drop our egos and to merge back into that fine and Divine soup, can not be measured in any terms other than the effectiveness with which the practice works on any individual bit of the Divine that strives towards this goal. Does that mean that causing damage to any other bit of the Divine is just as okay as any other path? I do not believe so. In my reckoning the highest code of conduct, my greatest rule of behavior is exactly this, live so as to cause damage to no other bit of the universe. Doing so, in my estimation, is moving backward in terms of the stations needed to attain enlightenment. That being said, does drunkenness, music, sexual practices, certain foods, strict regimens of employment or schooling or dress, or any other imposed practice have any bearing whatsoever on the ability of one entity to move towards the Divine, or should any one, even parent to child, have the justification for abridging the rights and thoughts of another for the purpose of correcting and enlightening the other in order to aid them in becoming a "better" person? Not in my way of thinking. Not unless the actions cause harm to other bits of God. The blueprints for beauty and Divinity are already there inside of each being, so as the seed is the perfect plan for the growth of the mighty oak tree so long as it is watered, given love, sunlight, and room to grow.

"Whichever way one turns there is God," the Qu'ran says. "The atom, the sun, the galaxies, and the universe, are surely but names, images, and forms. One they are in reality, and only one." 

The concept of radical unity in Sufism sees no differentiation between light and dark, good and bad-there are no dualities, only oneness, only fana. The easiest to see example of this lack of distinction between avenues to achieve the obliteration of the ego is in the so called Drunken Sufis who gambled, drank, and womanized in violation of Islamic law as "a means of overcoming the external aspects of religion." "I will take one hundred barrels of wine tonight," wrote Oman Khayyám, in Rubáiat, "I will leave all reason and religion behind, and take the maidenhead of wine for mine."

And so, does the sacred have any leg up on the profane when hypothesizing about the correct path, the right way, to achieve fana, grace, oneness with the Divine? Only water and prayer in a cave, or wine, dancing, music making, women? I do not profess to know. Yet the answer seems, once devoid of one's moral upbringing, one's already concretized mores, to be a bit more of an open ended question than at first glance it may appear. Is a Gregorian chant necessarily, somehow by definition, more "correct" in these regards than, say, Jimi Hendrix or Miles Davis? Is red wine more correct than a vodka Collins? 

It seems logically correct, when one strips away the externally constructed moral instructions and conventions, that it is what goes on inside and for what purpose the practices are pursued that constitute any "right way" to the annihilation of the self. In so many deep respects, from so many sources, this process of aiming for fana, for a unification with the Divine, come to speak in a multitude of soft voices, a sibilant chorus which I think is recognized by every one of us in our quieter moments, "the brook, the river, the drop, the sea, the bubble, all in one voice say: Water, we are water."