An [Ocean Without Shore Ibn c Arabi, The Book, and the Law
Michel
Chodkiewicz
Translated from
the French by David Streight
STATE
UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK PRESS
Production by Ruth Fisher
Marketing by Lynne Lekakis
Published by
State University of New York Press,
Albany
1993 State University of New York
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of
America
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Chodkiewicz, Michel.
An ocean without shore : Ibn Arabi, the Book, and the Law/Michel
Chodkiewicz.
p. cm.
Includes
bibliographical references and index,
1. Ibn al-‘ Arabi, 1165-1240—Views on the Koran. 2. Koran—
Criticism, interpretation, etc.—History. I. Title.
Oh, my beloved! How many times I have called you without your
hearing Me!
How many times
I h ave shown myself without your looking at Me!
How many times
I have become perfume without your inhaling Me!
How many times
I have become food without your tasting Me!
How is it that
you do not smell Me in what you breathe?
How do you not
see Me, not hear Me?
I am more
delicious than anything delicious,
More desirable
than anything desirable,
More perfect
than anything perfect.
I am Beauty and
Grace!
Love Me and
love nothing else
Desire Me
Let Me be your
sole concern to the exclusion of all concerns!
Ibn ‘Arabi, The Theophany of Perfection
)
Preface IX
Transcription
of Arabic Words xi
List of
Abbreviations xiii
Introduction 1
1. "If all the trees on e arth were
pens...” 19
2. “In The Book
we have left out nothing' 35
3. “It is to
him that you will be led back” 59
4. “On the
horizons and in their souls” 77
5. “Those who are perpetually in prayer” 101
Notes 131
About the
Author 169
Index of Names
and Technical Terms 171
Index of
Qur’anic Citations 181
I am indebted to Michel Valsân for my discovery of Ibn 'Arabi forty
years ago, and it is under his guidance that I undertook my study. It is
approprite that I begin this work by remembering him.
For their personal contributions to research on Ibn 'Arabi and for
the assistance that several of them have been able to offer me in gaining
access to difficult-to-obtain manuscripts or documents, I also extend my
heartfelt gratitude to Claude Addas, Bakri Aladdin, Hamid Algar, William Chittick,
Roger Deladrière, Denis Gril, Souad Hakim, Riyâd al-Mâlih, Abdelbaki Meftah,
James Morris, Mustafa Tahrali, and Osman Yahia.
Certain themes developed in the pages that follow were first
outlined in a more concise manner in papers written as contributions to the
following conferences: "Mystique, culture et société” (Groupe d’histoire
comparée des religions, Paris-Sorbonne, 1983); "Modes de transmission de
la culture religieuse en islam” (Department of Near Eastern Studies,
Princeton, 1989); “The Legacy of Persian Mediaeval Sufism” (School of Oriental
and African Studies, London, 1990); “L’héritage mystique d’Ibn cArabî”
(Université d’Oran, 1990); “Congrès international pour le 750e
anniversaire de la mort d’Ibn 'Arabî” (Murcia, 1990); “Tire Concept of Man in
the Traditional Cultures of the Orient” (Institut de philosophie de l’Académie
des sciences, Moscow, 1990). Without the invitations extended to me to
participate in these meetings, I would have never decided to take up the pen. I
am thus especially indebted to professors Michel Meslin, Avram Udovitch, H. T.
Norris, L. Lewisohu, Alfonso Carmona Gonzalez, Mohammed Mahieddin, and Marietta
Stepaniants.
My daughter Agnès Chodkiewicz was kind enough to decipher and
transcribe the manuscript of this book. I am thus, once again, in her debt.
M. C.
In the interest
of technical simplification and. economy, emphatic consonants are written the
same as the others. No distinction is made between the aspirate glottal hâ’
and the aspirate pharyngi al hâ’. The transliteration system used is
thus as follows:
Vowels: a, â,
i, î, u/.h, ay, aw.
Articles: al-
and 1- (even when the article precedes a “sun letter”).
Encyclopedia of Islam {El1 = first edition; EF -■ second edition).
Ibn 'Arabî, Fusûs al-hikam, critical edition by A. A. Afîfî,
Beirut, 1946.
Ibn 'Arabî, Al-futûhât al-makkiyya, Bûlâq, 1329 A.H. (4
vols.). References to this edition are accompanied by references to the
critical edition (in the process of being published) by Dr. Osman Yahia, marked
by O.Y., and followed by the number of the volume and that of the page.
C. Brockelmann, Geschichte der Arabischen Literatur, Leyde,
1945-1949.
Rasdïl Ibnu l-Arabí,
Hyderabad, 1948.
“Repertoire général des oeuvres d’Ibn 'Arabi,” established by O.
Yahia in his Histoire et Classification de l’oeuvre d’Ibn Arabi,
Damascus, 1964. RG is followed by a number corresponding to the number of the
work in the order in which O. Yahia’s classification considers it.
Kitâb al-tajalliyât, ed.
O. Yahia, published in the journal Al-mashriq, 1966-67. (This critical
edition was published in one volume in Tehran in 1988.)
The sixteenth-century Egyptian jurist Ibn Hajar al-Haytami, an
energetic defender of Ibn ‘Arabî, was willing to excuse the latter’s accusers
to a certain extent. Ibn ‘Arabi’s writings are a “fatal poison” for most men,
he said, “due to the subtlety of their meanings, the delicacy of their
allusions, and the abstruseness of their structure.”1 He added that
legitimate concern for protecting the faith of the ignorant leads certain
doctors of the law to be guilty of excessive zeal, but that it nevertheless
remains true that Ibn ‘Arabi cannot be placed in the hands of just anyone.
In any case, more recent witnesses have shown that the work of the
Shaykh al-Akbar does not easily surrender its secrets. A few years before World
War II, Nicholson suggested that one of his Egyptian students read Ibn ‘Arabi’s
works. The student, Abu 1-Ala ‘Afîfî—author, among other works, of The
Mystical Philosophy of Muhyid Din Ibnul Arabi2—confessed later3
that after several readings of the Fusûs and Qâshânî’s commentary on it
he had still not understood the text. Each word was clear in itself, but the
meaning of most of the sentences had escaped him. He confessed to Nicholson:
“Never before have I experienced such difficulty understanding an Arabic text.”
The first orientalists to take an interest in the fihaykh al- Akbar
appear to have been equally perplexed. Clément Hu art does not conceal the
trouble that Ibn ‘Arabi’s fantaisie désordonnée4 caused him.
Arberry deplored the “confusion” of Ibn ‘Arabi’s “mental outlook” and “his
inconsistent technical vocabulary.”6 Rom Landau declared that “his
ambiguities and contradictions may drive us wellnigh to despair,” and he warns
whoever might wish to study his works that only the deepest admiration could
encourage one “to wrangle with the innumerable difficulties that Ibn ‘Arabî
found it necessary to create.”6
The complexity of a doctrine that, in a dizzying synthesis,
embraces all the domains of the traditional sciences, from jurispru-
dence to metaphysics, in wording that is often paradoxical or enigmatic,
together with the immensity of a work that comprises tens of thousands of
pages, could certainly discourage the spread of Ibn ‘Arabi's teachings. But
this massive corpus is not only reputed to be obscure; in Islam it has also
been regularly denounced as heretical for more than seven centuries, and these
polemics continue at present with the same vigor as they did in Ibn Taymiyya’s
time. Even the suit masters themselves frequently advise caution. Novices are
still discouraged from reading the Fusûs and the Futûhât for reasons
that Ibn Hajar's remarks might have suggested. All the conditions appear to be
present for limiting knowledge of Ibn ‘Arabi’s ideas to a small number of
scholars who are intimidated by neither the difficulty of the work nor the
condemnations of the jurists (fuqahâ, sing, faqih). Such is not
the case, however.
Numerous researchers have pointed out the extent of Ibn
‘Arabi’s influence in geographical space, from the Maghreb to the Far East. But
it is even more important to measure and to understand the depth of
this influence: Ibn ‘Arabi’s mark was not left only on "intellectual”
sufism. It is also detected in a universe of brotherhoods that touched the
most diverse social classes and levels of culture. The “knowers” (or the
“gnostics”: al-'ârifûn ) for whom Ibn Hajar reserved the reading of Ibn
‘Arabi are not always found among the licensed holders of learning. Conversely,
the “unknowing” for whom the Fusûs or Futûhât would be a “mortal
poison,” were often found among the ranks of the clergy.
In the work that he dedicated to the Moroccan sufi Al-Yûsî (d.
1961),7 in which he emphasizes the considerable debt that Al-Yûsî
owes Ibn ‘Arabi/ J. Berque pays particular attention in this regard to the
fusion in seventeenth-century Morocco of “two currents of popular hagiology and
learned speculation”: "The mysticism of the time,” he writes, “combines
the most learned tradition from Andalusia or the East with a rural thrust.”9
These remarks are valid not only for Al-Yûsî and the Moroccans of his age; the
extensive circulation of fundamental ideas originating in the works of the
Shaykb al-Akbar shows that they are much more widely spread. An exhaustive
study of the ways and means of this diffusion would require several on-site
inquiries and an analysis of innumerable texts from a variety of linguistic
domains. Using a much more modest documentary base, however, it appc^fc;
possible to illustrate certain aspects of this phenomenon and to offer suggestions
to those who may wish to uncover the often discrete signs of the extent of Ibn
‘Arabi’s influence, as well as to shed light on the way that his influence was
diffused. According to the evidence, the problem is of concern not only to
specialists in Ibn ‘Arabi: beyond whatever considerations are of interest to
the history of ideas, the question raised is also that of the distance that
separates "refined” from "popular” sufism.
Researchers whose works concentrate on the Shaykh al-Akbar and his
intellectual posterity have, quite naturally, paid special attention to the
study of the “noble” literature: that of Qûnawî, Jîlî, Qâshânî, Jâmî, and
others. Such study is not to be taken lightly, for the reasons we have
mentioned: the geographical dispersion of the manuscripts of these authors and
the number, date, and place of the editions of their works published are important
indications of the posibilities of access to Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine at a certain
time im a certain place. But it is equally essential to take into consideration
more modest authors of purely local reputation or even anonymous writings or
those of authors difficult to identify.
One precaution is raised at the very outset: the absence of
explicit reference to Ibn ‘Arabî, or even the presence of a negative reference,
is not a priori significant. Tb illustrate the first of these two points, I
will cite for the moment but one clear example. In the tarîqa dlawiyya
(the branch of the Shâdhiliyya-Darqawiyya founded by Shaykh Ahmad b. 'Aliwâ
from Mostaganem, d. 1934), the writings of the founder are, as much today as
yesterday, read and commentated on by the fugará, the disciples, many of
whom are Algerian workers living in Europe. Among these writings is a partial
commentary on the Qur’an entitled Al-bahr al-masjûr fi tafsîr al-qur'ân bi
mahd al-nûr. This tàfsîr, after circulating in the form of
handwritten copies, was finally printed in Mostaganem. In it, the shaykh
comments most notably on verses 5-7 of sura Al- baqara. Initially, he
commentates on it in a traditional manner in a five-part expose. He then adds
what he calls an “ishâra, ”w (allusion) wherein he develops
an interpretation that Ibn Taymiyya, among others, had denounced in Ibn ‘Arabi
as an unprecedented blasphemy. Shaykh b. ‘Aliwâ directly and almost literally
borrows this interpretation from chapter 5 of the Futûhât,11
which we will address bel^fc Shaykh Ahmad b. Aliwâ fails to mention Ibn ‘Arabi,
although he does cite other authors by name in his tafsîr. It might be
supposed that this silence is explained by the violence of the polemics
presented by representatives of the islâhî movement and in particular by
Shaykh Ben Bâdîs. Adding a reference to the Shaykh al-Akbar in a text that was
scandalous in its own right might have presented a useless provocation. For
whatever reason, this tafsîr, as is the case with the majority of Shaykh
b. ‘Aliwâ’s works, contains a number of other uses of ideas characteristic of
Ibn 'Arabi but th at are not cited as such.
If, whether deliberately or not, themes of Ibn 'Arabi’s doctrine
can be presented with no mention of their source—we will see other examples of this—then
a text (or a speaker’s remarks) that denounces Ibn 'Arabi may also contain
ideas and wordings that may be recognized as specifically his. This ambiguity,
whether it is dictated by reasons of spiritual opportunity or political
prudence, in fact reflects a widespread and quite old attitude. If we can trust
an anecdote apparently related by Fîrûzabâdî,12 the famous Shafi'ite
jurist Tzz al-din b. 'Abd al-Salâm remained silent when Ibn 'Arabi was claimed
to be a zindîq in his presence. Zindîq is a term that initially
referred to the Manicheans, but heres iologists liberally applied it to all
those who were suspected of being free thinkers or atheists. That same evening,
when asked by a disciple who had witnessed the scene, Tzz al-din h. ‘Abd
al-Salâm replied that Ibn Arabi was the Pole (qutb) of his time, that
is, the head of the hierarchy of saints.
In certain brotherhoods (iuruq, sing, tariqa), most notably
the Khalwatiyya and its different branches, the Shaykh al-Akbar’s influence is
admitted. In many others it is frequently the case of mashâykh who have
reservations about Ibn 'Arabi or have criticized his positions or forbidden
their disciples to read his works. These may be simple oratorical precautions
for the purpose of eluding the fuqaha’s censure. Most commonly,
however, these warnings .ir proscriptions stem from a concern for avoiding the
circulation of i<l(:iis that, though intrinsically true, might be
misunderstood by disciples with inadequate spiritual qualifications, the
orthodoxy of whose faith might thus be in jeopardy. It would seem as
though this is the way that Zarrûq’s position (in his Qawddid al-tasawwuf3),
as well as that of other masters of the Shâdhiliyya, should be understood.
This same care leads Sha'rânî to recommend that an aspi-
rant (murid) know how to interpret the discreet sign that
his shaykh gives him as a signal to immediately curtail his reading aloud when
the uninstructed are present:11 a simple reminder, under the
circumstances, of a quite generally applied rule, as can be seen as easily by
reading old texts as by observing shuyûkh today. In a passage from the Rashahât
cayn al-hayât, one of the fun’ damental works on the history of
the Naqshbandiyya up to the sixteenth century, the author recounts that Shaykh
'Ubaydallâh Ahrâr was in the process of commentating on the Fusils when
some visitors arrived. The shaykh immediately became silent and hid the book.
Nevertheless, this same 'Ubaydallâh Ahrâr often cited Ibn 'Arabî, and, at the
time of his famous encounter with Jami in Tashkent in 1469, he explained a
point of doctrine that the latter had been unable to understand in the Futûhât
Makkiyya.'5 Reservations or criticisms aimed at Ibn 'Arabi from
the pens of Naqsh- bandi authors of different times are actually accompanied,
as Friedmann has clearly demonstrated in the case of Ahmad Sirhindî, by extreme
dependence on his teaching. The works of R. S. O’Fahey similarly underscore, in
another great reformist suit figure (Ahmad b. Idris, whose disciples founded
the Sanûsiyya tarîqa and the Khatmiyya tarîqa), a fidelity to the
Shaykh al-Akbar’s doctrine that exposed him to vigorous Wahhâbî attacks.16
There is a practical consequence of the above: to discern an
influence, be it unconscious, voluntarily masked, or even vigorously denied, in
well-known or even obscure texts, a knowledge of Ibn 'Arabis ideas is not
sufficient. Knowledge must be combined with a thorough familiarity with his
vocabulary, with the peculiarities of his style, with certain characteristic
wordings whose importance can be attested to by their frequency in his
writings. This familiarity with technical terms (istilâhât), rhetorical
procedures, or motifs recurrent in the Shaykh al-Akbar’s work is, moreover,
indispensable if one is to differentiate, in the writings of any author,
between that which stems from the common patrimony of the suits and that which,
constitutes the individual contribution of Ibn 'Arabi. The latter’s strong
individuality should not allow us to forget, as a matter of fact, that he, too,
is the inheritor and the transmitter of a rich tradition. Some similarities
with his thought can consequently be explained by direct recourse to Ibn
'Arabi’s own sources. But the presence in a written, work of certain technical
terms—nafas rah- mânî, al-fayd al-aqdas, al-fayd al-muqaddas, khatm
al-awliya, tajdîd al-khalq, and so on—is usually a clear sign; even if
certain of these expressions occasionally crop up in texts previous to Ibn
“Arabi’s time, it is Ibn ‘Arabi’s work that gave them a precise usage and
granted them “citizenship” in the language of sufisni. By way of example on
this point, I refer the reader to what I have dealt with elsewhere on the
subject of the doctrine of sainthood and, in particularly, the idea of the
Seal of Sainthood {khatm. al-waldya)—which, as is known, appeared in
Hakim Tirmidhi in the third century A.H. but for which Ibn ‘Arabi was to
furnish a doctrinal elaboration that wouldbecome a fundamental element of later
hagiology.17
A deeper knowledge of the forms of Ibn ‘Arabi’s discourse— and not
only its content—allows the reader to perceive quite revealing “echo effects,”
which might otherwise go unnoticed. In an unpublished poem by an eminent
present-day Algerian shaykh there is a verse which goes like this: Wa sab3
al-mathânî haqîqatu amrî. This immediately reminds any of Ibn ‘Arabi’s
readers of a verse that appears in the beginning of the Futühàt^ and is
seen repeated on a number of occasions in other writings: And l-qur’ân wa
l-sab’ al-mathânî. That this is a deliberate allusion can hardly be
doubted; and it is thus not surprising to find out that the author of this poem
and his son have long studied the work of Ibn ‘Arabi and even had in their
hands, during a trip to Syria, the autograph manuscript of one of his treatises
considered as lost.
We have emphasized the necessity of meticulously examining what
might be called "second-level literature” in order to verify the Shaykh
al-Akbar’s influence beyond circles of the literate and to identify their
links. We refer here especially to elementary manuals composed for the use of
novices, but also regional chronicles (many of which are unpublished),
collections of qasâ ’id (poems) used in the brotherhoods, the mawalid
(eulogies) composed in honor of local saints, ijâza (licenses of
initiatory transmission) and silsila (chains of transmission) of obscure
shaykhs whose fame never passed beyond the confines of their village or tribe.
The spread of these texts—which are often nothing more than short brochures
hastily printed and sold at low prices—explains a number of things.
Ibn ‘Arabi’s influence is quite noticeable, for example, in a
widely distributed work in the Tijâniyya, the Mîzâb al-rahma al- rabbâniyya
fi l-tarbiyya bi l-tarîqa al-tijânïyya of Sh^kh ‘Ubayda b. Muhammad
al-Saghîr al-Shinqîtî (d. 1284 a.h.).
It is even more evident in a compendium of rules of the Rahmaniyya (which was
undoubtedly the most popular brotherhood in Algeria) published in Tunis (1351
A.H.) by order of Muhammad b. Befkacem, the shaykh of the zâwiya (lodge)
of Bû Sa’âda: here Ibn 'Arabi is expressly cited and defended against his
adversaries. Equally clear is the IVhsiya kubrâ, written by 'Abd al-Salam
a -Asmar al-Fîtûrî (the founder of a Libyan branch of the 'Arûsiyya, which
itself was a branch of the Shâdhiliyya) and published in Beirut in 1958, in
which the author states (p. 60): “It is incumbent on you, my brothers, to love
and venerate Muhyî 1-dîn Ibn al-‘Arabî” (Ikhwânî, wa ‘alaykum bi-mahab-
bati Muhyî l-dîn b. al-Arabi wa taczîmihîh Another case worthy
of note is furnished by a thin brochure first published in Aleppo in 1351 A.H.
and which is today in circulation in Syria. It is entitled Risâlat al-sulûk
al-khâdima li-jamîl l-turuq. This is a quite cursory treatise on the
stages of the Path (of which the text outlines seven) as well as particular
forms of invocation (dhikr) and the subtle centers (latcdif)
that successively correspond to them in the constitution of the human being.
The authors make a point of stating that they have drawn the rules outlined in
this text “from the works of the Shaykh al-Akbar’ (min mw'allafât al-Shaykh
al- Akbar). In fact, one of the two authors is Muhammad Rajab al-Tâ’î, who
presents himself as a descendent of Ibn 'Arabi. All writings of this sort, it
must be pointed out, stress the practice of the Path and its degrees, rather
than doctrinal principles. The key words to look for are thus those that, in
Ibn 'Arabi’s lexicon, refer to the “initiatory voyage” (sulûk) and to
sainthood (walâya), rather than those that are characteristic of his
metaphysical teaching. A systematic examination of these manuals shows that the
few cases mentioned above are in no way exceptional; no researcher would have
diffi culty discovering numerous other examples.
But a number of other kinds of writings whose role, although to a
lesser degree, is considerable are also to be taken into consider ation. Such
is the case of the tabaqât, of other chronicles composed by erudite
regional writers. For example, it is interesting to high light the references
clearly identifiable as being from Ibn Arabi, in a work well known to Moroccan
historians, the Salival al-anfâ:> h man uqbira min al-'ulamâ:’
wa l-sulaha3 bi-Fâs by Muhammad b. Ja'far b. IdÀal-Kattânî
(1857-1927). Both René Basset and Levi
Provençal, among others, have used this work, which is so rich in
details on the topography of Fez. But what particularly attracts our attention
in the Salwat al-anfâs is that its author, to define the spiritual
status of the awliyâ to whom he dedicates a section, uses I bn ‘Arabis
terminology: such and such a saint is “a Mosaic type” (mûsawî l-maqâm),
another is "a Christie type” (fisawî l-maqâm). The quite
characteristic idea of Seal of the Saints (khatm al-awl'iyâ) is
mentioned a number of times.19 What is to be considered, under the
circumstances, is less the fact—not very surprising, as shall be seen—that al-Kattânî
is clearly familiar with Ibn ‘Arabi’s hagiology than the role of transmission
that a work like this can play for readers who surely do not all have either
the desire or the possibility of gaining access to the Futûhât Makkiyya.
Through an unconscious phenomenon of impregnation, the technical vocabulary of
a difficult and rather suspect author becomes, thanks to works of this
genre—and they are numerous—, the lingua franca in which saints
and-bainthood are discussed.
If it is not aimed only at an intellectual elite—and they are not
the only ones who read it—the Salwat al-anfâs evidently is not “popular”
literature, either. Quite different is the case of a book belonging to a famous
genre whose public has always been quite large, that of compilations of the
“virtues” (.khasââs') of certain suras of the Qur’ân, part of the domain
that might be called “daily theurgy.” We are referring in particular to the Nat
al-bidâyât wa tawsîf al-nihâyât, edited a number of times (from Fez to
Cairo) and quite widely known both in the Maghreb and in the Middle East.
Other, analogous texts deserve the same remarks; we highlight this one only
because of the personality of its author and because it was composed in modern
times, thus attesting to the persistence of the diffusion of the Shaykh
al-Akbar's ideas. The Nat al-bidâyât is the work of the famous Ma’
al-'Aynayn, a highly colorful figure upon whom French colonial propaganda
(wrongly) laid the blame for Xavier Coppolani’g assassination.30 In
the writings of this Mauritanian “marabout”—and the same might have been true
in his oral teachings—explicit references to Ibn ‘Arabi and some members of his
school (e.g., ‘Abd al-Razzâq Qâshânî, ‘Abd al-Wahhâb Sha‘rânî, and Ismâ'îl
Haqqî21) abounded. What appears on first glance to be nothing more
than a pious collection of recipes reveals itself, under examination, to be
solidly nourished in the exegetical tradition at the roots of which Ibn ‘Arabi
is found. The Nat al-bidâyât gives a poor, but not at all unfaithful,
version of this rich tradition.
To this same kind of popular literature belong works like the
famous Shams al-ma‘ârif, written by Bûnî (who mentions Ibn ‘Arabi in his
chains of transmission), or the Khazînat al-asrâr of Muhammad al-Nâzilî
(d. 1884), who frequently cites Ibn ‘Arabi and reproduces a long section of his
Risálat al-anwár (and not of his Tadbîrât ilâhiyya, as announced
in the title of the chapter). Found throughout the Arab world, the Khazînatal-asrâr
is also well known elsewhere, for example, in Indonesia, where it was recently
reedited. But certain commentaries on the Qur’an have contributed more directly
to Ibn ‘Arabi’s fame and to the circulation of his ideas. Such is the case for
Ismâîl Haqqîs Rüh al-bayân, where quotes from Ibn ‘Arabi are extremely numerous.
This tafsîr is quite widely found: a complete collection of its ten
volumes was seen in a Meccan bookstore in the mid-seventies: the viligence of
Wahhabi censors was obviously lacking.
'Without hesitation the same function of "link” can be assigned
to one of the most widely distributed texts of the tariqa Tijâniyya. We
refer to ‘Alî Harâzim’s Jawâhir al-ma‘áni, the reading of which is
practically de rigueur for all members of this brotherhood, although the
text has also found a wide audience outside. Our copy of the Jawâhir is
filled with marks indicating the countless passages where mentions of Ibn
‘Arabi22 or allusions to one theme or another from his works can be
detected. In addition to the numerous (stated or not, but always recognizable)
borrowings from the Shaykh al-Akbar’s hagiology,23 Ahmad Tijânî, in
remarks or letters meticulously recorded by ‘Alî Harâzim, incorporates into his
teaching a number of other traits of Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine, and he does so
with the same terms that Ibn ‘Arabi uses, such as nafas rahmânî,24 the
idea of the five hadarât “presences,”25 haqiqa
muhammadiyya, “Muhammadan reality,”26 and the universality of
divine mercy, which embraces even the damned.27 It is also from Ibn
‘Arabi, more specifically from chapter 8 of the Futûhât, that what
Tijânî calls “ard al-samsama" comes, a symbolic name for the
"imaginai world” (âlam ahkhayâl).2S
What is even more interesting is that after ‘Alî Harâzim, or rather
after Ahmad Tijânî himself, practically all the authors of the
Tijâniyya drew from the Akbarian source and contributed to the
dissemination of what they collected there. Such was the case notably for
Muhammad al-Shinqîtî, in his Bughyat al-mustafid,w and for Al-Hâjj
‘Umar, in his Kitâb al-rimah,30 where repeated references to
the Shaykh al-Akbar, and especially, once again, systematic usage of his
doctrine of sainthood can be found.31
One name that comes up often in these last two works, that of
Sha'rânî (d. 1565), leads us to an important detail here. The numerous
writings—in general quite recent and in any case still in circulation
today—that we have chosen to point out as possible transmitters of Ibn
‘Arabi’s influence do, to a certain extent, constitute a kind of
popularization. But on the other hand they can be suspected of being
tributaries of previous popularizations. In other words, the citations,
paraphrases, or summaries of Ibn ‘Arabi that are identified in them do not
necessarily prove that their authors have read the Shaykh al-Akbar’s works.
Muhammad al-Shinqîtî claims to have had the Anqâ mughrib in his hands,
but he also maintains that he did not understand much of it. Clearly his
borrowings from Ibn :Arabî have passed through a more accessible
intermediary, whom he also cites: Sha'rânî’s Al Yawâqît wa l-jawâhir, a
book presented as a "commentary” on the Futûhât Makkiyya but that
is more of a convenient summary. All kinds of questions, the organization of
which conforms roughly to the headings of a traditional “profession of faith” (aqidd),
have responses drawn from the Futûhât, including the number of the
chapter of their origin.32 There are several successive editions of
the Yawâqît, and developments in Arabic printing have obviously contributed
to their diffusion. However, their popularity predates this. We know, via both
Sha‘rânî himself and his biographer Malîjî, that copies of his works went out
in all directions into the Muslim world, from North Africa to India, as soon as
they were completed; catalogues of manuscripts confirm this dispersion.33
Al-Hâjj ‘Umar certainly relies often on Sha'rànî, although he
undoubtedly had direct knowledge of the Futûhât also. On the other hand,
such is probably not the case for another author from Sub-Saharan Africa, the
Senegalese Ibrâhîm Nyass (d. 1975), who founded his own brotherhood and then
created the African Islamic Union, and whose debt to Ibn ‘Arabî Mervyn Hiskett
has pointed out.34 A dissident from the Tijâniyya, Ibrâhîm
NyaaBgurely could have found numerous elements originating from the Shaykh ah
Akbar in the masters of this tarîqa. But we are led to believe that his
eschatological concepts are indebted to the Yawáqít, rather than to
diligent study of Ibn ‘Arabi’s works. We have the same suspicion regarding the
Sudanese “Mahdi” Muhammad b. 'Abdallâh. As is known, he had belonged to the
Sammfiniyya tarîqa, whose founder was a disciple of Shaykh Mustafa Kamal
al-din al-Bakri, one of Nâbulusî’s students. Shaykh al-Bakrî’s writings give
evidence, which under the circumstances is not at all surprising, of strong
influence on the part of Ibn ‘Arabi. This influence is especially marked in all
branches of the Khalwatiyya tarîqa, to which al- Bakri belongs: ‘Ali
Qarabash, who figures in his “chain of transmis sion,” authored a commentary
on the Fusûs. It stands to reason that the Mahdi acquired some
familiarity with ideas originating in Ibn ‘Arabi through this chain. Is that
enough to explain the passages in the Manshûrât35 that cite
the Shaykh al-Akbar? Nicole Grandin has pointed out that the Mahdists of today
mention Ibn ‘Arabi’s ‘Anqâ mughrib as the main source of the Mahdi’s doctrine.36
Chapter 366 of the Futûhât, which deals with the “ministers of the
Mahdi” (w usará al-mahdî), has perhaps also been a contributing factor.
But is this a case of direct borrowing from these sources or rather of a
judicious use of the anthology ad usum populi offered by Sha'rânî in his
yawâqît or in one of his other books? In any case, the hypothesis that
the Mahdi had access to Ibn ‘Arabi’s great Qur’finie commentary is to be
excluded: the mentions of this tafsir in the Manshürât come not
from one of Ibn ‘Arabi’s works but rather from a single passage in Qâshânî’s
commentary (which copyists and editors have long been obstinate in attributing
to the Shaykh al-Akbar).37
Sha'rânî is of course not the only one of the first-degree popu-
larizers from whom later authors have drawn their information; we have
mentioned Nâbulusî. Although the latter, whose voluminous work has finally
begun to be studied,38 is in fact much more original than he has
been credited with being, part of his writings assuredly constitutes a
simplified presentation of Ibn ‘Arabi’s theses. Such is the case for, among
others, a small work edited in Damascus in 1969 under the title Idah
al-maqsud min wahdat al-wujûd (Clarification on What Is Understood by the
Unicity of Being). It is this treatise and others l^|it, rather than original
texts by the Shaykh al-Akbar,
that supply the material for many later formulations. But numerous
authors less eminent than Nâbulusî have themselves also been influential
mediators. Among representative examples of this literature might be mentioned
that of Muhammad b. Fadlallâh al- Burhânpûrîs (d. 1620) Hihfa al-mursala ilâ
l-nabî, which attempts to systematically outline Ibn 'Arabi’s metaphysics,
cosmology, and anthropology in a few pages.3® This writing by a
Gujarati shaykh, which is in some ways to Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine what Sanusi’s
Mqfda sughra is to the Ash’arite kalâm, was quickly translated
into Persian and Turkish, and it gave rise to numerous commentaries (one of
which was by Nâbulusî himself) in the Ottoman Empire. It was read by the Emir
‘Abd al-Qâdir’s entourage, in Damascus, as well as by that of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Rahmân
‘Illaysh in Cairo.40 It is still in circulation in India and in
Indonesia and also in Turkey and in Arab countries. This “Akbarian breviary” is
far from being the only one of its kind.
Closer to home, we should mention Yûsuf al-Nabhânî (d. 1931) among
the influential popularizers; his books have been and still are widely read in
milieux hostile to the Salafiyya and to the Wahhabis. ‘The introduction
to his famous Jâmi' karamât al-awliyâ is nothing more than a summary of
chapter 73 of the Futiihát, and all his works make abundant references
to Ibn ‘Arabi, whose defense he offers against the accusations of Ibn Taymiyya
and his partisans.41 Even in present day Damascus a Syrian shaykh,
Mahmud Ghurâb, has begun publication of a series of books, each of which is,
on a specific theme (Al-insân al-kâmil, Al-khayâl, Al-hubb al-ilâhî,
etc.), a montage of quotations from Ibn ‘Arabi—a procedure that reminds one of
that used by ShaTânî—thus quickly allowing the reader to get an idea of the
Shaykh al-Akbar’s position on the subjects treated.42 It would not
be surprising to have this collection of briefly commentated extracts itself
spawn a second- degree popularization.
Even if no mention is made of texts that attempt deliberate and
methodical explanations of Ibn ‘Arabi’s thought, a number of other
texts—particularly those coming out of the hagiographical genre—have been and
continue to be effective vehicles of this thought. There is hardly a zâwiya
library in the Arabic speaking world where the famous Kitab al-Ibrîz is
not found in either handwritten or printed form.43 Its author,
Ahmad b. al-Mubârak, was
the disciple and successor to a great saint from Fez, ‘Abd al-‘Azîz
al-Dabbâgh (d. 1717), whose life and sayings the work recounts. Although
al-Dabbâgh may have been ummî (unlettered), Ibn Mubarak was himself both
educated and a diligent reader of Ibn ‘Arabi; implicitly or explicitly, Ibn
‘Arabi’s ideas are frequently the theme of the two men’s discussions. Rather
than the mûrid, whose knowledge is still all from books, it is the ummî
master, the inspired visionary, who solves the puzzles of the Futûhât.
The famous Kitâb al-Ibriz, centered on a charismatic figure whose short
life was characterized by marvels, is evidently less intimidating than the
works of Ibn ‘Arabi or his followers; it is in fact a quite probable source of
oral and written diffusion of the Shaykh al- Akbar’s doctrine. It is
interesting to note in passing that the most recent edition (1984) is preceded
by prefaces signed by Syrian religious authorities, providing testimony to the
importance of this book and at the same time bolstering its influence.
Besides the hagiographical literature of which, from our point of
view, the Kitâb al-Ibrîz is a remarkable, though not unique, specimen,
mention should also be made of some more austere, yet ubiquitous, writings in turuq
libraries. A good example is that of the works of Ibn Ajiba (d. 1809), a
Shâdhilî-Derqawî author whose audience greatly surpasses that of the members of
his tarîqa. Like others, he does not propose to systematically explain
Ibn ‘Arabi's doctrine, but it does underlie his thought, and it clearly
influences all that he says about Essence and the Divine Names and their
theophanies; and it is reflected in Ibn Ajîba’s definitions of the technical
terms used in sufism.44
Our mention of the zâwiya libraries leads us to emphasize
the importance, in a study like the present one, of collecting information
available on their content. In Algeria, the officers of Internal Affairs had
their interpreters compile catalogues early on; thus we have been able to
verify the presence there of diverse works by Ibn ‘Arabî and many of the works
of his glossarists and popularizers. Studies carried out in Damascus and Cairo
confirm that this situation is the rule rather than the exception. The
presence of these titles in a zâwiya certainly does not mean that they
are read, less so that they are read by all. It does however furnish at least a
presumption of interest on the part of successive shuyûkh and the most
studious of their disciples, and it does supply information about the
accessibility of materials that might be incorporated into the oral teaching or
literary production of masters.
We will not deal at length with the role—long perceived by certain
researchers—of poems (qasâHd) in the transmission of Ibn ‘Arabi’s
heritage. Easy to memorize even by the unlettered, poems also have the
advantage of giving acceptable expression—since it can be imputed to poetic
license—to ideas that might appear suspect or even blasphemous if presented in
discursive form. The verse of a modern shaykh, cited above, is an example of
these audacious proscriptions on prose. Others are found in- the dîwân
written by the Moroccan shaykh Al-Harrâq (d. 1845), who was, like Ibn ‘Ajiba,
one of the distiples of Shaykh Al-'Arabî al-Darqawî.45 The poems of
the Egyptian sufis of the seventh century (A.H.), studied by ‘Ali Safi
Husayn,"6 also offer abundant examples. Annemarie Schimmel, in
several of her works, has well demonstrated the considerable influence of Ibn
‘Arabi and his school on mystical poetry in Turkish, Persian, and Urdu.47
Most, if not all, of these works continue to be heard in meetings of turuq,
even those turuq in which the use of theoretical works inspired by Ibn
‘Arabi is unlikely, if not completely improbable, due to either lack of the
necessary intellectual qualifications or opposition raised to the Shaykh
al-Akbar’s thinking. A recent anecdote illustrates this point. We are indebted
to a Moroccan researcher, M. Fawzi Skali, for the transcription of recorded
conversations he had during the summer of 1986 with a number of notable
religious figures in the context of an inquiry into the “spiritual geography”
of Fez. Among those interviewed was a former professor at the Qarawiyyîn. Asked
about sufism, he claims to be quite hostile to “sufi extremists” (ghulât),
a category that includes Hallâj, Ibn ‘Arabi, Ibn Sab'in, and Muhammad
al-Kattânî, the author of the abovementioned Salwat al-anfâs. But at the
same time he affirms his enjoyment of the poems of Ibn al-Farid, Shushtari, or
Al-Harrâq, which are recited in sufi meetings: "They have such subtle,
such spiritual meanings1.”48 The coincidence in the same
individual of these two logically contradictory attitudes is a fact that can
often be observed in Muslims who, touched by reformist currents, present
themselves as hostile to sufism, or at least as partisans of a “moderate” sufism
from which Ibn ‘Arabi is obviously excluded.
If the phenomena of transmission via the written word, in prose or
in verse, are those which are most easily observable, they are not necessarily
the most important. These are perhaps explained by other, less easily detected,
phenomena which by virtue of their subtlety have heretofore gone unnoticed. We
are referring here to another historical continuity, that of the Shaykh
al-Akbar’s initiatory chain of transmission (silsila akbariyya),
uninterrupted up to the present day. Despite certain easily explained
confusions, there has never been, properly speaking, a tarîqa akbariyya
in the sense of a formally constituted “brotherhood.”49 But the khirqa
akbariyya or hâtimiyya—in other words, the baraka, Ibn
‘Arabi’s "spiritual flow”—has never ceased to be regularly transmitted and
still is today. This ritual investiture of the khirqa akbariyya has been
received throughout the ages in different manners by individuals belonging to
the most diverse turuq. Because it was generally quite discreet and
always hidden by the much more visible affiliation of the individuals concerned
to one or several of the traditional brotherhoods, this initiatory attachment
to the Shaykh al-Akbar has often gone unnoticed. A more careful examination
shows that it usually has as its effect (besides the eventual appearance of the
nisba “al- akbari’ attached to the name of one shaykh or another) a more
particular emphasis on the part of these individuals and their followers on
the precepts that define what might be called a "tarîq akbari, ” a
“path,” a "method” (and not a tarîqa in the sense that this word
has today), inspired by the teaching of the Andalusian Master. A meticulous
investigation of multiple silsila gives evidence of the fact that a
number of those who have played major roles in the diffusion of the Shaykh
al-Akbar’s heritage had received the khirqa akbariyya: and we have good
reason to believe that on a more modest scale many other lesser-known
individuals appearing in these silsila also have been effective agents
of its maintenance and influence. Numerous though the indirect inheritors of
Ibn ‘Arabi’s legacy may be, it is the direct inheritors who, properly speaking,
should be considered as those for whom the heritage was legitimately destined.
As for Lire known figures, we find in these chains of transmission of the khirqa
akbariyya, for example, names like Suyûtî, Sha‘rânî, Ibn Hajar al- Haytami,
Zakariyya al-Ansârî, Qushshâshî,50 or, at the end of the Ottoman
dynasty, Shaykh Ahmad Gumushkhanevi. The literary relationship « Ibn 'Arabi is
thus doubled when there is a case of a
spiritual filiation, which should be taken into account in any
attempt to interpret the intellectual activities of these authors.
In a work published a few years ago,51 we were
interested in another case that deserves to be mentioned in more than one
regard: that of Emir ‘Abd al-Qâdir aWazâ’irî, who had the first edition. of
the Fùtûhât Makkiyya printed at his own expense and under his watchful eye.
In his Kitâb al-mawâqif, he shows himself to be a profound and subtle
commentator on Ibn 'Arabi: this interest in the Shaykh al-Akbar, which appears
to have blossomed somewhat late in his life in Damascus, is more easily
explained when it is known that in his youth he received the khirqa
akbariyya from his father, who had received it from his own father, who in
turn had had it transmitted by Murtadâ al-Zabîdî (d. 1791). Notice in passing
the amazing circuit that sees Ibn ‘Arabi’s spiritual heritage travel from
Murcia, whereAie was bom, to India, where Murtadâ al-Zabîdî was born, to have
it carried back to the Maghreb and, finally, to Damascus where the Shaykh
al-Akbar and the emir both lived their final days.52 Such detours do
occur: we personally know an akbarî bom in the Middle East who was
joined to Ibn ‘Arabi’s silsila by an Egyptian shaykh; the latter had
been initiated by a Syrian who, in turn, had been initiated by a North African.
Let us cite one last example of these discreet wanderings, which make
intelligible the emergence of Akbarian data in an apparently banal text. In the
research done in Fez in 1986 to which we referred above, Shaykh al-Mahdî
al-SaqalIî (who claims to own nearly sixty of Ibn ‘Arabi’s works) explained
that lie had been attached to the "Hâtimiyya,” that is, to Ibn ‘Arabi’s
initiatory line, via three different paths and, in particular, by Sîdî ‘Abd
al-Hayy al-Kattam: here we encounter that famous family of shurfâ
(descendents of the Prophet) to which the author of the Salivât al-anfâs
also belonged, the latter himself having received the khirqa akbariyya,
as had many of his relatives. Without being able to expand on it here, we will
add only that a number of signs suggest that the end of the nineteenth century
saw the beginning of an “Akbarian renaissance” marked by both an increase in
attachments to the silsila akbariyya and particularly intense
intellectual activity regarding Ibn ‘Arabi’s works.58 The Wahhâbîs
were not mistaken. In the abundant polemic production published in recent
years, they have, more hysterically than ever, presented the Shaykh al-Akbar as
the Doctor communis of sufism whose “Bacilli of infidelity” (jarâthim
al-kufr) have been spread (via disciples, avowed or clandestine) among the
umma.64
At the end of this brief overview, it might be asked why a work as
difficult and controversial as that of the Shaykh ah Akbar, more than others
that represent the “wisdom tradition” of sufism, has directly or indirectly
exercised such considerable influence. Obviously no one can claim to have a
historically provable global response to a question of this type. Certainly
there are precise factors that help answer the question; for example, the
patronage that the Ottoman dynasty accorded the Shaykh al-Akbar. Ibn 'Arabi is
said to have predicted (in a sibylline text that he surely did not author, Al-shajara
al-nucmaniyya ft l-dawla al-‘Uthmâniyya55) the coming
of the Ottomans and, more specifically, their conquest of Syria. The prediction
brought him particular veneration by numerous sovereigns and a status that
undoubtedly considerably limited the effect of attacks against his doctrine.
This Ottoman patronage dates from quite early—it was Sultan Salîm I who, upon
his entrance into Damascus, had Ibn 'Arabi’s mausoleum constructed— and lasted
until the end of the dynasty. However, one must not overestimate the
importance of this imperial protection; it is not sufficient to explain Ibn
'Arabi’s influence on Indian, Malaysian, or Chinese sufism, for example.
To keep to the order of historical contingencies, a much more
satisfying explanation is to be sought in the evolution of sufism and its
institutions from the thirteenth century on. The progressive constitution of
the turuq and their evolution toward the “brotherhood” format in which
we have known them since then create a kind of doctrinal “breathing, in.” The
eponymous founders—'Abd al-Qâdir al-Jîlânî, Abu I-Hasan al-Shâdhilî, Ahmad
al-Rifâ'î, Ahmad al- Badawî, and so on—trace a path, stamp a certain spiritual
orientation into their initiatory posterity. They do not propose an organized
body of doctrines, and they rarely leave substantial writings. Their oral
teachings, which have been recorded by their followers, consist most frequently
of disjointed series of insights and precepts. Something would be lacking in.
this sufism, which is slowly but surely taking shape, were it not precisely for
Ibn 'Arabi’s work; and, not being able to be claimed exclusively, or even
primarily, by any one tarîqa, Ibn 'Arabi belongs to the common heritage.
His work, unlike all the work that preceded it, presents one characteristic
that the
method chosen by Sha'rânî in his Yawâqît demonstrates: it
has a response to everything. De omni re scibili', ontology, cosmology,
prophetology, exegesis, ritual, angelology..., it totally embraces the sciences
that “those of the Path” could not bypass without putting themselves into
peril.
But further horizons must undoubtedly be considered. Ibn 'Arabi
does not address only his contemporaries or their immediate successors; nor
does he address only the citizens of the dâr al-islâm such as it could
be traced on the map of his time. In the preface to his famous Lisân
al-'arab, Ibn Manzûr, who was bom a few years before Ibn 'Arabi’s death,
explains that in composing this dictionary he wanted tojnclude all the words of
the “lánguage of the Prophet” in the same way that “Noah constructed the Ark,
while his people laughed at him.” Ibn 'Arabi also built an ark, and it is not
fortuitous if, of all his writings, it is this summa magna (which the Futûhât
Makkiyya happen to be) that is the most often read and the most frequently
cited. The Futûhât, the revision of which Ibn 'Arabi completed two years
before his death, represent the majestic synthesis of the secrets of the world
above and the world below (al- asrâr al-mâlikiyya wa l-mulkiyya) that he
transcribed and commented on throughout his life. The role of supreme
reference illustrated by the name Shaykh al-Akbar (the greatest of Tteachers,
the Master par excellence), which was given to Ibn 'Arabi later, was not a
posthumous accident. He who claimed the function of “seal of Muhammadan
sainthood,” according to all the evidence, deliberately assumed the title; he
tirelessly enclosed in his work, for the use of those who would live in ages
darker than his own, the amana, the sacred repository of which he
considered himself the guardian.
"If All The Trees On Earth Were
Pens..."
(QUR’AN 31:27)
In the Futühât, Ibn 'Arabi casually recounts an anecdote
that might conceivably serve as an exergue to the remarks that follow.
The hero of the anecdote is Malik, the imam founder of one of the four principle
schools of Sunni jurisprudence.
Mâlik b. Anas was asked: “What is your opinion about the lawfulness
of the flesh of the water pig” [khinzîr al-mâ: an expression that refers
to cetaceans in general, but dolphins in particular]? He replied [fa-aftá:
a judicial consultation, not a simple exchange of words] that it was illegal.
An objection was made: “Does this animal not belong to the family of marine
animals [literally, “fish,” whose flesh is lawful]?” “Certainly,” he said, “but
you called it a pig [khinzîr].”1
Some might be tempted to class this ambiguous cetacean among the
taxonomic fantasies of a maniacal casuistry. But Ibn ‘Arabi’s mention of it on
two different occasions shows it to be something completely different for him.
What is in question here is the authority of the name (hukm al-ism) and
the secret of naming (tasmiya), which leads us to the very heart of Ibn
‘Arabi’s hermeneutics.
Accusations like atheism (zandaqa) and libertinism (ibâha,
in both its philosophical sense and in common usage) are commonplace in
heresiology. A close look at the writings hostile to the Shaykh al-Akbar
from the thirteenth century up to the present day, however, shows the regular
appearance of another accusation: sacrilege. The sacrilege in question
is tahrîf macâni l-qur'ân, the “twisting of the meaning of
the Qur’ân.” The case is seen as early as Ibn Taymiyya, who is practically the
founder of “anti-Akbarian polemics” and who supplies the structure for later
diatribes.3 It is also present in Husayn b. al-Ahdâl’s (d. 1451) Kashf
al-ghita* and in the Tantá^al-ghabíi of Burhân al-dîn
al-Biqâcî (d. 1475). The
case is again
enthusiastically taken up by Sakhâwî (d. 1497), who constructs a catalogue of
previous condemnations in his voluminous, unedited Al-qawl al-munbi.5
And, whether they accuse him m- praise him, the works of modern university
scholars dedicated to Ibn ‘Arabi generally echo the opinions of Muslim writers
on this point, as is noted in the works of Nicholson,6 Landau,7
or ‘Afífí.8 Henry Corbin, for his part, often admiringly
presented the Shaykh aLAkbar as the man of bâtin, the hidden sense—he
who shatters the rigidities of the Letter in order to attain, by means of a
free esoteric interpretation, a ta’wil, new meanings of Revelation. It
does not take much to imagine what use certain Islamic currents are making of
this dangerous apology today.
Ibn 'Arabi affirms that “everything of which we speak in our
meetings and in our writings comes from the Qur'an and its treasures.” In an
unpublished work (Radd al-matîn9') in which he takes the
Shaykh al-Akbar's defense, 'Abd al-Ghanî al-Nâbulusî underscores, referring to
the auto-da-fe of Ibn ‘Arabi’s works barred by certain jurists who
sought out heresy with indefatigable zeal, that those who desire to execute
such sentences find themselves in a paradoxical situation: if they leave the
countless Qur'an it: quotations in Ibn 'Arabi’s books that they are tossing
into the flames, they end up burning the word of God. On the other hand, if
they erase the passages before the burning, then the works to be burned are no
longer those of Ibn ‘Arabi, for the Qur’ân is such an integral part of them.
In fact, any reader of Ibn ‘Arabi notices an abundance of scriptural
references page after page. It must further be noted that Ibn ‘Arabi’s
bibliography has an immense lacuna due to the disappearance of the great tafsîr,
the Kitâb al-jam‘wa l-tafsîl fî asrâr ma'am l-tanzîl referred to above.10
But besides the publication of a heretofore unpublished text, the Ijàz
al-bayarm1 which is a small tafsîr, we are indebted to
Shaykh Mahmud Ghurab for the recent publication of a collection of four large
volumes in which he has regrouped and arranged Ibn ‘Arabi’s exegetical texts by
suras and verses?2 By virtue of its size alone this impressive
anthology suggests that Nâbulusî’s observation is not irrelevant.
These quantitative considerations, though deserving of being
formulated, are certainly secondary. It is not a question of appealing to the
judgment of the fuqahâ (or rather, certain of them: in the volu- minons
catalogue of fatwa there is no lack of favorable fuqahâis).
Instructed by the same methods, a new trial, regardless the outcome, would
be no more than just another judiciary peripeteia. If the fuqahâ and nothing
more are the guarantees of orthodoxy, then the case is heard. Even though
Dhahabi (d. 1348) maintains that the spread of Ibn 'Arabi's works was
relatively late and that his heresies were noticeable only from the
eighth/fourteenth century on,14 the author of the Futuhât’s
difficulties began quite early. The story, told by comparatively recent
biographers, in which his life was in danger in Cairo in 60^1206 and was spared
only by the intervention of one of Saladin’s brothers is probably a
fabrication.15 But other events— for example the one that led him to
write a commentary on his Tar- jumân al-ashwâq1&—give
evidence that he was under suspicion. It is true that he did not treat the fuqahâ
in the kindest of manners: "They (the fuqaha) have always been to
those who have attained spiritual realization {al-muhaqqiqûn) what the
pharoahs were to the prophets.”17 The Mahdi, the “rightly guided
one,” when he comes at the end of time, will have no enemies more bitter: “If
the sword were not in his hands, they would give him the death sentence.”18
In their attempts to please princes and the powerful, they do not hesitate to
work out a casuistry that is a mockery of the Sacred Law whose interpreters
they wish they were.19 If he exposes the too frequently perverse
practices of the function of the faqih, Ibn 'Arabi nevertheless does not
call into question either the necessity of fiqh— juridical
reflections—or the duty of vigilence incumbent upon the fuqahâ
(even when they speak of saints, when the remarks of the latter could lead weak
souls astray), provided they refrain from condemning as infidelity (feufr) all
that they are incapable of understanding.20
But it would take more to appease the anger of a group jealous and
suspicious of these privileges. Two articles appeared in April 1.990, one week
apart, in the Egyptian daily Al-Akhbar. The articles, both quite
benevolent, were inspired by recent publications and respectively entitled 'Tbn
'Arabi in France” and "The Ibn 'Arabi Phenomenon in France.” The "Ibn
'Arabi phenomenon,” to use the article’s expression, is actually far from being
limited to France: studies on the Shaykh al-Akbar are proliferating throughout
the world including, for example, Japan, the former Soviet Union,21 and,
as has already been pointed out, Muslim countries.22 For whatever
reason, basing his arguments on the interest that Western researchers have in
Ibn ‘Arabi, the author of a brochure recently published in Cairo had been
denouncing a “cultural invasion” engendered by these suspect enterprises.
The spread of this criticism was really nothing more than another
episode in a very old quarrel: a “Letter to the Minister of Culture,” again in
the columns of Al-Akhbar, signed by Kamal Ahmad ‘Awn (director of the
institute of Al-Azhar in Tanta), reopened the quapkel in November 1975. The
author was indignant over the publication of a blasphemous work sponsored by
the ministry. The work in question was the critical'edition of the Futûhât that
O. Yahia was preparing. This "letter” was only the first salvo in a
furious polemic to which we have already alluded and that has continued for
several years.’23 In February 1979, the Egyptian Parlament decided
to discontinue the edition in progress, as well as the distribution of those
volumes already published. The decision, made under legally questionable
conditions, was finally revoked after vehement disputes. What is worth noting
is that, when the accounts of this polemic are examined, the majority of those
in either camp who publicly took part in the affair had never read Ibn ‘Arabi’s
writings in extenso, nor, for the most part, did they know his thought
other than through second-hand and generally hostile accounts.
Besides these unfruitful controversies, we should mention a more
serious debate on the origin of the patrimony that Ibn ‘Arabi left his
inheritors. Have the pious servants of God who have taken their inspiration
from Ibn ‘Arabi’s teachings throughout the ages been abused? Is the repository
of which Ibn ‘Arabi named himself the guardian really the one which is founded
upon Revelation? Isn’t the affirmation according to which his work “proceeds
from the Qur’an and its treasures” nothing more than a concession dictated by
attention to community norms, a concession that would veil quite different
sources of inspiration? Is the Qur’ân, for Ibn ‘Arabi, a text or a pretext? One
might guess that the questions are purely rhetorical for the author of these
lines, but they do deserve precise answers.
Plunge into the
ocean of the Qur’ân if your breath is sufficiently powerful. And if not, limit
yourself to the study of the commentaries on its apparent sense; but in this
cast^fc not plunge, for you will perish. The ocean of the Qur’ân is deep, and
if he who plunges into it did not limit himself to those places which are
closest to the shore, he would never come back toward the creatures. The
prophets and the guardianinheritors [al-waratha al-hafaza] take these
roles as their goal out of pity for the universe. As for those who remain back [al-wâqîfûn],
who have reached the goal but have remained there without ever returning, no
one profits from them and they profit from no one: they have aimed at the center
of the ocean—or rather it has aimed at them—and they have plunged for eternity.24
The mention of the “apparent sense" (zâhir) also
suggests tire contrary: bâtin (that which is hidden) is the opposite of zâhir.
Both words belong to the traditional series of Divine Names. But among
heresiographers the bâtiniyya, and Ibn ‘Arabi has often been classified
by his adversaries in this outcast category, are those who, in the name of bâtin
(of the hidden sense that they are attempting to define) revoke the zâhir
(the obvious) and kill the letter in order to give life to the spirit. However,
when taken alone, the interpretation that the just-cited passage best lends
itself to hardly stands up if what Ibn ‘Arabi says elsewhere about the very
process of Revelation to the Prophet is taken into account:
He was told: transmit that which has been revealed to you ! And he
did not stray from the very form of that which had been revealed to him, but
rather transmitted to us exactly what had been told to him: for the meanings
that descended upon his heart descended in the form of a certain combination
of letters, of a certain arrangement of words, of a certain order of verses, of
a certain composition of those suras whose totality comprises the Qur’an. From
that moment on God gave the Qur’an a form. It is that form that the Prophet has
shown, such as he himself had contemplated it...If he had changed something,
what he brought to us would have been the form of his own understanding, and
not the revelation that he had received. It would not be the Qur’ân, as it came
to him, thi^fce transmitted to us.25
The preceding allows the reader a glimpse of the importance that
the very letter of divine discourse has for Ibn ‘Arabi. He says, “Know that God
addressed man in his totality without giving ! precedence to his exterior (zâhir)
over his interior (batin').”28 If he thus blames those who
worry only about legal rules applying to our “exteriors,” he is even more
severe with the bâtiniyya who are preoccupied only with the symbolic
meanings of Revelation and who scorn its external meaning: “Perfect happiness
belongs to those who join the fexternal meaning with the internal meaning.”27
In his eyes, a little knowledge of the bâtin leads away from the zâhir,
whereas a lot of knowledge of bâtin leads back to it.
A number of passages from his work illustrate the absolute
sovereignty of the letter to which, we have seen, the Prophet himself is
submissive. Having thus alluded to the verse Wa huwa ma'akum aynamâ kuntum
(And he is with you wherever you are [57:4]) in the Futûhât , where he
inadvertently used haythumâ— which has the same meaning—instead of aynamâ,
the Shaykh al- Akbar immediately asks God’s pardon for having strayed from the
liberality of the sacred text. “It is not in vain,” he says, “that God takes
one word away to prefer another to it.” Any offense against the letter is thus
a form of this tahrif, of the alteration of the Word of God for which
the Qur’ân (2:75; 5:13) reproaches the People of the Book.28 This
concern for literal strictness applies also to the hadith, and Ibn ‘Arabi
praises those who, calling to mind the words of the Prophet, are careful to not
put a wa in the place of a fa, even though these two particles
are often interchangeable;29 when they are reported “according to
their meaning” (alâ l-ma'ha) only, what the Prophet said is not being
reported, but only what one has un derstood of what he said.30
Tills scrupulous attention to the form of the Word of
God—for the form, being divine, is not only the most adequate expression of the
Truth, it is the Truth; it is not only the bearer of meaning, it is the
meaning—, is that which guides all of Ibn ‘Arabi’s reading of the Qur’an. It is
not incorrect to consider that the work of the Shaykh al-Akbar, as we presently
know it, is in its entirety a Qur’ânic commentary. This commentary is,
moreover, a method of interpretation that does not look for what is beyond the
letter elsewhere than within the letter itself. Thus, just as God is at
one and the same time al-zâhi.r wa l-bâtin, “the Apparent and the
Hidden,” just as universal Reality is similar to the construction known as a
Mobius strip (which appears to have two faces, one internal and one external,
while in fact it has only one), in this same way it is absurd to
distinguish—and a fortiori to oppose in the Word of God the letter and
the spirit, the signifier and the signified. We are far from an allegoric
interpretation in the manner of Philo of Alexandria, for example, as can easily
be seen by comparing his commentary on the biblical story of Genesis with that
given by the Shaykh al-Akbar in parallel Qur’ânic verses. For Ibn ‘Arabi it is
the laying bare of each word of divine discourse that renders all of its
meaning.
However, there is an obvious paradox: the rigidity of the letter
seems to impose a univocal reading. Once it came, Revelation left a message
that seemed destined to be nothing more than repeated. Is it then to be
concluded that any hermeneutic should be dismissed in advance? Ib do so would
be to forget that “if all the trees on earth were pens, if the seas were
ink—and if they were added to by seven other seas—the Word of God would not be
exhausted” (Qur’an 31:27).
The Qur'an,
says Ibn ‘Arabi,
is perpetually
new for any of those who reci te it... .But no reciter is conscious of his
descent [nuzül], because his mind is occupied with its natural
condition. Then the Qur’an descends upon him hidden behind the veil of nature
and produces no rejoicing in him. It is to this case that the Prophet alludes
when he speaks of reciters who read the Qur’an without it going any farther
than their throats. That is the Qur’ân that descends upon tongues and not upon
hearts. God said the contrary about him who tastes [this descent]: The faithful
spirit descended with it [the Qur ’ân] upon your heart [Qur. 26:193], Such a
man is he in whom this descent causes an immeasurable sweetness that surpasses
all joy. When he experiences it, he is [truly] the person upon whom the ever
new Qur’an has descended. The difference between these two kinds of descent is
that if the Qur’an descends upon the heart, it brings comprehension with it:
the being in question understands that which is being recited even if he does not
understand the language of Revelation; he knows the significance of that which
is being recited even if the meaning that
the words have outside of the Qur’an are unknown because they do
not exist in his own language; he knows what these words mean in his
recitation, and at the very moment that they are being recited. The station of
the Qur’an and its state being what we say, it happens that each one finds in
himself that to which he aspires. It is for this reason that shaykh Abû Madyan
said: the aspirant [al-murîd] is really an aspirant only when he finds
in the Qur’an all to which he aspires. And word not endowed with this plenitude
is not really Qur’an.31 When the Qur’an, which is a divine
attribute—and the attribute is inseparable from that which.it qualifies—,
descends upon the heart, it is then He Whose Word the Qur’ân is that descends
with it. God said that the heart of his believing servant contains Him:82
it is of this descent of the Qur’an upon the heart of the believer that the
divine descent in the heart consists.33
None of the faithful, no saint will ever hear words other than
those that were heard and transmitted by the Prophet: "The Words of God do
not change” (lâ tabdîla fî kalimâti Llâh [Qur’ân 10:64]). The
perpetually revealed Qur’ân is at the same time both rigorously identical to
itself—and yet unheard: it continually brings new meanings to hearts prepared
to receive it; none of these meanings annuls the preceding ones, and all of
them were inscribed from the beginning in the plenitude of the Qur’ân’s letter.
It behooves you to distinguish between understanding the Word and
understanding him who is speaking. It .is the latter form of comprehension that
must be researched: it is obtained only when the Qur’ân descends upon the
heart, while the former belongs to the community of the faithful. Those
gnostics who receive their understanding from him who speaks understand the
Word. Those who understand only the Word do not understand clearly, either
wholly or in part, what he Who spoke meant.. .The servant whose inner sight [al-basîra]
is enlightened—he who is guided by a light from his Lord [Qur’ân
39:22]—obtains with each recitation of a verse a new understanding, distinct
from that which he had during thé preceding recitation and that that he
w^fcobtain during the succeeding recitation. God has answered the request that
has been addressed to him with the words Oh Lord, increase my knowledge!
[Qur’an 20:114], He whose understanding is identical in two successive
recitations is losing. He whose understanding is new in each recitation is winning.
As for him who recites without understanding anything, may God have mercy on
him,34
But it is he who speaks, and he alone, who is responsible for the
infinite profusion of meanings that wells up during recitation of the Qur’ân.
Tire dbd (servant) could not reach this goal even with the greatest
efforts of his faculties of reflection. Moreover, this effort would not only be
in vain; it would deprive him of any chance of being receptive to the meaning
that God has destined for him at that exact moment. He must, then, suspend the
use of his forces and leave the way open for the Divine Verb, the true
Recitant.
It is I, he says, who recite my Book for him with his tongue while
he listens to me. And that is my nocturnal conversation with him. That servant
savors my Word. But if he binds himself to his own meanings, he leaves me by his
reflection and his meditation. What he must do is only lean toward me and leave
his ears receptive to my Word until I am present in his recitation. And just as
it is I who recite and I who make him hear, it is also I who then explain my
Word to him and interpret its meanings. That is my nocturnal conversation with
him.35 He takes knowledge from me, not from his reason and his
reflection; he no longer cares to think of paradise, of hell, of accounting for
his actions, of the Last Judgement, of this world or of that which is to come,
for he no longer considers these things with his intellect, he no longer
scrutinizes each verse with his reflection: he is content to lend an ear to
that which I tell him. And he is at that moment a witness, present with me; and
it is I who take charge of his instruction.36
We are shown
the modalities of this divine instruction in an exceptional text. The text is
that which describes the fundamental event in the course of which Ibn ‘Arabi
reads the Fu.tûhât before writing ther^fhis singular passage, which
helps us to understand
what Ibn ‘Arabi
is telling us when he claims to have taken all of his work from the
"treasures of the Qur’ân,” is that which, after the doxology (khutba)
and the introduction imuqaddima),^ makes up 1 the first
chapter of the work.38 The passage has been studied a number of
times, and its contents were commented on in one of our earlier works,39
but one point must be highlighted because of its direct relation to the purpose
of this book. This is where Ibn ‘Arabi relates his encounter beside the Ka‘ba,
near the black stone, with a “young man” (/aid) described by a number of
contradictory attributes. This coincidentia oppositorum clearly means
that we are here dealing with a theophany: he is “living and dead,” “simple and
compound”; he “contains everything” and “everything contains him”; he is “the
contemplator and the contemplated,” “the knowledge, the knower, and the known.”
He is “the one who speaks” (al-mutakallim, a term the importance of
which will be seen) while at the same time he remains silent (admit).
From him comes all that Ibn ‘Arabi will transcribe in the Futûhât.
Apparently, the “young man" is the manifestation of what the
prefatory poem of chapter 2 calls “the august and sublime secret” of the Kacba,
the “House of God” (bayt Allah). The Ka‘ba is of course the sacred place
to which the “illuminations of Mecca” (al-futûhât al-makkiyya) are
expressly linked. But several things allow a more precise definition of the
young man’s identity. Some of these are found in the initial chapter. Others
are to be seen some two thousand pages later, in the penultimate chapter (al-bâb
al~jdmic, the chapter of synthesis), where Ibn ‘Arabi announces
that he has encapsulated the quintessence of what the 558 preceding chapters
contain. We are not dealing here with a “summary,” even though Ibn ‘Arabi uses
the term mukhtasar (abridgement) in the table located at the beginning
of the Futûhât, but rather with a succession of flashes that cast a
sometimes blinding light upon jewels encased in the mass of the text. One
paragraph, the wording of which is sometimes quite obscure at first glance,
corresponds to each chapter of the Futühât.itJ The one that
corresponds to the first chapter41 informs us that the enigmatic
“young man’ that Ibn ‘Arabi greets at the threshold of the Ka'ba located,
according to Ibn ‘Abbâs, in the “umbilicus of the earth”—thus, a visible image
of the supreme spiritual center—is the “manifest Prototype,” or the
“explicit
Model” (al-imâm al-mubîri): a Qur’ânic expression to refer to the Book
in which “all things are numbered” (Qur’an 36:12), the one in which “nothing is
omitted” (Qur’an 6:38).
In Ibn 'Arabi, the imâm mubîn, according to the point of
view from which he is seen, is sometimes likened to the divine Pen, or to the
guarded Table (al-lawh al-mahfûz) upon which the Pen distinctively
inscribes the knowledge that it withholds in a synthetic fashion; sometimes he
is likened to the Perfect Man (al~insân al- kâmil):iZ
different names for the same function of mediating between the universe and the
impenetrable mystery (ghayb) of the divine darkness. But as a passage in
chapter 2243 (to which we shall return) suggests, he is also the
Qur’an itself. One further, clearer, indication comes to us at the moment that
the fata invites the pilgrim to delve with him into the Ka'ba,44
and where he states; “I am the seventh of what surrounds the universe.” This
statement, which appears sibylline when taken out of context, is explained by
the symbolic correspondance established during a preceding dialogue between
the seven prescribed ritual circumambulations of the Ka'ba and the seven names
that, in Muslim theology, correspond the the attributes of the Divine Essence.
The “seventh,” which the young man is identified with, is evidently here the
name al-mutakallim, “He who speaks.” If, in Islamic tradition, the Verb
becomes the Book, one sees that, in appearing to Ibn 'Arabi in the guise of the
fatà, it appears in the shape of a man.45
It is thus in his very form, “in the detail of his
constitution,” that the fata orders Ibn 'Arabi to decipher the knowledge
that he has to pass on to him. The fatâ certainly is a book, but a mutus
liber: mutakallim sâmit. It is his person that must be read: “What
you see in me, incorporate it in your work and teach it to those whom you
love.”40 At that moment the Futûhât Makkiyya were bom. “A
light deep within him,” says Ibn 'Arabi, “brought to my eyes the hidden
knowledge that he contains and envelops in his being. And the first line that I
read, the first secret of this line that I understood is that which I am going
to transcribe at present in this second chapter.” The second chapter is, quite
logically, that which Ibn 'Arabi will devote to the “science of letters” (film
al-hurûf), that which teaches the fundamental principles of the deciphering
of revelation, that which gives the keys to the “treasures of the Qur’an..”17
The divinely inspired hermeneutic which, in perpetual renewal,
allows the discovery of unprecedented meanings in each recitation holds in the
strictest sense to the ''body” of words, as we have said. Ibn 'Arabi defines
the rules on numerous occasions.
As far as tKeWord of God is concerned, when it is revealed in the
language of a certain people, and when those who speak this language differ as
to what God meant by a certain word or group of words due to the variety of
possible meanings of the words, each of them—however differing their
interpreta' lions may be—effectively comprises what God meant, provided that
the interpretation does not deviate from the accepted meanings of the language
in question. God knows all these meanings, and there is none that is not the
expression of what he meant to say to this specific person. But if the
individual in question deviates from accepted meanings in the language, then
neither understanding nor knowledge has been received... As for him to whom
understanding qf all the faces of the divine Word has been given, he has
received wisdom and decisive judgement [Qur’ân 38:20], that is, the faculty
of distinguishing among all these faces,48
in other words,
that of determining, according to the circumstances, which of the possible
meanings is pertinent.
Given the extremely rich polysemy of Arabic vocabulary, rigorous
fidelity to the letter of Revelation does not exclude but, on the contrary, it
implies a multiplicity of interpretations. Ibn 'Arabi insists on this point on
a number of occasions, emphasizing that there is a general rule applicable to
all the revealed Books: “Any meaning of whatever verse of the Word of God—be it
the Qur’an, the Torah, the Psalms or the “Pages”49—judged acceptable
by one who knows the language in which this Word is expressed represents what
God wanted to say to those who interpret it so/’50 As a corollary,
none of these meanings is to be rejected, regardless how surprising or even how
scandalous it might appear, for God, in uttering this verse, had to be aware of
the diversity of possible intrep.retations for each word or group of words. To
deny the validity of this rule is to limit divine knowledge.51
However, it must not be forgotten that these ii^^uctions are in no
way to be understood as an invitation to engage in erudite philological
exercises during recitation: "The commentators report that the Qur’ân in
its entirety descended as far as the heavens of this world, all at once, and
that from there it descended in a shower of stars upon Muhammad’s heart. That
voyage will never cease as long as the Qur’an is recited, in secret or aloud.
From the servant's point of view, the lasting laylat al-qadr [the night
of Revelation]52 is his own soul when it is purified.”63
This is the purification by which the being becomes ummi.
The word ummi, usually translated as “illiterate,” appears a
number of times in the Qur’ân, in the singular, to refer to the Prophet himself
(7:157-58) and, in the plural, to refer to the members of the community toward
which it has been sent (62:2). We will not attempt an exegesis of these verses
here, for that would lead us too far astray. Let us however keep in mind, by
way of clarification, that ummi comes from the root 'mm, from
which the word umm (mother) is derived, which leads the author of the Lisân
al-(arab to define ummi as “he who is as when his mother
gave birth to him.”5’
The eminent theologian Fakhr al-dîn Râzî (d. 1209) one day came
upon a saint (wall, pl. awliya) no less illustrious than himself—it
was Najm al-dîn Kubrâ—and asked to enter on the Path under his direction. The
saint had one of his disciples set Râzî up in a cell and ordered him to devote
himself to the invocation. But he did not stop there: we are told that,
projecting his spiritual energy (tawajjuh) upon Râzî, he stripped him of
all the book knowledge he had acquired. Now when Râzî became aware that all the
knowledge of which he had been so proud was being suddenly erased from his
memory, be began shouting with all his force: “I can not, I can not.” The
experience stopped there. Râzî left his cell and took his leave of Najm al-dîn
Kubrâ.66
This anecdotal detour gives a more precise view of the state of ummiyya,
“spiritual illiteracy.” In hagiography, when one speaks of a saint as ummi,
it is always an uncultured saint or one who is literally illiterate. We have
already mentioned one remarkable case, that of cAbd al-cAzîz
al-Dabbâgh. But the examples are numerous. The great Berber saint Abu Ya'zâ,
still quite revered today, learned mo more of the Qur’ân than the Fâtiha
and the last three suras, which are among the shortest. He needed an
interpreter to converse with h^hrabic speaking visitors, and yet that did not
keep
him from
miraculously detecting the errors in recitation of the Qur’ân committed by the
imam who led prayer. Abû Ja‘far al- Uryabi, the dearly loved first of Ibn
‘Arabi’s teachers, was an Andalusian fanner who knew neither how to read nor
how to count; and we might also remember in this regard the well-known saint
Abû Yazid al-Bistâmî, who claims that he had to initiate his initiator, Abû
‘Alî al-Sindi, in the elementary rules of ritual practices; or the further cáse
of Abû l-‘Abbas al-Qassâb, one of the great spiritual masters of Transoxiania.
In the entourage of Muhammad al- Hanafi, the prestigious figure of Cairan
sufism at the end of the fourteenth century, one meets another ummî
saint, Shams al-din Muhammad, also called al-Bâbâ, about whom we are told that
he became qutb al-zamân (the Pole of his epoch) moments before his death
in 1565. Among the teachers of Shafrânî are two ummî saints about whom
he spoke at length in two of his works: Ibrâhim al- Matbûlî (whom he did not
know personally) and ‘Alî al-Khawwâs, always mentioned with affectionate
veneration. These individuals—the first was a vendor of chick peas, the second
an oil merchant—are seen in the numerous pages that Sha'rânî devotes to them
validating or invalidating the prophetic traditions of disputed authenticity,
solving subtle problems in unaffected language, and interpreting obscure verses
that perplex the exegetes. They know divine decrees and predict the date they
will come to pass. A learned and prolific author, Sha'rânî continually appeals
to the authority of these to dissect the questions that trouble him.
But for Ibn ‘Arabi, who dedicates a chapter of îheFutûhât to
the concept of ummiyya, one can be ummî without being illiterate
from the moment that the intellect is capable of suspending its operations
(“For us, ummiyya consists in renouncing the use of rational speculation
and judgement in order to give rise to meanings and secrets”66). As
did the Prophet, the virginal receptacle of Revelation, a being should open
himself entirely to the lights of grace. This does not imply that all intellectual
activity should be forbidden as contradictory to this disposition toward
welcoming supernatural illumination: ‘Abd al-Karîm al-Jîlî, among many other
disciples of the Shaykh al- Akbar, insists, rather, on the importance of books
as supports for the baraka and as instruments of spiritual perfection,57
and Nâbulusî, in an unpublished treatise, defends the same point of view.68
But there is a time for everything and God does not speak but in
the creature’s silence. To hear Him, man must thus return to the “state of
infancy”—an expression that might after all be the most exact translation of ummiyya.
This state of infancy is what the Qur’an describes in the following terms: “God
had you come out of the womb of your mothers and you knew nothing” (16:78).
Among the possible meanings of a word, of a verse, there is no choice at the
end of a mental process: the "true” meaning—that which is true at that
very moment for that very being—is that which wells up, in the nakedness of the
spirit, from the very letter of divine speech. It is to this letter and to it
alone that he whose heart is ready to welcome that “shower of stars,” which
will cease only on the day that the Qur’ân is no longer recited “in secret or
aloud,” will listen.
"In The Book We Have Left Out
Nothing"
(QUR’ÂN
6:38)
In a poem from
his Dîwân, though taken from the eAnqâ mughrib,1 a
work from his youth, Ibn 'Arabi writes: “In awe, I saw an ocean without a shore
and a shore without an ocean!”
Although in the context in which they are found these two images
lend themselves to another interpretation, it is not incorrect to apply them
here to the Qur’ân itself, which the Shaykh ah Akbar, in other passages of his
work, expressly describes as an “ocean without shore.”2 If the
letter of divine speech can be no more than a "shore without an ocean” for
those who do not see perpetual revelation in it, it is unlimited and
inexhaustible for “divers with powerful breath.” But it is important to
understand that the Qur’ân is both the one and the other at the same time:
the "shore”—the obvious meaning, and the limits that it sets for faith
and for works—is never annulled; the Law remains indefeasible in this world,
and it is even in it and through it, as we shall see below, that supreme perfection
is achieved in man. It is for this reason that Ibn 'Arabi prefers, in
conformity with the practice of earlier sufis such as Sahl al-Tustari and
Qushayrî, to speak of ishârât (allusions) to refer to his own
interpretations of Qur’ânic verses, rather than of tafsir, a word that
he reserves for “commentary," properly speaking.3 The examples
of these ishârât that we will give, and certain ones that have been the
reason for the majority of the attacks referred to above, are thus in no way,
let us reiterate, exclusive of tire acceptance of meanings founded on
prophetic traditions or the consensus of the Companions.
The debate regarding the correct category in which to place the khinzîr
al-mâ, from the anecdote reported at the beginning of the preceding
chapter, directed attention to the importance of “naming” (tasmiya).
This importance is of course all the greater when it becomes a question of the
way in which God refers to himself in the Q^jin (more specifically, here, the
nouns and pronouns
that appear in
the first sura of the Qur’ân the Fâtiha): sometimes one divine name,
sometimes another; sometimes the plural we, sometimes the singular I,
and sometimes the he that is the pronoun for the “absent person.” In a
work which remained unpublished for a long time, the Kitâb al-Abâdila,
Ibn ‘Arabi writes notably:
All reality in the world is a sign that directs us toward a divine
reality that is the starting point of its existence and the place of return
when it comes to term. When God mentions the world in the Qur’an, pay attention
to the divine name that he employs. In this way will you know to which world he
is referring. When God speaks of himself with the singular (I, me) and speaks
to you as plural, it means that the verse in question refers to him in his
Unicity and to you in your multiplicity...When he speaks of himself as plural,
saying for example Inna (certainly, we) or Nahnu (we), it means
that God is seen in relation to [the plurality of] his names. When he speaks to
you in the singular, it means that he is addressing you in. relation to one of
your constituent elements and not to your totality. Know thus to what part of
you the discourse is directed.
Similarly, in the Futùhât, he emphasizes the necessity of
distinguishing, when one is reciting the Qur’ân, among the different forms of
address that God uses in calling upon the faithful. The faithful are sometimes
referred to as “those who believe” and sometimes as “those who are endowed
with intelligence” or “those who understand,” “those who see,” and so forth. Now
these expressions are not synonymous. The human being is not referred to in the
same fashion; the speech is not destined for the same one of the person’s
constituents. The interior attitude of the reciter must not therefore remain
identical, but should rather take into account the choice that God has made of
calling upon one of his powers rather than some other.4
This concern for considering each of God’s words and silences,
which characterizes Ibn ‘Arabi’s interpretations, is certainly not sufficient
to convince his adversaries of his orthodoxy, nor is this our purpose here.
Nothing better illustrates the impossibility of satisfying the ïilamâ
al-zâhir by rigorous fidelity to the zâhir of Quhânic text than the
reading that Ibn 'Arabi does of the famous verse (42:11) Laysa ka-mithlihi
shay'un, which might be understood as meaning: “There is nothing which is
his similar.” Pages upon pages would be necessary to analyze in detail the
numerous texts where Ibn 'Arabi evokes this text. In brief, the problem that
this verse poses hinges around the particle ka, “as.” Is it superfluous,
destined only to reinforce the word mithl, “similar”? That is the
opinion of, among others, Qushayrî (d. 1072),5 to whom we owe the
first complete sufi tafsir that has come down to us and for whom this ka
is nothing more than a particle devoid of any meaning itself. It is also the
opinion of Fakhr al-dîn Râzî,6 for whom the ka is there li-l-
mubâlagha and thus has only an intensive value with no meaning of its own.
Without challenging this way of understanding the verse, which he considers on
numerous occasions in his work, since it is linguistically admissible, Ibn
'Arabi completes it by another one, which is its exact opposite. God does not
speak to say nothing: the particle ka can thus also preserve all the
force of its normal meaning. And the verse thus means; “There is nothing like
His similar”7—an interpretation that, for the fuqahá, is
supremely blasphemous.
Who is this mithl, God’s “similar”? It is man—but, of
course, the perfect Man (ql-insân al-kâmil) inasmuch as he is khalifat
Allah (God’s locum tenens) on earth (Qur’ân 2:30, 7:79, 35:39). Ibn
'Arabi, in this commentary, specifically refers to the human being’s
theomorphism, citing the hadith “Inna Lláha khalaqa Adama alâ sûratihi”
(Certainly, Allah created Adam in his form);8 and by using the
symbolism of the mirror,® itself validated by another hadith: man is a mirror
wherein appears the inverse reflection of truth, of Divine Reality. That which
is bâtin (hidden) in God is zâhir (apparent) in man. This
passage from the Futûhât concludes with a triple exclamation the force
of which is lost in translation: Fa-anta maqlübuhu! Fa-anta qalbuhu! wa huwa
qalbuka! (You are His reflection! You are His heart and He is your heart!).
The hadith just quoted about the creation of Adam, the way we
translated it, recalls immediately the verse in Genesis according to which “God
created man in His own image” (Gen. 1:27). It can nevertheless be interpreted
in another fashion due to the ambiguity of the affixed pronoun coming at the
end of the word surd. Nothing really permits a definitive decision as
to whether it refers to the
noun Allah
or the noun Adam. In accord with the aforementioned 1 hermeneutical
principle that forbids the exclusion of one linguistically valid meaning in
favor of another, Ibn 'Arabi sees both of these possibilities, either in
different passages of his work or in the course of a single writing as, for
example, in chapter 73 of the Fïitûhât. His response to Hakîm Turmidhi’s
"questionnaire” contains the following question:10 What does
His word khalaqa Adama alâ sûratihi mean? In a work composed in
609/1207, the Jawâb mustaqím, where he included in abbreviated form an
answer to Tir- midhî’s questions, Ibn 'Arabi took into consideration only the
interpretation according to which the pronoun refers to Adam,11
saying that in so doing he was relying on an “illúminaticn” (kashf)
while remaining cognizant of the fact that the wording of the hadith included
other “aspects” (wujûh). In chapter 73 of the Futûhât he sees the
two grammatically admissible solutions simultaneously. "If an Islamic
philosopher [faylasûf islâmî: the use of this second word in preference
to muslim suggests that the philosopher in question’s belonging to the
Muslim community has a purely statutory character, and that in Ibn 'Arabi’s
eyes this individual is not integrally really “submissive”] asked me this
question, I would reply that the pronoun refers to Adam...for every questioner
needs an answer that will satisfy him.”
From this point of view, Ibn ‘Arabi suggests, the hadith simply
means that Adam was instantly created in his definitive form,without passing
through the intermediate steps characterized by gestation and growth of human
beings. This explanation for the “philosopher” appears at the end of his
response to question 143. The beginning of the text gives another: the pronoun
in sûratihi refers to Allah. Adam was brought into existence
“according to the form of the name Allah” (aid sûrat al-ism Allah).
Now the name Allah synthetically contains all the divine names, and Adam,
similarly, contains all of them without exception. Since the universe is but
the effect of the unfolding of these names, Adam is consequently “the abridgment
of the macrocosm” (mukhtasar al-‘âlam al-kabîr). But Ibn ‘Arabi adds
that this meaning remains valid even if the pronoun’s antecedent is Adam.
In this case (and it is obvious that the response to the philosopher is an ad
hominem response that deliberately reduces the field of interpretation),
the hadith means that God created Adam in accordance with the form^faat he had
in Divine Knowledge: which, in fact, is perfectly congruent with the preceding
interpretation. It might be added, à propos of the use of the word sura
(form) by the Prophet, that this passage of the Futûhât further entails
important remarks about the legitimation by this hadith and by another
well-known prophetic tradition (“perfection is adoring God as if he were in
your sight”) of the use of the imaginative faculty (khayâl) in the act
of adoration.12
In the Qur’an, the divine command to Adam and Eve is not, strictly
speaking, that of not eating the forbidden fruit, but rather that of not
"approaching the tree” (Qur’an 2:35). Now the tree (sha- jara) is,
for Ibn ’Arabi—a meaning dictated by etymology, and more directly by the
meaning of the verb shajara, from the same root, in another verse
(4:65)—the tashdjur (act of dividing).13 It is this division,
this rupture of unity that Adam and Eve should eschew. The metaphysical
significance of their disobedience is thus inscribed in the very name of the
forbidden object and need not be sought elsewhere.
This interpretation is perfectly coherent with the continuation of
the Qur’ânic story as given in sura Ta Hd (20:121)—in a form that
exactly parallels that of Genesis: Fa-akalâ minhà fa-badat lahumâ sawdtuhumd
(They ate of it and then their nudity became apparent to them). Nudity
is the usual translation, but the term sawdtuhumd actually refers to the
pudenda, Adam and Eve’s sexual organs: in other words, sexual differentiation,
the most elementary manifestation, the most evident of the division, of
the rupture of unity. This is, for Ibn 'Arabi, the unity symbolized by
the spherical form that originally was that of the human being.14
The comparison with what Philo says in the Legum Allegoriae about the
corresponding biblical episode illustrates quite well the difference between
an interpretation that never deviates from the letter and an allegorical
transposition.15
In sura Al-kahf, the sura of the Cavern, the final verse
(18:110) can be translated: "He who awaits, the meeting with his Lord, let
him act piously, and in adoration of his Lord, let him associate no one with
Him.” We have translated the last word of the verse, ahad, by "no
one,” as is usually the case when it is preceded by a negation (under the
circumstances lâ: wa lâ yushrik bi Ibddati rabbihi ahadari). But Ahad
is also one of the divine names, referring to God in his being (Qui: huwa
Llahtl ahad, “Say: He, Allah, is one,'
from sura 112).
One can thus also understand this sentence literally—as Ibn ‘Arabi does in
several passages of his works, most notably in his Kitab al-ahadiyya,1B
the “Book of Unity”—as meaning “He who awaits the meeting with his Lord, let
him not associate Ahad [let him not associate the One] with adoration of
his Lord.” For Ibn ‘Arabi, the notion of rabb, ‘Lord,’ is correlative
with and inseparable from that of marbûb, “vassal.” It implies a duality
that totally excludes the name Ahad. According to Ibn ‘Arabi’s terms,
“Unity (al-ahadiyya) ignores and refuses you.” Now the One, as such, is
inaccessible. Man in the act of adoration (ibdcZa)—as long as he attaches this
act to himself—must address—and cannot address, whatever he might think—only
the divine Name that is “his” Lord. That is, he must address only that
particular “Face” (Wajh) of the Divine which is turned toward him and
from which he draws all that he is.
This is the commanding theme of Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine of the
knowledge of God, as it is expressed (as in numerous other texts) in a passage
from chapter 2 of the Fusús al-hikam,11 where we again find
the image of the mirror: “He to whom he shows himself sees nothing more than
his own form in the mirror of Divine Reality (al- haqq)-, he does not
see Divine Reality and cannot see It, even if he knows that it is in it that he
has perceived his own form...He [God] is thus your mirror wherein you
contemplate yourself; and you are his mirror wherein he contemplates his Names
and the manifestation of the powers belonging to each of them. And all that is
nothing more than him!”
God must be taken at His word. He sent down the Qur’an bi
lisânin ‘arabïyyïn mubîn, “in clear Arabic” (Qur’ân 26:195). In a verse
from the sura of the Light (24:39), the works of the unbelievers are compared
to a mirage (sarab) “which the thirsty man believes to be water up to
the moment that he arrives at it; then he finds it to be nothing and he finds
God by his side” (fa wajada Llâha indahu). It is followed by: “and God
takes account of him.” It is these last words that have drawn all the attention
of the commentators, Râzî, for example, and, for them, “he finds God near him”
is ultimately nothing more than a figure of style: when the unbeliever
discovers that his works were nothing more than an illusion, he will discover
at the same time the punishment that a vengeful God has prepared for him.
Ibn ‘Arabi reads the verse in a different way. God revealed himself
to Moses in the form of fire, in the burning bush, because Moses had gone out
in search of fire (Qur’an 20:10). All need is the need for God, and God shows
himself to the creature in the form of his need. The man who, fooled by a mirage,
has vainly run in the desert and arrives at the point where he despairs of
everything truly finds God, for “it is when you find nothing that you find God.
God can be found only in the absence of things [i.e., of second causes] upon
which we depend.”18 And God quenches all thirsts, satisfies all
hungers. Water is life: God will be life for the thirsty man.
In holding on to the meaning of a key word—refusing to believe,
contrary to the implicit assumption of a number of exegetes, that God expresses
himself in approximations—Ibn ‘Arabi scrip- turally justifies one essential
aspect of his teaching. There is a verse in sura Al-isrâ (The Night
Journey [17:23]) that says: Wa qadâ rdb- buka allá ta^budû ilia iyyâhu
(And your Lord has decreed that you worship only him). Here is what Ibn ‘Arabi
says about the subject: “Qadâ [decree] means “to ordain,” “to decide,”
and that is what explains the worship of false gods. The goal of the worship of
any worshipper is in fact nothing other than God. Nothing, if it is not God, is
worshipped for itself. The error of the polytheist [mushrik] is just
that of engaging in a form of adoration that it not prescribed by God.”19
In this regard, he cites the verse where the polytheists, literally, the
“associators” (al-mushrikûn), state: “We have worshipped them [the false
gods, the idols] only that they might bring us closer to God” (39:4). Thus, for
the Shaykh al-Akbar, the divine qadâ being by definition indefeasible,
any creature, whether it wants to or not, whether it knows or not, worships
only God (or, more precisely, a divine name, but all the names return to the
same Named), whatever the form of the immediate object of the adoration might
be. This same idea, on a different scriptural basis, is also strongly developed
in chapter 10 of the Fusils,20 where the point of departure
is a verse, to which we shall return, from sura Hûd (11:56). The key
expression here is that of sirât mustaqîm—the “right path.” Ibn ‘Arabi
says: “Men divide themselves into two categories: some walk on a path they
know, and whose destination they know; for them, this path is the straight Way.
The others walk on a path that they do not know and whose destination they do
not know. And this path is rigorously
identical to
that which, with full knowledge, the first category is travelling.” Commenting
on this same verse from sura Hûd in the Futûhât, he exclaims: Mâ
fi l- ‘âlam illà mustaqím! (There is nothing in this world which is not
right and straight!).21 There is little need to point out that all
that raised Ibn Taymiyya’s indignation; for him the qadâ—in accord with
the majority of previous exegeses, that of Fakhr al-dîn Râzî being just one22—is
a “commandment,” a “regulation,” and not a decree. This interpretation,
according to Ibn ‘Arabi’s criteria, is evidence of serious confusion between
the amr takwînî, the existentiating order, which cannot be not executed,
and the amr taklîfi, the normative order, which can be disobeyed.
In connection with the preceding, we give another example, also
related to one of the major perspectives of Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine. This one is
a commentary on Qur’ân 7:56, Wa rahmatî wasi'at kulla shay3in
(And My mercy embraces all things). The commentary is indirect, under the
circumstances, since the commentator in this case is none other than Iblis, the
devil. In the Futûhât Ibn ‘Arabi actually relates a dialogue between
Iblîs and a famous ninth-century sufi, Sahl b. ‘Abdallâh al-Tustarî (d.
28Í/896).23
The last thing
that Iblîs said to Sahl was this: God said “My Mercy embraces all things,”
which is an affirmation destined to all. Now, you must have noticed that I am
one of those things, without any doubt. The word all implies the universality
[of this pronouncement] and the word thing represents that which is most
indeterminate. His Mercy thus embraces me.” When Sahl replies: "I did not
think that your lack of knowledge would go that far,” the response of Iblis is:
“I did not think that you would say that! Do you not know, o Sahl, that
limitation [al-taqyid] is your attribute and not his?”
Ibn ‘Arabî
concludes the story with the following remark: “At that moment I realized that
Iblis possessed incontestable knowledge [literally, a science where no
knowledge lacked] and that, in this problem, it is he who was Sahl’s
teacher.”
The theme of the infinity of divine mercy is ubiquitous in Ibn
‘Arabi’s works. In regard to the idea of sîrât mustaqím used above, and
to cite once again chapter 10 of the Fusûs al-hikam, we offer the
following passage:
“There is no creature that moves [dûbba] but that he holds it by
the forelock. Certainly, my Lord is on the straight path” [Qur’an 11:56]. Thus,
everything that moves moves on the straight path. From this point of view,
then, none is among those who have incurred his anger, nor among those
who have gone astray [Qur’an 1:7]. Just as straying is accidental, divine
anger is also accidental, and all ends up at Mercy, which embraces every thing
and which precedes His Anger In effect, everything that is other than
God moves [is part of the genus dâbba], for everything is endowed with a
spirit [possesses life, which is movement].25 But no being on this
earth moves by itself : it moves by following him who is on the straight
path.23
And he pushes criminals [toward Gehenna, Qur’an 19:86]; that is, he pushes those who deserve that toward
which they are being pushed, by means of the wind from the west [rih al-
dabûr\ with which he makes them die unto themselves. l ie seizes them by
their forelocks and the wind—which is only their own passions—pushes them
toward Gehenna, toward the separation [al-bu'd, “distance”] that they
imagined. But when he has thus pushed them toward this place, they in fact
arrive at proximity. The [illusory] distance ceases, as does, for them, that
which is called “Gehenna” [musammâ jahannam, Gehenna retains its
name—ism—but that which was “named”—musammâ—by this name, namely an
abyss, a place of exile, has changed its nature].27
But Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine on the Rahma leads us to examine
more closely, among the numerous passages of his works where he makes his
position known, a text that, à propos of another Qur’ânic verse,
presents the interest of placing it in relation to his conception of the risâla
muhammadiyya, the mission of the Prophet Muhammad. Here we are dealing
with his response to the 155th and last of Tirmidhîs questions; its place, at
the end of chapter 73—which in itself concludes and crowns the initial, section
of the Futûhât, that which is dedicated to “buds of knowledge” (fasl
al-ma'ârif)—emphasizes its importance.28 The question itself is
about the pardon that is announcedijthe Prophet in the Qur’ân (48:2). For Ibn
‘Arabi, who
JÏHTiiulates
the same interpretation in a number of other places, Muhammad’s impeccability Çïsma)
precludes the belief that he is really the one for whom the announcement is
destined: “There is no sin to be forgiven.” One must thus conclude that,
although the Divine Word is addressed to him (huwa l-mukhâtab), it is
aimed at his community (al-maqsûd ummatuhu). But what is to be understood
by “his community”? It is here that the exegesis of a verse (Qur’an 34:28)
according to which Muhammad was sent by God toward men “in their totality” (kâffatan)
comes into play. The Qur’ânic commentators understand this “totality” as
geographically inclusive of the entire human race (“the whites and the blacks”),
from the moment of Muhammad’s coming. Now, nothing authorizes making relative
the breadth of a divine pronouncement that takes the form of an absolute
affirmation. Men “in their totality” are not only those who live at the time
of the Prophet or after his coming. “It is not necessary for men to see
him...Humanity is composed of all men, from the time of Adam to the
Resurrection Day... [God] did not say: We have sent you only toward this community
[that of the Muslims in the historical sense of the term]. Nor did He say: We
have sent you toward men only from today up to the time of the Resurrection.”
The pardon announced is thus universal, as is Muhammad’s mission; that is what
confirms the very terms of the Qur’ânic pronouncement: “We have forgiven you of
your sin, that which precedes and that which follows.” “That which precedes”
applies to all human beings who have lived in the period of occultation of the
“Muhammadan Reality” (of which previous prophets had been only substitutes
[nuiawdb] in this world); “that which follows” applies to all those who live
and will live from the moment that this Muhammadan Reality becomes manifest in
the person of Muhammad.23 The universality of the risála
muhammadiyya thus corresponds to that of the Divine Rahma, and it
is for this reason that the Prophet is spoken of in the Qur’ân (21:107) as a
“mercy for peoples.” Let us point out, without elaborating on the point, that
the function of Seal of Muhammadan sainthood—that which I.bn ‘Arabi claimed for
himself—necessarily presents, in virtue of its relation to that of the Seal of
Prophecy, a universal character that the Shaykh al- Akbar affirmed in declaring
himself “the inheritor of him to whom it was said: We have sent you only as a
mercy for the people.”30
Numerous texts outline more precisely the consequences that Ibn
‘Arabi draws, in rigorous fidelity to sacred text, from the universality of
Mercy, Consider, for example, this dialogue with Adam when the Shaykh al-Akbar,
during his spiritual ascension, meets him in the first heaven.31
“Happiness in the life to come,” Adam says, “is perpetual, in spite of the
difference in stations: for God has placed in each location [Heaven or Hell]
that by which its inhabitants will know felicity.” Elsewhere, turning toward a
Qur ’ânic term that has a remarkably ambivalent root (even though this
ambivalence cannot be not wanted by God, since it is the Divine Word), he says:32
“It has been called punishment (cadhâb) because it is
agreeable (yacdhubu) in certain states and for certain
beings, since the nature of their composition clamors for it.” Let it be
understood that these beings are of igneous nature and that a stay in hell is
for them a return to the original state of fire. For Ibn ‘Arabi, that hell is
not necessarily a place of pain is moreover demonstrated by the case of angels
who, according to Muslim tradition, live there as guardians, when God would
have no apparent reason for punishing them.
It must be emphasized that for these creatures, Mercy is a ma’âl,
a “finish line,” the final point of their evolution. The passages cited above
must be in no way interpreted.—as a number of polemists have done, in good
faith or otherwise—as denying the reality of punishment. Ibn ‘Arabi accepts
without reservation the explicit meaning of the verses that announce a stay in
Gehenna, temporary or eternal, depending on the case, for sinners and unbelievers.
But the fact that the stay is eternal does not necessarily mean that the pain
is. Pain could not be eternal without the result being an inconceivable
limitation in the “Mercy that embraces every thing.” “The state of hell,”
writes Ibn ‘Arabi, “will remain what it is, but Mercy will produce [for the
damned] a felicity [naim] without the form or the status of the infernal abode
being modified: for Mercy is all-powerful, and its authority indefeasible
forever.”33 However, that does not imply that there is no difference
between the chosen and the damned: wa baynahumâ ‘inda l-tajallî tabâyûn (between
these and those there is disparity at the time of theophany).34 The
kâfir (the infidel, the unbeliever), “will see God without knowing that
he sees Him.”
The term kâfir, which we have just translated in its usual
acceptation—that which Ibn ‘Arabi kept in the sentence quoted
above—, brings
us to consideration of a homogenous series of examples of Ibn ‘Arabi’s
paradoxical interpretations, all of which are nevertheless in accord with the
hermeneutical rules outlined at the beginning of this book. We have elsewhere
stated the tremendous importance, in Ibn ‘Arabi’s work, of the hagiological
doctrine with which these interpretations are linked: the prophetic function (nubuwwa)
being definitively “sealed” by Muhammad, what is left open to men is the way
that leads to sainthood (walâya) and, if the metaphysical teaching of
the Shaykh al-Akbar intends to describe— to the extent possible by human
language—the unique Reality and the secret of its epiphanies, the ultimate goal
of his initiatory teaching is that of instructing the aspirant (murid)
about the conditions and modalities of the voyage (sulûk) that ends in
sainthood.
There is no systematic expose of Ibn ‘Arabi’s hagiology. An
overview is possible only via a patient confrontation of the often allusive
indications present in the thousands of pages of his work. Nevertheless, in
the Futûhât there is a text that, when appropriately interpreted,
furnishes valuable guideposts, specifically, the long chapter 73 to which we
have often referred. The responses to Tir- midhi’s questions constitute the
second part. The first part, after an introduction that defines the ideas of risâla
(i.e., the status of the “Messengers” or the “Apostles”), nubuwwa
(prophethood), walâya (sainthood) and imán (faith), takes up two
sections itself. We have already extracted considerable data35 from
these pages in a previous book, but some complementary information must be
added here.
After the aforementioned introduction, Ibn ‘Arabi announces that he
is going to write about the tabaqât al-awliyâ (“classes” or “categories”
of saints). But, as will be seen, the word tabaqât covers categories
that are not of the same nature, and without distinguishing between them one
risks seeing redundancies and contradictions in this enumeration that fog
their coherence. The initial section is dedicated to categories that include a
fixed number of saints for each period of history. The first of these
categories is that of the Poles (aqid.b), which at any given moment has one,
and only one, titulary. Next come the two imams, the four awtâd, the
seven abdâl, and so on. In total, there are thirty-five tabaqât—of
which the widest, that of the “Adamics” (adamiyyûn), is represented by
three hundred awliyà—adding up to a constant number of 589 saints, each
of whom is replaced upon his death.
It is at the end of this section36 that Ibn ‘Arabi gives
a brief explanation of this unchangeable series of awliyâ. For
everything involving a precise number in this world there is a corresponding
group of saints containing an equal number of individuals. The numbers in
question are those that, depending on traditional data, structure the universe:
the four directions in space, the five canonical prayers, the seven
“climates,” the twelve signs of the zodiac, the twenty-four hours of the day,
the three hundred divine attributes, and so forth. The thirty-five tabaqât
thus essentially represent cosmic functions, the totality making up the
spiritual hierarchy, which, in permanence, assures the maintenance of the order
instituted by divine wisdom. The number thirty-five itself is undoubtedly not
fortuitous, being the product of seven and five. Seven, which is the number of
heavens and earths (cf., for example, Qur’an 65:1.2), symbolizes the sum of the
degrees of creation. The number five, on the other hand, has a specific role of
protection in Ibn ‘Arabi;37 the role of the number is recognized in
Islamic tradition as in other previous traditions, as, for example, in the
well- known case of “Fatma’s hand,” and in the use of the pentacle in theurgic
arts, in Bum.38
The second section is dedicated to the description of the 49 new tabaqât,
which, from one period to another, have a greater or lesser number of awliyâ.
The knowledge belonging to each, age is divided among these awliyâ, and
if need be it can be be drawn together in one being if, at a given, moment, he
is the only one present.
After having given, in the first section, a precise and. numbered
list of the functions with a permanent, universal character, what Ibn
‘Arabi attempts here is to outline what the types and degrees of
sainthood are (it is definitely not an exhaustive table5-). He does
so, sometimes using one of these criteria and soinetimes using the other,
without alerting his readers. The type—that is. etymologically speaking, the
“imprint”—is that which differentiates one particular modality of spiritual
realization from all the others. Tire characteristic signs are the predominance
of certain charismata, the emphasis on certain virtues, the exclusive practice
of one special invocation and, especially, the privileged relationship of the awliyâ
JOionging to this particular “family” with, one of the
Divine Names.
Here a distribution, that associates each type to a term borrowed from the
Qur’an or a hadith replaces the “genetic” classification that Ibn ‘Arabi uses
on other occasions, when he links • each form of walâya to a determined
prophetic model. In this manner a whole series of definitions is linked to the
long enumeration of verse 33:35: al-muslimûn, al-mu'minûn, al-qânitûn
(those who have submitted, those who believe, the devout”), and so on. The
interpretation of all these words entails the development of meanings far
beyond those usually associated with them. At the top of this list stand the malâmiyya
(or malâmatiyya, but Ibn ‘Arabi, who considers this form to be a
barbarism, nevertheless uses it on a number of occasions). They are, he says,
the princes of men of the Path and their imams. The head of the
universe, Muhammad, the Messenger of God, is one of their number. They are the
sages who put everything in its proper place. They affirm secondary causes
where they need to be affirmed, and deny them where they should be
denied...What this lower world requires, they grant to this lower world; what
the other world requires, they grant to the other world...Their eminence is
unknown [down here]. Only their Lord knows them.
Next comes the definition of five other tabaqât (fugará,
sûfiyya, 'ubbâd, zuhhâd, rijcd al-ma), which are followed by two categories,
the afrâd and the umanâ, which present a number of points in
common with the malâmiyya, to the extent that one might wonder how to
distinguish between them. The afrâd, the “solitary,” which another
chapter of the Futûhât purposely refers to as malâmiyya,^ are
described here as the “intimates” (muqarrabûn, an allusion to Qur’an
56:11). These are, among men, what the cherubim (al-karûbiyyün)41
are among celestial spirits: like them, they are forever lost (inuhayyamûri)
in the contemplation of God’s majesty and have withdrawn in his presence. They
know only him. The Prophet Muhammad, before the revelation of his mission, was
one of them. Their station is that of "free prophethood” (nubuwwa
mutlaqa), which stands between the station of “confirmation of the truth” (siddiqiyya)
and that of "legislating prophethood” (nubuwwa shardyya). As for
the umanâ, the plural of amîn (a name used for the Prophet), men
who are "dependable,” “trustworthy”: these are “a group from within the malâmiyya,”
“the greatest of the malâ- matiyya [sic] and their elite. Nothing is
known of their spiritual states, for they behave with creatures according to
the normal demands of faith...It is at the Day of Resurrection that their eminent
degree will appear to creatures, while here below they were unimown among men.”
According to Ibn ‘Arabi’s explanation in chapter 309 of the Futûhât,
a chapter reserved entirely for them, the malâmiyya (sing, malâmî),
the “men of blame,” get their name from the second verse of sura 75, which
mentions “the soul that blames itself” (aZ- nafs al-lawwâma).i2
This name applies to them because they do not stop blaming themselves for their
imperfections and because they judge none of their actions sufficiently free of
impurity to be pleasing to God but especially because they hide their
spiritual perfection by mingling with the mass of believers and thus exposing
themselves, like the common people, to the blame of the fuqahâ and the
sufis. But there are degrees within this horizontal type of walâya, as
there are within all the others. For example, just as Ibn ‘Arabi explicitly
distinguishes a vertical scale of tabaqât at the very heart of the
category of mutassaddiqün (those who give alms), there are, among the malâmiyya,
levels of perfection: the umanâ represent a superior degree of the malâmî
type, and the afrâd— themselves divided into two levels—constitute the
highest degree. They thus eminently possess all the characteristics of the malâmiyya
and of the umanâ, which explains why they also can be simply called by
the latters’ names. On the other hand, certain of these afrâd can see
themselves invested with a function and thus be mentioned under the title
corresponding to this function (qutb, watad, badal, etc.). Such a title
in no way changes their belonging to the "genus” malâmî.
The texts we have cited nevertheless suggest that the type malâmî
is not a type like the others and that it would not be enough to see in the afrâd
the highest degree of a particular modality of sainthood. There are two quite
significant indications in this regard. The afrâd are, as has been seen,
the muqarrabûn, the “intimates”; and their station is that of the nubuwwa
mutlaqa (which Ibn ‘Arabi at times also calls nubuwwa âmma, “general
prophethood”): nonlegislating prophethood, as distinguished from that
which belongs
strictly speaking to the anbiyâ and which is “sealed” by Muhammad but
located at a level immediately below the latter. This nubuwwa mutlaqa, a
privilege of the afrâd and, consequently, reserved for saints of the
type malâmî, represents the unsurpassable summit of all walâya.
Those who reach it are to the other awliyd "what the Messengers
[rusw’] are to the prophets.”43
Tliis “station” is the very same one that another term in Ibn
'Arabi's vocabulary designates, that of maqâm al-qurba, “station of
proximity”;44 this is why the afrâd are also called “al-muqarrabûn”.
The repeated association, under the pen of the Shaykh al-Akbar, of
“solitary” with the idea of “proximity” is itself also extremely revealing,
since this idea is that which properly defines—in accord with the original
sense of the root wly—the essence of walâya. Now, in numerous
cases Ibn 'Arabi refers to these malàmiyya, who thus represent the most
perfect form of sainthood, as the kâfirün, and he quite systematically
ascribes to them the attributes that, in the Qur’ân, are those of the
“unbelievers.” Such is particularly the case in chapter 5 of the Futûhât,^
but also in chapter 73,46 and in the Kitâb al-taja.UiyâtA' “They
are deaf, dumb, blind, and intellectually deprived. They are deaf, dumb, blind,
and irrevocably lost,” he writes in this last work. Reusing terms that,
especially in sura Al-baqara (2:5-7; 170-71), describe these
“unbelievers” and taking into consideration the original meaning of the root kfr
(“to hide”), he writes “They are the ones who hide what has appeared to them in
contemplation of the secrets of union.” He then comments on the verses
according to which “whether you warn them or not, they will not believe! God
has put a seal upon their hearts and upon their ears, and there is a veil over
their eyes.” “God,” he says, has “sealed their hearts” so that there will no be
room in them but for him, he has rendered them “deaf” so that they will not
hear in any word but his word, and it is his light that has “blinded” their
eyes.43 The kafir, etymologically, is also the "sower,”
thus the interpretation that completes the preceding one: “The kâfirûn
are those who, as the malàmiyya, hide their spiritual station. They are
the sowers who hide their seed in the earth.”49
The stunning transmutation—blasphemous in the eyes of Ibn 'Arabi’s
adversaries, it must be said—by which the kafir becomes the saint par
excellence does have its doctrinal foundation, and the Shaykh al-Akbar explains
himself on several occasions. First of all, he reminds his reader that God
describes Himself,the Qur’ân and the hadith, using attributes that belong to
the imperfect creatures that we are: he “becomes proud,” he “forgets,” he “is
wily,” lie “deceives.” This well. demonstrates that apparently negative qualifications
can also have a positive sense and that there is thus nothing surprising about
God “hiding his saints under the traits of His enemies.” It is even from this
positivity that every name, every thing, be it noble or ignoble, draws its
reality, its raison d’etre, for there is no shadow without light:
nothing of that which is is without a base in divinis, of a mustanad
ilâhîl® Now, “in the Qur’an or in any thing, men of intimacy, of beauty,
and of Mercy see only perfection and beauty”51 for it is toward
this mustanad ilàhî that their gaze is turned. When they read in the
Qur’an the description of those who have incurred the wrath of God, they take
the words in the sense that is in accord with their path, and they retain only
the most beautiful meaning. They are thus filled with joy by the same thing
that, for others, is the announcement of punishment (fadhâb), for this
is sweetness Cudhuba.) for them. They are deprived of intelligence (là
yacqilûn) for the intellect (fctqZ) is, according to etymology,
a “bond” from which they are free.52
In his response to Tirmidhî’s question 154, Ibn 'Arabi, completing
the enumeration of the types of walàya appearing at the beginning of
chapter 73 of the Futûhât, thus distinguishes several categories whose
names patently refer to the “enemies of God.” The hâsidùn, the
“envious,” are those who envy divine characteristics (al-akhlâq al-ilâhiyya)
and attempt to acquire them. The sâhirûn, the “magicians,” are those who
have received from God the “science of letters,” which is entirely contained
within the initial words of the first sura of the Qur’an, the has mala,
which is for them that which the kun! (the original flat!) is for
God.53 The zâlimûn, the “unjust,” are those beings who have
chosen to fight against the nafs (the ego) and, in order to conquer it,
refuse it the satisfaction of its legitimate rights by subjecting themselves to
the most rigorous of practices. This is consistent with Qur’an 35:32, where God
mentions, among those whom he calls “our servants,” “those who are unjust
toward themselves.”
Likewise, “those who are forgetful of their prayers” (Qur’àn 107:5)
are the saints whose ritual prayers are no longer their own, although they perform
them on the outside, because God is ‘their hearing, their^ádit, their speech,”
and in truth it is he who is pray-
ing: their acts no longer belong to them. Those who “refuse [the
creatures] their help” (Qur'an 107:7)—and thus appear to be lacking in that
charity that is inseparable from any sanctity—act in such a manner only to
distract men’s gaze from considering secondary causes and thus turn it toward
God, for it is he alone who comes to assist. Those who are “astray” (al-dâllûri)
are those who wander' (al-taïhûri), caught by dizziness (al-haïrûn)
in Divine Majesty: every time they would like to stop to find rest, God bestows
upon them a new science about himself that annihilates them. “Those who lead
astray” (al-mudillûri) are those who teach their followers the
impossibility of exhausting the knowledge of God and lead them toward the
perpetual bewilderment of the dal- lim. “Liars” (al-kâdhibûri)
attribute to themselves acts prescribed by Sacred Law but know that God is the
sole agent: they “lie” to be in accord with the common usage of the believers
(whom a truthful language would scandalize and drag into disobedience) and thus
hide their spiritual degree.
The Quranic term al-fujjâr, the “debauched,” is interpreted
by returning to the first meaning of the root fjr, as it appears in
verse 76:6. The tafjîr is the act by which spring water is allowed to
flow freely. The true fujjâr are, for Ibn "Arabi, those beings who
have accessed the springs of knowledge that God has forbidden to most men
because of their natural dispositions. For, if these springs flowed freely, men
would be almost all be led (through the effect of an impure look) to profess
libertinism (ibâha), incamationism (hulûl) or other errors that
would bring about their loss. The fujjâr, on the other hand, have
captured the true meaning of this knowledge. “They have opened a passage to
the water of the source, they have drunk of their waters, and they have thus
obtained a supplement to guidance and enlightenment.”
That this is the setting up of a hermeneutical principle with quite
general application rather than a chance series of paradoxes is vigorously
expressed at the beginning of the paragraph54 where Ibn "Arabi
states: “Proceed in a similar manner [to that which precedes] and likewise
transpose any characteristic that is worthy of blame in its indeterminate form
and that, via an adequate determination, becomes worthy of praise.” He
promptly demonstrates with an extreme example: “The gravest of blameworthy
characteristics is the fact of associating something with God (al-shirk).
But there are ‘associators’ [or ‘polytheists’, mushrikûn] among the
saints.” The exceptional seriousness of shirk is evidenced by verses
4:48, 115: of all sins, it is the only one that God cannot pardon. But God also
said (Qur’an 17:110): “Invoke Allah or invoke Al-Rahtnân [the
All-Merciful], Regardless of the name with which you invoke him, to him belong
the most beautiful Names.” Tire “associator” saints are those who, taking God’s
own example, associate with God all the names with which he has described
himself for, although different in a certain sense, they all refer to a single
Named One, returning to a single Essence. If you do that, Ibn ‘Arabi adds, “it
is you who are the true associator!” {anta huwa l-mushrik calà
l-haqîqa). Eor, in order for there to be true association, those things
that one associates must be associated in everything, and thus they must have
one essence in common. The mushrik in the ordinary sense of the word,
the polytheist, attributes different essences'to those things that he
associates. He is thus not truly a mushrik, and it is because his shirk
is a “pretention without foundation” (da'wâ kâd- hiba) that he will be
punished.
These examples, which are given because they offer a particularly
meaningful illustration of an uncommon kind of exegesis, are far from
exhausting the meanings of the words or verses to which they refer. The Qur’an,
for Ibn ‘Arabi, is a treasure whose abundance is truly infinite; and the ishârât,
the “allusions” to divine secrets which can be perceived by those who listen to
it in a state of perfect ummiyya, are countless. Ib some degree, certain
ones of them are communicable, and, among them, there are those that must
imperatively be communicated, since they open the path to understanding the-,
Qur’an for those who possess the necessary qualifications: the táfjür,
the piercing that opens a passage for the waters of a spring, is among the
attributes of sainthood, as has been seen. However, many other secrets transcend
the limits of language, and it is up to the individual to experience their
flavor through a personal experience that will never be exactly replicated by
the same person and never be identical for different individuals. The coming
chapters will allow us to sense the extent to which the Shaykh al-Akbar’s
teaching is a perpetual discovery of the meanings of what, for him, is
perpetual revelation. We say to sense only, for with the author of the Fusils
as with Tinnidhi,55 what characterizes revelation {al-wahy)
is its immediacy: no echo exempts one
from hearing the original sound that it reverberates, no gloss,
even ! if inspired, manages to capture in its nakedness the word of
divine language upon which it comments.
One more aspect of Ibn ‘Arabi’s heimeneutics must be mentioned,
for it has important practical consequences: the principles that determine, for
Ibn ‘Arabi, the interpretation of the Qur’ân in its function of establishing
the legal rules to which the believer’s behavior must be submissive. This
problem, which one might think strange for an author often classified in a
restrictive manner among the ahi ah balín, actually occupies a
considerable place in his work. The entire translation, exluding notes and
comments, of the texts concerning subjects considered answerable to the fiqh
would undoubtedly fill two large volumes. It is true that most of these texts
concern îbâdât, duties toward God06 and especially,
therefore, prescribed rites. At the end of this book we shall see the main
function of these rites on the Path as it leads to sainthood (walctya).
It will be seen at the same time that the conception of 'ibó.dát in Ibn
‘Arabi ends up embracing all aspects of the Law. But there are also numerous
passages that deal with the rules applicable to human relationships (i.e.,
what the treatises of the fiqh classify among the mufimalât). The
same is true for the rules applicable to conditions of legitimacy of political
power.57 A few recent works58 have underscored the
interest in this little-explored side of the Shaykh al-Akbar’s writings, even
though it did previously attract Goldziher’s attention.50 Later in
this work we will address the place that ibâdât occupy in Ibn ‘Arabis
doctrine; at present we will limit ourselves to noting the characteristic
traits of his teaching on the matter of fiqh.60
The most evident is his refusal to admit what is called “closing
the door of ijtihàd” (the attempt to interpret the shari'a [the
Law]), that is, to consider, as it became customary to do, the end of the third
century (A.H.) as a stopping point, as the time when the framework for all
juridical reflection was definitely laid out.61 Consequently, it is
also condemnation of the servile attachment of the fuqahâ to the
interpretations of the founders of their schools of jurisprudence (inadhâhib'),
for they go so far as to prefer the opinions of their imams to the Qur’an
itself. “And the first to disavow them on the Judgment Day will be their imam
himself!”02
A brief parenthetical statement must be made here on the subject of
the relations of Ibn ‘Arabi with the (to^y no longer
’r-
!
extant) Maclhhab Zâhirî
school founded by Dâwûd b. Khalaf (d. 270/884). Arab authors, and subsequently
Goldziher, have habitu- H ally connected the author of the Futûhât with
this school. The influ- ►. . ence
of the Zâhirî school on Ibn Arabi’s thought in matters of law is
• of course
undeniable. It is not by chance that the author of the
k ■ Fusûs and
of the Futûhât is also the author of an unfinished abridg-
[} ment of the great
Zâhirî Ibn Hazm’s Fitâb al-muhallâ-63 And it is of
tsignificance that a few years ago the Beirut edition of a treatise
by j-' Ibn Hazm, Ibtâl al-qiyâs,
was based on a manuscript copied by
P Dhahabî on the
edition of this work that Ibn ‘Arabi had himself
pi transcribed.64
But in the eyes of the attentive reader, Ibn ‘Arabi is
p not more Zâhirî
than he is Maliki or Hanbalî: he is a prefectly
‘ autonomous mujtahid—or,
perhaps, the founder of a madhhab
' ^akbari, of an “Akbar Jan
school of jurisprudence," which is, as shall jp. be seen, the most irenic,
the most conciliatory of all those that ; ■■ Islam has known. In a number of
cases his preferred solution has p not
been the Zâhirî solution,66 especially concerning the major issue
' of reasoning by
analogy (qiyds); he has additionally made some
quite
unambiguous statements. In one of his poems he says:
■ I am not
one of those who says: “Ibn Hazm said,”
Or “Ahmad [Ibn Hanbal] said” or “Al-Nu‘mân
P [Abû
Hanîfa].”66
■; In another poem
he is even more specific:
They have made me a disciple of Ibn Hazm. But I am not one of those
who says: “Ibn Hazm said”
No! And neither am I one of those who invoke the authority of
someone other than him.67
Two rules guide Ibn ‘Arabi’s reflections on the problems of fiqh.
The first, he states thus:
Every thing about which the sharVa
keeps silence has no legal status other than original licitness [al-ibâha
al- asliyya],es
which is in accord with the Qur’ânic precept: “Do not ask us about
those things if they were shown to you, would bring you wrong” (5:101) and the
hadith in which the Prophet states, “Do not ask me questions as long as I leave
you alone!”69
In other words, what the Law is silent about is no more fortuitous
than what it pronounces. If each word of the sharî'a has a meaning, the
absence of a word has one, too; and man, if he is not to transgress the word of
God, is not to fill in God’s silence. The “holes” in the Law are part of its
plenitude. The "original licitness of things” is not less the expression
of Divine Will than their eventually illicit character under certain definite
conditions.
The second rule further explains the first, and is equally scrip-
turally based. He writes:
Out of divergence in legal questions God has made both a Mercy for
his servants and a widening of
what he has
prescribed for them to do to show their adoration. But the fuqahâ
of our times have restricted and forbidden, for those who follow them, what the
Sacred Law had widened for them. They say to one who belongs to their school, if
he is Hanafite, for example: “Do not go looking in Shafi 7 for a rukhsa
[a lightening, a dispensation] in this problem that you have.” And so on for
each of them. That is one of the gravest calamities and one of the heaviest
constraints in the matter of religion. Now God said that “He has imposed
nothing difficult on you in matters of religion” [Qur’an 22:78], The law has
affirmed the validity of the status of him who makes a personal effort to
interpret for himself or for those who follow him. But the fuqahâ of our
time have forbidden this effort, maintaining that it leads to making light of
religion. Such is their role in the fulfillment of ignorance!70
A tutiorist scruple, a demanding spiritual discipline, can most
often lead the sctlik (viator) to reserve for himself the the most rigorous
of solutions (ai-hzû’im). But he must not refuse others the benefit of more
accommodating solutions when, in good faith, a qualified mujtahid finds
support for it in the Qur’an, the sunna of the Prophet, or the consensus of the
Companions. The consequence of this attitude is that Ibn ‘Arabi, when he
examines a legal question, mentions all the responses that have been offered
by the dif- ferent schools of jurisprudence; and, if he mentions the one that
has his preference, he validates them all without exception.
We will offer but one example, although it concerns a fundamental
problem in the domain of the source of law. It is the problem of qiyâs,
reasoning by analogy. Is its use legally permissible? Countless controversies
take place over this issue and the Zâhirîs, among others, reject the use of qiyâs.
Now Ibn 'Arabi, who prefers to not rely on it for himself, refuses to forbid
its use by others. But, with the same logic, he opines that "the partisans
of qiyâs.. .must not forbid the Zâhirîs from forbidding it.”71
In summary, then, we have a fundamental principle: the Law is not
the cloak or the symbol of haqîqa, of a hidden truth that might be
reached by transgression. It is the haqîqa:12 it thus imposes
itself absolutely and up to the last iota on the cârif bi-Llâh (gnostic)—in
the etymological sense of the word—as well as on the âmma, the common
believers. We also have two rules of application, one of which concerns the
“silences” of the Law and the other, its ambiguities. These two rules are
dictated neither by considerations of social unity nor by historical
convenience. They have their foundation in the Law itself. The God who dictates
the Law—and he dictates whether he is speaking or being silent—is also the God
who said “My mercy comprehends all things” (Wa rahmatî wasi‘at kulla shayân
[Qur'an 7:156]). The fiqh, human elaboration of the sharîâ, must
consequently include and not exclude, open and not close. For the gnostic, this
comprehension, in the proper meaning of the term, is not opposed to
extreme rigor of observance: it is its fruit. Any attempt at reformation of the
community, if it is not inspired by this principle and if it is not in accord
with these rules, is thus simultaneously disobedience and failure.
"It Is To Him That You Will Be Led
Back"
(QUR’ÂN 36:83)
In the section of his Répertoire général of Ibn 'Arabi’s
works dedicated to the Fusûs al-hikam, Osman Yahia lists more than a
hundred commentaries on the Fusûs,1 and this list is far
from exhaustive. The heading “commentaries” in the section dedicated to the Futûhât
Makkiyya is, on the other hand, quite short,2 and examination
of the texts mentioned therein reveals that the attention of their authors is
limited to chapters or isolated passages of the work, rather than to the work
as a whole. Such is particularly the case with 'Abd al-Karîm al-Jîlî, whose Sharh
mushkilât al-Futûhât really only deals with the beginning of chapter 559,3
regardless of what its title implies. The Sharh-i Futûhât in Persian,
the second volume of which William Chittick recently discovered in the Andra
Pradesh Library and which is probably attributable to Muhibbul- lâh Ilâhâbâdî
(d. 105^1648), is itself no more than a partial and discontinuous commentary.
To judge by its title, the Mulkhis ûlûm al-Futûhât al-Makkiyya, by Hasan
b.. Tu’ma al-Baytimânî (d. 117^/1761—62), mentioned by Murâdî in his Silk
al-durar, is only a systematic summary, probably somewhat similar to
Sha'rânî’s Yawâqit. Emir 'Abd al-Qâdir al-Jazâ’irî, in his Kitâb
al-Mawâqif offers a detailed and meticulous interpretation of a few
passages from the Futûhât, but if, as is probable, he commented orally
on many others for his companions, there is no record of it in his writings.
Our bibliography certainly contains lacunae, and within and beyond the
frontiers of the Arab world—in Turkey, Iran, India, Malaysia, China, the
Balkans—several works, the existence of which is as yet not even suspected,
will undoubtedly enlarge it in the future. Let it nevertheless be said that
nothing up to the present suggests that one day we will have a'complete
commentary on the Futûhât.
The Fusûs al-hikam, a relatively short work that assembles
the great thep^h of the Shaykh al-Akbar’s metaphysics in dense
formulations, have been a favorite target of polemicists who, from
Ibn Taymiyya to the present day, have violently denounced Ibn 'Arabi and his
school. For similar reasons, it is on the Ftisûs that the direct or
indirect followers of Ibn 'Arabi have most often produced commentaries. Quite
naturally, it is also this work that has most interested Western specialists.
But only the Futûhât represent the definitive sum of Ibn 'Arabi’s
teaching seen in its myriad aspects; the countless references to this magnum
opus seen in the literature of sufism testify that it has continued to be read
and meditated upon: if its dimensions discourage the undertaking of a
commentary, it is nevertheless constantly utilized, particularly since its
reading is indispensable for a correct understanding of the Fusús. In
the introduction to this book we mentioned a few examples illustrative of the Futûhât’s
influence, as well as the considerable borrowings from the work, among Arab
authors. Persian authors, or those of Persian culture, also draw extensively on
this superabundant source. Jandî and Haydar Amoli, among others, frequently
quote the Futûhât.i Jâmî does likewise in many of his writings.
Moreover, we have a very interesting testimony to the meticulous attention he
pays in his attempt to capture the many subtleties of the work. In the Rashahât
!ayn al-hayât, a famous hagiographical collection about the
early masters of the Naqsh- bandiyya, the author actually describes an
encounter, in 874/1489, between Jâmî and 'ubaydallâh Ahrâr, who was his
spiritual master. Jâmî, he recounts, tells Ahrâr that he had encountered
problems in certain passages of the Futûhât that he could not manage to
solve and showed him one of the most difficult. Ahrâr asked him to close the
copy of the Futühât that he was holding and then gave him a certain
number of explanations. Afterward, Ahrâr said, “Now let us return to the book.”
The litigious passage, when it was reread, became perfectly clear to Jâmî.5
One century later, Ahmad Sirhindî, too often presented as an
adversary of Ibn. 'Arabi, likewise made, in his Maktûbât, frequent
references to the Futûhât.8 Such is also the well-known case
of his contemporary, Mullâ Sadrâ: even if, in certain of his writings, prudence
leads the latter to hide his normally easily identifiable borrowings, the
citations that he does use from the Futûhât are abundant and sometimes
quite long,7 And, to this quite arbitrary selection, one might add a
final example, this one quite recent: we refer to the Ayatollah Khomeini, whose
writings (especially those of his youth) attest to the fact that he was a
diligent and perceptive reader of Ibn 'Arabi and, in particular, of the Futûhât.8
This brief summary could easily be lengthened, and even then it
would certainly remain incomplete. Countless glosses, paraphrases, or
commentaries produced by readers of the Futûhât over the last eight
centuries remain for the moment, and perhaps forever, inaccessible. In any
case, examination of those works that are known to us brings out a common and
rather surprising trait in their authors: on first sight, none of them seems to
consider the Futûhât as a whole. We often find in them quite perceptive
remarks on such and such complex doctrinal theme, on the meaning of passages
with delicate interpretations. But the structure of this paramount book—the
number and the order of succession of its sections (fusûl), and of its
chapters (abwâb), the subtle and quite rigorous relationships between
different parts—never engenders the elucidations one would expect. It thus
seems as though the Futûhât have always been seen as a cornucopia from
which each drew symbols, technical terms, ideas or wordings, according to his
inclination and without glimpsing (or allowing us to glimpse) the coherence of
the whole and without seeking the secret of its architecture. Similarly,
numerous very enigmatic indications given by Ibn 'Arabi—for example, the
disconcerting lists of “spiritual sciences” corresponding to each manzil
(abode), or the precise number of degrees corresponding to each maqâm
(station)—remain unexplained. This silence of Muslim authors is, it must be
said, imitated by Western researchers, among whom, nevertheless, works relating
to Ibn 'Arabi are multiplying. Apparently, neither group can see the forest for
the trees.
The fact that one finds no answer to these questions among those
poets whose work carries a definite “Akbarian” stamp is not surprising: the
literary form they have chosen and the nature of their inspiration do not lend
themselves to this kind of analysis. Fakhr ai-dîn 'Irâqî, for example, even
though he possibly studied the Fusûs and the Futûhât with Qûnawî,
admirably crystallizes the “divine flashes” in his verse. But he is clearly not
given, to translating what he knows and what he feels into detailed discursive
explanations. Such is the case, likewise, with the numerous writers who, after
him, will lyrically express the splendor of Ibn 'Arabi’s message.
But, to limit ourselves to the first generations of followers, what
should be thought of the silence of Qûnawî himself? He was, after all, an
exceptionally gifted student of the Shaykh al-Akbar, who left him the autograph
manuscript of the final draft of the Futûhât. And what of the silence of
Jandî, who was a student of Qûnawî's? What about Qâshânî, and Qaysari? How is
is possible to not be surprised at finding only brief and pithy overviews under
the pen of 'Abd al-Karîm al-Jili, who presents himself as the explainer of the Futühât’s
“obscurities”? Nevertheless, this last author describes the work with
admiration, as “the most majestic ever written in the field of this science...,
the most brilliant in the immensity of what it embraces.”9 We do mot
have the space to review all the authors who might be expected to provide information—or
at least to ask questions—suggesting a global approach to Ibn 'Arabi’s summa
mystica. But we do not feel that we err in repeating that they avoid the
problems that we are dealing with here. Even if a text presently unknown to us
were discovered tomorrow among the writings of Ibn 'Arabi’s school, one that
deals satisfactorily with these questions, it would remain no less necessary
to justify the silence on the issue in the major works composed by the eminent
representatives of Ibn 'Arabi’s spiritual lineage.
One question must thus be asked: if these individuals, about whose
perspicacity and veneration for Ibn 'Arabi there can be no doubt, offer no
explanation, could the reason not be that there is nothing to explain? If the
structure of the Futûhât engenders no remarks from them, is it not
because this structure is totally arbitrary and thus resists any attempt at
justification? Examination of the table of contents suggests, on first view, an
affirmative reply: it is difficult to distinguish any ordered progression, any
intelligible articulation of the themes that are there present. The same
subject is often treated in a number of different chapters, chapters which are
sometimes quite distant from one another and each of which appears to make no
reference to the others. Long sections are seen as made up of a total or
partial reworking of previous treatises and, thus, of more or less
heterogeneous materials.
Moreover, what Ibn 'Arabi himself says appears to authorize this
point of view: “Neither this hook nor my other works are composed in the
manner of ordinary books and I do not write them according to the usual method
of authors.”10 Furthe^ore, he says, “I have not written, a single
letter of this book except under the influence of divine dictation."11
This affirmation (repeated in. a number of different instances) of an inspired
characteristic of his writings makes one think that it would be vain to try to
discern a pre cise pattern. The Shaykh al-Akbar adds an additional argument, to
this hypothesis in a reflection regarding the presentation (actually quite
disconcerting for the reader) of data relative to the “legal statutes”
(ahfedm): chapter 88, which outlines the principles (usiiZ) from which these
statutes are derived, ought logically, he recognizes, to precede rather than
follow chapters 68 to 72, which deal with their consequences; but, he says, “it
was not my choice to keep this order.”12 And to illustrate this
point, he compares the non sequiturs that are so numerous in the Futûhât
to those that one sees in the suras of the Qur’ân, where verses follow others
whose proximity appears purely accidental. The sentences just cited (and there
are many others like them in the Futûhât ) might consequently encourage
one to conclude that a work whose composition obeys unforeseen inspirations is
necessarily devoid of internal coherence and that the enigmas that it contains
are indecipherable.
We can affirm that this conclusion is radically false. The analogy
that Ibn 'Arabi calls to mind (between the abrupt breaks in meaning in the text
of the Qur’an and those of his own book) paradoxically constitutes a first
indication in this regard, for, as he explains in another passage, the disorder
in the Holy Book is only an appearance: “There is [between consecutive verses
seemingly without relationship to one another] a relationship of affinity, but
it is extremely secret.”13 “If you join each verse with the one that
precedes and the one that follows, the force of the Divine Word will make you
see that this verse requires that which accompanies it, and does not attain its
perfection but through that which surrounds it. Such is the vision of the
perfect among spiritual men.”14 This profound unity in the Qur’an ,
which goes unnoticed in the eyes of the common believers, which the tafsir
authors themselves are powerless to make us discover, is nevertheless perceived
by the gnostic (firif bi-Llah). One can thus suspect that, for Ibn
'Arabi, it also exists—and that it is to some extent discoverable—in those Futûhât
where there is nothing “that does not proceed from an insufflation of the
divine Spirit”;16 and one might all the more suspect that it^pts
for him in that he affirms equally, as mentioned
before: “All that of which we speak in our sessions and in our writings
procedes from the Qurfon and from its treasures.”16
The Futûhât in reality are neither a disordered encyclopedia
of bookish knowledge, as some have suggested, nor a heteroclite collection of
sequences whose juxtaposition might be explained by surprises of inspiration.
We would like to demonstrate here how well founded this affirmation is and to
show by way of a few examples that it is equally valid for other of the Shaykh
al-Akbar’s writings.
In his critical edition of the Futûhât, Osman Yahia attempts
to find an explanation for the number of chapters contained in the six sections
(fusûl) of the Mtíútóí.17 His remarks on this subject lead
one to think that these different numbers were chosen by Ibn 'Arabi because
they had, in Islamic tradition, a symbolic value, but not one that is necessary
and intelligible to the nature of corresponding fusûl. O. Yahia shows,
for example, that the number of chapters of the fasl al-manâzil (the
section on “spiritual abodes”) is identical to that of the 114 suras of the
Quran. However, he draws no particular consequence from this observation. The
number 114 could have been chosen by Ibn ‘Arabi, to some extent, for simple
esthetic reasons. However, such is not the case, as shall be seen. Ibn 'Arabi,
in this case as in that of other enigmas, offers his reader all the keys that
are required: but these keys are deliberately dispersed and, most often,
placed in such a way that they are passed over without being noticed.
Let us take a close look at this fasl al-manâzil, the fourth
of the work and one of the most mysterious. It extends from chapter 270 to
chapter 383. From all appearances, it is related at least by its title to one
of the first chapters of the Futûhât, chapter 22, which is intitled “fi
mabifat ‘ilm manzil al-manâzil” (concerning knowledge of the abode of
abodes). But this chapter 22, which O. Yahia calls “bâb gharîb” (strange
chapter), presents a priori more problems than it solves. It contains a list
that groups together, under nineteen principal “spiritual abodes” (ummahât
al-manâzil) a series of secondary manâzil, which in turn contain a
series of others. The denominations of all these manâzil (denominations
that are seen to reappear here and there in the fasl al-manâzil) are
perplexing: manzil al-istikhbâr, manzil al-halâk, manzil al-du:â,
manzil al-rumuz, and so on. None of these designations corresponds to the
taxonomy in use in sufi literature to distinguish the stages of the spiritual
life.
Like many other terms in his vocabulary, the word manzil
(literally, “the place where one gets off”) is used by Ibn 'Arabi with quite
different meanings according to the context. It may refer simply to a “stop,”
like the one that the Shaykh al-Akbar makes in 597 A.H. between Marrakesh and
Salé, at the place called Igisil, where he is to be given access to the
“station of proximity.”18 It applies also to the degrees of
paradise, or to the twenty-eight degrees of the universal manifestation,
which, in chapter 198 of the Futûhât , are described in relation to the
twenty-eight letters of the alphabet and to twenty-eight divine nam.es,19
In the reply to Tirmidhî’s first question, the mention of the 248,000 manâzil
al-awliyá (abodes of the saints) corresponds to another use of the term: it
expresses (248,000 = 124,000 x 2) the double heritage of the Muhammadan saints.
It refers to the heritage which they receive from the 124,000 prophets, who,
according to tradition, span the course of history, and that which they receive
from the Prophet Muhammad himself.20 At the beginning of the fasl
al-manâzil, the manzil is defined as “the place in which God
descends toward you, or in which you descend upon him.”21 This
definition is evidently that which should be used here, but it requires a
precise technical interpretation which Ibn 'Arabi actually gives and which
devolves from the use in the Qur'an of the root nzl. in its nominal or
verbal forms, to describe the “descent” of Revelation. This is articulated
clearly in chapter 27 of the Futûhât, which is not the only indication
of its kind: al-suwar hiya l-manâzil, “the suras are the abodes,” an
affirmation that is repeated in the Tanazzulât mawsiliyya, among others.22
There is also an unpublished treatise, written by Ibn 'Arabi in 603 A.H., that
is, after he had been working on the Futûhât for four years, that is
called Kitâb manzil al-manáziP1, and furnishes us with
valuable complementary information. The “spiritual abodes” mentioned in chapter
22 are also enumerated with the same, or quite similar, terminology but are to
a certain extent topographically situated. For example, one sees, à propos
of the abodes listed under the heading manzil al-rumûz:24
“Between the manzil al- istiwâ min al-amâ [called manzil al-ityân min
al-:ama in chapter 22] and the manzil al-tamaththul there
is Waw manâzil"—the letter waw must obviously be understood
here as representing the number 6, its numerical value according to abjad.
“Between it and the manzil al-qulub there are Yâ hâ [15] manâzil.
Between it and
the manzil al-hijâb there are Yâ tâ [19] manázil.
Between it and the manzil al-istiwâ al-fahwânî there are .Ka/[20] manázil.”25
Cross-checking these different data allows one to identify the
"abodes”—that is, the suras—cryptically designated in chpater 22 and in
the series of chapters which make up the fourth section of the Futûhât.
The manzil al-istikhbâr (the abode of interrogation) is that which
unites the suras beginning with an interrogative formula, like sura 88 (Hal
atâka hadîth al-ghâshiya). The manzil al-hamd (abode of praise),
which is subdivided into five manázil, is made up of five suras (1,
6,18, 34, 35) that begin with Al~hamdu li-Llâh. The manzil al-rumùz
(abode of symbols) includes all the suras that begin with the hurûf
muqatta'a, the mysterious single letters also referred to as nûrâniyya
(luminous). The manzil al-du‘â (abode of calling) is the common name for
the suras beginning with the vocative Yâ ayyuhâ...The manzil al-amr
(abode of the commandment) comprises the suras that begin with a verb in
imperative mood, like qui (Say!), In the manzil al-aqsam (abode
of oaths) are found the suras beginning with an oath (“By the dawn” "By
the sun”) and in the manzil al-wald (abode of threat), those whose first
word is wayl, “Woe to.” We will not continue this enumeration, the
information that follows on the structure of the fasl al-manâzil being
sufficient for the reader of the Futûhât to observe for himself the
equivalencies between the names of the “abodes” and the suras. It will be important
to remember that the hierarchy of manázil (group of suras corresponding
to suras) does not stop there: each manzil— each sura—contains in turn
other manázil—the verses, each word of which is also an “abode.”
If the above observations allow us to foresee an exact correspondance
between the 114 chapters of the “section of abodes” and the 114 suras, the
order in which this takes place is not yet clarified. Attempting to establish
a relationship between the first of these chapters and the first sura, between
the second chapter and the second sura, and so on, would be in vain, even if
that might appear to be the most probable hypothesis. But the solution to the
problem is clearly suggested by Ibn ‘Arabi himself at the beginning of chapter
22, where the word ‘urûj, “ascent,” and the word miàâj, “ascension,”
appear in the second and third verses, respectively, of the prefatory poem. It
is confirmed by the Kitab manzil al-manâzil, where we find, beginning
with the fourth line of om^p.anuscript, ma'Iirij (plural of micrâj
followed shortly thereafter by a sentence about “the ascension from the foot of
the mountain up to the summit,” while ‘urûj and rnrraj appear
several times at the end of the text.20 Let us add that this same
treatise, thanks to the precise numbers that he gives about the spacing of
“abodes,” provides the means of checking the exactness of the solution.
Based on all these indications, is appears that, for Ibn ‘Arabi, if
Revelation descends from God towards humanity, the route for the viator
is symetrically an ascending route that, contrary to the usual order of
the Qur’ânic Vulgate, leads the murid from the last sura of the Qur’an,
sura Al-nâs, to the first one, Ai-fâtiha, “the one that opens,”
the one in which the person is given the ultimate fath, definitive
illumination. In other terms, it becomes a question of climbing back from the
extreme point of Universal Manifestaton (which the last word of the Qur’ân, al-nâs
[humanity], symbolizes) to its Divine Principle (which is symbolized by the
first sura, Umm al-kitâb (the Mother of the Book), and, more exactly,
the point of the bâ in tire bets mala). The inexplicable
succession of the chapters then becomes perfectly coherent, and the
relationship that we have pointed out becomes demonstrable without exception in
each of their texts. In fact, it can be observed in their very titles by anyone
who has a familiarity with the Qur’ân. A few examples serve to illustrate: the
third manzil (chapter 272), manzil tanzih al-tawhid, the “abode
of the transcendence of Unicity, ” corresponds in an obvious way to the third
sura from the last, Al-ikhlâs, whose theme is divine unicity: the fourth
(chapter 273), manzil al-halâk, “abode of perdition,*' corresponds to
sura Al-masad, which describes the punishment of Abù Lahab; the sixth
sura suudan, that is (always counting from the end of the Qur’an
forward) to sura Al-kâfirûn, whose theme is the rejection of idolatrous
beliefs. The nineteenth manzil (chapter 288),. “abode of recitation,”
corresponds via the same rule to sura Al- calaq, where the
Prophet is ordered to recite the Revelation that the angel is transmitting to
him; the forty-seventh (chapter 316). “abode of the Divine Pen,” corresponds to
sura Al-qalam—and so forth up to the one hundred fourteenth and last manzil,
the manzil al-cazama al-jâmica, “the abode of
Totalizing Immensity,” which is the one where the being, having arrived at the
end of this initiatory voyage, realizes the secrets of the “Mother of the
Book.” Given the key, the reader can corante the enumeration.
These brief indications are in any case sufficient to confirm that
there is nothing fortuitous in the organization of the fasl and that the
succession of subjects treated, as singular as it may appear, ¡ obeys a precise
law. One will not be surprised, for example, to see chapter 366 on the wuzarâ
al-mahdî (the ministers of the Mahdi) followed without apparent
justification by the chapter wherein Ibn ‘Arabi describes his ascension from
heaven to heaven up to the threshold of the Divine Presence: chapter 366
happens to correspond, according the the schema that we have outlined, to sura
Al- kahf, whose eschatological character is well known (and emphasized
by Ibn ‘Arabi, who strongly encourages his readers to recite its beginning in
order to protect themselves from the dajjàl, the Antichrist), and
chapter 367 to sura Al-isrâ, which deals with the heavenly ascension of
the Prophet. And it will be understood that chapter 336 deals with the mubâya'at
al-qutb (Pact with the Pole), because it is an echo, according to the same
logic, to sura Al-fath, wherein is mentioned the pact of the Companions
with the Prophet at Hudaybiyya (Qur’ân 48:10, 18). Similarly, that the
penultimate abode, the manzil of the “Seals,” deals with the functions
of the Seal of Muhammadan Sainthood and with the Seal of Universal Sainthood,
would not surprise anyone who remembers that the reference is here in sura Al-baqara
(sura 2), whose last verses are called in Islam, according to usage that dates
from the time of the Prophet, khawâlim sûrat al-Baqara (seals of sura Al-baqara),
Other enigmas are resolved as soon as the rules that organize the
“section of abodes” are understood. We will illustrate this point by referring
to two consecutive chapters (273 and 274), chapters that are closely related.27
The first, that of the manzil of “perdition,” corresponds, as has been
said, to sura Al-masad (Qur’ân 111), the second, that of the manzil
of the “fixed term,” to sura Al-nasr (Qur’ân 110). Let it be said
immediately that the mention of five “rivers” Íanhár) at the beginning
of chapter 273 is a first allusion to the five verses of the sura. Ibn ‘Arabi
first mentions, in veiled language, the initial basmala (about which he
will again speak at the end of the chapter, referring to it symbolically as the
“vestibule” [dihliz] of this abode). When he himself visits this abode,
he sees the Pen—the traditional symbol in Islam of the First Intellect—in the
Universal Matrix (that is, in the “Mother of the Qur’ân,” the F&tiha)
whence he draws his knowledge and the exact place it occupies, that is, a
point of color “between red and yellow.” It is not difficult to understand
that this point is that which, in Arabic writing, is placed under the letter bâ,
which is the first letter of the bas- mala2S and thus the
first letter of the first sura of the Qur’ân. The color attributed to it
expresses its medial position between the setting sun and the rising sun, that
is, between the “world of secrets” and the “world of light.” It is from the
Universal Matrix that the gnostics, according to Ibn ‘Arabi, gain access to the
knowledge of divine transcendence (tanzih), Seventy-two steps—the
numerical value of the letters that make up the basmala, according to
the manner of calculating called ajazm saghîr"—lead them
to the sciences that have been promised to them. The First Intellect, which is
the “master of this manzil,” takes Ibn ‘Arabi by the hand and has him
visit the five “chambers” (a new allusion to the number of verses). In each of
these there are chests (khazâ/iri). Each of the chests has locks (aqfâl);
each lock has keys (mafâtih); each key must be turned a certain number
of times (harakât).
Next, the the Shaykh al-Akbar describes, one by one-, these
chambers and their contents: the first chest of the first chamber has three
locks, the first of these locks has three keys, the first of the keys must be
turned four hundred times, and so forth. These strange details, which may be
disconcerting to the reader, are easily interpreted as soon as one is somewhat
familiar with the method that Ibn ‘Arabi uses, a method that is offered in
numerous examples in his works: the chests are the words of each verse, the
number of locks is that of the letters that make up each of the words, the keys
are the graphic signs that make up the letters (diacritical marks and
consonant ductus), with the number of turns of the key represented by
the numerical value of these same letters according to abjad. The first
chest is the word tabbat; it is composed of three letters, which is the
number of locks. The first of these locks is the tá’, which is made up
of three graphic signs—thus, three keys—and whose numeric value is four
hundred. Analogous explanations—where the science of letters (ibn al-hurûf)
plays an important role that chapter 2 of the Futûhât expressly
announces— may be given each time that remarks of this kind are encountered, no
matter where, in the work.29 Those who consider this as nothing more
than a gratuitous intellectual game must at least admit that it is a game
played with rules.
The visit of
the manzil of “perdition”—it must be remembered '• that, for Ibn 'Arabî,
it is a question of personal experience with this abode and not some erudite
commentary—is then described in such a way that one can easily check the exact
relationship with the linking of words and verses in sura 111. In the first
“chest,” corresponding to the word tabbat (may they perish), Ibn 'Arabi
discovers “perilous” (muhlika) sciences: these are the speculative
sciences, those of the theologians and the philosophers, but also the secret sciences
(Julûm al-sirr), which can, if used carelessly, put those who use them
in mortal danger.30 The second chest contains the “sciences of
power” (Julûm al-qudrd), which are obviously related to the traditional
symbolism of the “hands,” that'is, to the second word of the sura. The complete
translation of the verse is “May Abu Lahab’s hands perish, and may he himself
perish!” The third word, the third chest, is, in Arabic, Abu Lahab’s name;
despite the fact that he was one of the enemies of the first Muslims, he was
the Prophet’s uncle, and two of Muhammad’s daughters married Abu Lahab’s sons.
Abû Lahab, which is properly speaking a surname, means “father of the flame.”
Opening the third chest, Ibn 'Arabi sees Gehenna. But, in the center of this
infernal fire, he sees a “green garden” and a man who comes out of the fire and
spends an hour in the garden, before returning to the coals. Not knowing that
this “abode” is really sura Al-masad, the reader is able to do nothing
more than file this vision away without finding any coherent explanation with
what precedes it and what follows it. But, as soon as the Qur’anic reference to
this passage is perceived, its meaning becomes apparent: the central garden is
nothing more than the medial letter of lahab (flame), which is the hâ,
the first letter of the Divine Name huwa (he, him). The man who comes
out of the flame to refresh himself in the garden is Abu Lahab himself, who,
according to Islamic tradition, will be periodically relieved of his punishment
as a reward for the joy he experienced when Muhammad was born; he had
celebrated the birth by freeing a slave.
We will not further extend the description of this manzil.
The detailed description of each of the details associated with it would take
considerable space, and would ultimately make complete sense only to readers
who have access to Ibn 'Arabi’s own text, to the Qur'an, and to its traditional
commentaries. What should be gleaned from this cursory examination is, on the
on^fcand, that the structure (and not just the content) of Ibn ‘Arabi’s
text is determined by that of the Book—as other examples will prove—and, on
the other hand, that the trip from “abode” to “abode” is really a voy age in
the Word of God.
Sura Al-nasr (divine assistance), to which the following
chapter refers, is one of the last, and most probably even the last complete
sura revealed. When he heard it, Abu Bakr—who was to become the first caliph of
the Islamic community—understood that it announced the approaching death of the
Prophet. It is to this that the names of both the manzil, such as it
appears at the beginning of chapter 274 (“abode of fixed term”), and the one by
which it is called when it is mentioned in chapter 22 (“abode of the
announcement of the meeting”) allude: it is certainly a question of encounter
with the Supreme Companion (al-rafiq al-ala), that is, with God. If the
theme of the manzil of sura Al-masad is struggle against those
passions that lead man to perdition (and this alludes to the beginning of the
“voyage” [sulûk], to the beginning of the “spiritual combat” [mujàhada]),
then the manzil of sura Al-nasr refers (as its first verse says:
“When the help of God and victory [al-fath] arrive”) to the next stage
(that in which divine grace leads to fath, to “victory.” to “opening,”
to “illumination,” which implies initiatory death). It is for this reason that
this chapter mentions the technical modalities of this second phase, and, in
particular, “solitary wandering” (siyàha) and “retreat to a cell” (khalwa).
The practice of khalwa, to which Ibn ‘Arabi devotes a number of
treatises,31 is traditionally associated with the number forty by
virtue of a prophetic tradition according to which the “sources of wisdom” flow
from the heart of him who has devoted himself exclusively to God for forty days
(literally, forty mornings). But it is also notably associated with the forty
nights during which Moses prepared for his conversation with God (Qur'an 7:142)
and with the forty days that Adam's body awaited the insufflation of the spirit.
It is interesting to note that this number—which is also the numerical value of
mîm, the first letter of mawt, death, the subject with which the
chapter opens— represents the total number of words in sura Al-masad.
(17) and sura Al-nasr (23) and corresponds additionally to the forty
years that passed between the birth of the Prophet and Revelation. These
correspondances symbolize the length of the voyage that the sdlik undertakes
ij^ursuit of the Prophet, the voyage that leads to the
"fixed, term” (ojal musammâ), the event that marks the
definitive extinction of the ego.
For reasons to
be outlined later, Ibn 'Arabi systematically ! shuffles the cards, frequently
using different names to refer to the same things. Thus, the “chambers” of
chapter 273 are sometimes called “rivers” (anhâr), “degrees” (darajât,
a word that itself has different meanings according to its context), “grades” (martaba),
and so forth. Here we see the appearance of names previously used in
chapter 270,32 like dinar and qîrât (carat, a monetary
unit representing one twenty-fifth of a dinar). The mention of the four
dinars (a total of 100 carats), the possession of which corresponds to complete
spiritual realization, is once again understandable only if the reader turns
toward the chapter's Qur’ânic reference: sura Al-nasr contains four
verses, including the basmala (which, for Ibn 'Arabi, is an integral
part of any sura and not just the Fâtiha, as is generally thought83).
These verses are composed of ninety-nine letters, the traditional number of
divine names; the hundredth, the supreme Name, is revealed only to the drif
bi-Llah (gnostic). Each of the four dinars symbolizes what the Shaykh
al-Akbar elsewhere (e.g., at the beginning of chapter 73) calls the “arkân
al-din,” (pillars of the religion): îmân (faith), walâya
(sainthood); nubuwwa (prophethood), and risâla (the mission of
the Apostles). The progressive acquisition of carats and dinars, the stages of
which Ibn 'Arabi mentions, corresponds to the esoteric meanings that he perceives
in the successive verses of the sura. We will not attempt to gloss this passage
of extreme subtlety, but we must nevertheless make two important points. First,
the last carat of the fourth dinar corresponds to the Seal of Sainthood.
Second, Ibn 'Arabi, as he does on several occasions, emphasizes the fact that rujuliyya,
“spiritual virility,” can be a characteristic of women as well as of men.34
Chapter 278 is
that of the manzil al-ulfa, the “abode of union” or of “assembly,” an
allusion to the first verse of sura 106 (Quraysh) where the union of the
Quraysh (the tribe to which the Prophet belonged) is mentioned. But the union
dealt with here is that which “joins God with the creature,” a union that the
first letter of the sura symbolizes, the Lam-alif, the figure of the insân
kâmil.35 A passage33 that would otherwise remain
somewhat obscure without the benefit of this background information refers to
the second verse. Ibn 'Arabi suggests in it that it is in this abode that the “abdâl
voyage” takes place, referring to those saints who occupy the fourth row of the
initiatory hierarchy, counting from, the Pole which is its summit. This trip
takes place “toward Yemen” and “toward Syria.” This second verse therefore
unquestionably refers to the “winter caravan” and the “summer caravan” that the
Qur’an speaks of: the caravans that left Mecca each year in the days of the
Prophet, in winter toward Yemen and in summer toward Syria. The enigmatic
reference to the duration of the abdâl’s stay in Yemen and Syria that
Ibn ‘Arabi gives—twenty-four days and six days respectively—is related to the
number of letters in the sura (twenty-four letters up to shitâ,
“winter,” and six for wa l-sayf, “and summer”).
This manner of reading the Revealed Book may appear somewhat
strange and forced. But Yemen—the “country on the right” (in Arabian
cartography, the East is above, and thus Yemen, in the South, is on the
right)—is also the place whence comes, according to a hadith, the “Breath of
the All-Merciful” (nafas al-Rahmân).31 The North, where Syria
is located, is al-shimctl in Arabic: the left, the side of punishment
(Qur’ân 56:9). The voyages of the abdâl are thus alternatively oriented
toward mercy and toward sternness or, in terms of spiritual states, toward
“dilatation” (bast) and “contraction” (qabd). The regulatory
function of the abdâl, which is exercised over the seven terrestrial
“climates” and leads them to use mercy at times and sternness at others over
the creatures that they govern and protect, implies the alternation of these
two states. Mecca, because of its central characteristic, is the point of
equilibrium “where opposites are united” (al-jam‘ bayna l-diddayn).33
There are also certain implicit eschatological implications to be considered:
the caravan toward Yemen corresponds to the winter solstice, that is, to the
birth of Jesus, who is announced by God in Qur’ân 19:45 as “a Mercy on Our
Behalf”; Syria, where the Antichrist will receive his punishment, is the place
where Jesus is to appear at tire end of time39 as the “seal of
universal sainthood.”
A further example will illustrate the need to keep in mind that the
work of the Shaykh al-Akbar, being drawn from the “treasures of the Qur’ân,”
and is never perfectly comprehensible unless these treasures are precisely
identified. On first sight, one of the problems raised by the fast
al-manâzil is that of the sometimes quite long lists at the end of
chapters. These are lists of the knowledge, or “sci-
enees,” belonging to each “abode.” They associate ideas among which
one would fruitlessly attempt to establish a link. Reading them leaves one with
the^ impression of being in the presence of an arbitrary catalogue, whose
incoherence might be excused only by information of which we have not yet been
apprised. Without being able to justify the contents in detail, which would
entail the juxtaposition of numerous Qurhnic citations with entire pages of the
Futûhât, we will point out only that each of the sciences mentioned
relates to the contents of one or more verses corresponding to the manzil
in question. We thus once again find ourselves faced with statements whose
apparent disorder reveals a secret coherence, once the principle that governs
their succession is understood. In chapter 32940 (sura Al-
rahmâri) the "science of understanding the Qur’an” alludes to verse 4:
"He [God] has taught him [man] the explanation.” The “science of numbers”
corresponds to the word husbân, “calculation,” in verse 5; the
"science of the affirmation of good deeds” refers to verse 13, which
conies back as a refrain throughout the sura: “Which of the good deeds of your
Lord would you deny?”; the "science of extinction and of permanence,” to
verses 26-27: "All that is on it [the Earth] will perish and [only] the
Face of your Lord will remain.” Similarly, in chapter 36641 (sura
18: Al-kahf), the “science of association in Unity” quite explicitly
refers to the last verse: “In worship, let him associate no one with his Lord!”
The “science of divine descent” relates to verse 1: “Praise to God, who has
sent the Book down upon his servant,” as is also the case with the “science of
the right Word,” for the continuation of this verse states that God "has
put nothing oblique” in this Book. The “science of the extension of time”
echoes verse 26: “And they remained in their cave three hundred years and added
nine to that.” These few examples—chapter 366 alone could furnish several
dozen—are mentioned here as illustrations alone; translation considerably
weakens their cogency. Ibn ‘Arabi’s frequent use of terms identical to those
found in the verses corresponding to each science, or of words from the same
root, makes the network of Qur’ânic references with these passages from the Futûhât
even more patent in Arabic.
Before pursuing other aspects of Ibn ‘Arabi’s work in search of the
explanation of its genesis and its architecture, it might be appropriate to
return to the question raised at the beginning of this chapter.
Is it truly reasonable to believe that none of the individuals
mentioned was able to supply a solution to the diverse problems we outlined?
Are we to suppose that they were purely and simply unaware of them? Sunnites or
Shi’ites, they all clearly revere the Shaykh al-Akbar, even if they
occasionally disagree with one of his positions. They are indifferent to
nothing that he writes. The subtle exegeses of his thought, of which their
works give so many examples, are fitting evidence that each of his works has
been painstakingly examined. Like Jami in the example we reported, these writers
refuse to resign themselves to not understanding the most obscure, the most
ambiguous aspects of the Shaykh al-Akbar's work; with indefatigable zeal they
work to resolve these mushkilât. It is thus evident that the majority of
them, if not all, could neither bypass these problems nor resign themselves to
leaving them unsolved. And all the more so, since the solutions, as we believe
has been demonstrated, are suggested by numerous indications that could not
have escaped them.
Under the circumstances, their silence on the matter could not have
been but deliberate. Why then are they silent? At the beginning of his Nass
al-nusüs, Haydar Amoli expatiates, for ten pages, on the necessity of the
secret {hitman al-asrâr al-ilâhiyya ‘an ghayri ahliha), and he cites
Qur’anic verses, hadith, and a long passage of the Futûhât as support
for this rule. He also emphasizes the necessity, in order to truly understand
the writings of Ibn :Arabî, of an appropriate spiritual relationship
{mundsabd) with the author, explaining that such a relationshop is
exceptional "even for Poles and those like them.” Dhû 1-Nûn al-Misrî, a
few centuries earlier, gave the same advice with his aphoristic qulûb
al-ahrâr qubür al- asrâr (the hearts of free men are the tombs of secrets).
Tire sufi literature of any age abounds in such pithy gems. But is it here
truly a. question of “divine secrets,” to use Haydar Amoli’s expression? And
what importance should be placed on their being revealed? At the end of the
fifth manzil, the one that corresponds to sura Al-nasr, Ibn cArabi,
after speaking of the “chambers,” of the “chests,” of the “locks,” and of the
“keys,” indicates that, if he remains silent on the meaning of these symbolic
terms, it is for the purpose of foiling the attempts of the “liar” {al-kadhityN
Of course, there is more to understanding the Shaykh al-Akbar’s teaching than
deciphering the meaning qMtese words; however, one must solve these quite
simple puzzles, and others like them, to have any chance of penetrating
the true secrets of his work. And the true secrets are of a very different
nature, not lending themselves to the drawing up of a banal table of
equivalencies. The purpose of these formal obstacles to the interpretation of
the text is both dissuasion—they discourage a hasty reading coming from impure
motives—and awakening: they stimulate the vigilance of spirits for whom the Futûhât
are something quite other than a monumental encyclopedia or a collection of
heresies; they lead them to see that this work is inseparable from the Qur’ân
from which it draws its substance and its structure.
The discretion of the most eminent interpreters of Ibn ‘Arabi
throughout the ages is thus easily explainable, but should not lead to the
conclusion that the solution to problems of this order is exceptional or
unprecedented. A claim today to having discovered the “keys” of the Futûhât
would be looked upon as both supremely comic presumption and abysmal ignorance
of Ibn ‘Arabi’s still extant tradition: a tradition that has assured the
transmission of these facts and many others. The true heirs of the Shaykh
al-Akbar have never been numerous, but his succession has continued without
interruption. As documentary evidence of this statement we will limit ourselves
to the Kitâb manzil al-manâzil, the importance of which has been
demonstrated above: the copyist of our manuscript took the trouble of clearly
“translating” the emblematic name of the manâzil, adding with his own
hand in minuscule but legible characters between the lines of the text such
words as “that is to say, sura x” It is thus evident that he did not
need to expect the arrival of a key to open the locks of the Futûhât
Makkiyya. But he certainly could not have forgotten that, these thresholds
passed, a number of walls remained to be passed through.43
"On
The.Horizons And In Their Souls"
(QUR’ÂN 41:53)
We have spent considerable time on the fasl al-manâzil,
which, among the six sections of the Futühât, is doubly exemplary, by
the apparent confusion of its organization and—as soon as its principle is
understood—by the linear simplicity of its structure.
Ibn ‘Arabi’s invitation to consider the series of 114 manâzil
as the abodes of an “ascent,” and thus in ascending order, is clear. If this
has been understood, the reader is capable of gradually dispersing the
obscurities of the text, since the inverse series of suras supplies the
necessary landmarks at each step along the way. The close connections that we
begin to see—and that he so strongly emphasizes—between the Qur’an and the
entirety of the Shaykh al-Akbar’s work are not always easy to perceive,
however. The dimensions of this work keep us from attempting a systematic
exploration in these pages. Such an explanation would in. any case add no
intelligible information, except for those who already have considerable
knowledge about the subject. We will nevertheless attempt to extend our
investigation to a few other writings, an examination of which will bring us
back to the Futühât and to the problem of their structure as a whole.
Certain of these works have thus far not warranted particular comments.
They are the ones that, whether or not they take the form of a running
commentary, nevertheless have an expressly declared organic relationship with
the Qur’ân. Such is the case for the Ijâz al-bayân fî l-tarjama "an
al-quFân, recently published by Mahmud Ghurâb, whom we have already
mentioned.1 Although the greater themes of Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine are
obviously not absent, this work is properly speaking a tafsîr that
concisely, and precisely, explicates the Qur’ânic text verse by verse, as its
title suggests.2 Of a quite different nature, the Ishârât
al-qur’án, of which D. Gril is presently preparing an edition, are a
collection of quite elliptical “allusions” (ishârât). These ishârât
are based on a verse or piece of a
A 77'
verse taken successively in each of the suras, from the Fâtiha
to Alnas. Information gleaned from Ibn ‘Arabi about the great commentary,
which is no longer extant,3 tells us that it too follows the traditional
order of the suras upon which it comments; according to the author, commentary
of each verse is made from the triple point of view of Divine Majesty (Jalâl),
Divine Beauty (Jamal), and Divine PerfectioxLtTfa/i/ciih—this last point
of view being the synthesis of the other two.
On the other hand there is in the Diwan a continuous series
of 114 poems5 inspired by “the spirits of the suras” (arwâh
al-suwar) and whose Qur’ânic source is, here again, quite clear. Ibn ‘Arabi
states at the end of this collection that these verses were written according
to the supernatural inspiration (wdrid) of the moment, without additions
or the intervention of reflection (fikr). Let it be noted that the title
and the contents of these poems contain hints that may ultimately be seen as
valuable; certain similarities of vocabulary direct one’s attention to the
Qur'ânic references of writings, where they are disguised and risk being
passed over unnoticed.
It appears as though the Kitab al-ism, the “Book of the
Night Journey,” which Ibn ‘Arabi wrote in Fez in 594 A.H., is the first piece
about a spiritual ascension that he composed. In quite different forms, the
same theme is later treated in the Futûhât (chapters 167 and 367) and in
the Risâlat al-anwâr, the “Epistle of Lights.” In the Kitâb al-isrâ,
a work composed in assonant prose (saf) or in verse, certain elements
obviously echo motifs that belong to the literature of the mi'râj, that
is, to traditional information that reports the ascension of the Prophet. But
the text is constructed in counterpoint to a very precise Qur’ânic sequence.
The title suggests that Ibn ‘Arabi is referring to sura Al-isrâ (sura
17); however, only the first verse of this sura, partially cited by Ibn ‘Arabi
in the prologue,8 refers to Muhammad’s “night journey.” The several
characteristic expressions that punctuate the story of this celestial trip are
actually borrowed from the seventeen first verses of sura Al-najm
(“sura of the star,” sura 53): the “lotus of the limit” (sidrat al-muntaha),
the distance “of two bows, or even closer” (qâb qawsayn aw adna), or
the verb awhâ (he has revealed).
This relationship to sura Al-najm is confirmed by a passage7
where the the Shaykh al-Akbar explains that, while suras 2 to 52
represent that part of Revelation that is common to tWimmad and to the previous
prophets, the part proper to the prophet of Islam himself extends from sura Al-najm
to the end of the Qur’ân. This relationship is underscored in another work, the
as-yet unpublished Mashâhid al-asrâr al-qudsiyya,s wherein is
found the description of fourteen “contemplations of most holy secrets,” the point
of departure for which is quite probably the eighteenth verse: “and
he saw some of the sublime signs of his Lord.” The Mashâhid generally
accompany the Kitâb al-isrâ in the manuscript collections, and not by
chance: Ibn Sawdakîn, the friend and confidant of Ibn 'Arabi who has left us a
commentary on both works (or rather a transcript, as is his custom, of the oral
commentary that the author made to him), stresses that the two works are
inseparable.9 It happens that the word najm, “star,” comes up
regularly in the titles of chapters of the Mashâhid: “contemplation of
the light of existence when the star of vision rises,” “contemplation of
the light of the One when the star of confirmation rises,”
“contemplation of the light of perplexity when the star of nothingness
rises,” and so on. The selection of a word is never fortuitous for Ibn 'Arabi,
and less so is its repetition.10
Two points deserve to be brought to the forefront concerning the Kitâb
al-isrâ. Tire first, several years before the event that constitutes the
birth of the Futûhât Makkiyya, is an account of a first encounter with
the young man (fata) “whose essence is spiritual and whose attributes
are lordly”11 and before whom Ibn 'Arabi prostrates himself.12
After a conversation during which he prepares the voyager (al-sâlik) for
the trials of the path, the fata disappears: “His essence was hidden to
me, but his attributes remained with me.”13 As in the Futûhât,
he has an initiatory function and the analogy of the roles that he plays in
both cases is put into perspective by the mention of the meeting place. In the Futûhât,
they meet near the Ka'ba, at the “umbilicus of the Earth”; in the Kitâb
al-isrâ. it takes place “at the fountain of Arin,” that is, in a place
that, according to Islamic cosmography, also represents the center of the
earth, since it is located at equal distances from the four cardinal points.14
The source of inspiration for the two works is thus identical: it is from
the name Al-mutakallim, from the Divine Verb, that they both spring; and
therefore it is not surprising that at the beginning of the Futûhât the
reader finds the poem that appears in the prologue of the Kitâb al-isrâ,
where the fatâ makes himself known in these terms: “I anAe Qur’an and
the redoubled seven.’'15
On the other hand, there is a significant piece of information—one
confirmed by a text to be dealt with later—on the process that leads from
contemplation to writing in Ibn 'Arabi. He states in a reply to one of Ibn
Sawdakin’s questions that what he recorded in his work is founded on a
perception of pure intelligibles (ma'áni mujarrada !an
al-mawâdd): in a second stage, with God’s assistance, he clothes these
intelligibles with the forms without which they could not possibly be
communicated.16
Although it is not as explicit as in the works we considered
previously, the relation of the Kitâb al-isrâ to the Qur’an is nevertheless
quite clear. Such is not the case for others of the Shaykh al- Akbar’s books,
and it is to the examination of some of these that we .—will dedicate the pages
remaining. The Kitâb al-Abâdila, the “Book of the 'Abdallah,” presents
itself as a collection of maxims attributed to a series of individuals who are
all named ‘Abdallah. Each of their genealogies is detailed by the mention of
two degrees of filiation ("son of...son of...”) wherein there generally
figures one divine name and the name of one prophet (e.g., ‘Abdallâh b. Idris
b. ‘Abd al-Khâliq, ‘Abdallah b. Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-Wâhid).17 The
specific character of the remarks attributed to them allows us to understand
that each ‘“Abdallâh” here represents a particular modality of spiritual
knowledge and sainthood. It is thus useless to attempt a historical
identification, for it would be devoid of sense. Throughout the text, it is
always Ibn ‘Arabi who is speaking, and his introduction leaves no doubt about
that fact. He presents himself as the “interpreter” (mutarjiin) of the
multiple forms of walâya, the one who possesses “all the languages” (jâmic
alsina), a transparent allusion to the function of Seal of Muhammadan
sainthood, which he claims. The role of “interpreter” is one that he attributes
to himself in several of his works.18
A reading of the Kitâb al-Abâdila uncovers a number of
admirably concise formulations of the themes of Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine, and yet
it is disconcerting that no logic appears to order the work’s successive
chapters. But time spent with Ibn ‘Arabi’s writings shows that it is
absolutely essential to be attentive to their beginnings: the titles of books
or of chapters, initial doxology or prefatory poems.19 It is often
here that one finds those hints that allow the obscurities of the text to be
deciphered. For example, the prologue of the Kitâb al-‘Abâdila contains
within a span of just a few lines three mentions of the word jnmti, one
of which particularly deserves reflection. He writes: “The interpreter in this
book is a totalizing son (ibn jâmi1) born of a limited father
(db muqayyad).” Jâmiti, which we have here translated as “totalizing,”
actually means “he who gathers together, he who unites”; with this meaning, it
is one of the divine names on the traditional list.20 But it also
possesses the characteristic of having the numerical value of 114, which is the
number of suras in the Qur’an. Consequently, it can be suspected of being a key
to the reading, which a diligent examination of the text confirms, up to a
certain point.
The Cairo edition, the only one extant to our knowledge, is
unfortunately extremely faulty; on the first page, for example, one finds bam
for rtabî. It also contains omissions; comparison with one of the oldest
manuscripts has shown that a series of Abdallah was omitted (it should have
appeared between the penultimate and the last chapters21 of the
printed text), and the real number of chapters appears to be 114 instead of
100. As we have not yet examined the autograph manuscript preserved in
Istanbul, the only one that would allow definitive conclusions, we will limit
ourselves at present to short remarks that are nevertheless consistent with the
hypothesis of a Qur ’finie “reading grill.” From the very first chapter, a
veiled correspondence with the verses of the Fatih a is discovered:
considerations on the letter bâ refer to the basmala; those on
the world (ciZ- ‘alam), to verse 2 (“All praise belongs to God, Lord of
the worlds”); “when he speaks to you as plural” (previously cited in chapter 2,
above), to verse 4 (“It is you that we worship”); the “request for help” (talab
alFawri), to the continuation of that same verse (“To you do we come for
help”); the multiplicity of paths and the definition of that which is “right” (mustaqîm),
to verse 6 (“Guide us on the right path”).22 Similarly, the second
chapter corresponds to the second sura: the “absence of uncertainty and of
doubt (rnyb)” immediately calls verse 2 to mind (That is the Book in which
there is no doubt”), just as the term iqâma (prayer), a little later,
resonates with verse 3 (“Those who perform prayer”) where the word muqîmûn
appears (note that iqâma and muqîmûn share the same root).28
Without highlighting all the expressions where a Qur’finic
background can be seen in this chapter, one passage24 might be noted
as an example, a passage where it is easy to recognize an allusion to the
dialogue between God and his angels and to the
divine lesson,
that teaches Adam “all the names,” the theme of '■ verses 30-32 of the sura. A
second example is offered in chapter 18, where it can be seen that the
distinction between the status of prophet (nabî) and saint (wall)
refers surreptitiously to the well- known episode in sura 18 (sura Al-kahf)
where Moses and Khadir meet.26 In the following chapter, the first
paragraph refers to God’s taking charge of the subsistence of his creatures and
to the illusion of “acquisition” (kasb): verse 25 of sura 19 relates the
miraculous bestowal of food to Mary, the mother of Jesus.26 Chapter
22 lists the symbolic liquids that were offered to the Prophet at the time of
his night journey (wine, honey, milk, water), beginning with wine;27 sura
22 (Al-hajj, v. 2) declares: “You will see men intoxicated, and [yet]
they will not be so.” Sura 23 (Al-mu’minûn) deals with the refusal of
the infidels, of all times, to accept that men like them— men who eat, drink,
and attend to their affairs in the market—can be God’s Messengers (v. 23, 33,
47); chapter 23 speaks of the pious servant who sees only God in this world and
who, in the other yworld, will also see only God and yet who is placed in a
subservient position here on Earth: “he eats, he drinks, he gets married, he
listens to what is said to him, and he replies.”28 Clearly, this is
a case of something other than simple coincidences. A practiced eye could indentify
a number of other items of the same nature in the first half of the Kitâb
al-Abâdila’s printed text. The second half, in its presently published
condition, does not lend itself as easily to the same kind of parallels. But we
have little doubt that, when correctly restored and classified, the text of
the entire work will confirm the Qur:finie character of its
structure.
Another of Ibn 'Arabi’s writings (of which we do have a correct
text) offers, in both its composition and its content, even more singular
aspects than the Kitâb al-Abâdila; and this one has an even more
important place among the works of the Shaykh al-Akbar. The Kitâb
al-tajalliyât (“Book of Theophanies”) was written in Aleppo, no later than
606/1209,29 although the exact date of its composition is uncertain.
Theophany (tajalli) is “that which is unveiled to the heart of the
lights of the invisible.”30 With no explanation of their order of
succession, one hundred nine short chapters describe these tajalliyât,
each with a title that describes its precise nature, for example, “theophany of
Mercy,” “theophany of Generosity,” “theophany of Veracity.” In several of them
we see Ibn c^|bx engage in dialogue with some of the most famous of
the awliyâ of the past: Shiblî (Taj. 56), Junayd (Taj. 54,
58, 67), Hallâj (Taj. 57), Dhûl-Nûn aï-Misrî (Taj. 59),. Abu
Sa’îd al-Kharrâz (Taj. 66), Sahl al-Tustarî (Taj. 75). The
purpose of the work is to instruct the novice on events that might occur along
his path. That there is personal experience behind these quite dense
statements, formulated in terms as aphoristic as they are categorical, is
beyond doubt. But is the movement of the text itself directed by some necessity
whose principle and rules can be known to us?
Ibn Sawdakm s commentary sheds some light on the nature of the
experience which the work relates. In 610 A.H., in Aleppo, while Ibn ‘Arabî was
not present, a man whom Ibn Sawdakm considered a friend crudely criticized
those chapters of the Tajalliyât thaï recounted the author’s dialogues
with individuals who had been dead for centuries. Upon Ibn ‘Arabi’s return, his
disciple told him ol the incident and proffered his own interpretation, of
these postlm mous conversations. Ibn ‘Arabi validated the interpretation—bul
only as far as the nafs (the individual soul): as far as heart is concerned,
he said, things happen otherwise. “All that has happened between me and these
deceased saints," he then explained, “proceeds from a holy contemplation’
in which my ‘secret’ [the Seelen- grund, the apex animae of
Christian terminology] and that of these individuals met, stripped of all
sensible form.” He adds: “If I met them in the world of bodies, I would have
nothing to add and nothing to take away.”31 The mention of being
“stripped” (tajarrud) underscores the relationship of this confidence
with that which we noted in the commentary on the Kitâb al-isrâ, where a
similar expression is found. It brings up a trait of spiritual phenomenology
that Henry Corbin, obsessed by the “imaginai world,” seems to have not noticed:
for Ibn ‘Arabi, the most perfect illuminating knowledge first takes place in
the sphere of intelligibles, of pure spirits free of matter and of form. It is
in a second stage, and only then, that it “takes a body” in the câlam
al-khayâl, and it is then that it takes on words and images that
will allow its transmission to those who do not have access to this universe of
pure light.
The oral commentary with which Ibn Sawdakin continues his
recollections, a commentary that is both partial and disconnected, does
nevertheless shed light on a number of obscure passages. But despite fleej|^
allusions whose full sense is captured only when
one has understood how the text functions, the commentary does not
give us the key that makes deciphering the Book of Theophanies
possible. It is true that this key is actually hidden, only from those who are
not completely attentive. Once again, it is suggested as early as the first
lines of the work. Signs to orient the attentive reader are present in two expressions:
one is 'âlam, al-barâzikh, and the other is nuTqil al-a'râs. Barâzikh
is the plural of barzakh, a Qur ’anic term often translated as “isthmus”
and which, more generally, designates any medial place, any intermediary
state, any thing that separates and unites two things at the same time. In the
vocabulary of sufism, it is applied to the “imaginai world” located between the
world of spirits and the world of bodies; it also applies to the status of
beings between death and resurrection. The expression ma‘qil al-a'râs,
which means the “refuge,” or the “sanctuary of fiancées,” shows up again in the
title of chapter 382 of the Futûhât, which is the manzil of sura Al-baqara
(sura 2). This same manzil— one of the manâzil al-rumûz (abodes
of symbols), that is, one of the suras beginning with “luminous letters”—is
called manzil al- barâzikh in chapter 22. In the Dîwân, the poem
that corresponds to the 'suva Al-baqara is announced in the title as
dealing with “intermediate life” (al-hayât al-barzakhiyya).32
In the Ishârât al-qur’ân, sura Al-baqara is called al-baqara
al-barzakhiyya.ss The first verse of the prefatory poem of
chapter 382 (“The science of barâzikh; the only ones to attain this are
those who join the extremities with the center”) points in the same direction.
All the above more than suggests that there is privileged relationship between
sura Al-baqara and the Kitâb al-tajalliyât, all the more so since
an incidental remark in the prologue suggests that this book actually is part
of the Futûhât. It can be considered as a complement to chapter 382, the
“abode” of Al-baqara, and we shall see that the connection in the
theophanies that he describes is dictated by that of the verses of the sura.
The connection that Ibn 'Arabi establishes between the idea of barzakh
and the second sura of the Qur’ân first requires a brief commentary. This
connection appears to be based on the repeated presence, throughout Al-baqara,
of numerous cases of “intermediate status”: that of the cow described by Moses
(v. 58) heing “neither old nor young but between the two” or that of the man
(whom commentators often identify as Esdras) who comes back to life at the
end of a
century (v. 259), or that of four birds that also come back to life (v. 260).
It applies even more clearly to the sura itself, due to its intermediate
position between the “Mother of the Qur’an,” the Fâtiha, and the other
suras; and also to the Muhammadan community, which verse 143 calls the “median
community” (umma wasata).
The prologue of the Tbjalliyât contains other allusions that
act as signposts. One example is that by which this “abode” becomes one of the
“abodes of the third talisman” and thus “one of the thirteen.” The word talisman
(tilasm) is, according to Ibn ‘Arabi, one of the code names of the
“luminous” letters (fourteen, of the twentyeight in the alphabet) that appear
at the beginning of twenty-nine suras, either alone, or in a group of two,
three, four, or hve. The “third talisman” here indicates that sura Al-baqara
is preceded by a group of three letters (alif, lâm, mîm), and
such is the case for a total of thirteen suras,34 The first
theophany (“Theophany of Allusion”), which corresponds to the first two verses
(“Alif—Lâm—Mîm / That is the Book in which there is, no doubt, a guide
for the pious”),36 comes back to these letters. According to Ibn
‘Arabi, the form of the writing (raqîm) to which it is an allusion (by
the pronoun that, [dhâlika], which is the demonstrative used for what
is far away) is “triangular.” One of its “angles” (the letter alif,
which when written can be joined to no letter that follows it and that is the
first letter of the name Allah) expresses “the supression of any relation of
affinity between God and the creatures.” The second angle (the letter lâm,
often likened in traditional exegesis to Jibrâ’îl, the angel of Revelation)
“dissipates confusion,” while the third (mîm, the first letter in
Muhammad and a symbolic allusion to the Prophet, who is the model of
excellence) makes evident the “way of felicity”: the terms used about the
second and third “angles’ obviously translate the “absence of doubt” (lâ
rayba fîhï) and the “guidance” (hudâ) of the scriptural text.
The title of the second tajallî, the “Theophany of the
Transcendence in the Freshness of the Eye” (qurrat al-ayn), may seem
mysterious. But the expression “freshness” or “consolation” of the eye is, for
Muslims, an unambiguous allusion to ritual prayer, as it is so called in a very
famous hadith upon which Ibn ‘Arabi commented at length in the Fusus al-hikam.3&
This chapter thus reveals its relation to the third verse, which mentions
“those who perform prayer.” The third tajallî is that of the “descent of
the mysterious upon those who possess certitude” (al-mûqinîn). The
“mystery” (al-ghuyúb) is that of future life (al-âkhird), about
which true believers, according to the fourth verse, “possess certitude” (yûqinûri).
A line-by-line examination of the text would continue the parallel
we have begun here. Omitting a number of details, we have chosen rather to
establish some landmarks that make it relatively easy to identify the
correspondences between successive theophanies and the verses of Al-baqara.
The “Theophany of Confusion” (number 8: tajallî al-iltibâs)
is the one from which man “learns to know the fine points of ruse and of
stratagem...He who contemplates it is sheltered from ruse”: a perfectly
recognizable echo of verse 9, according to which “[the infidels] attempt to
trick God and those who believe. But it is themselves that they deceive and
they do not know it.” The trickery from which the contemplator is preserved is
that of God, the khayr al- mâkirîn (Qur’ân 3:54), “the best of those who
trick”: He tests the faith of the believer who is too quick to believe himself
capable of dispelling temptation and who thus wants to “trick God” by claiming
an illusory autonomy. The nineteenth tajallî, the “Theophany of Burning
Glories,” alludes by its title to the well-known hadith according to which “God
has seventy [or seventy thousand, according to one version] veils of light and
of darkness: if he were to remove them, the burning glories of his face would
consume whoever was in his sight.” "These veils of light and darkness,”
writes Ibn ‘Arabi, “are removed for gnostics: they are the Glories of Generosity
[al-karam] that shine upon those whom burning does not reach.” We thus
arrive at verse 20 of the sura: “Lightning might well snatch away their sight.”
Verse 26 is usually translated: “They know that it is the Truth (Al-haqq)
coming from their Lord” or by some similar sentence. But it can also be
rendered: “They know that he [alone] is the True One” (or “the Real One”). I t
is this scriptural text that is the origin of the “Theophany of Veracity” (sidq),
the twenty-eighth of the work, where one reads: “He whose voyage is through God
(bi l-haqqj, whose arrival is at God and whose return [toward the
creatures] is from God and through God, looks at the creatures [here khalq
must be read rather than haqq: the manuscripts show that once again the
Hyderabad edition is faulty] as being God [min kawrAi haqqan}.”
Tajallî number 34 is
that of “singularity” (fardaniyya). Ibn ‘Arabi writes: "God has
angels who are engulfed in the light of his majesty and his beauty; they are in
perpetual joy and uninterrupted contemplation.”37 He adds that
these angelic spirits, the cherubim, have their homologues in the human world:
these are the afrdd (same root as fardaniyya), the "loners”
spoken of in the second chapter of this book. This theophany is that which
corresponds to verse 34, where the refusal of Iblis, the devil, to prostrate
himself before Adam is reported: in effect, only the cherubim, who do not know
that God created the world, who are not even aware of their own existence, were
absolved of this prostration. It is for this reason that in another passage
from the Qur’ân (38:75) God, asking Iblis about the motives for his refusal,
inquires: "Are you really one of the exalted spirits?” (Am kurda min
al-dlîn?), those who were not affected by the divine order.
Tajallî number 57
relates a dialogue with Hallâj. “Why,” says Ibn ‘Arabi, “did you let your house
[i.e., your body] be destroyed?” So questioned about his acceptance of torture,
Hallâj replies: “I gave it up when the hands of the creatures threatened
it...It repulsed me to live in a house over which the hands of creatures had
power...It has been said that Hallâj is dead. But Hallâj is not dead. The house
has been destroyed but its inhabitant was already gone.” The statement is an
easily identifiable echo of verse 84, "then you kill one another and chase
some of your number from their houses.” The end of the dialogue is worth
reporting. Ibn ‘Arabi then says, “I know something that refutes your argument.
He lowered his head, saying: above every individual who is wise, there is one
wiser than he (Qur’ân 12:76).” Then Ibn ‘Arabi, without further details,
concludes the account of this meeting by simply saying, "I then left him
and went away.” What objection might Ibn ‘Arabi have had to Hallâj s argument?
According to the Kashf al-ghayai. an anonymous commentary of the Tajalliycd
that, should perhaps be attributed to ‘Abd al-Karîm al-Jîlî, this cryptic
remark means that “Hallâj had not obtained the farq aldhâni.” The farq
al-thâni is the "second separation.” The first separation is birth in
this world and the forgetting of God produced by it, a forgetting that should
be repaired by the return to God, the ascension (mir'd;) that leads the being
back to its Principle. The second separation—which is not privative lilnjJie first
but, rather,'represents the fullness of sain t-
hood—is the descent of the saint, once ascension has been completed,
toward the creatures in order to guide them. But once returned to multiplicity,
it is always the One that the wâli is contemplating, his presence in
God being in no way affected by his presence among men. That is why the Kashf
al-ghayât explains Hallâj’s imperfection—completely relative—by saying that
he failed to perceive al-irtibât bayna l-haqq wa l-khalq, “the connection
between God and creation.”
In the following tajallî (number 58), Ibn ‘Arabi engages in
dialogue with another of the great sufis of past centuries, Dhû 1-Nûn. “I am
surprised,” says the former, “with your words and with those who have repeated
them after you, by which God is different from any form that one gives him,
from any representation that one makes of him, from any image that imagination
gives to him!38...
could he be absent from that which is, when nothing which is can
survive other than through him?” This affirmation of divine immanence is
immediately followed, in a move very characteristic of Ibn ‘Arabi’s thought, by
the proclamation of transcendence. The contradiction is logically unsolvable:
no image of God, mental or sensual, is “empty” of him; none is him. But here
the accent is placed upon the universal presence of God: what is reflected in
this amazing passage, as in a mirror, is the famous verse 115 (“Tb God belong
the east and the west, and wherever you might turn, there is the Face of God”),
so often quoted by Ibn ‘Arabi and one of the scriptural foundations of his
metaphysics.39
Another reflection, and thus another landmark, is that found in tajallî
number 81, the “Theophany of Love,” connected to verse 165: “Those who believe
are stronger in their love for God [than the infidels in their love for what
they associate with God].” Theophany after theophany, the Kitab
al-tajalliyât is figuratively knotted to sura Al-baqara, and the
validity of the kind of connections we have been showing here is in most cases
confirmed for the reader of Arabic by lexical correlations which a translation
can not sufficiently illustrate.
We pointed out the expression “sanctuary of fiancées” above; it ' appears at the beginning of
the work and is also present in the title of
the chapter that, in the fasl al-manâzil, describes the
“abode” of sura : Al-baqara.
This expression is the equivalent of another one, which is
found in chapter 30 of the Futûhât: speaking of the highest
category i of malâmiyya, that of the afrâd, Ibn ‘Arabi says that
they entered the
a
L
“tents of mystery” (surâdiqât al-ghayb):i(] The
“fiancées,” whom divine jealousy hides from the sight of creatures, are
precisely these “men of blame,” hidden in this world because nothing
distinguishes them from the common people. God himself hides these individuals
in the Qur’an under the appearance of his enemies, the infidels—those who are
“deaf, dumb, blind,” those whose hearts are “sealed.” In chapter 2 we cited
different texts where Ibn 'Arabi applies to the malâmiyya terms, all of
which have been borrowed from sura Al- baqara, that describe the
unbelievers. The information above permits us now to add another detail: if tajallî
number 5 and tajallî number 83 deal with the malâmiyya, it is
because they correspond respectively to verses 6 and 171, where these terms
happen to be found.'11
Given all of this, it can be seen that we are far from any kind of
exegesis. What we observe in the Kitâb al-tajalliyât, as in most of Ibn
'Arabi’s writings, is this “descent of the Qur’an upon the heart,” without
which Revelation “goes no farther than the throat.” When the words of divine
language reach the heart, ever new sciences spring forth like sparks from a
hint when it is struck. The theophanies described are born from this encounter
with the Word of God and they cannot be born except from this encounter,
this is why their economy is ruled by the order of suras and verses.
The complementarity between the Kitâb al-tajalliyât and the Futûhât
Makkiyya discretely suggested by Ibn 'Arabi is not an isolated example. We
have already witnessed an analogous relationship between the short treatise on
the Manzil al-manâzil and chapter 22. Michel Valsan, in his translation
of the Kitâb al-fanâ fî l-mushâhada,42 had underscored43
the strict rapport between this work (composed before the part of the Futühât
where the fast al- manâzil is found) and chapter 286, on the one hand,
and sura 98 (Al-bayyind}, on the other hand. In both cases it is the
“abode” related to this sura that is being dealt with; this manzil is
the one that, in chapter 22, is called manzil al-mushâda, “abode of
contemplation.” Several other texts take up the same theme,44 drawn
from the first two words of the sura, to such an extent that the reader sees
the formation, throughout the entirety of the Shaykh al- Akbar’s works, of a
veritable network woven from one Qur’ânic reference that constitutes its
center. But the discovery is soon made that similar networks are present
everywhere in the corpus of Ibn 'Arabi’s work and that they are so numerous and
complex that an exhaustive map of them could not be made. A few examples will
suffice to give a sense of the breadth and density of this weave
whose knotting always leads back to the Qur’an.
The fifth section of the Futûhât, the one following the fasl
al- manâzil, is that of the munâzalât, a word whose root is
identical to that of manzil, but whose sense is one of reciprocity. The
definition that Ibn ‘Arabi gives of it permits one to interpret it as an
encounter between God and man, each having covered half of the distance.45
The section of the munâzalât does not have the same linear character as
the preceding section, and there is thus no simple way of identifying the kind
of Qur’finie structure that organizes it. Each of the seventy-eight chapters
that make it up is nevertheless in correspondence with a sura.46 But
relying on other works permits a more certain identification of this sura, and
at the same time it gradually shows the path taken by one of the
"networks" to which we have referred. Furthermore, it permits a
deeper understanding of the chapter under consideration.
In the series of Ibn ‘Arabi’s Rasâïl published in Hyderabad
are two short works that, though noteworthy, do not appear to have heretofore
attracted the attention of specialists. They are the Kitâb al-shâhid
(Book of the Witness) and the Kitâb al-tarâjim (Book of
Interpretations). The “witness” is defined by Ibn ‘Arabi in the Futûhât
(“the permanence of the form of the contemplated in the contemplator”) and the Kitâb
al-shâhid (“that which remains in the heart of the servant after his
separation from the station of contemplation”).47 As for
“interpretation”—and it is known that this is what Ibn ‘Arabi often considers
the task that he assigns himself in his writings—it is, broadly speaking, the
function of the Perfect Man (insân. kâmil), the interpreter of the two
Books in which God speaks: the Qur’fin and the universe. In the Kitâb
al-tarâjim, interpretation consists more precisely in translating the
secrets that the intellect, purified of all speculative activity, receives from
the divine names in the different degrees where they are encountered.48
That the Kitâb al-tarâjim is in some way closely tied to the
fasl al-munâzalât is suggested at the beginning of the text:
Know, my brothers, you who are among men of high aspiration, among
those who raise themselves toward higher degrees—for it is to you that I
address my words, to you that I speak by way of reminding and admonishing,
noj^f instructing—that encounters along the way [aiu.rrKiiâtj between
the realities of divine names and human realities in the person of the Perfect
Man—whether it is a man or a woman—are as innumerable as are the orientations
[of the heart toward God] and the divine names themselves.
A little later we read: “The munâzalât are not obtained
except through the most perfect conformity to the prescriptions of the Law”49
These repetitions of key words are always, for Ibn ‘Arabi, signs worthy of
attention.
Each of the sixty-nine chapters that follow this preamble bears a
title that connects it to a divine name: “Interpretation of Magni licence” (ta'zim,
or to the name Al-Azîiri), "Interpretation of Sanctity'" (taqdis,
thus attached to the name Al-Quddus), and so bn. But a somewhat careful
examination of the contents of these chapters (divided into short paragraphs
called “subtlety” [latifa] or “allusion" [ishdra]) shows that, in
addition to this rapport with one of the names of God, each of them has a
privileged relationship with a sura of 11 >e Qur’an, according to a regular
progression that, as was the case for the manâzil, is an inverse
progression from that of the Qur’ânic suras: chapter 1 corresponds to sura 69 (Al-haqqd),
chapter 2 to sura 68, and so forth up to the last, which corresponds to the Fâ-tiha.
A first series of rapprochements is thus imposed with the chapters of the fast
al-manâzil, which correspond to these same suras.80
Other interconnections—with the 27 chapters of the Kitâb al-
shâhid and, as can be seen from indications taken from early in the text,
with different chapters of the fast al-inunâzalât—are then brought to
our attention by the recurrence ( too frequent to not be deliberate) of certain
words or even certain sentences. Let it be remembered that this collection of
connections, some within the Futûhât itself an d others between the Futûhât
and other works,61 is in each case generated by the sura around
which these different writings are arranged like a star. The arrangement of
connections verifies that the Qur’an is truly at the very heart of Ibn ‘Arabi’s
work, as it puts order into an apparently disordered proliferation. Tb
illustrate the richness and the coherence of this network, let us look at three
further examples of these connections.
Chapter 16 of the Kitâb al-tarâjim is entitled “tarjamat
al- bâtin”, chapter 23 of the Kitâb al-shâhid is the “bâb
al-bâtin”, and the resembl^^e does not stop with the title. The same theme
is dealt with imooth cases. But this is not all. In the fast. al-munâza-
látB- chapter 400
also deals with this theme, and its title contains an expression that is a
slight variation (the passing from first person to third person) of a phrase
from the Kitâb al-shâhid.5i Chapter 16 of the Tarâjim
corresponds according to the schema mentioned above, to sura 54 (Al-qamar,
“The Moon”); it suffices to go back to chapter 330 of the Futûhât, which
is the manzil for this sura54 to complete the connection. One
now sees that the symbolism of the visible face and the hidden face of the moon
is used by Ibn ‘Arabi to express what these texts outline in other ways: that
God hides when the creature is manifest, and becomes manifest when the creature
hides. The network is thus summarized in figure 4.1.
According to the same method, figure 4.2 illustrates the similarities
between the bâb al-ânâya (that is, chapter 13 of the Kitab
al-shahid), the tarjamat al-ânâya, which makes up chapter 49 of the Kitâb
al-tarâjim, and chapter 412 of the Futûhât.55
Kitâb
al-tarâjim chapter 49 manzil chapter 363
sura 21
Kitab al-shâhid
chapter 13 munâzala chapter 412
Figure 4.2
In another significant example, chapter 14 of the Kitab al-
shâhid and chapter 50 of the Kitâb al-tarâjim have their title and
subject in common: qadâ, “predestination.” The two clearly correspond
to chapter 413 of the Futûhât, which is titled: “Neither He Who Makes a
Request of Me nor He Who Does Not Will Escape My Predestination,”55
This sentence is found again word for word at the end of chapter 14 of the Kitâb
al-shâhid. They are all connected with the manzil of sura 20 (Tâ
Ha), that is, to chapter 364, which from its very first lines affirms the
impossibility of creatures, either in the state of thubût (which is
theirs in the divine science for all eternity) or when they are enveloped by wujûd
(when they are “existentiated”) to escape the divine order.57 In the
inverse order of the Quranic suras, beginning, then, with sura 69, chapter 50
of the Kitâb al-tarâjim corresponds quite well with sura Tâ Hâ. A
new network can be seen in figure 4.3.
Here again, the representation is nothing more than an extremely
brief summary; for it to be even close to completed it would require its being
enriched by connections with chapters belonging to other sections of the Futûhât—chapter
six, for example, where each of the “iniatory Poles” is characterized by a
verse that is its own particular manner of invocation (hijjir) and where
the order of chapters is once again in rapport with a particular order of
suras. But Ibn ‘Arabi’s other works should also be included in such a
topographic overview, particularly those that were mentioned previously: the Kitâb
al-'Abâdila, Kitâb al-tajalliyât, and so on, not to mention, of course the Fusûs
al-hikam, which alone
deserve detailed study. Chapter 12 of the Fusâs, for example
(on 1 “the wisdom of the heart"), is written into a network
where several chapters from the Futûhât (chapter 40 in the first fast,
chapter 348 in the fourth fasl, chapter 405 in the fifth fasl)
are intertwined with chapter 34 of the Kitâb abtarâjim, the “knot” of
this junction being1 sura Yasin (sura 36), which is the
“heart” of the Qur'an. Perceiving this common reference is what brings into
light the coherence of the ensemble, thus allowing the puzzles to be
understood.
The suggestions we have presented here are far from being
exhaustive. With them, we simply attempt to illustrate the need for a careful
reading of the corpus of Ibn 'Arabi’s works, so foreign to those for whom he is
nothing but an eclectic philosopher or an incoherent visionary. Identifying in
each case the Qur’ânic seed buried in the text from which these luxurious
branchings spring is indispensable. Any view should thus be attentive to a
staggering but rigorous crisscrossing of pithy allusions, implicit references,
and discreet signs. Such detection, which also requires a thorough knowledge
of the Qur'an, is not an easy task. The Kitâb al-tajalliyât, whose
successive sequences are related to the verses of one sura, is a special case.
It is so rich in clues that sooner or later at least some of them are bound to
pique the attention of the reader such that, gradually, the majority, if not
the totality, of these correspondences can be understood. But even in this
case, it must be remembered that the Qur’ânic “seed” can be reduced to a few
words: for, in the Qur’an, each unit—part of a phrase, a verb, a
particle—carries its own autonomous meaning, is filled with announcement, and
flashes with sparks. In this book’s epigraph we gave a passage from the “Theophany
of Perfection.” This beautiful divine monologue describes the resonance in Ibn
'Arabi’s heart of three words: fa-innî qarîb, “I am quite near,” from
verse 185 of Al-baqara. Similarly, in chapter 286 of the Kitâb
al-fanâ fi l-mushâhada, the theme of “extinction of the servant” as a
necessary condition of contemplation comes entirely from the initial Lam
yakun of sura Al-bayyina—a statement that out of ■ context expresses
the ontological nothingness of the creature—even though other terms taken from
this sura are later used on a number of occasions.
If we return to the two examples examined above, where whole texts
related to suras 20 and 21, we notice in similar fashion that, among the 135
verses of the first and the UMkf the second, the Qur’ânic seed is reduced to
part of verse 129 in sura 20 and three verses (101-103) in sura 21. It will be
observed that it is the presence of one verb (sabaqa, “to precede”) in
these two scriptural references that explains the continuity of the chapters
that echo them (49 and 50 in the Kitâb al-tarâjim; 363-64 and 412-13 in
the Futùhâî', 14-15 in the Kitâb al-shâhid). In each case it is
really a question of qadá, the predestination that leads some to
felicity (whence the word ‘indya, “grace”), and others to punishment.
Verse 129 of Tâ Hâ (“If it had not been for a word already gone
forth...”) concerns the impious, while verses 101—103 of Al-anbiyâ are
addressed to the pious servants to whom divine favors have previ- ously been
granted (sabaqat lahum minna l-husna). The pious will consequently be
far from Gehenna (regardless of what they do) and will not even hear the
hissing; conforming to the eternal decree, they will reside in the place where
all their desires will be fulfilled.
It goes without saying that Muslims give the Qur’an the first
place, that the Divine Word rules their faith and their works. And that is even
more true for the sufis, whose existence, vowed to God, is centered on his
Book: the writings tha t they have left us and comments that hagiographie
tradition has registered for us offer abundant evidence of this fact. But
there is much more to it than just that. The Qur’ân's ubiquity in Ibn 'Arabi’s
work, the permanent role that it plays in his work’s development and
architecture are of exceptional character. Ibn 'Arabi’s doctrine is not simply
a meditation on the Qur’ân. It is so organically linked to him that the two
are really inseparable. For Ibn 'Arabi, the Word of God is “the Way. the Truth,
and the Life.” It is in the Qur’an that the voyage is macle that leads man back
to his original status, to his divine similitude.
Commenting on the hadith where it is reported that the Prophet
demanded of God "Grant me complete Light.” he reminds us that light (al-nûr)
is one of the divine names and adds: “It is for this reason that the sages [al-hukamá]
indicated by allusion Lhal the goal that the servant should attempt to reach is
to become similar to the divinity [al-tashabbuh bi l-ilâh]. As for the
sufis. they speak of acquiring divine names. The manners of expression are
different, but the meaning is the same.”58
But al-nûr (light) is also one of the names of the Qur’an:
the theôsis consists in identifying oneself totally with the Word oí God.
to “becomeg^ Qur’ân.” He also writes: “The Perfect Man [al-insân aí-fedmií]
is the brother of the Qur’an”;69 or, even more explicitly: “The Universal
Man [al-insân al-kullî\ is the Qur’ân.”60 After the death of
the Prophet, who was the paradigm of all perfection (tiswa hasana), his
wife ‘A’isha said: “His nature was the Qur’ân.” Ibn ‘Arabi cites this remark
repeatedly; for him, it sums up all that creatures should aspire to.
In a verse from sura Fussilat, it is said: “We will make
them see Our signs on the horizons and in their souls” (41:53). The meaning of
the statement for the Shaykh al-Akbar is explained in a chapter where he deals
with sakina (“peace," “serenity,” but also, like the Hebrew Shekina,
the Divine “Presence”): the sakîna that God sent down for the children
of Israel in the Ark of the Covenant (Qur’ân 2: 248) “was made to come down in
the hearts of believers of Mtdiammad’s community [Qur’ân 48:4], and it is for
that reason and for other similar reasons that it is the best community that
has sprung up among men [Qur’ân 3:110],..What was manifest in other communities
has come down invisibly into this community and men of spiritual experience
have found it in their hearts.”
He then explains what distinguishes, among the saints, the person
who is properly a “Muhammadan heir” (wârith muham- madi) from all the
others: for the Muhammadan heir, the signs (àyât) are interior.61
The word âyât is also the word that, in Arabic and in
particular in the Qur’ân itself, refers specifically to this eminent category
of signs that constitute the verses of Revelation. It is in us that the words
should be inscribed, it is our very beings that should be the book in which we
decipher them. It thus becomes a question of becoming like the fata in
Mecca who invited Ibn ‘Arabi to examine the “details of his constitution” and
the “order of his form” before commanding: “Now raise my veils and read what my
inscriptions enclose!” But there is there no appropriation of Revelation on the
part of the man. It is not the man who inhabits the Qur’an; it is the Qur’ân
that dwells within the man: Divine Word takes possession of the ‘àrif
bi-Llâh in such a way that the Qur’ân becomes his “nature.” The initiatory
voyage (sulûk), its abodes, its trials, its length can be described in a
number of ways: certainly, for Ibn ‘Arabi they are nothing more than this
possession by the Verb.
This encounter with the fata we just referred to once again
determines, as we have said, the content (the “inscriptions”) and the structure
(the “order”) of the Futûhât Makkiyya. We must return to this event in
order to clarify, no longer particular aspects of the work, as has already been
done, but the disposition of the whole. When Ibn "Arabi first arrives in
Mecca, it is to make a pilgrimage. This pilgrimage requires the performance of
a specific rite, that of circumambulation (tawâf) of the Ka'ba, the
House of God. Tb forget that the Futûhât—the “openings,” the “illuminations”—are
Makkiyya, that they can and do occur only in this sacred place, that the
event where they have their genesis is inseparable from the ritual turns that
Ibn 'Arabi makes with the fata, leads only to the worst mistake. When
the Shaykh al-Akbar tells the young man “Let me perceive some of your secrets,”
the answer is “Do the circumambulations in my footsteps.”sa Seven
successive theophanies will correspond to these seven circum ambulations; “He took
before me the form of Life.. .Then he took before me the form of Sight...Then
he took before me the form of Knowledge...Then he took before me the from of
Listening.. .Then he took before me the form of Discourse...Then he took before
me the form of Will.. .Then he took before me the form of Power.” The
explanation of these transformations follows immediately: “My House that you
see here represents my Essence and the circumambulations represent the seven
attributes of perfection.”63 These seven attributes are the ones
called by the “Names of the Essence”: The Living (Al-Hayy), The Knowing (Al-Alim),
The Wanting (Al-Mûrid), The Powerful (Al-Qadîr), The Speaking (Al-Mutakallim
or Al-Qahl), The Hearing (Al-Samî1), The Seeing (Al-Basîr).
Of these names, the six last, according to the Shaykh al-Akbar in another
passage,64 are those to which contingent beings are attached. The
first, The Living, is the one by which the others survive and that, present in
each of them, remains hidden to created beings.
The arrangement of the Futûhât in six sections may be sufficiently
explained by the importance with which, in a general way, the number six is
seen in the Shaykh al-Akbar’s work. This importance is not simply the result of
the fact that it is the number of the days of creation (as O. Yahia has
shown—as he has also shown that it is the number of dimensions in space). For
Ibn 'Arabi, six, which is the first perfect number65 is above all
the symbolic number of the insán kámil (Perfect Man).66
Effectively, this number expresses the value according to the abjad of
the letter waw, which, although not written, appears, in the
existentiating syllable kun! (Be!), between the kâf and the nun.
And because of that, it is likened by Ibn 'Arabi to Muhammadan Reality: the
“isthmus” (barzakli) between haqq and khalq, between the
Divine Principle and its manifestation.67 This comparison is also
based on the grammatical function of waw; in Arabic, it plays a
copulative role, thus uniting that which is separate.
But in a more specific manner, the explanation of the number and
order of succession of the fusûl resides in the number and nature of the
divine attributes (sifât) or relational modes (nisab) that
creation depends upon; that is, on the six names just listed. The first
section, that of “knowledge” (ma’ârif), is clearly related to the name Al-
"Alim (The Knowing). The second, that of “behaviors” (mu'amalât),
which should be those of the murid (the postulant; literally, “he who
wants”) progressing along the Path, appears in clear relation to the name Al-Murïd'.
when tire murid “wants” God, it is actually that God wants him. The
third name in the series, Al- Qadîr (The Powerful), corresponds to the
section of “spiritual states” (ahwâl), which divine omnipotence produces
in man without his being able to obtain them through his own efforts. The
fourth name is Al-Mulakallim (The Speaking): its relationship to the
fourth fast, where each step of spiritual realization is identified with
one of the suras of the Qur’ân, that is, with the Divine Word, is equally
clear, and it suggests the existence of a privileged relationship between the fata
and this section. The following section, that of “encounters along the way” and
of face-to-face discussions between God and man, corresponds to the fifth name,
The Hearing. The sixth fast, finally, that of the "stations” (maqamât),
is in explicit rapport with the name Al-Basîr (The Seeing). Each of the
“stations” in the sixth fast represents a particular manner of contemplation,
but it is God who is both the contemplator and the contemplated at the same
time. As for The Living, the seventh name that sustains and, to a certain
extent, contains all the others and which is thus in reality the first (the
theophany “in the form of Life” comes at the head of the six others when Ibn
'Arabi completes the tawâf behind the fata), it corresponds to
the first chapter, the same chapter from which the entire work springs, in the
falas contemplation. Born out of observance of the Law, out of the
performance of a prescribed rite, that of hajj, the^Ltühât repeat
and perpetuate the revolutions of the pilgrim, around the House
that God, to whom belong “the East and the West,” has chosen as a sign of his
presence.
"Those Who Are Perpetually In Prayer"
(QUR’ÂN 70:23)
Revelation is not only message: it is also commandment. The message
delivers its totality only to the "submissive”: to the true mus- limûn.
The Qur’an opens its “treasures” only to those who apply the Law that it
established. There is no illumination without obedience. The shari'a
(Law) and the haqîqa (the highest and most secret of truths) are
inextricably conjoined. They are bintânî min abin wahid (the two
daughters of a single father).1 The munazalât, as has been
seen, are obtained only by “the most perfect conformity to the prescriptions of
the Law.”2 The divine remark, which, as is the case in the fifth
section of the Futûhât, gives its title to chapter 437 states: “He who
knows his part of my Law”—that part which it is his duty to observe at any given
moment of his existence— “knows the part of me which comes back to him.”3
In the Thnaz- zulât mawsiliyya, Ibn cArabi explains that “the
institution of the Law has two causes, in which are two secrets: the first is
preserving the order of the world...and its secret is that assisting the
believers is a duty for him; and the second is establishing the proofs of servitude
by manifesting the magnificence of the Lordship; its secret is the power that
his two names exercise.”4 “What he has declared licit, we declare
licit; what he has declared a matter of free choice, we also declare likewise;
what he blames, we blame; what he recommends, we recommend; what he declares
obligatory, we declare obligatory.”5
The strict relationship between the graces accorded by God and the
accomplishment of legal prescriptions is the major theme of a work that the
Shaykli al-Akbar composed in eleven days, in Almeria, during the month of
Ramadân 595,6 and completed in Bougie in 597.7 The work
was written for his companion Badr al- Habashi. Ibn ‘Arabi said that the book
“can make a spiritual master unnecessary,” and that “the spiritual master
himself needs it,” which underscores the importance that he places on the work.8
Its
title, MawàqiA al-nujûm, "The Setting of the Stars,”
was borrowed from a verse (Qur’ân 56:75) in which the Qur’ân is said to be
found "in a hidden Book that only those who have purified themselves
touch.” The current interpretation, according to which only the Muslim in a
state of legal purity can touch a copy of the Qur’ân, is not restrictive, of
course. Without deviating from the letter, it is obvious that true access to
the “hidden Book” requires more than just formal observance of the rules of
ritual ablution. It will be seen that in this matter, as in all others, Ibn c
Arabi does not separate— and a fortiori, does not oppose—the zâhir
and the bâtin.B
The plan of this treatise, as explained by Ibn cArabi in
his introductio^ distinguishes three degrees Çmartabât) to each of which
correspond three spheres (qfiâk): an islâmiyya sphere, an imâniyya
sphere, and an ihsdniyya sphere. The association of these names (based
on Qur’ânic terms) is supported by a prophetic tradition10 that
defines three hierarchically superimposed stages: al- islâm (external
submission to the Law), al-îmân (internal conviction), and al-ihsân
(the perfection consisting of “worshipping God as if one saw Him”). Three of
these nine spheres (nine being the traditional number of the celestial
spheres) are thus quite logically related to the body (jism), three with
the individual soul (nafs), and three with the spirit (rûh).
The largest part of the work11 is dedicated to the
seventh sphere (islâmiyya) of the third degree, that of sainthood (walâya).
It deals in great detail with the connection between the fulfillment of the
legal prescriptions appropriate to each member and the divine gifts that are
their fruits: the charismatic gifts (karamât)— ambiguous favors, for
they can be a dangerous test for the beneficiary through divine trickery (makr
ilâhî)—and the manâzil, the “abodes” that are the consequence and
the gage of authentic spiritual realization. This realization, he explains, is
not necessarily accompanied by charisma—which is to his mind quite secondary
and eventually dangerous—but he nevertheless judges it necessary to describe
them for the use of those to whom these gifts might be given so that they will
know how to correctly interpret their nature and origin.
The scriptural foundation of the relationship thus established
between the acts of members and supernatural graces is found in a hadith
qudsi wherein God says that he is “the hearùj| the sight,
the hand” of the servant that he loves:’2 for God to be
the hearing of the ‘abd (servant), it is first necessary that the latter
respect the obligations incumbent on this faculty, as is the case for the
others. Ibn 'Arabi thus successively examines the case of the seven members
submissive to the taklíf (prescriptions of the Law). Let it be clarified
that he envisions prescriptions of a general character, without specifically
taking into consideration the participation of the body in ritual acts, which
will be addressed later.13
To be obedient to the Law, the eye must turn away from things
forbidden and, in a more general sense, from whatever might distract it. For
the person who observes these commandments, the charismatic gifts with which he
will eventually be gratified are, for example, the vision of hidden things,
like the Ka'ba while prayer is performed, or the angels, or the jinn',
he will be capable of recognizing the abdâl or of identifying Khadîr,
regardless of the form in which they appear. But that is not the essential:
"interna] vision'’ (basîrd) will be opened. The seer will perceive
his own interior “kingdom” (malakût) and that of the creatures, whose
states and spiritual degrees he knows. He gradually becomes capable of
obtaining the nec plus ultra, the vision of God.
The ear should refuse to hear calumny, lies, or impious or illicit
remarks. Furthermore, it has the duty of dedicating itself to listening to the
Qur’ân, or listening to the words of the preacher or the remarks of the
spiritual master. It should be attentive to all forms of invocation. If it
adheres to these rules, it will be capable of obtaining diverse karamât:
perceiving the celebration of divine glory (tasbîh) by all creatures,
including vegetables and minerals; or hearing the instructions of angelic
messengers. The corresponding “abodes” are accompanied by even greater
privileges, since the servant will finally be able to hear and understand “the
Eternal Word” (al-kalâm al-qadîin).
The section where Ibn 'Arabi deals with the works of the tongue
entails an explanation of the distinction between karamât (tire miracles
of saints) and mujizât (the miracles of the prophets), of the power of
spiritual energy (himma), of the different ways of reciting the Book (by
the whole being, or by only one part). The tongue is required to abstain from
vile words, from lying, from swearing, and from calumny; it is required to devote
itself to pious acts in its ^main: recitation of the Qur’an, invocation, the
commandment to do good (al-amr bi-m.acrüf). The karamât
engendered by these practices include the ability to predict the future, the
ability to speak with an invisible audience, to be understood at extraordinary
distances, to bring things into existence by sole virtue of the spoken
word—like Jesus, like the chosen ones in the life to come. But especially, and
here the divine promise inherent in the hadith quoted above will be recognized,
it is God who from this point on is speaking through the mouth of the
individual who scrupulously observes the duties of the tongue. Ibn 'Arabi
describes two abodes there. In the one, the servant recites the Qur'an in God’s
presence. In the other, it is God Who recites the Qur'ân for the servant.
The hand—more precisely, the right hand—must of course abstain from
killing and from theft, but also from any useless gesture. It is to be
submissive to positive obligations—giving alms, for example, for it symbolizes
both power and generosity. Among the numerous corresponding charismatic gifts
is included the power to make gold and silver “come out of the air.” The true
reward, however, does not entail this kind of superior prodigies; it consists
rather in seeing the Divine Right inscribe the creatures on the guarded Tablet
and thus obtain, in a synthetic form and in a distinctive form, the knowledge
of their essential realities. The “Pact with the Pole,” described by chapter
336 of the Futûhât,14 takes place in an “abode” dependent
upon the works of the hand.
In the long passage about the stomach, the Shaykh al-Akbar cites
Qur’ân verse 9:123 (“Oh you who believe, fight against those infidels close to
you”). “The lot of the sufi,” he writes, “is to consider that this verse refers
to his own soul...for of all the “infidels,” it is the closest to him. When he
has done battle with it and killed or imprisoned it, only then does he occupy
himself with other infidels, according to the demands of the station (maqâm)
that he has attained.” This infidel soul possesses two powerful swords—the
stomach and sex—which make all creatures subservient. But of these two swords,
the one more to be feared is the stomach. When the stomach is tamed, sex is
also. In fact, he adds, the body, properly speaking, demands only what is
strictly necessary. Innamâ murâcluhu l-wiqâya: it desires only that
which is essential to its preservation, be this food, drink, clothing, or
shelter. It is the individual soul, the nafs, that demands, in both
quality and quantity, all that exceeds this minimum, thus demonstrating its
stupidity, since the body that it governs will become carrion, the food excrement,
the clothing rags, and the house a ruin. No need of divine instruction to know
that; this is a certitude founded on evidence. It is thus important, as God has
ordered, to confine oneself to sobriety and to scrupulously consume only
legally permitted foods.
Diverse spiritual gifts will sometimes be accorded to those who put
these precepts into practice. Signs will advise them of the licit or illicit character
of what is to be eaten. Food will multiply in their hands, change its nature
according to the desires of those who partake of food with them, or food will
come to them in a supernatural manner. Brackish water will become sweet. In
certain cases, they will be sated without having eaten, thanks to foods that
someone else may have eaten. Works of the stomach will in any case make them
penetrate manâzü, where they will obtain more valuable spiritual
sciences than these phenomena. In the “abode of Abraham” (manzil ibrâhimî),
these individuals will know the secrets of physical and spiritual germination.
In the “abode of Mikâ’îl,” the angel in charge of the sustenance of the
creatures, they will first contemplate Mikâ’îl as he exercises his distributive
function, then God himself, with regard to the names that govern the conferring
of the fair share of what each individual deserves. At the end of the voyage,
they will end up knowing the Divine Essence, in that it is “the food of foods,”
that through which every thing is and remains.
Sexual desire in itself is weak. It is the satisfaction of the
stomach that fortifies it, and thus there is the need for fasting. “If hunger
were for sale in the market place, spiritual aspirants (al- murîdûri)
should purchase nothing else!” It is mastery of sexual desire (it is not a
question of continence, but once again, of conformity with conditions assigned
by the Law to the satisfaction of desire) that makes one ready for spiritual
paternity. He who controls his sexual desires vivifies beings by his teaching.
His words are engraved in those who listen to him—the analogy between the male
sexual organ and the pen that writes on the tablet, which itself is a symbol of
the female sexual organs, is strongly emphasized.
The foot’s duty is to walk toward that which is obligatory (making
the pilgrimage, performing collective prayer in the mosque, visiting the sick,
and so on) and abstaining from what is forbidden or reproach able. In the lives
of the saints, marvels are associated with such obedience: they “walk" in
the air, or on water; the earth “folds up” underneath them such that they cover
formidable distances with just a few steps. These spectacular gifts are nevertheless
nothing more than the expression on the plane of sensation of graces, which
are much higher. The true walk in air is domination of the passions (there is
here an untranslatable play on words based on the similarity in terms used for
air and passion), leading to the malakût, the spiritual kingdom. Walking
on water is mastering the secret of life (for “it is from water that we
[God] have made all living things," Qur’an 21:30).
We have presented here only a brief outline of the teachings that
make up a treatise of more than a hundred pages. It does, nevertheless, give a
sense of the exact correlation that Ibn ‘Arabi establishes between spirtual
realization (tahaqquq) and humble, painstaking submission to the sharUa.
Another of Ibn ‘Arabi’s works adds complementary details, which, in this case,
concern more the importance of the ritual acts of worship Çibâdât')
instituted by the Law. The work in question is the Tanazzulât mawsiliyya,
the angelic “descents of Mosul” written, as the name suggests, in the Iraqi
city where Ibn ‘Arabi, arriving from Baghdad, stayed in 601 A.H. before going
on to Anatolia.15
I have placed in this book the subtleties of secrets and the
splendors of the sciences of lights. It is constructed on enigma and symbol so
that he who attempts an intimate talk [munctja] with his Lord, when he
observes [in this book] what the fruits of such an encounter truly are, will be
conscious of his limits and his powerlessness. But if I have attempted to
disguise these divine meanings in an enigmatic speech, it is also out of a
jealous concern for keeping away detainers of exoteric science, and to punish
them for their refusal—just as God has put a seal on their hearts and their
ears and a veil on their eyes [allusion to Qur’ân 2:7] such that they are
unable to perceive the smell of the breath of essential truths or to
distinguish at all the difference between angelic visits or satanic visits in
their hearts.
In this I am in accord with the example of him [Abu Hurayra] who
received the science from the irdall^jj^ Prophet
and stated: “If I divulged it, my throat would be slit,” or to
‘Alî’s [Abî Tâlib] example when he learned what was being said about him,, and
said while pointing to his breast: “There are abundant sciences here. If only I
could find someone capable of enduring them.”16
The use in this introduction of the word munâja (intimate
talk), when one is familiar with Ibn ‘Arabi’s vocabulary, permits the reader to
understand immediately that, among the ibâdât, it is about ritual prayer
(salât) that he has chosen to speak. Actually, this word refers to a
hadith: "Each one of you, when you pray, has an intimate talk with the
Lord.”17 Ibn ‘Arabi deducts certain important aspects of his
interpretation of salât from this hadith, and he uses the hadith frequently
when speaking about prayer. This choice of prayer is easily explained.
Among the five pillars (arkân) of Islam, the first refers to faith—the shahâda,
the testimony to divine unicity and the mission of the Messenger—and the
four others to fundamental works: prayer, alms, fasting, and pilgrimage. But
"the first of his works that man will be asked to account for on the day
of judgment is prayer.”18 Almsgiving (zakat) is a conditional
obligation—it is not incumbent on the poor, who are rather the
beneficiaries—and it needs be done only once per year. The pilgrimage (hajj),
also dependent on conditions (having the necessary resources, the security of
the roads, physical aptitudes), needs be performed only once in a lifetime.
Fasting (saivm), for which cases of inability are also foreseen, lasts
one month out of twelve. Prayer is daily and, even though it may be reduced to
a hasty sketch of the prescribed gestures in the case of those who are ill or
elderly, each believer, from the age of reason, must perform it five times a
day.10 Its daily repetition thus confers on it a particular
importance. In a certain sense, then, prayer contains the three other works: it
is “purification” (the etymological meaning of zakât) and “alms of
being,” as zakât is alms of having; it imposes the same constraints as
fasting since, like fasting, it cuts the person who prays off from the profane
world (“it closes all the doors and the station that corresponds to it is
divine jealousy”20); facing in the direction of the House of God, it
is an immobile pilgrimage, just as the hajj is, inversely, a prayer in
movement. Ibn ‘Arabi, who dedi • cates countless passages of his work to prayer
(and most notably aj > immense enoter of the Futûhât21)
especially emphasizes, in the
beginning of the Tanazzulât, its munâja
characteristic; elsewhere he recalls that the successive gestures of a person
in prayer recap the "kingdoms of nature”: the vertical position is that of
the human being, the horizontal position then taken is that of the animal
world, and the prostration that turns man toward the earth is indentified with
the plant kingdom.22 Although the text does not mention it, the
fourth posture, that of being seated (julûs), corresponds quite clearly,
from this point of view, to the massive stability of the mineral world. Through
this series of positions the believer is to actualize his virtual nature of
’‘abbreviation of the universe,” of microcosm, and thus assume the function of
“lieutenant,” “place holder” (khîlâfd) that God has assigned him.
The Shaykh al-Akbar deals first with ritual ablution, which, for
him, it might be said again, is an autonomous act of worship gibada
mustaqulla) and not only a preface to prayer.23 He distinguishes
between the perfectly pure “celestial water,” which purifies the intellect (n/-caqi),
and “terrestrial water,” which purifies the senses.24 If water is
the principle of life, the earth is the matter from which our bodies were
created (mû khuliqta minhu): that is why, when water is scarce, the
Qur’ân authorizes ablution with dust (tayctmmum).26 In either case,
as can be seen, purification consequently consists in a return to the origin
that restores the primordial status of the human being. As for the ghusl—complete
ablution of the body and not just certain parts of it—which is required to
erase the major state of impurity that results from the sexual act, it involves
all of man because, in sexual union a word whose root expresses the i dea of
totalization) the being is as if drowned in a ghayba kulliyya, a total
absence; it is in exile from itself.2®
Each element of ritual purification is then commentated: washing of
the hands, of the face, of the feet, and so forth. But the intellect must also
be cleansed of the representations that it fashions, it must be returned to
its primal simplicity: “O intellect, face your place of prayer, that he might
recite his Word upon you. Leave your belief (i’tiqâdakd) there. Do not
reflect while he is speaking to you. Do not think about your response.”27
rtiqâd—the word here translated as “belief”—is not naked faith. Like !aql
(intellect), this word is formed from a root that means “attach,” or “knot.” I^iqád
is a ligature, a conception or mental image in which we enclose divine
infinity. Returning to ummiyya, to illiteracy, to the state of infancy,
is a sine qua non of hearing divine discourse. The intellect that has
welcomed this discourse has no need of responding: it will hear the response
that God creates in it.
All of the chapters of the Tanazzulât begin with the
sentence "The faithful Spirit [al-rûh al-amîn, Qur’ân 26:193]
descended upon the heart and said,” which explains the title given to the work,
“[Angelic] Descents.” After interpreting the words of the call to prayer (iqâmd),
the faithful Spirit explains the deep meaning of takbîr (the recitation
of the words Allâhu akbar! “Allâh [which represents here the supreme
Name] is greatest”) with which salât itself begins:
When you are in any state whatever, celestial or terrestrial, you
are necessarily under the rule of one of the divine names, whether you know it
or not, whether you contemplate it or not. It is this name that rules your
movement and your rest; it is through it that you have the status of possible,
or that of existent. And this name says: I am God. And it speaks the truth. But
it is mandatory that you reply: Allâhu akbar!.. .Know, with absolute
certainty, that the Divine Essence never shows itself to you as itself, but
only under the form of one of its eminent attributes; and know that you will
never know the meaning of the name Allah.2*
Only this absolute, unconditioned, inaccessible Essence is worthy
of worship, and, even though all the attributes may belong to it, even though
“all names are those of the same Named,” the takbîr is a radical refusal
to. idolize that which is not the Essence itself: it is greater than all that
is great, it transcends all transcendence.
The following is a passage on the elevation of the hands, palms
facing foreward, a ritual gesture that accompanies the takbîr and that,
for Ibn ‘Arabi, must be repeated in the subsequent phases of prayer:
The Most High has called you for intimate talk with you, the
Munificent has called you to pour out his gifts upon. you. Be then humble and
poor. Raise your hands in recitation of the takbîr each time that you
lower yourself or that you stand up again and throw behind yourself what has
been given to you in
each theophany.. .Place in your purse what you have received and
claim another gift and a greater light still, for it does not cease to shine.
Divine effusion perpetually emanates from the spring of his generosity. Welcome
it in that indefeasible indigence of being that remains attached to you when
you contemplate him. He does not cease to give, nor you to amass. He does not
stop elevating himself, nor you lowering yourself.29
Then the faithful Spirit teaches the secret of orientation toward
the qibla'. “Tbll your heaven [your spirit] not to veil you by its
subtlety, and your earth [your body] not to veil you by its density." The
qibla within must not hide the exterior qibla defined by the Law,
and vice versa. In echo to the verse according to which “wherever you turn,
there is the Face of God,” the angel prescribes: “Be a circular face [wajh
mustadir]... so that the orientation [of your body] toward the Ka'ba will
not be a screen to orientation in the direction of the divine presence in the
heart.”30
Next come the “secrets of the standing posture and of recitation,”
that is, of what constitutes the first sequence of salât. Muhammad
received “the Sum of the Words” (jawâmU al-kalim) and the Qur’an
contains all previous revelations. According to the interior state of the
reciter, it can thus be perceived in a different way, each modality being the
expression of one of its multiple aspects. Thus the injunction:
Know how to distinguish between the Qur’ân [qur an: the
Qur’ân in the sense that it gathers together and sums up] and your Furqàn
[another name of the Qur’an considered this time in its separating function],
between your Torah and your Light [still the Qur’ân seen in the sense that it
illuminates], between your Book and your Psalms...The Qur’an is reserved for
the Muhammadan [niukhtass bi l-muhammadî], the Furqân belongs to
it by virtue of its participation in the Mosaic heritage.31
The definition of the perfect recitant (he who receives the entire
Qur’an, who embraces all its modalities, all its “readings” ) is given to us by
Ibn ‘Arabi in a previous chapter of tbftmazzulàt:
I contain its Torah, its Gospels and its Qur’an
[and] I contain its Psalms.32
Qur’ânic recitation in prayer obligatorily includes the Fâtiha, followed
by another sura or another free choice of verses. The Fâtiha comes
first, with the majority of its sentences making explicit one of the names by
which it is traditionally called: “Know that it has two sides and a middle, or
two parts and a link between them”—an allusion to the first four verses, which
are “God’s part,” and to the last three, which are “man's part,” with the
intermediate part, verse 5, being of intermediary nature since it joins God’s
part (“It is you whom we worship”) and man’s part (“It is you whom, we implore
for help”). This double nature of the first sura is put into perspective by the
hadith qudsif3 in which God says: “1 have divided the prayer
[here identified with the Fâtiha, which is an essential element of
prayer] into two parts, between my servant and myself.” The text of the Tcmazzulât
affirms this again in differ- ■ ent forms a few lines later:
It is “The One That Opens” [the true meaning of the word fâtiha]
the brilliant theophanies. It is the Doubled One [al- muthanna], for it
contains the meanings of Lordship and servitude at the same time. It is The One
That Suffices [al- kâfiyyà], for it includes both trial and security. It
is the Seven Doubled Ones [al-sabc al-mathânî], for it
includes the [seven] attributes [of the Essence], It is the Immense Sum [al-qur’ân
al-cazim], for it envelops the contingent and the eternal. It is
the Mother of the Book [Umm al-kitâb], for in it are found felicity and
punishment. One of its sides is suspended in Divine Realities and the other is
attached to human realities, while its middle proceeds from the ones and the
others.33
Of the other suras among which the person who prays might choose
after the Fâtiha, we are told that they contain “from three to two
hundred eighty abodes...that were mentioned in the Futûhât Makkiyya.”
The fast al-manâzil was undoubtedly not yet written at the time that the
Tanazzulât were composed, but chapter 22 of the Futûhât, which is
a kind of preface to them, had certainly been written, andBt is quite probably
this that is being referred to. The
na
7UV UU21AJV vriinuu 7 c>nun.a
identification of the manâzil with suras is in any case
perfectly clear here, the numbers indicated being those of the verses of the
longest sura (Al-baqara) and of the shortest (Al-kawthar),
As he had already done in the Mawâqic al-nujûm
dealing with the works of the tongue, Ibn ‘Arabi distinguishes between two
recitations: al-tilâwa al-ilâhiyya (divine recitation), and al-tilâwa
al-insâniyya (recitation by the human being), and he shows the dif- \ ference between them by commentating
successively from these two
i points of
view on the first seventeen verses of sura Al-najm, the
Î same ones
that structured the Kitab al-isrâ.35 The choice of these
; verses is
not explainedfbut there is nothing accidental about it. As
( is known,
they describe the ascension (mi‘raj) of the Prophet. It is in
i the course
of this micraj that ritual prayer was instituted by God;
furthermore, according to a hadith, prayer is the “ascension of
the believer” [micraj al-mu’min], A paradoxical micraj:
it is in lowering himself that the one who prays is raised. "It is in your
fall that your elevation comes, and it is in your earth that your heaven is
found.”36
Bowing (rufeú‘) and prostration (sujud) follow recitation in
the vertical position.
i The
first phase of this descent, bowing, where only the upper
part of the body is bent, is a barzakh, an intermediate spot
between heaven and earth, between mbûbiyya, the Lordship symbolized by
the standing position, and the ‘ubûdiyya, the servile condition soon to
be shown via prostration. It thus shows the double nature of i man, where the superior realities (haqqiyya)
and the inferior reali-
; ties (khalqiyya)
are joined. That is why, returning to the vertical
position after the rukûc, he speaks in the name
of God, as if he were God, addressing the creatures—and himself in that he is a
creature—when he pronounces the ritual words: “God listens to him [servant]
who praises him [God],” A hadith37 teaches us that it is God who, at
this moment, pronounces the words through the mouth of the cabd.
Once more referring to prophetic traditions,38 Ibn
‘Arabî establishes an analogy between the lowering of the body toward the earth
and the descent of God toward the heavens of this lower world during the last
third of each night. Lowering himself toward the place of his prosternation,
the person who prays is in search of i divine
proximity. It is said: “Prostrate yourself and come closer”
Í (Qur’an
96:19) and, according to a hadith qudsî, “he who comes closer to me by a
hands length, I come closer to him by a forearm’s length.” Nevertheless, “just
as this fall toward the earth is brief, so also is the theophany corresponding
to it prompt to disappear...It has no stability and it is useless to want it to
last. It slips away like oil” (ka l-dihhân, Qur’an 55:37).39
This chapter on prostration (sujud) once again refers to
verse 96:19:
It is His name, Al-Qarîb, “He Who Is Close,” which has
called you to proximity. You are the lover and not the beloved, which is why he
says: [prostrate yourself] and come closer. If you were the beloved, he would
say: [prostrate yourself], you are close...Know that in your prostration you
are preserved (manirn) from Satan, for your prostration subjugates him
and he has no power over you. When he observes you ih this state, he thinks
only of himself [and of his own refusal to prostrate himself before Adam as God
had commanded; consumed by the fire in the citadel of his punishment, seeing
you obedient and comtemplating the fate that awaits him the day when the Hour
of Judgment comes.. .May God grant that we be, you and I, among those who have
prostrated themselves and who have found [mimman sajada wa wajada] ,4fl
In the section of chapter 69 of the Futûhât where he deals
with prostration,41 Ibn 'Arabi cites, recommending that the believer
imitate the example of the Prophet, the request (dud) that Muhammad
made of God while in sujud after pronouncing three times the ritual
phrase “Glory to my Most High Lord”: “Put a light in my heart, a light in
my'ear, a light in my eye, a light on my right, a light on my left, a light
before me, a light behind me, a light above me, a light under me, give me a
light and make me light.”
Remember that light (al-nûr) is one of the divine names. To
lus ipse lumen. “The second thing that the person says in prostrate prayer
is ‘Make me light,’ that is, make me you,” as Ibn ‘Arabi writes. The
“proximity” that sujiid is to lead to is just another name for theôsis.
The same passage from the Futûhât comes back emphatically to this same
theme: “Take me away from myself, and be my being, then will my eye see
everything through you. ”
After standing, bowing, and prostration, the seated posture
(julùs) is tiie fourth
in legal prayer. God “created the heavens and the earth in six days, then he
sat upon the Throne” (Qur’an 57:4) and this divine “seating” (istiwa)
is, to be precise, that of Al-Rah- inân, the “All Merciful” (Qur’ân
20:5). The consequences that Ibn c Arabi draws from this analogy in
the two chapters where he deals with julûs, properly speaking, and then
of tashahhud, the formula that the musalli (the person in prayer)
recites in this position, are as follows:42 "No veil exists
that could keep you from attaining the essential realities or from catching
subtleties, but for one: viz., the composite nature of the world of sensation.
When separation comes and the attachment [of your being] with it ceases,..,
then the essential realities will shine forth and you will obtain those
secrets which are still hidden from you. ”
But for those who are already separated from the world, who,
according to an expression of the Prophet, are "dead before dying,” there
is no waiting: “You have reached the degree of istiwâ—the state of
perfect equilibrium—and you have freed yourself from the power of heaven and
earth.” The sentences that follow are linked together in counterpoint to the
elements of the traditional formula of tashahhud: “Greet him whose
likeness you have become. Then greet him who led you [the Prophet] and through
whom he whom you find before you [God] has made you happy by solidly affirming
his presence through the vocative particle.” Actually, the greeting of the
Prophet in the tashahhud, is expressed in the second person—gramatically
the “person present”—and carries the vocative yâ ayyuhâ.
Then greet, with a salutation which comes from God, yourself and all
the beings of your species, for salâm [the greeting, but also Peace, one
of the divine names] is your Lord and the degree of the name Al-Salâm is
the place of your theophany [at this specific moment]. Finally, affirm the
unicity of the One and deny that there are equals to him [an allusion to the
words of the shahdda at the end of tashahhud], And then you will
need to disappear, for it is in this disappearance that you will obtain, what
you desired.
To finally leave the state of prayer that he began by the initial takbîr,
the worshipper must pronounce, while turs^^ his head toward the right: al-saldm
alaykum. This salâm can have different meanings or, in the case
where it is said mechanically by a distracted believer, it can have no
meaning:
In prayer there are two categories of Muslims and thus two ways of
performing prayer. Those who unite the one with the other are joining together
the spiritual realities that correspond to each.
The higher of these categories is that of the worshipper who says salâm
because he has passed [at the moment he comes out of prayer] from the authority
of one name to the authority of another. He is thus greeting the one he is
leaving and the one to which he is arriving...
The lesser category is that of the worshipper who greets the
All-Merciful because he is leaving him, and the creatures because he is
returning toward them...
As for those who belong to neither of these two categories, their salâm
is worthless: they were not near God, and their greeting is thus not the
greeting of one who is departing.
They never left the creatures, and thus their greeting is not the
greeting of one newly arrived.43
The daily ritual act (and the most banal, it might be said), the
act that marks the existence of all pious Muslims, is also the one that leads
to the highest intimacy with God, to this “proximity” that is another name for
the tashabbuh bi l-ilah through which man is reestablished in his
original theomorphism. To become “the throne of the Qur’an”44 it is
necessary to be submissive to the law of the Qur’an: the ibâdât that it
prescribes are the place where walâya, sainthood, attains its plenitude,
and, whatever their merit may be, the spiritual practices added out of free
choice to these common obligations cannot in themselves bear comparable fruits.
“Farâbd [obligatory acts], are higher and more loved by God than nawâfil
[supererogatory acts],”45 says Ibn ‘Arabi in one of the numerous
texts in which he meditates on the hadîth qudsîK where God
says. “My servant does not approach me by something I love more than by those
acts which I have prescribed.” Certainly this hadith then mentions the nawâfil:
“He does not cease approaching me by extra works until I^ive him. And when I
love him, I am bis ear with
which he hears, his eye with which he sees, his hand with which he
grasps.” But if nawdfil are to a certain extent necessary—in a
propaedeutic sense, since they orient the being toward performance of
obligatory works, and in a compensatory sense, since they will overwhelm the
imperfections of the corresponding farcdid on Judgment Day17—they
are nevertheless vitiated by their basis in illusion: the ‘abd has
nothing and is nothing, and the affirmation of his own will, of a choice,
confirms the imposture of the ego. After citing the above hadith, Ibn 'Arabi
adds: "If that [that God becomes the hearing, the sight of the servant] is
the fruit of supererogatory acts, just think about the fruit of obligatory
acts! By these the servant will be God’s hearing, aiidllis sight.”45
Charisma, sciences, epiphanies, all the signs and all the
accomplishments are attached to the fara’id, and thus to the Law.
Nothing demonstrates this more than the second part of chapter 73 of the Futûhât,
where the functions, types, and degrees of sainthood are enumerated. Ibn
'Arabi responds to Tirmidhi’s famous cpiestions, and in general his responses,
often as enigmatic as the questions, constitute, in perfect coherence with the
first part, a synthetic explication of his doctrine of walâya. It must
be understood that the implicit reference in many obscure passages—which allows
them to be interpreted—is, once again, a reference to legal prayer and its
diverse elements. Thus appears another case of the coincidence of zâhir
and bdtin. The spiritual quest is completed through that by which it was
started: observance of the shari, :a.
Question number 549 says, “Where is the station of men
of sessions and discussion located?” [ahi al-majâlis wa l-hadîth]. The reply
mentions six “presences” (hadarát) and indicates a certain number of
“sessions” [majâlis] for each: eight for the first, the second, and the
fourth; two for the sixth; six for the third; four for the fifth. Among these
sessions, there are “sessions for meeting” and “sessions for separation.” There
is, however, a distinction: the “men of discussion,” those to whom God speaks (al-muhaddathûrï),
are also “men of contemplation” (ahi al-shuhûd'); the term majalis
is not properly applied to them unless they are considered from the first of
these two points of view.
Sessions, discussion, contemplation: although this vocabulary seems
less than precise, it is actually still a question of salât. The six hadarât
are the five daily prayers together with the nocturnal witr
that the Prophet instituted and that is a traditional obligation.
The “sessions” (majâlis; root j7s), get their name from the seated
position (julûs, from the same root), a posture that the person in
prayer should take at various times, depending on the prayers. The first
“presence” is the prayer at midday, where the seated posture (jalsa)
comes eight times;50 the third, that at sunset, where it is repeated
six times; the fifth, the one in the morning, where it is repeated four times.
Each “session of meeting” corresponds to the intermediate jalsa between
the two rak‘as, which is accompanied by recitation of the tashahhud. As
for the “session of separation,” this expression refers to the final jalsa
(in his reply to question number 8, Ibn 'Arabi specifies that there is only one
in any hadra), the one that immediately precedes the moment when the
worshipper “comes out” of prayer.
Hadîth (discussion),
supposes presence (hudûr). It is not compatible with contemplation (shuhûd,
mushâhadd), for the latter requires the extinction of the contemplator. If
discussion with God is linked to julûs (which, by its gestic symbolism,
expresses stability, permanence [baqd]), comtemplation is, on the other hand,
associated with prostration, where the being lowers himself into his
nothingness. Then, and only then, those who pray “see God through Him, and not
through themselves” [bihi là bi anfusihim].51
All of this—the identity between julûs and majâlis, hadra
and salât, shuhûd and sujud—remains unexpressed. But there is no
lack of evidence: choice of words, the numbers associated with them.02
It remains for the reader to know how to interpret them. It is in similarly
veiled terms that clarification takes place, in questions 9 and 10, of the
secrets of prayer in which and by which the wall enters into the divine
mysteries. “What does intimate talk (munâja) open with?” The three less
than explicit words used by Ibn 'Arabi in his response represent respectively
the call to prayer, the takbir, which begins the state of prayer, and
the basmala, the initial verse of the Fâtiha: that is, the
beginning of salât, properly speaking. Then transposing the verse
(Qur’an 58:12-13) that commands that any discussion with God’s messenger be
preceded by almsgiving (sadaqa), he adds, “and the best of alms is, for
man, to offer himself...so that it is God who speaks to himself by himself and
no one listens to him other than him.”63 This total oblation, which
will be accomplished in prostration, is required of each musallî, and it
is only if this condition is satisfied that prayer is
truly munâja, a dialogue between God and God, where the
person praying is only the locus of this divine dialogue.
“With what is the dialogue sealed?” A word, which is left unsaid in
the response to this question, gives the key to this passage: it is al-salâm,
the salutation that ends the state of prayer and accompanies the return toward
the creatures. The text of the Tanazzulât cited above clarifies what the
“names”—the one being left, the one being arrived at—that are mentioned here
mean. But in a more specific manner,Tbn cArabî has in mind the
ritual formulas themselves: the name from which one separates is the name Allah,
the last to be pronounced in the tashahhud-, the one that follows it is
the one that appears in the final salutation: Al-salâm. The one that,
according to what Ibn 'Arabi affirms, but without explanation, is “hidden
between them” and by which, properly speaking, the prayer closes (since the
“greeting” establishes a new state), is the affixed pronoun hu of rasûluhu,
a word that, at the end of the tashahhud, attests that Muhammad is his
messenger, the messenger of huwa, of the divine Self.54
Question number 12 appeals to another symbolic designation of salât,
that which compares it to a voyage—a vertical voyage, since it is here
an ascension, as suggested by the constant Qur’ânic use of a verb (root qwni)
that expresses the idea of raising, or erecting, when the duty of accomplishing
prayer is spoken of. This voyage toward “session and dialogue” must be
undertaken “with spiritual aspirations devoid (niujarrada) of all that
is other than him.” This stripping, this purification are not to be taken only
in a general sense: technically, it is ablution that is being alluded to. At
the end of his answer, Ibn 'Arabi, in clear language this time, distinguishes
four voyages, or four abodes of the voyage (“departing from him, toward him, in
him, through him”) which he identifies with the standing position, bowing,
prostration, and the seated position—to the four postures of salât,
explicitly called by their names. There is little doubt that in the preceding
pages it was prayer that he was implicitly referring to, since mention is
further made here of the hadilh according to which the Prophet found
“freshness” or “consolation” in his eye during salât.5'1
It can also be noticed that a whole series of replies (the questions
numbered 97 to 115) are perfectly intelligible only if one knows how to read
the gestures and words of the pray^ki filigree, and in apparently abstract
wording. The common term in questions 97 and 98 is that of “face” (wajh).
It is not difficult to guess that Ibn 'Arabis text there speaks of orientation (tawajjuh),
which is of course not only orientation of the body toward the qibla,
although this is certainly included.50
Question number 99 is “What is the beginning of praise?” Praise (Al-hamd)
is one of the names of the Fâtiha and the Shaykh al-Akbar, for once, is
quite clear. It is all the more evident that is it about this sura that
Tirmidhi was inquiring, since the following question is about the âmîn
(amen) with which the recitation of this sura is completed. The response
appeals to the science of letters (the beginning of the “praise” is the ba
of the basmala, if one takes into consideration the relationship between
God and the creature] but it is the first letter, the initial «/¿/of the
following verse if one considers God in his transcendence) in terms analogous
to what is found in chapters 2 and 5 of the FutuhcttT1 It is
there verified, by the way, that Ibn 'Arabi, when interpreting in terms of
ritual acts questions which might be understood in other ways, was not reading
a meaning of his own in Hakim Tirmidhî’s questionnaire: Tirmidhi’s questions
were most often enigmatic, their abstruseness put to the test the spiritual
knowledge of those who might take up his challenge. But Ibn 'Arabi’s answers
are clearly the ones he expected.
Questions 101 and 102 (“What is prostration? What is its
beginning?”) are likewise quite explicit. “The body,” replies Ibn 'Arabi,
“prostrates itself toward the earth from which it is made, the spirit before
the universal Spirit from which it procedes, the secret (sirf) before
its Lord.” And he adds: “The face [of the one who prays] does not persist in
its prostration, but rather raises itself up again, for neither does the qibla
before which it prostrates itself persist...but the heart never raises itself
in this manner, for its qibla is its Lord and its Lord remains forever.”58
In the reply to question 9, Ibn 'Arabi mentions incidentally “those
who begin the munàja [prayer] by putting on the mantle of Grandeur, and
then taking it partially off.” Here we recognize the words of the hadîth
qudsî: "Grandeur is my mantle and magnificence is my loincloth,”59
but this remark is left without elaboration. The answers to questions 103 to
107,00 which deal successively with each of the key words of the
hadith (grandeur, mantle, etc.), offer a commentary ojflkt that, if its
subtleties are deciphered correctly,
confirms that Ibn 'Arabi’s discourse on sainthood is centered on ‘ibâdât,
and particularly on prayer. “Grandeur” (kibriyâ) is an allusion to takbîr,
which the worshipper recites aloud, proclaiming, “Allâh is the greatest.” In
this vertical position (qiydm), the musallî symbolically assumes—as khalifa
(place holder)—the function of sovereignty that properly can belong only to
God. But the “mantle of grandeur,” which is thus borrowed, must ultimately be
given back so that the memory of his ontological indigence is not lost. This is
the reason for the bow irakit^), in which his stature is diminished by
half. The upper part of the body, which is cloaked in the mantle (rida),
is effaced as «becomes horizontal. The only vertically that remains is the
lower part of the body, the part covered by the loincloth (izar). The
bow is, however, only an intermediate state (a barzakh, according to the
Tanazzulât) toward renunciation of all sovereignty, of all claim of
autonomy. The final stage is prostration, falling fi asfal al-sâfilîn
(Qur’ân 95:5), “to the lowest of the low,” an ineluctable vow of absolute
servitude.
This explains why, to the question “What is the mantle?” Ibn 'Arabi
replies: “The mantle is the perfect servant (aZ-'ctbd al-kâmil) created
in the form [of God], who unites in his person contingent realities and divine
realities.”SJ The Perfect Man (al-insân al- kâmil) is this
perfect servant, he whose function of place holding (khilâfd) is
legitimate and who effectively assumes the grandeur of God in his qiyâm
when, with most men, this position is a mere appearance. He is the “mantle of
God” for God is bcttin fihi (hidden in him), covered by him as by a
mantle, but he never loses sight of his iibûda (servitude): if God is as
“annihilated in him” (qad yus- tahlak al-haqq fihi), he is himself
obliterated in God.
This meditation on salât continues in his dealing with question
109:62 “What is seriousness (al-waqar)?” Ibn 'Arabi cites, in
fine, the hadith recommending “serenity and seriousness” to believers when
they go to prayer. By choosing the word waqâr, Tïr- midhi—who also was a
muhaddith, a specialist in the sayings of the Prophet—-invited the
understanding that his interrogation was continuing in the narrow line in the
previous questions, and it is in this way that the Shaykh al-Akbar took him.
But waqâr (in Arabic, like gravitas in Latin, having the meaning
of heaviness) is for him not just an exterior attitude. As he says, just as
physical death is preceded by what the Qur’ân calls “inebriation” (sakarát
al-mawt, “the dizziness of the agonizer”), so also the theophany, which is
obtained only by previously passing through another “death,” is announced by a
kind of oppression, an overbearing weight, a gravitas that disposes the
being toward acceptance of manifestations of the divine names in prayer.
The notion of “clarity” (diya) that appears in question 11203
must also be interpreted in light of another hadith that relates it to
prayer or, more precisely, to the ritual act that prepares its performance: Al-wudû
diyâ, “ablution is clarity.”34 The response—and the two
following responses,65 which, significantly, concern al-quds (transcendental
purity), and where Ibn 'Arabi distinguishes between an essential purity and an
accidental (aradî) purity, the latter of which must be continually
reestablished—confirms that here we are indeed dealing with the secrets of
perfect ablution, that which washes the body and the spirit.
Another series of responses (questions 147 to 151)06
leads us back, in a completely explicit manner, to the theme of prayer: after
the basmala (which is for the cabd “what the kun!
the existentiating fiat! is for God”) they again, one by one, make
commentary on the phrases of the tashahhud.61 One example is
where the worshipper is to say al-salám alaynâ, “may the greeting [or
peace] be upon us.” Using as support Qur’an verse 24:61, which shows that this
greeting that believers address to themselves is in fact tahiyyatan min
Allah, a greeting that comes from God,08 he draws the conclusion
that the phrase means that man, in prayer, should be “a stranger to himself,
present to his Lord.” Then anta tarjumànuhu ilayka, “you are, for
yourself, his interpreter” for, if this condition is fulfilled, it is God who
speaks through the mouth of the musallî. As for the response to
question'154, the next to last, it is entirely dedicated to the “Mother of the
Qur’ân,” umm al-kitdb, to the Fâtiha, and thus once again to salât.
It would have been possible to present a number of other passages
that, in an overt or covert manner, would continually have led us back to
prayer, the expression common to all believers—but for the cârïf
bi-Llâh, to realization—of ‘ubúda, the radical servitude of man. dJbüda
is of course the word upon which all this doctrine rests, a doctrine that
affirms the superiority of the farâ’id over the nawdfil and for which
supreme liberty is founded on obligation, sainthood on the Law. Ibn 'Arabi
defines its meaning as follows:69 “dJbiida is per-
feet and immediate conformity to divine order without a hint of disobedience.”
He makes a distinction—at least in principle, since he often uses one of these
terms for the other—between 'ubûda and 'ubûdiyya. ‘Ubûda, it will
soon be seen why, is an inalterable state. ‘Ubûdiyya (bondage) is the
condition that this state imposes upon the 'abd according to the
modalities adequate for each moment. Tb Tirmidhî’s question: “What is the
number of parts of u.búríiyyo,?”7'7 he replies,
“Ninety-nine, the number of divine names...for for each of them there is a
corresponding, appropriate ‘ubûdiyya.” Before each of the divine names
that successively govern its existence—the universe is no more than their
perpetual epiphany-—the hbd should have the attitude that the nature of this
particular name requires, the kind of obedience that is its due. When God
manifests himself under his name Al-Razzâq (He Who Provides), the
tibûdiyya required is not the same as that required by the name Al-Mumît
(He Who Causes Death) or the name Al-Muntaqim (the Avenger).
More systematic than Ibn cArabî, 'Abd al-Karîm al-Jîlî,
in his commentary on the Risâlal al-anwâr^ sets up a strict hierarchy: dbûda
is the ontological indigence of the h.bd; 'ubûdiyya consists in
remaining conscious at each moment of this ïibûda. ‘Ibâda, which is the
third word of the same family and, in Quranic vocabulary, denotes those acts
that are due to God (at the first level of which is prayer), is the praxis
that devolves logically from this conscience. When Ibn 'Arabi states: “What I
ask God for is that he grant me ubuda mahda, pure servitude with no
trace of lordship in either my body or my spirit,”72 his words
should undoubtedly be read (in order to be completely congruent with what he
himself teaches) as 'ubûdiyya rather than 'ubûda, for the 'abd
never comes out of his ‘ubûda, whether he knows it oi’ not. Let us note
also that the Shaykh al-Akb air’s request was granted. He affirms in another
chapter of the Futûhât: “I am the pure servant; I know not the taste of
lordship.”73 This assertion deserves all the more attention since,
in the passage on the “parts of 'ubûdiyya,’' he says: “I have known not
one of the muqarmbûn, the Close Ones, who observes perfectly pure
servitude” ('ubûda, here again, the context of the passage suggests
reading it as 'ubûdiyya). According to him, this imperfection has two
causes: the first is al-ghafla (inattention), the distraction inherent
in the human condition (Adam “forgot” the pact made with God according to the
Qui-’ân [20:115]); and the second
(haste, an allusion to Qur’ân 17:11). He adds: "What kept me
from reaching this station was nothing else than ghafla. Between this
station and me there is no other veil than that, and it will never be taken
away. As for the veil of haste, I hope, praise be to God, that it has already
been taken away.” Returning to this "station” at the end of his response,
he nevertheless exclaims: “I do not give up the hope of reaching it, even
though I know that it is impossible.”
The expressions that we have used to analyze what Ibn 'Arabi, in
many of his works, says about this perfect prayer—which on the outside is
nevertheless identical in every way to that of any believer—may sound like a
“mysticism of abjection,” like one of those paroxysmal forms of humility and
penitence with which hagiography is replete. Certainly a “proud saint” would be
a contradiction in terms. Humility and repentance are necessary conditions of
sainthood. All the masters of sufism, Ibn 'Arabi included, are unanimous on
this point. But it must be understood that what is said in the texts we have
cited, or in the countless texts about which we have not spoken but where
analogous themes abound, is quite another matter. It is not a case of some kind
of drunkenness, debasement, or the ecstatic rapture of the flagellant.
If the Shaykh al-Akbar does insist on a rule when he addresses a
disciple, it is the rule of sobriety (sahw), with the malâmî, the
sanctus absconditus, as its paradigm. This is what explains why, for
him, shatahât (“locutions theopathiques,” to use Massignon’s translation)
are, in a saint, always a sign of imperfection. Next to (ubûda, (ubûdiyya,
and hbâda, the semantic group to which words like faqr (poverty),
and ummiyya (nakedness of spirit) belong refers not to a psychology of walâya,
but rather to the metaphysic upon which this psychology is founded.
The definition of ‘ubûda we used above is to be linked to
another akbarian notion: this absolute conformity to the divine order is that
of the a ‘yân thâbita, what might be called, to borrow a term from Suso
and the Rhineland mystics, our “eternal exemplars.”74 In Ibn
'Arabi’s doctrine, the “possibles” never have existence, they never leave thubut.75
Their existence (wujud) is no more than a reflection of God, nothing
more than a borrowed “coat”: “There is there only God; his is the Being (dyn
al-wujüd) and the Existent (.al-mawjûd)-, he shows himself in
"possibles” according to their prédisposions.. .When the divine order of
being came [for the
ayân ihâbita], they found in
themselves only the be-ing of God who in. them showed himself to himself.”76
“Existentiation” (ijâd) of these immutable haecceities
really produces only an effect for them. The effect is the self-consciousness
suddenly given to them, for, in God’s presence they were previously mahjûba
‘an ru'yati anfusihâ, they did not see themselves, they were absent to themselves.77
It is not a coincidence that ‘Abd al- Karîm al-Jill, in his own definition,
cites Qur'an 76:1: “There was a moment in eternity78 when man was
not mentioned” (or "thought of,” madhkûran). Madhküraníjtpaas\&ted.
here according to the meaning usually given to the word, means in this verse,
for Ibn ‘Arabi, malûman, “known”79—by which it should be
understood that man did not know himself yet. At that instant in eternity, we
were already all that we are, but we did not yet know that we were.
The rose which your eye sees here
Has been budding in God from all eternity,
writes Angelus Silesius in a famous couplet from his Cherubini-
scher Wandersmann. This rose blooms from eternity without knowing that it
is a rose. It knows neither its smell nor its name. It does not know for whom
it blooms. Similarly, in this instant in eternity I did not desire God, I did
not want either the same thing or something different from what he wanted. I
was in him without knowing that I was myself, without knowing that he was
himself. God knew me because he knows himself and in the way that he knows
himself.
We should not be put off by the weakness of the language here. The
inevitable use of verb tenses introduces a chrolonogy (backing the eternal
instant into a past that the present revokes), suggests an event, confers a
grammatical being upon our nothingness. But the rose, “after” as well as
“before,” has no being of itself. ‘Ubûda is never our status. It is not
a question of acquiring it or returning to it: the "abd is constitutionally
just that. But the consciousness of “being” something, of passing (in
obedience to the divine order kun! “be”) into individual existence ad
extra, which is really only a metahpor (istidrd), established a
separation: the {abd perceived himself as distinct from the
contingent beings around him, and especially as distinct from God. His
knowledge of God began at that moment, which is one of the meanings of the
hadith80 man ‘arafa nafsahu ‘arafa rabbahu (he who knows
himself knows his lord).81 It happens that this knowledge, which
unveils his ïibûda—he knows from that moment that he has a Lord—veils it
at the same time, since true ïtbûda does not know itself. ‘Ubûdiyya, which
for Jill is perpetual contemplation by the ‘abd of his ïtbüda, consists
in rebecoming “blind, deaf, dumb”—attributes that describe the malâmî,
according to Ibn ‘Arabi. If faqr (poverty) is the silence of the will,
if ummiyya is the silence of the intellect, then ‘ubûdiyya is the
silence of the being.
It is reported via one of the Companions of the Prophet (sometimes
Abû Bakr, sometimes ‘Umar b. al-Khattab, sometimes Ibn Mas‘ûd, depending on the
version) that upon hearing the first verse of the “sura of man,” cited above
(“There was a moment in eternity when man was not mentioned”), he cried out,
“Would that I could be like that!”82 Ibn ‘Arabi expresses the same
desire in other terms when he says: “There is in man no quality higher than the
mineral quality” (al-sifa al-jamâdiyya), the inertia of the stone that
moves only if it is moved (by someone or something else). He further says: “Man
is more noble in his minerality when he dies and becomes like the earth than in
his humanity when he is alive.”83 The Ka‘ba is only stone, “it
neither feels nor sees, it is devoid of intellect and hearing,”84
and yet it is the “House of God” and the “heart of the universe.” ‘Ubûdiyya,
contemplation of ïtbùda, from that moment in eternity that time cannot
abolish, is that mineral state where we no longer know anything, where we no
longer know either ourselves or God: for the God that “he who knows himself”
knows is not God, since the ‘abd knows God then as “other than himself”
and knows himself as “other than him (God),” depriving God of the part of being
which he attributes to himself. That God is only an idol fashioned by a measure
of smallness, shackled by the ties of his itiqâd. In the radical
nakedness of dbudiyya, the ‘abd would know neither how to desire
God nor how to love nor how to know him. Deum propter Deum relinquere.
It is God who, in the servant, desires himself, loves himself, and knows
himself.
The degree of perfection (ihscm), according to Ibn ‘Arabi, is
reached only by him “whose sun rises in the Lam yakun,”S5 in
the “it is not,” the negation of his illusory being that he reads in the first
two words of sura 98, Al-bayyina (Evidence), and which is the reply to
kun. Ibn ‘Arabi chooses to isolate these two words from the
clause to which they syntactically belong: any element of divine
speech—word, letter, diacritical mark—is meaningful in itself, independent of
whatever meaning it may have in relation to others. The vibration of this
terrific Lam yakun actualizes the instant of eternity when “man was not
mentioned.’'- It reminds him that the kun that brought him
into existence did not give him being in itself. The whole Kitâb al-fanâ fî
l-mushâhada has its point of departure in this segment of a verse, and
ençis/with the hadith about ihsân, which, it happens, defines
perfection.86 By means of the introduction of a caesura, which
gramatically is no less arbitrary than the one that separates Lam yakun
from its Qur’ânic context, the expression in lam takun tarnhu (If you do
not “see him) reveals the secret of the vision: what the cabd
hears in this conditional clause is “if you are not [in lam takun], you
see him..”87
'Ubûda, servitude, is
the ineluctable status of the creature. "Ubûdiyya, bondage, is the
condition resulting from this status; it takes effect only if there is
perception of ubùda. Perception, not acquiescence, is the
operative word here, for pretending to obey, if this were even conceivable,
would in itself be disobedience; it would suppose the possibility of a
decision, the affirmation of free will.
Based on the two previous words, the last term in the series, ïbâda,
which in Arabic belongs to the same linguistic family, might best be translated
as “service.” The plural of the word (ïbâdât), in the fiqh
treatises, technically refers to rites and thus corresponds to what might be
called “duties toward God.” Tbâdât are distinguished—with some gray
areas: marriage is sometimes considered in one category, sometimes in the other88—from
mu'âmalât, a rubric that covers the rules governing human behavior in
society. This distinction, if it fulfills a valid, practical necessity in its
order, is nevertheless, for the cârif bi-Llâh, null and void.
“Service” is always the service of God; it is he also who prescribes ritual
obligations and those imposed on the interactions of creatures.
Sub specie aeternitatis, ïbâda is an ending point. Ubûda is the principle from which it
devolves, and ïibüdiyya is the condition that makes its necessity
apparent. For man after the fall, forgetful of his servitude, it is, on the
other hand, a starting point. It is through ïbâda that man is to climb
back toward his origin, to approach the mystery of his status. When the Prophet
comes to find him after the first visit of the angel of Revelation, Wara^a b.
Naw- fal, a Christian, immediately identifies the angel as al-nâmûs al~
akbar, the supreme nomos, the angel of the Law.89 The Law
institutes service, orders the îbâdât, the acts due to God—regardless
who the apparent recipient might be—because the ‘abd no longer remembers
his status. It is through service that he will be led back to the servile
condition where his servitude becomes evident to him. The superiority of fara’id—of
what is done under the constraints of the Law—over nawâfil has its
source there.
The Qur’an as a message is the anamnesis of lost truths. The Qur’an
as law is the anamnesis of a disavowed status. The nâmùs al-akbar is
substituted for the nâmüs al~asghar, an internal law from which man has
slipped away; little by little, it reclaims its authority. During this period
of learning, under the sun of the Lam yakun no longer veiled by the
cloud of wujúd ay tu, the ‘abd is consumed and ultimately extinguished
in a last prostration. In words that Ibn ‘Arabi attributes to the Andalusian
Ibn al-'Arif and quotes often (although they should be credited to Al-Ansârï),90
“then what has never been disappears, and what has never ceased to be remains.”
From that point on, “there are no longer either obligatory acts nor acts
of supererogation.”91 In verses often criticized by his adversaries,
which he placed at the beginning of the Fïdûhât, the the Shaykh al-Akbar
further says:
Would that I
knew who is subject to obligation!
If you say: it
is the servant, the servant is nonexistent;
And if you say: it is the Lord, whence would obligation come?92
As the rose blooms in God without knowing that it is a rose,
without knowing for whom it blooms, the servant—or rather his “eternal
exemplar—no longer knows “servanthood.” He no longer knows that he has a Lord.
Taken to its farthest degree, ïibûdiyya is cancelled out, is reabsorbed
in 'ubúda. which is pure presence in God, with no trace of duality. Now
the Lord is such only in relation to a servant over whom lordship is exercised.
There is no rabb (sovereign) without a marbilb (vassal).03
That is why Sahl al-Tustari said, “Lordship has a secret and if this secret
were manifested, Lordship would disappear.” “This secret is you!” says Ibn
'Arabi. He immediately mWs that
Sahl used the conjunction law, which, gram-
matically, is the one that precedes the pronouncement of an unrealizable
condition.94 Actually this secret cannot manifest itself in this
world: extinction (al-fana) does not bring about the dissolution of
human matter. The body remains subject to legal obligation (taklif). On
the outside, the yoke of Lordship continues to be exercised. But what is bâtin
(secret) in this life will be zahir (manifest) in the life to come: at
that time the authority of the Law will definitively cease.
If all 'ibâdât prepare one to hear the Lam yakun—in
the MawâqL al-nujûm, it was shown that the fruits of spiritual science
are attached to the most humble: visiting the sick, listening attentively to
the sermon of the khatib, and so on—salât is nevertheless the
most central, the one that each day at the appointed hour, offers the
believer the shortest way to the highest contemplation, that of his eternal
servitude. This takes place in such a manner that, finally in his absent eyes,
it is God who sees God. In prayer, God precedes the believer. The musallî,
the person who prays, in the first meaning of the word, is the horse that runs
after the winner of the race. This is the way it is defined in the Lisân
al-'arab, the “ark of the language of the Prophet.”96 This
meaning is the one retained by Ibn Arabi to, once again, draw out of the letter
the deepest of truths that it bears. “God prays on us” (falaynâ)—a
reference to Qur’an 33:43, which teaches that “It is he who prays on you.”
“Prayer thus comes simultaneously from us and from him,”00 Ibn Arabi
continues, alluding to the hadith cited above where God has divided prayer
between himself and his servants. But this God who “prays on us”—who pours out
his mercy97 upon us before our own prayer to him and who is
thus the First—is also, from another point of view, al-musalli (he who
comes after), the Last: He follows the servant whose existence precedes his.
This God who is second, who draws his being from the being of the cabd('an
wujûd al-'abd)-. “the God that the servant creates in his heart by his own
speculative thought or by imitation (laqlid) is the divinity conditioned
by belief (al-ïlâh al-muhaqad).’’98
In perfect prayer, God is the first, or rather he is alone. “Praise
belongs to God who bestowed upon man his own attributes...while denying the
similarity,99 thus revoking the same thing that he affirms and
leaving man to wander, confused, among the rational demonstrations and divinely
instituted proofs, and who then prayed on him before any of man’s prayers
toward Him, without there even being a Before.”100 Perfect
prayer is, in short, that prayer where the servant lets God pray to God. And
for Ibn 'Arabi this is exactly the meaning of the medial verse that, in the Fâtiha,
"divides” salât between God and man: "It is you whom we
worship [or rather: “Whom we serve,” naLudu, if we wish to remain congruent
with the translations used on other occasions with the same root—dbûda,
ïtbûdiyya, etc,] and it is You Whom we implore for help.” This divine help,
which can be understood and which is most often taken in a general sense, is,
in, the eyes of the the Shaykh al- Akbar, that without which worship, or
service, is impossible.101
Commenting on verse 5 of sura 107 (“Those who are forgetful of
their prayers”), Ibn 'Arabi emphasizes102 that God did not say:
“Those who are forgetful of prayer”—for the individuals in prayer fulfill the
legal prescriptions. What they have forgotten is their prayers: they no
longer know that they are theirs—which is what another passage explains as:
“When the veil is lifted..., you will see that he who performs his duties
toward God is the creator of acts: that is, God himself.” Perfect prayer is
that wherein the person who prays is absent, leaving all the place to
God.
This absence may appear paradoxical to the individual who forgets
that ïibûda is the beginning and the end of cibâda. It
may even appear contradictory to other affirmations. In the sura of Degrees (aLmadrij,
plural of mi'raj. Qur’an 70:23) there is praise for “those who are
perpetually in prayer,” and Ibn 'Arabi identifies this perpetual prayer with a
perpetual presence (the drif bi-Lldh, the gnostic, is, he says, d.alm
aLhudûr, whether at rest or in movement).103 But this presence
to God is a presence in God: the presence that is forever/blind, deaf,
and mute,” of the “eternal exemplars,” which he alone'knows.
When it “descends” upon this world, Revelation comes in the form of
sounds and letters, which it shares with the language of people without ceasing
to be the eternal and transcendent Word. Likewise, the saint, if he is sent by
God to the creatures, is similar to all those in his species. “He eats, he
drinks, he gets married, he listens to what is said to him, and he replies.”104
But, under the sun of Lam yakun, the servant is no longer anything but a
name. Led by the Law from verse to verse, from abode to abode, he who was named
by this name has irrevocably crossed the last threshold.
Introduction
1. Ibn Hajar al-Haytamî, Al-fatâwâ
al-hadithiyya (Cairo, 1970), p. 296. In. accordance with standard practice,
dates from the Gregorian calendar that cannot be confused with dates from the
Muslim calendar (i.e., dates after the 15th century A.D.) are not labeled as Anno
Domini. Where the calendars do overlap, if there is a possibility of
confusion, the date in question is labeled (e.g., 602 A.D.), or the date Anno
Hegirae is given previous to the date Anno Domini (e.g.,
1058/1648).
2. Abu 1-Alâ 'Afifi, The Mystical
Philosophy of Muyhid Din Ibnul 'Arabî, 2d ed. (Lahore, 1964).
4. Clément Huart, Littérature arabe
(Paris, 1932), p. 275.
5. A. J. Arberry, Sufism: An Account
of the Mystics of Islam (London, 1950), p. 99.
6. Rom Landau, The Philosophy of Ibn
Arabi (London, 1959), p. 24-25.
7. J. Berque, Al-Yousi (Paris,
La Haye, 1958). See also C. Geertz, Islam Observed (Chicago 1968) (index
s.v. Liyusi), on the same subject; P. Rabinow, Symbolic Domination.
(Chicago, 1975); E. Gellner, Muslim Societies (Cambridge, 1981), chap.
10.
8. See Berque, Al-Yousi, pp. 40,
121-26.
9. Berque, Al-Yousi, pp.
123,126.
10. Al-bahr al-masjûr (Mostaganem, n.d.), p. 69.
11. Ibn 'Arabî, Al-Futûhât
al-makkiyya (Cairo, 1329 A.H.), vol. 1, p. 115; O.Y., vol 2., p. 208-209.
12. Al-Qârî al-Baghdâdî, Al-durr
al-ihamîn fi manâqib Muhyî l-dîn
(Beirut, 1959), 27-28;
Maqqârî, Nafh al-tibb (Beirut, 1968), vol. 2, p.
178. W
13. Abu l-'Abbâs Muhammad Zarrûq, Qawctiid
al-tasawu>uf (Cairo, 1328/1968) (on Ibn 'Arabî, see pp. 35, 41, 52,
129). Cf. also All F. Khushaim, Zarrûq theSûfî (Tripoli, 1976), pp. 1.4,
148.
.14. ‘Abd
al-Wahhâb Sha'rânî, Al-anwâr al-qudsiyya fî ma'rifat qau’âid al-süfiyya,
‘2ded. (Beirut, 1985), vol. 2, p. 28.
15. Fakhr al-dîn 'Alî b, Husayn Wâ£iz
al-Kâshifî, Rashahât ‘ayn al- hayât, 2 vols. (Tehran, 2356), vol. 1, pp,
249-50. The references to Ibn Arabî in the remarks of the Naqshbandi masters
cited by the author are numerous; in this work see the remarks of, among
others, Burhân l-din Abû Na^rParsâ and Muhammad Shams al-dîn al-Kûsawî. The
biography of a modern Naqshbandi shaykh (Muhammad Amîn al-Kurdî, who died in
1914) reports behavior similar to that of 'Ubaydallâh Ahrâr: “He used to read
me chapters from the Fïitûhât. But if someone came, he closed the book
and remained silent” (Muhammad Amîn ai-Kurdî, Tanwîr al-qulûb (Cairo,
n.d.), p. 42.
16. Y. Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad
Sirhindî (Montreal-London, 1971). It is interesting to note, regarding the
opinion that the Naqsh- bandiyya, an “orthodox” tarîqa, were generally
hostile to Ibn 'Arabi, that what was true of the masters of old is also true of
modem shuyûkh. Shaykh Khalid, who died in 1827, is called “‘akbarî
¡-‘irfân" in a work that came out in the last century ('Abd al-Majîd
al-Khânî, Al-sa‘âda al-abadiyya [Damascus, 131.3 A.H.], p. 2). Another
work of the same period (Sulaymân al-Hanafî al-Baghdâdî, Al-hadîqa
al-nadiyya, the Kitâb asfâ al-mawârid (Cairo, 1313 A.H.), pp. 60-61)
reports that at the death of Khalid one of his disciples had a vision of Ibn
'Arabi coming out of his tomb to embrace him. Tire handwritten catalogue of
Shaykh Khalid's library, of which we have a photocopy, confirms that he owned
works by Ibn 'Arabi and his principal followers. Regarding the attitude of the
first Naqshbandi masters toward Ibn ‘Arabi, numerous complementary details are
found in Hamid Algar’s contribution to the Symposium Ibn 'Arabi held in April
1989 in Noto, Sicily; Reflections of Ibn Arabi in Early Naqshbandi Tradition
(Journal of the Ibn ‘Arabi Society, X, 1991, 45-66). On Ahmad b. Idris, see R.
S. O’Fahey, Enigmatic Saint: Ahmad b. Idris and. the Idrîsî Tradition
(London, 1.990), pp. 90-106.
17. M. Chodkiewicz, Le Sceau des
saints, prophétie et sainteté dans la doctrine d’Ibn ‘Arabî (Paris, 1986).
An English translation of this book is to be published by the Islamic Texts
Society, Cambridge, U.K. On Ibn Arabi’s technical vocabulary, see the valuable
work by Su'âd Hakîm, Alma fam al-süfî (Beirut, 1981), which under the
circumstances constitutes an indispensable tool for the researcher. Numerous
examples give evidence of the fact that Ibn ‘Arabi’s typology of sainthood is
used by a number of authors to retrospectively interpret the case of sufis
previous to Ibn ‘Arabi. I have mentioned (Sceau des Saints, p, 104) the
case of Ayn al-Qudât al- Hamadliânî (d. 1131). There is also the case of Ahmad
al-Rifâ‘î (d. 1182), whose grandson, to characterize the spiritual, type of his
grandfather and some of his contemporaries, also refers (without saying so) to
Ibn ‘Arabi’s criteria and wordings, as well as to the idea of 'seal of
sainthood’ (cf. M. Tahrali, Ahmad al-Rifn'i, sa vie, son œuvre et sa
tarîqa, 3d cycle thesis, Paris III, 1973, pp. 134—35; the passages considered
appear in ‘Izz al-dîn Ahmad al-Sayyâd’s Kitâb al-ma‘ârif al-muhammacliyya fî
l-wazâ’if al- ahmadiyya (Cairo, 1888), pp. 69-60.
18. Fut. vol. 1, p. 9; O.Y., vol. 1, p. 70. On the meaning of this verse,
see below, chap. 4.
19. Al-Kattânî, Saluiat al-anfâs fî
man ugbira min al-ulamâ’ wa l- sulahâ1 bi-Fâs, lith. ed. Fez,
1316 A.H.; see, e.g., 2d pt., pp. 241, 188, 332-33, 340.
20. See EP, s.v., Mâ’ al-‘Aynayn;
and B. G. Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods in 19th Century Africa
(Cambridge, 1976), chap. 5.
21. Naât al-bidâyât wa tawsîf al-nihâyât (Cairo, n.d.). Examples of references to Ibn ‘Arabi are found on
pp. 91-92; to Qâshânî, on pp. 67, 120; to Ismâ'i] Haqqî, on pp. 69-70, 74, 77,
80; to Sha'rânî, onpp. 98, 103, 167.
22. Jawâhir al-ma‘ânî (Cairo, 1384 a.h.)
Ibn ‘Arabi (sometimes in the form of al-Hâtimî) is expressly cited in numerous pages
(see, e.g., vol. 1, pp. 66, 75, 126, 147, 151, 183, 245-47; vol. 2, pp. 7, 70,
84, 116, 11.7, 150). But many clear borrowings are not identified as such: such
is the case for an anecdote (that of Al-Jawhârî) cited in vol. 1, p. 241, which
comes directly from Fut., vol. 2, p. 82.
23. For a characteristic passage
relative to the doctrine of sainthood (with mention of the khatm), cf. Jawâhir,
vol. 2, pp. 21, 84—85.
26. Jawâhir, vol. 1, p. 147; vol. 2, p. 143.
27. Jawâhir, vol. 1, pp. 183-84; vol. 2, p. 30.
29. Bughyat al-mustafid (Cairo, 1380/1959). See, e.g., the treatise on the hierarchy of
the awliyâ1, pp. 187-94. Ibn ‘Arabi is cited numerous times
in the work.
30. Printed in the margin of the Jawâhir.
31. See AITIâjj Umar, Kiiáb al-rimah,
vol. 2, pp. 4, 15, 16.
32. Sha'rânî, Al-yawâqît wa l-jawâhir
(Cairo, 1369 A.H.) There is printed in the margin of this work, by the same
author, another compendium of the Futûhât, Al-kibrît al-ahmar fî bayán Ulûm
al-Shaykh al- Akbar, which itself is a summary of a third work by Sha'rânî,
the Lawâqih al-anwár al-qudxiiyya. On Sha'rânî and his bibliography,
consult the work by Michael Winter, Society and Religion in Early Ottoman
Egypt (New Brunswick, 1982).
33. Cf. Winter, Society and Religion,
p. 2, and p. 9 n.2.
34. Cf. Mervyn Hiskett, “The Community
of Grace and Its Opponents," African Language Studies (London),
vol. 17, 1980: 99-140.
35. Manshûrât al-Imâm al-Mahdî, lith. ed., 4 vols. (Khartoum, 1963), vo], 1, pp. 5-6, 13; vol. 2,
pp. 49, 62,
36. Letter, 29 November 1988. Grandin
adds that the Anqâ mughrib is, for this reason, widespread today in
Sudan in literate Mahdist milieux.
37. The passage to which the Manshûrât
refer is found (Qur’an 7:182) in vol. 2, p. 460, of Qâshânî’s (although
published under the name of Ibn 'Arabi) Ta’wîlât (Beirut, 1968). As for
Ibn 'Arabi’s authentic tafsir (Al-jam3 wa l-tafsil fi. asrâr
ma'am Ltanzîl, RG 172), which included 64 volumes and went as far as sura “Maryam,”
it appears to have mysteriously disappeared after only a very restricted
circulation during a long period of time. At the time of the Mahdi, it was
already barely accessible, and only a few exceptional students of Ibn 'Arabi
seem to have been able to consult it. The use— or rather the abuse—of Ibn
'Arabi’s authority is found at the same time in another heterodox movement,
that of Ghulâm Ahmad, the founder of the Ahmadiyya sect, which was clearly
inspired by Ibn 'Arabi’s ideas about the nubuwwa mutlaqa and the walâya
isawiyya. On this point, see the work by Y. Friedmann, Prophecy
Continuous (Berkeley, 1989), 3d pt.
38. Thanks to the doctoral thesis of
Bakri Aladdin, “'Abd al ghanî al- Nâbulusî, œuvre, vie, doctrine” (Université
de Paris vol. 1, 1985), we presently have available a serious
bio-bibliographical study, the first part of which is a catalogue of Nâbulusî’s
works. The role that Nâbulusî played as transmitter of Ibn 'Arabi is perhaps
not limited to the Muslim world: a fatwá delivered by him in 1712 in
response to a question asked by a Melkite patriarch (probably Athanase Dabbas,
d. 1724) makes reference to ideas of wahdat al-wujûd, a'yân thâbita,
etc. This fatwâ is soon to be edited by B. Aladdin.
39. M. Chodkiewicz, “‘L’offrande au
Prophète’ de Muhammad al- Burhânpûrî,” Connaissance des religions 4,
nos. 1—2 (1988): 30-40.
40. It reached the west, through the
help of a European student of Shaykh Illaysh, where it was translated in 1911
in a questionable French version; it has since been reedited a number of time,
most recently in 1977.
41. Nabhânî, Jami3 karamât
al-awliyâ (Cairo, 1329/1911; Beirut, n.d.). For the references to Ibn
‘Arabi, see especially vol. 1, pp. 18, 21-25, 36-55, as well as the notice that
is dedicated to him, vol. 1, pp. 118-25. Cf, also the Shawâhid al-haqq
(Cairo, 1394/1974), pp. 418-42 (where he offers long quotes from Sha‘rânî; but
his knowledge of the works of Ibn ‘Arabi is unquestionable).
42. Cf. our review of one of his works
(the Sharh Fusûs al-hikam) in Studia Islámica, fase. 63 (1984):
179-82. Using the same process M. Ghurâb published (1989) a compilation of Ibn
‘Arabi’s exegetical texts, in the form of a running Qur’ânic commentary; we
will address this further in chapter 2.
43. The Kitâb al-Ibrîz was edited
a number of times in Cairo (1278 A.H., 1292 A.H., 1317 A.H., 1380 a.h.) and most recently—and most
scientifically—in a two-volume edition published in Damascus (1404/1384). A
selection from ‘Abd al-‘Azîz al-Dabbágh’s fath story7 appears
in Depont and Coppolani’s Les Confréries religieuses musulmanes (Paris,
1897), pp. 539-41. A complete translation of the Kitâb al-Ibrîz, which
is a remarkable spiritual document, is much to be desired.
44. Characteristic examples are found in
the two treatises that J.-L. Miehon analyzed in Le Soufi marocain Ibn Aji.ba
el son Mi'mj (Paris. 1973), pp. 91-104, and in the annotated translation of
the hliridj, ibid., pp. 173f. Ibn ‘Arabi’s influence is also present, in
a more diffuse yet quite identifiable manner, in Ibn ‘Ajiba’s commentary on
Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah's Hikam (flqâz al-himam [Cairo, 1972]). On Ibn ‘Ajiba,
see ‘Abd al-Majid al-Saghir s Ishkâliyyat islâh al-fikr al-sûfi (Rabat,
1988), chap. 2; despite the author’s lack of objectivity, consultation of the
book is worthwhile.
45. There are several Moroccan editions
of this dtwdn, without dates. On Al-Harraq, see also the work by ‘Abd
al-Majîd al-Saghîr cited hi note 44 above. Contrary to the author’s desire to
see the expression of wah- dat al-shuhûd in these poems, it appears
obvious to us that it is wahdat al- wujûd.
46. ‘A1Î Sâfî Husayn, Al-adâb al-sûfi
fiMisr fi l-qarn al-sâbi' al-hijrî (Cairo, 1964).^^
47. Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical
Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill, N.C., 1975); And Muhammad is His
Messenger Chapel Hill, N.C., 1985); Pain and Grace, Leiden, 1976; Islam
and the Indian Subcontinent Leiden, 1980) (cf. index s.v. Ibn 'Arabi).
48. We are indebted to the kindness of
M. Fawzi Skali for the transcription of this conversation, as well as for that
which he had with Sîdî al- Mahdî al-Saqallî, who will be mentioned further on.
These documents are reproduced in Skali’s thesis for Doctorat d’Etat, “Topographie
spirituelle et sociale de la ville de Fès” (Université Paris VII, 1990).
49. Contrary to the thesis proposed by
Abû 1-Wafâ Taftâzânî in an article appearing in a memorial volume published in
Cairo for the eighth centenary of the birth of Ibn 'Arabî (Al-kitâb
al-tadhkari [Cairo, 1969], pp. 295-353).
50. This information is taken from,
among other sources, Qushshâshî’s Simt al-majid (Hyderabad, 1367 A.H.),
p. 105; Murtadâ al- Zabîdî’s Ithâf al-asfiyâ’ (ms. belonging to a
private collection); Muhammad al-Sanûsî’s Salsabil al-mufn (Cairo, 1353
A.H.), pp. 70-72; and diverse handwritten silsila belonging to private
libraries (among which is that of M. Riyâd al-Mâlih, in Damascus).
51. 'Abd el-Kader, Écrits spirituels
(Paris, 1982), introduction.
52. The name of the emir appears in most
modem Middle Eastern or Maghreban silsila that we have been able to
examine, thus highlighting his central importance in the propagation of Ibn
'Arabi’s heritage since the end of the nineteenth century.
53. This activity is translated by
numerous Arabic publications. First to be mentioned are the (often mediocre)
editions, or reeditions, of authentic works by Ibn 'Arabi (e.g., Ihnazzulat
mawsiliyya [Cairo, 1961, 1986], and Kitâb al-Abâdila [Cairo, 1969]),
both of which had remained unpublished up to that time), or of titles that are
wrongly attributed to him, but marked by his influence (e.g., Ttihfat
al-safara (Beirut, ca. 1975); or the inevitable Tafsir that
Qâshânî wrote, reedited in Beirut in 1968 under Ibn 'Arabi’s name); the
monumental critical edition of the Futûhât, by O. Yahia (13 vols, have
appeared to date) deserves a special category. One might add to the above the
critical edition of the Kitâb al-isrâ by Su'âd Hakim (Beirut, 1988); and
the appearance of works about Ibn 'Arabi, all the way from the most
superficial popularizations (e.g., Tâhâ 'Abd al-Bâqî Surûr, Muhyî l-dîn b.
Arabî [Cairo, 1975]; the series of works by Shaykh Mahmûd Ghurab mentioned
above, etc.) to university-level studies (e.g., Sulayman al-'Attâr, Al-khayâl
wa 1-shiT fi tcisawwuf al-andalus [Cairo, 1981]; Abû Zayd, Falsafat
al-ta’ivíl... inda Muhyî l-dîn b. ‘Arabî, Hakim’s Mu ‘jam [see
infra, note 17], etc.). A fairly complete bibliography covering tire last
three decades would entail several dozen titles and would be considerably
lengthened if it included the works by or about authors coming
out of Ibn 'Arabi's school: Qûnawî, Sha'rânî, Nâbulusî, ‘Abd al-Qâdir
al-Jazâ'irî, etc. Also to be taken into account are the articles (published in
journals but also in the general press, most notably at times when polemics are
stirred up by a critical edition of the Futûhât; on these polemics, see
the article by Th. Emil Homerin, “Ibn 'Arabi in the People’s Assembly,” Middle
East Journal 40, no. 3 (1986): 462-77) and several unpublished theses
defende din universities in the Arab world. We leave aside here the
publications in Western languages or by Western authors, even though they also
relate to the “Akbarian renaissance.” On this subject, James W. Morris has
written an article that might be consulted: “Ibn 'Arabî and his Interpreters” JAOS,
vol. 106, III, IV, and 107,1.
54. Among these recent Wahhâbî writings
let us mention, as typical examples, Sâbir Tu’ayma, Al-sûfiyya, mutaqadan wa
maslakan (Riyadh, 1985): see in particular pp. 165-83, 205-45; and the
series of works dedicated to turuq in the the collection Dirâsât 'an
al-tasaiuwuf (Riyadh). See also Mûsâ b. Sulaymân al-Darwîsh’s introduction
to the collection published under the title Rascdil wa fatâwâ fi dhamm Ibn
Arabî al-Sûfî (Medina, 1990).
55. Numerous analogous predictions, the
inauthenticity of which is well established, have been placed under Ibn
'Arabi’s name for centuries. Such is the case of works like Sa'ul al-khabar
(RG 642b) and Sayhat al-bûm (RG 708). Ibn Khaldun, in his Muqaddima
(Discours sur l’histoire universelle, trans. V. Monteil [Paris, 1967-6],
vol. 2, pp. 702-703), points out other examples. More recently, early in 1991,
an obviously apocryphal poem connected with the literature of the malhamât
was circulating in the Middle East and the Maghreb; it attributed to the Shaykh
al-Akbar an apocalyptic interpretation of events occurring in tire region. As
for the Shajara nu^nâniyya (RG 665)—on which there is, among others, a
commentary wrongly attributed to Qûnawî—it is interesting to highlight a
passage of the Kitâb al-mawâqif (Damascus, 1967), vol. 2, p. 709, where Emir
‘Abd al-Qâdir describes a visionary encounter in the course of which Ibn 'Arabi
accuses as liars all those who call him the author of this work or others like
it.
Chapter
1
1. Fut., vol. 1, p. 411 (O.Y., vol. 4, p. 207) and vol. 4, p. 465. For the
Arabs, as for the Greeks and the Latins, the cetacean (ketos, cetus) is
a fat fish. Imam Mâlik's fatwâ, restores it to the class of mammalians,
which is taxinomically more satisfactory to zoologists.
2. Of., for example, Majmû'at
al-rasâlil wa l-mascñl, ed. Rashîd Rida, vol. 4, pp. 42-46.
3. Husaynb. al-Ahdâl, Kashf al-ghitd
(Tonis, 1964), pp, 192f.
4. Burhân àj-dîn al-Bigâ’î, Tanbîh
al-ghab> ilâ takfîr Ibn al-Arabî, published in Cairo (1953) under the
title Masra! al-tasawwuf, see pp. 76, 88.
5. Sakhâwî, Al-qawl al-munbî
(manuscript, Berlin), spr. 790, f. 24b. For Sakhâwî, the accusation of ibâha
is aimed not only at doctrine, but also at morals; cf. for example f. 97b.
6. Nicholson, Reynold A., Studies in
Islamic Mysticism (Cambridge, 1921), p. 149.
7. Landau, Ross, Philosophy of Ibn
Arabi, p. 23 (see intro., note 6).
8. Abu 1-Alâ ‘Afifi, The Mystical
Philosophy of Muhyid Din Ibnul Arabi, 2d ed. (Lahore, 1964), pp. 19194. For
a recent study of Qur’ânic exegesis in Ibn ‘Arabi by an Arab scholar, consult
Nasr Hâmid Abu Zayd, Falsafat al-ta’wîl (Beirut, 1983).
9. MS. Zâhirîyya 9872, f. 22b. For Ibn
‘Arabi’s citation quoted in the preceding sentence, see Fut. vol. 3, p.
334.
10. See above, intro., note 37.
11. The Ijàz al-bayân was
published by Shaykh Mahmûd Ghurâb, according to the unicum of Istanbul,
in the first volume of the aforementioned work; intro., note 42. The Qur’ânic
commentary, in the edited version, ends at verse 252 of sura Al-baqara.
12. Al-rahma min al-Rahmàn fî tafsîr wa
ishârât al-qur’ân, 4 vols.
(Damascus, 1989). See our summary of this work in the Bulletin critique des
Annales islamologiques, no. 8, 45-49.
13. On these fatwà see the
(nonexhaustive) lists given by O. Yahia in Histoire et classification,
RG275, vol. 1, pp. 122-36, and in his introduction to Haydar Amoli’s Nass
al-nusûs (Paris, Tehran, 1975), pp. 48-65.
14. Sakhâwî, Al-qawl al-munbi, f.
102. Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqalânî (d. 1499), also notes with surprise that the first
opinions about Ibn ‘Arabi were basically favorable. He says, “it is almost
certain that they did not know what is basically well known now about the Fusûs”
(Lisân al-mîzân [Hyderabad, 1329 a.h.],
vol. 5, pp. 312-15).
15. See the biography, an excerpt from
Maqarrî’s Nafh al-libb (.seventeenth century), at the end of the Futûhât
(vol. 4, p. 560). The first mention of this history appears to be in Ghubrînî {‘Unirán
al-dirâya [Algiers, 1970], p. 159). The authenticity of this episode is
discussed by Claude Addas, Ibn ‘Arabi ou la quête du soufre rouge
(Paris, 1989), pp. 230-32, a work that we recommend to the reader for all that
concerns the life of the Shaykh al-Akbar, only brief details of which will be
found in the present volume.
16. Ibn cArabî, Tarjumân
al-ashwâq (Beirut, 1961), p. 1.
17. Ibn ‘Arabî, Ruh al-quds
(Damascus, 1964), p. 98.
20. See, e.g., Fut. vol. 2, p.
79; O.Y., vol. 12, p. 341.
21. Among others, let us mention the
recent publication in Tbkyo (1987) of a work by Masataka Takeshita, Ibn
‘Arabi’s Theory of the Perfect Man, and, in Leningrad, i.e., St.
Petersburg, of the works of Alexander Knysh; in Moscow, Andrei Smirnov is
preparing the first Russian translation of the Fusûs al-hikam.
24. Fut. vol. 1, p. 76; O.Y., vol. 1, p. 328.
26.
Fut. vol. 1, p. 334; O.Y., vol. 5,
p. 158.
27.
Fut. vol. 1, p. 334; O.Y, vol. 5,
p. 158.
29.
Fut. vol. 1, p. 248; O.Y., vol. 4,
p. 90.
30.
Fut. vol. 1, p. 403; O.Y., vol. 4,
p. 147.
31. Remember that the root of the word qur’ân
expresses the idea of "gathering together” and “totalization.”
32. This famous hadîth qudsî is
often cited by sull authors with a chain of transmission going back to Wahb b.
Munabbih. However, it does not appear in the collections considered
“canonical,” and Ibn Taymiyya classifies it asggg the isrâ’iliyyât.
33. Flit. vol. 3, pp. 93-94. The idea of the perpetual newness of the Qur’an
is expressed on a number of occasions by Ibn 'Arabi. Cf. e.g., Fût. vol.
3, p. 108: "It [the Qur’ân] came down upon the heart of Muhammad, and it
does not cease to come down upon the hearts of the faithful of his community up
to the Day of the Ressurection. Its descent upon hearts is always new, for it
is^perpetual Revelation." See also Fut. vol. 3, p. 127; Kitâh
al-isfâr (Hyderabad, 1948), p. 16.
35. This mention of the “nocturnal
discussion” is an allusion to the hadith according to which God descends toward
the sky during the third third of the night; the lines preceding the passage in
the Futûhât are referring to this hadith.
37. See the analysis of these two texts
in our introduction to the anthology of the Futûhât published as Les
Illuminations de la Mecque, ed. Michel Chodkiewicz (Paris, 1988), pp.
34-35.
38. Fut. vol. 1, pp. 47-51; O.Y, vol. 1, pp. 215-30.
39. Cf. Meyer, “The Mystery of the
Ka'ba,” Eranos Yearbooks, XXX, vol. 2, pp. 149-68; H, Corbin, L’Imagination
créatrice dans le soufisme d’ibn Arabî (Paris, 1958), pp. 213-15; Addas, op.
cit., pp. 241to3: Chodkiewicz, introduction to Illuminations de la
Mecque, by Ibn 'Arabî, pp. 4t>—<18 (see note 37).
40. Let it be added that in different
editions of the Futûhât the order of succession of these paragraphs
presents numerous anomalies; without the order being corrected certain passages
remain completely unintelligible.
42. Cf. for example ‘Uqlat
al-mustawfiz, in Nyberg, Kleinere Schriften des Ibn al-Arabî
(Leiden, 1919), p. 52; Fut. vol. 4, p. 83, 287. The identification of
the imâm mubîn as the insân kâmil is, although expressed without
the latter term being used, perfectly clear in the passage from chapter 559, to
which we were referring in the preceding note; the identification is confirmed
by the commentary of 'Abd al-Karîm al-Jîlî, Shark mushkitât al-Futûhât
(manuscript), p. 10. Ibn 'Arabî explains (in Fut. vol. 2, p. 394) the
reasons a same reality can be referred to by different names.
43. Fut. vol. 1, p. 180; O.Y., vol. 3, p. 149.
44. Fût. vol. 1, p. 51. O.Y, vol. 1, p. 229.
45. To understand the coherence of these
successive identifications it must be remembered that, for Ibn ‘Arabi, the
Perfect Man or the Universal Man (al-inscm al-kullî) and the Qur'an are
“brothers” (Fut. vol. 3, p. 94) and are even purely and simply assimilated,
the one into the other (Kitab al-isfâr, p. 17). On the seven divine
names envisioned here, see among others Fut. vol. 1, p. 204; O.Y., 13,
p. 238 and Fut. vol. 2, p. 493; Inshâ al- dawâir, ed. Nyberg, p.
28. In Ibn ‘Arabi these names are not always classified in the same order, and
al-mutakallim is sometimes replaced by al-qàïl. “He Who Says.”
The information given here on the encounter with the fata will be
elaborated upon below, at the end of chapter 4.
46. Fut. vol. 1, p. 50; O.Y., vol. 1, p. 230. The last words of the sentence
cited (“record it in your work and teach it to all those whom you love”) appear
in the 1239 a.h. edition of the Futûhât,
which is based on the text of the first edition of the work, but the words are
absent from the edition prepared by Osman Yahia.
47. Selections from this second chapter,
accompanied by a long introduction, were translated by Denis Gril in Ibn
‘Arabî, Illuminations de la Mecque, pp. 439-87.
49. The “Pages” (suhuf, sing, sahvfa)
is a Qur’ânic term (20:133,■ 53:36; 87:18) that globally refers to revelations
previous to that of Muhammad, when these are not mentioned by their specific
names. It goes without saying that the principle raised by Ibn ‘Arab! here
applies only to the revealed Book—whichever—if it is known in the same language
in which it was revealed, since its translation into another language vitiates
its character as Divine Word and gives it an interpretation that, even if
correct, is necessarily restrictive.
50. Fut. vol. 2, p. 119; O.Y., vol. 13, p. 92.
51. Fut. vol. 2, p. 28; O.Y., vol. 11, p. 420.
62. The laylat al-qadr, which gives its name to sura 97, is
traditionally celebrated on the twenty-seventh of the month of Ramadán. For
Ibn ‘Arabi, the Book descended as qur’an (by which, according to the
etymology of the word, Revelation in its synthetic aspect should be understood)
during the month of Ramadan, and as furqân (Revelation in its
distinctive mode) during the night of the fifteenth of the month of Shahan. It
is this night in the month of Sha'bán—identified with that “in which all wise
things are
decided” (Qur’an 44:4)—which is for him the lay lut. al-qadr (Fut. vol
3, p. 94). Elsewhere he specifies (Fut. vol. 3, p. 159; vol. 4, p. 486)
that the night does not come on a fixed date but circulates throughout the
year.
54. Lisân al-carab (Beirut, n.d.), vol. 12, p. 34.
55. On the sources of this anecdote, see
Fritz Meyer, Die Fawâ’ih al- gamal wa fawâtih al-galâl (Wiesbaden,
1957), pp. 45—46. According to another version (Tâsh Kabrizadé, Miftâh
al-sa'áda [Hyderabad, 1329 A.H.], vol. 1, pp. 450-51), it is rather during
this retreat that Râzî is supposed to have received the supernatural inspiration
that guided him in the composition of his great commentary on the Qur’an.
57. ‘Abd al-Karîm Jîlî, Marâtib
al-wujûd (Cairo, n.d.), pp. 8-12.
58. Nâbulusî, Kitâb al-rusûkh ft
maqâm al-shuyükh (manuscript, Berlin), We 1631, f. 189b.
Chapter
2
1. Ibn 'Arabî, Dîwân (Bûlâq,
1855), pp. 31-32; Ibn 'Arabî, Anqâ mughrib (Cairo, n.d.), p. 24.
3. See especially chapter 54 of the Futûhât,
vol. 1, pp. 278f. ; O.Y, vol. 4, pp. 2621. On Tustari’s hermeneutics, see G.
Bôwering, The Mystical Vision of Existence in Classical Islam (Berlin,
New York, 1980), pp. 135f.
4. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-Abàdila
(Cairo, 1962), p. 42 (analogous remarks, also relative to the Fâtiha,
are found in Ijáz al-bayân, pp. 29—30); Fut., IV., p. 105.
5. Qushayri, Lataif al-ishârât
(Cairo, 1971), vol. 5, p. 354. Rûzbehân Baqlî (d. 606/1209) in his tafsîr
(Aráis al-bayân (Indian lith. ed., 1315/1899), vol. 2, pp. 229-30) does not
address the ka problem, but keeps only the verse’s affirmation of divine
transcendence.
6. Râzî, Tafsîr (Tehran, n.d.),
vol. 27, pp. 150-53. Râzî also criticizes the connection between this verse and
Qur’ân 16:60 (wa li-Llâhi l-mathal al-a‘lâ), which lends itself to an
interpretation analogous to that which Ibn ‘Arabî gives to Qur’an 42:11. On the
interpretations of Muqâtil and Tabari, see C. Gilliot’s article "Muqâtil,
grand exégète...” Journal asiatique 1-2 (1991): 58-57.
7. Regarding the passages of Ibn
'Arabi's writings relative to this verse, let us mention, among others, hut.
vol. 2, p. 563; vol. 3, p. 165; vol. 4, pp. 135-36; Fus., vol. 1,
pp. 70-71, 111, 182.
8. On this hadith and its variants, cf.
Muslim, birr, 115; jama, 28; Bukhârî, isUdhán, 1.
9. The idea of man (al-insân
al-kâmil) as mirror of God and God as mirror of man is developed in the
first and second chapters of the Fusûs (see in particular Fus.
vol. 1, pp. 63, 61f.). It is also presented in the Futûhât (vol. 1, p.
163; vol. 4, p. 430). See also (Fut. vol. 3, p. 112; O.Y., vol. 2, p. 190) the
interpretation of the hadith: Al-mu’min mir’at al-mu’min (Tirmidhî, birr,
8); the interpretation is based on the fact that al-mw'inin is one of
the divine names and thus this tradition—which is generally translated “the
believer is the mirror of the believer’’—can be interpreted as meaning that God
is the mirror of the believer, and, conversely, that the behever is the mirror
of God. Ibn 'Arabî (Kitâb al-rAbâdila, p. 169) interprets in
an analogous manner the hadith according to which “the believer is the brother
of the believer” (al-mirmin akhu l-mu’min).
10. This question is numbered 143 in the
Futûhât {Fut. vol. 1, pp. 123-24; O.Y., vol. 13, pp. 125-31), and 149 in
the critical edition by B. Radtke of Tirmidhîs text. We are indebted to Pr.
Radtke for having given us in advance the pages of his book (presently in press
in Beirut) containing the questionnaire.
11. Hakim Tirmidhî, Kitâb khatin
al-awliyâ, ed, O. Yaliia (Beirut, 1965), p. 314.
12. We have already touched on this
theme in Sceau des Sainis, pp. 97-98 (see intro., note 17).
13. Fut. vol. 2, p. 218. Cf. Râzî, Tafsir, vol. 3, pp. 5-6, where
the connection between shajara and tashâjur is mentioned without
commenting on the consequences. See also Qurtubî, Al-jâmic
li-ahkâm al-QuFân (Cairo, 1933), vol. 1, p. 260; Qushayrî, Lata ’if
al-ishârât, vol. 1, p. 92. Baqlî (A.râïs al-bayân, vol. 1, p. 21),
however, suggests an interesting connection between Adam and Eve’s tree and the
Burning Bush (in Arabic, also shajara; cf. Qur’ân 28:30). To the
negative meaning of shajara based on the etymology which Ibn 'Arabi
holds here, there symetrically corresponds a positive meaning tied to visual
symbolism, the tree having an obvious axial character: the tree is also the
perfect man, according to a definition that Ibn 'Arabi gives in his Kitâb
istilâh al-sûfiyya (Hyderabad, 1948), p. 12. On the other hand, one does
not have to take into consideration the data that can be found i*|ie treatise
entitled Shajarat al-kawn, a work often attributed to Ibn 'Arabi but
should be returned to its true author, ‘Abd al-Salâm b. Ahmad b, Ghânim
al-Maqdisî (d. 67^1280), as shown by the research of M. Younès Alaoui Mdaghri
(DEA mémoire, Sorbonne nouvelle, 1990). For an allegorical interpretation of
the tree (in relation to Qur’an 14:24—25), cf., e.g., P Nwyia’s analysis (Exégèse
coranique et Langage mystique (Beirut, 1986), pp. 336-38) of a passage of
the ninth-century tafsîr of Abû 1- Hasan al-Nûrî.
14. Cf. Tadbîrât ilâhiyya, ed.
Nyberg, p. 225 in the Arabie text.
15. Philo of Alexandria, Commentaire
allégorique des Saintes Lois après l’œuvre des six jours, trans. Father
Claude Mondésert, bk. 3 (Paris, 1962). Let it be remembered that Philo, if he
allegorizes freely when he is engaged in exegesis of the scriptures, emphasizes
the necessity of not neglecting the letter, of being concerned about “careful
search for the invisibles and faithful guarding of the visibles” (De
Migratione Abrahae, cited in J. Daniélou, Philon d’Alexandrie
[Paris, 1958], p. 113). The difference between Philo and Ibn ‘Arabi is that for
the latter it is in the letter itself that one should search for both the
“visible” and the “invisible.” The direct or indirect followers of the Shaykh
al-Akbar do not always observe the principle of such rigorous hermeneutics.
Qashânî, for example—whose tafsîr is so often attributed to Ibn
‘Arabi—does not hesitate to allegorize.
16. Ibn 'Arabi, Kitáb al-ahadiyya
(Hyderabad, 1948), p. 3.
17. Fus. vol. 1, pp. 61f; Fut. vol. 4, p. 2.
18. On Qur’an 24:39, see Fut.
vol. 1, p. 193; vol, 2, pp. 269, 338, 455. On Qur’an 20:10 regarding Moses, see
Fus. vol. 1, pp. 212-13. Baqlî (fArâïs al baycin, vol. 2, p. 87)
briefly suggests, in his commentary on Qur’an 24:39, an interpretation
analogous to that of Ibn 'Arabi.
19. Fut. vol. 1, p. 405; O.Y, vol. 6, p. 163; Fut. vol. 4, p. 106;
Ibn 'Arabi, Kitâb al-masâ’il (Hyderabad, 1948), p. 14.
22. Taymiyya, Majmû’at al-rasâdl,
vol. 1, p. 173; vol. 4, p. 795; Râzî, Tafsîr, vol. 20, pp. 183-84.
23. Fut. vol. 2, p. 662. Cf. the commentary on this dialogue by ‘Abd
al-'Azîz al-Dabbàgh (Kitab al-Ibrîz [Cairo, 1961], p. 361).
24. Allusion to a hadith qudsi
encountered in several canonical collections, present in this form or with the
variant ghalabat (“My mercy is
greater than my anger”). Œ. e.g., Bukhârî, tahwid, 55, tawba,
14-16; Ibn Maj ah, Zuhd, 35.
25. For Ibn ‘Arabi there are no
“inanimate” beings; according to the Qur’an, all things give glory to God and
thus possess life. Cf. Fut. vol. 2, p. 678; vol. 3, pp. 264, 324, 333;
vol. 4, p. 289.
27. Fus. vol. 1, pp. 107-108. For Dâwûd Qaysarî (d. 751/1350), Sharh
Fusûs al-hikam (Bombay, 1350 A.H.), p. 194, the “western wind"— which
comes from where the sun sets—is the breath of the dark material world, and it
thus pushes them toward the east, that is, toward the light. It makes them “die
unto themselves” and thus leads them into fana (the extinction of the
ego). On this passage from the Fusûs, see also Qâshânî’s commentary
(Cairo, 1321 A.H.), p. 127.
28. Fut. vol. 2, p. 138; O.Y., vol. 13, pp. 264-68. This question is numbered
162 in Tirmidhî’s text, as edited by B. Radtke. On the same theme, see also
chapter 337, dedicated to the Manzil Muhammad (Fut. vol. 3, pp. 140-46),
where the six privileges of the Prophet are commented upon.
29. Concerning “Muhammadan Reality,” its
occultation and manifestation, see Chodkiewicz, Sceau des saints, chap.
4. Concerning the (generally quite brief) commentaries on Qur’an 34: 28 by
other authors, see, e.g., Râzî, Tafsir, vol. 25, p. 258; Qushayrî, Latadf
al-ishârât, vol. 5, p. 183; Qur- tubf, Al-jámi1 li-akhám
al-Quríán, vol. 14, p. 300; Ismâ‘îl Haqqî, Rûh al- bayân (Istanbul.
1330 A.H.), vol. 7, p. 294; Sayyid Qutb, Fî zilâl al-qur’ân (Beirut,
1977), vol. 5, p. 2906, Like Ibn ‘Arabî, Jîlî (Nasîm ahSahar [Cairo,
n.d.], p. 17) emphasizes that Qur’an 21:107 means that the Mercy in question
is not reserved “for Muslims and believers,” that is, for the historical Muslim
community.
30. Fut. vol. 4, p. 163. See also Fut. vol. 4, p. 153, where Ibn
‘Arabi mentions a vision of the Divine Rahma that he had in Fez in 593
A.H., which he maintains he is incapable of transcribing. Concerning this
aspect of the function of the Seal, refer to Addas, Ibn Arabi, pp.
340-43 (see chap. 1, note 15).
33. Fut. vol. 4, p. 248. Ibn ‘Arabi clarifies (vol. 4, p, 120) that it is
divine mercy that keeps the damned in hell once their punishment is com-
pleted, for, as
he says, “if they were placed in paradise they would suffer” because of the
incompatibility of their nature with the order of heaven.
34. Fus. vol. 1, p. 94. Concerning Gehenna and its inhabitants, see chaps.
61 and 62 of the Futûhâl.
35. Chodkiewicz, Sceau des saints,
chap. 6. The first part of chapter 73, to which we are referring here,
corresponds to Fut. vol. 2, pp. 2-39, and to O.Y., vol. 11, pp. 247-493.
36. Fut. vol. 2, p. 16; O.Y., vol. 11, p. 237.
37. Fut. vol. 3, p. 321 (the first verse of the poem), and vol. 4, p. 175.
More precise information can be obtained in the Ishârât al-qur’ân fi 'alam
al-insân (p. 28), of which D. Gril, who is presently’preparing the edition,
has been kind enough to furnish us with the proofs. Information may also be
found in Tanazzulât mawsiliyya (Cairo, 1961, under the title Latâ’ifal-
asrár, p. 55). Although it cannot be reduced to that, Ibn ‘Arabi’s
affirmation according to which 5 “preserves itself and preserves others”
evidently alludes to the well-known mathematical property of the number, a property
illustrated by the following: 5x5 = 25; 25 x 25 = 625; 625 x 625 = 390,625, etc.
38. Cf. E. Doutté, Magie et Religion
de l’Afrique du Nord (Algiers, 1908; Paris, 1984), pp. 183-84, 325-27; E.
Westermarck, Survivances païennes dans la civilisation mahométane
(Paris, 1935), pp. 39, 50f. It would at any rate be erroneous to see only a popular
practice there: independent of Che remarks of Ibn ‘Arabi, it can be noted that
the groups of five núraniyya letters appearing at the beginning of sura
19 and sura 42 play, for analogous reasons, an important role in certain forms
of prayer and, e.g., in Abû 1-Hasan al-Shâdhilî’s Hizb al~bahr. Let us
note that these two groups are particularly related to certain eschatological
data and that they constitute a protection against the Dajjâl ("the
Imposter”), i.e., against the Antichrist.
39. Fut. vol. 2, p. 39; O.Y., vol. 11, p. 491.
40. Fut. vol. 1, p. 201; O.Y., vol. 3, p. 257.
41. The oldest attested form of this
word in Arabic is qarùbiyyûn, with a qâf, which underscores the
idea of proximity expressed by the word muqarrabûn. Pseudo-Dionysius the
Areopagite places "Tlirones, cherubim, and seraphim...immediately next to
God in a proximity superior to that of the others" and adds that
“the name cherubim shows moreover the ability to know and to com template God,
to receive the highest gifts of His light" (La Hiérarchie céleste,
chaps. 6 and 7, in Œuvres complètes PseudoDenys lAréopagite, trans.
M. de Gandillac [Paris, 1943]). On the angelic hierarchies in Ibn. 'Arabi, see Fut.
vol. 2, p. 250.
42. Fut. vol. 3, pp. 34-37. The apparently disconcerting position of this
account in the Futûhàt will be explained in chapter 3 below. For the
present we have deliberately left aside the term malâmiyya by previous
authors; on this subject see R. Deladrière’s article in the forthcoming Acts of
the Mélamis et Bayramis symposium, Istanbul, 1987. For a more complete
analysis of Ibn 'Arabi’s material on the malâmiyya, see
Chodkiewicz, Sceau des saints, chap. 7.
43. Fut. vol. 2, p. 53; O. Y, vol. 12, p. 150. On the nubuwwa mutlaqa, see
also Fut. vol. 1, p. 150; O.Y., vol. 2, pp. 357-60; Fut. vol. 2,
p. 3; O.Y., vol. 11, pp. 251-55; Fut. vol. 2, p. 85; O.Y., vol. 12, pp.
386-87.
44. In Fut. vol. 2, pp. 260-62,
Ibn 'Arabi describes his own arrival at this “station.” This text has been
translated by D. Gril in Ibn 'Arabi, Illuminations de la Mecque, pp.
339-47, with an introduction and notes that supply important details on the
idea of qurba.
45. Fut. vol. 1, pp. 115-16; O.Y., pp. 206-10. From this passage comes the
inspiration for Shaykh Ahmad b. 'Aliwâ’s commentary on sura Al-baqara
which was mentioned in the introduction to this volume.
46. Fat. vol. 2, p. 134; O.Y., vol. 13, pp. 245-49.
47. Ibn 'Arabi, Kitâb al-tajalliyât,
ed. O. Yahia, in the journal Al- Mashriq 1967: p. 372, tajallî
no. 83. The relationship of this tajalli—as is the case with the tajalli
no. 5 (Al-Mashiq 1966: p. 683)—with the malâmiyya is not the
least bit fortuitous, as shall be explained in chapter 4.
48. Fut. vol. 1, p. 215; O.Y., vol. 2, pp. 208-209.
49. Fut. vol. 2, p. 136; O.Y., vol. 13, pp. 245-46, Cf. also (II, pp.
591-92) chapter 275—a chapter that, as we shall soon see, corresponds to sura Al-kâfirùn—,
where the malâmiyya are, on the other hand, assimilated into the five
"Holy Letters” (hurùf inuqadassa), that is, into those that, in
writing, are never joined to the alif.
50. On the “abode” that joins friends (awliya)
and enemies of God, see Fut. vol- 3, pp. 475—83. Cf. also here the final
remark of note 4, chapter 5. On the idea of mustanad ilâhî, see for
example Fut. vol. 3, pp. 94, 528; vol. 4, p. 174; Kitâb al-tarâjim,
p. 4: “all reality in this world is linked (marbùta) to a divine reality
that preserves it.” In the section from chap. 10 of his Taibis Iblis,
where he criticizes the sufi exegesis, Ibn al-Jawzi reproaches Junayd
(regarding his inf^spretation of Qur’ân 2: 85) with the same thing that later
censors were to
object to in Ibn ‘Arabi: namely, interpreting in terms of praise the Qur’ânic
phrases that express reprobation.
51. Fut. vol. 2, p. 136; O.Y., vol. 13, p. 246.
52. On the ‘aql, see Fut.
vol. 3, p. 198; Fus. I, p. 122.
53. Fut. vol. 2, p. 135; O.Y., vol. 13, pp. 243—45. Ibn ‘Arabi specifies
that only tbe basinala of the Fâtiha, and not that, however
rigorously iden t.ical, of the other suras of the Qur'ân can play this role. He
illustrates his remark with the case of a saint from Seville, Fâtima bint Ibn
aLMuthannâ (on whom, see Rûh al-quds, section 54; Fut. vol. 2, p.
347), who, with a single recitation of the Fâtiha, gained supernatural powers
and was astonished that all Muslims did not have the same powers available to
them. On the subject of the “positivity” of the term al-sâhirûn, he
recalls that the magicians of Fir‘awn (the biblical Pharaoh) continue to be
called by this name in the Qur'an after their conversion to the true faith,
which would be inconceivable if this word had only a pejorative connotation.
54. Fut. vol. 2, p. 138; O.Y., vol. 13, p. 261.
55. Al-wahy huwa 1-suFa, Fut. vol. 2, p. 78; O.Y, vol. 12, p. 330. On this meaning of the word tvahy,
cf. Lisân al-carab (Beirut, n.d.), vol. 15, p. 382. See P.
Nwyia’s analysis (Exégèse coranique, pp. 154—56), of an unedited text by
Tirmidhî on this subject.
56. Such is particularly the case for
chaps. 68 to 72 of the Futûhât, which deal respectively, and in great
detail, with ritual ablution, prayer, alms, fasting, and pilgrimage.
57. We dealt briefly with this theme, to
which we intend to return later, by speaking about “the foundations of
political legitimacy in Ibn ‘Arabi,” in a round table discussion, “The Struggle
Against the Unjust Sovereign in Islam,” held at the Maison des Sciences de
1’Homme in May 1986.
58. See the texts translated and
presented by Cyrille Chodkiewicz in “La loi et la voie,” part 4 of Ibn ‘Arabi, Illuminations
de la Mecque.
59. I. Goldziher, Die Zâhirîten
(Leipzig, 1884); English trans. The Zâhirîs, 2d ed. (Leiden, 2d ed.
1971), pp. 161f, 169f, 174.
60. Ibn ‘Arabi claims (Fut. vol.
1, p. 334; O.Y., vol. 5, p. 159) to have planned, if God gave him a long life,
to dedicate a huge work to all legal questions, but he needed to limit himself,
in the Futûhât, to dealing only with the essential. Shaykh Mahmûd b.
Mahmûd Ghurâb published an anthology of Ibn ‘Arabi’s texts relating to fiqh
(Al-fiqh Inda l-Shaykh al~ Akbar [Damascus, 1981]). This anthology, quite
summarily annotated and completely without references, is unfortunately of
little use to researchers.
62. Fut. vol. 1, p. 494; O.Y., vol. 7, pp. 289-90.
63. On this short work, see Yahia, Histoire
et Classification, RG 275. A copy of the work is said to he held by M.
Sa'îd al-Afghanî in Tunisia (see p. 17 of his introduction to the work
mentioned in note 64). This manuscript, about which Mr. Ssfîd Afghani gives no
reference information, does not appear in the catalogue done by R. Deladrière
on Ibn 'Arabî’s MSS preserved at the Zaytûna (Arabica, vol. 13, 1966, pp.
168-72). On the veneration that Ibn 'Arabi had for Ibn Hazm, cf. the vision
reported in his Kitab al-mubashshirât, MS. Fatih 5322, f. 90b.
64. Ibn Hazm, Ibtâl al-qiyâs
(Beirut, 1969).
65. By way of example, and remaining at
the level of the fund (later a typical case in the domain of usûl
will be seen), let us point out that Ibn 'Arabi is at variance with the Zâhirîs
on the subject of ablution, which he considers not only as a condition (shart)
of the validity of prayer, but as an ïbâda mustaqilla, an “autonomous
act of adoration.” Similarly, he judges as “blamable” only things that, for the
Zâhirîs, invalidate prayer (the wearing of forbidden clothing, for example).
Let it be noted in passing that the idea of tasmiya to which we referred
at the beginning of chap. 1 is, for Ibn 'Arabi, very near to what it is for Ibn
Hazm. On the other hand, the fundamental distinction in Ibn ‘Arabi among amr/imda/mashda
(a distinction analogous to that which certain Mâturîdîtes make) separates him
clearly from Ibn Hazm, for whom irada and mas hi'a are synonyms.
66. Cited in Ibn al-'Imâd, Shadharât
al-dhahab (Beirut, n.d.), vol. 5, p. 200.
67. Ibn 'Arabi, Dîwân, p. 47 (see
chap. 2, n. 1).
68. Fut. vol. 2, p, 165; O.Y., vol. 13, p. 466.
69. Bukhari, 1‘tisám, 2; Muslim, Hajj,
411, etc. Ibn ‘Arabi explicates the meaning of this hadith in Fut. vol.
2, p. 562.
70. Fut. vol. 1, p. 392; O.Y., vol. 4, p. 79.
71. Cf. Fut. vol. 1, p. 472;
O.Y., vol. 7, pp. 137-38; Fut. vol. 2, pp. 162-63; O.Y., vol. 13, pp.
445-50; Fut. vol. 2, p. 507; vol. 3, p. 335. In this last passage, Ibn
'Arabi explains that qiyâs cannot find its justification except in the
absence of the Prophet, who is, par excellence, the interpreter of Divine Law.
Now, for the “people of unveiling” (ahi al-kashf), the Prophet, he says,
is always present—which is obviously not a Zâhirî argument.
Chapter
3
1. RG 150. The list of commentaries is
found, in vol. 1, pp. 241-65. The explanations found below—and those that will
be encountered later in the text—on subjects dealt with in this chapter are not
by any means to be credited to us. We are indebted to Michel Valsan for the
first hints that led us to these remarks on the structure of the Futûhât.
Our learned friend Abdelbaki Meftah has assisted the honing of our interpretations
on numerous points. We are additionally indebted to a number of individuals
who still today are in charge of transmission of the kl:irqa akbariyya,
for without their support our efforts would have been in vain. The solution to
one of the problems examined here had already been presented in our introduction
to the Illuminations de La Mecque (p. 29 and p. 493, n. 38). The themes
of this chapter, approached first in our seminar at the École des hautes études
hi 1985-86, have been discussed in several papers: “Ibn ‘Arabi and Western
Scholarship” (Institut néerlandais, Feb. 1990); “The Qur’an in the Work of Ibn
‘Arabi” (Congrès international pour le 750° anniversaire de la mort d’Ibn
‘Arabî, Murcia, Nov. 1990); “The Futûhât Makkiyya and Their Commentators:
Some Unresolved Enigmas” (Conference on the Legacy of Persian Sufism, London,
SOAS, Dec. 1990). The text of this chapter is a synthesis of these different
presentations.
2. RG 135. The list of commentaries is
found in vol. 1, pp. 232-34.
3. Jili's commentary has been published
in Cairo (1988) by Atif Jûda Nasr, from a manuscript belonging to a private
collection and a manuscript belonging to Dâr al-Kutub. The text, identical to
that of our personal manuscript of this work, comments on the paragraphs from
chapter 559 corresponding to the first ten chapters of the Futûhât.
Another edition has been published more recently (1991) in Kuwait by Dr. Yûsuf
Zaydâr.
4. Cf. Jandî, Sliarh Fusûs al-hikam
(Mashhad, 1982); Haydar Amolî, Nass al-nusüs, ed. H. Corbin and O. Yahia
(Tehran, Paris, 1975); and Jâmi‘ al-asrâr (in H. Corbin and O. Yahia, Philosophie
shi’ite [Tehran, Paris, 1969J). See for example, in the last work, pp.
440ff., a long quote from chapter 366 of the Futûhât.
5. Rashahât 'ayn ahhayât, vol. 1, pp. 249-50.
6. Maktûbât-i Imâm~i Rabbani (Lucknow, 1889). Sirhindi’s attention is drawn not only by
doctrinal ideas expressed in the Futûhât, but also by anecdotes reported
there; see, e..g., in letter no. 58 (where he critiques lanâsukh—metempsychosis),
the story of a visionary encounter at the Ka‘ba between Ibn ‘Arabi and a man
belonging to a human racj^rovious to our own (cf. Fut. vol. 3, pp. 348,
549). As Y. Friedmann, notes (Shaykh Ahman Sirhindï [Montreal, London,
1971], p. 64), the mujaddid “recommends the study oflbn ‘Arabi’s works and
considers them indispensable for the proper appreciation of his own spiritual
insights.”
7. Such is the case in Al-hikma
al-muta‘âliyya fî l-asfâr. On this problem, see James W. Morris's
introduction to his translation of Al-hikma al-drshiyya (The Wisdom of the
Throne [Princeton, 1981]), a work where explicit mentions of the Futûhât,
although rarer, are not exceptional: in Wisdom of the Throne, see, e.g.,
pp. 178, 234-35, 239—40.
8. We are referring particularly to the
following works of the Ayatollah Khomeini: Sharh dud al-sahar (Beirut,
1982): Misbâh al-hidâya (Beirut, 1983); Ta'lîqât alâ sharh Fusûs
al-hikam (Qom, 1986). '
9. This remark appears in the third
line of our manuscript copy of JÎ1Î Sharh mushkilât al-Futûhât.
10. Fut. vol. 1, p. 59; O.Y., vol. 1, pp. 264-65.
12. Fut. vol. 2, p. 163; O.Y., vol. 13, p. 450. Similarly, chapters 61 (on
Gehenna) and 65 (on Paradise) have a 'complement” in chapter 371.
14. Fut. vol. 4, p. 137. See also vol. 2, p. 548.
19. The description of these
twenty-eight degrees, which are also to be placed in relationship to the lunar
“abodes,” is given in sections 11 to 38 of this chapter. Their list appears at
the beginning (Fut. vol. 2, pp. 397-99). On the manâzil as
degrees of paradise (in correspondence with the verses of the Qur’ân), see Fut.
vol. 3, p. 435.
20. Fut. vol. 2, p. 59; O.Y., vol. 12, p. 57.
22. Fut. vol. 1, p. 192; O.Y., vol. 3, p. 212; Ibn 'Arabî, Tanazzulât
mawsiliyya, p. 9jtóee also Fut. vol. 2, pp. 40-41; O.Y., vol. 12,
pp. 56-65,
where the
expression “110 and some manâzil” is an allusion to the number of suras.
23. MS. Fâtîh 5322, f. 60b-66.
25. The copyist of this manuscript
obligingly added in figures, between the lines, the numeric values expressed in
letters in the text.
26. These different pieces of
information appear respectively in f. 60b, 61a (line 19), f. 65a, and 65b.
28. We do not have space here to enter
into a detailed explanation of the symbolism of bâ and the subscript
dot. We refer the reader to chapters 2 and 5 of the Futühât (of which D.
Gril has translated excerpts in the last part of Ibn "Arabi, Illuminations
de la Mecque, dedicated to the “science of letters”) and to the short
epistle entitled Kitâb al-bâ (RG 71), composed in Jerusalem in 602 A.H.
and published in Cairo in 1954.
29. It is likewise by reference to the cilm
alhurûf that interpretations should be made, e.g., in the series of chaps.
74—185 (Tîrmidhî, Fu tûhâti fasl al-mudmalàt, 2d ed.) of the number of
degrees (darajât) corresponds to each of the spiritual categories (ârifùn,
malâmiyya) and their subdivisions (ahi al-uns, ahi al-adâb), or even
of the number of stages pertaining to the ahi al-anwâr (for whom the
numerical values to take into consideration are those of the Eastern abjâd)
and to the ahi al asrâr (for whom the numerical values are those of the
Maghreban abjâd). All these numbers, and more generally, all those that
appear in the works of Ibn "Arabi, come out of a perfectly intelligible
calculation. Tb dissipate the idea of strangeness that a Western reader can
feel today when faced with the use of these arithmetical procedures, analogous
to those found in the Kabbalah, one must return to the idea of tasmiya,
of “nomination”: no name is coincidental, nor does it come out of a simple
convention among the speakers of a
language; the name has, along with what it designates, an essential
relationship. As is the case for the other Semitic alphabets, each of the
letters of the Arabic alphabet also represents a number—which the later use of
Indian numerals will not erase, any more than “Arabic numerals” will succeed in
wiping out the use of “Roman numerals” (which are letters, also) in the West.
The perception of phonetic values and that of numeric values (both signifying
the nature of that which is “named") does not require the laborious mental
operation that they usually impose on a Westerner, but are rather done
simultaneously.
30. These “secret sciences” can
nevertheless play a positive role, and Ibn 'Arabi mentions the case of one of
the Companions of the Prophet, Hudhayfa b. al-Yaman, who had the gift of
detecting hypocrites. The Shaykh al-Akbar states on numerous occasions that he
has vowed to never use powers associated with these sciences and specifically
that of the science of letters (Fut. vol. 1, p. 190; O.Y., vol. 3, p.
202; Fut. vol. 3, p. 584).
31. Concerning the khalwa see, in
addition to chaps. 78 and 79 of the Futûhât (translated by M. Valsan in Études
traditionnelles no. 412-13 (1969): p. 77-86), the Kitâb al-khalwa
(RG 255) and the Risâlat al-anwâr (RG 33), upon which we commented in
chapter 10 of Chodkîewicz, Sceau des Saints. On the idea of khalwa
in sufism, see H. Lando it’s article, El2. The practice of arbaîniyya,
the forty-day retreat, based on a haditli (absent from the canonical
collections) cited by Abû Nu'aym al-Isfahânî, is described in detail in chaps.
26, 27, and 28 of Suhrawardî’s Awârif al-ma‘arif.
34. Our concern for mentioning this
aspect of Ibn 'Arabi’s doctrine has, in the past, caused us criticism on the
part of certain Muslim readers. Let it be recalled that affirmations of the
same nature are found repeatedly, for example, in chap. 73 where, as we have
said, types of sainthood are described. The author, after giving the name of
such and such category of awliyâ, often adds a remark in this sense (wa
minhum al-rijâl ma l-nisâ, or a similar phrase). Still more explicit is a
sentence (Fut. vol. 3, p. 89) where he says that all the degrees (marâtib),
including that of the Pole (al- qutbiyyd), are as accessible to women as
to men. It is significant that this sentence appears in chapter 324, which
corresponds to the manzil for sura 60 (Al-mumtahind), a sura several
of whose verses refer to the status of Muslim women and whose penultimate
verse, in particular, concerns the pact that women, the same as men, have with
the Prophet. Historically, the pact in question here is the one made in
Hudaybiyya in the year 6, but it is at the same time, in sufism, the prototype
and the scriptural justification of the initiatory pact. On this subject, see
also, e.g., Fut. vol. 4, p. 494; Mawâqi’ al-nujûm, pp. 115-16; Kitâb
al-tarâjim, pp. 1 and 39.
35. Fut. vol. 2, p. 641. As Ibn ‘Arabi reminds the reader at the beginning
of chap. 322 (Fut. vol. 3, p. 81), the word quraysh itself
contains, by virtue of its etymology, the idea of assembly (ijtimâ1}.
39. Fut. vol. 3, pp. 109-10. On the relationship between Jesus and the
Yemenite angle of the Ka‘ba, see Fut. vol. 1, p. 160; O.Y., vol. 2, p.
401. Christian data on the date of Jesus’ birth are taken up by Muslim historiography
(see, e.g., Mas'ûdî, Murûj al-dhahab [Cairo, 1964], vol. 1, p. 63).
Syria's name, for Arabic geographers, includes the totality of the Levant,
consequently including Lebanon and Palestine. On the function of Jesus at the
end of time, numerous data are presented in the Anqâ mughrib and cryptically
confirmed by the several passages (mutilated and disfigured in printed
editions) composed in a secret alphabet, of which certain commentaries allow
deciphering. Bakri Aladdin is preparing a critical edition of this work. Other
information is to be found in chap. 866 of the Futûhât. Let ns point out
that it is Jesus who is referred to in this chapter: by reason of his birth
without an earthly father, he escapes the normal human condition. It is to
this that the sentence (Fut. vol. 3, p. 328) according to which the
“ministers of the Mahdi will have a guardian (hafiz) “who is not of
their kind” is alluding (in reference to Qur’an verses 18:18 and 18:22).
43. The copy is dated 937/1531. Copies
of other works by Ibn ‘Arabi, collected together with that of the Manzil
al-manâzil in MS. Fâtih 5322, were done by the same copyist. Annotations in
other manuscripts, not all of which are found in public libraries, prove that
the copyist of the Manzil al- manâzil was not an isolated case.
Chapter
4
1. See chap. 1, notes 11 and 12,
According to L. Massignon, cited by O. Yahia (cf. RG 268), an autograph
manuscript of this work exists in Baghdad; it can be supposed that this manuscript
is more complete than the one (Dogmulu, 9, f. lb-179b) used by Ghurâb, for the
latter stops at the end of sura 2, as we have said. Several things said by Ibn
‘Arabi in the text and in the Futûhât lead one to think that, although
it is not an entire tafsir, the Ijâz al-bayân was to cover far
more than just the first two suras (see, e.g., Fat. vol. 3, p. 64).
2. Gharadunâ al-tanbth in l-îjâz iva mâ
yadullu, 'a lay hi l-lafz (ed. Ghurâb,
p. 136).
4. Ibn ‘Arabi, Fihris (in
Ibrâhîm al-Qârî al-Baghdâdî, Manâqib ïbn Arabî, ed. S. Munajjid [Beirut,
1959], p. 47, no. 6). This detail is missing in the text of the Ijâza
edited by A. Badawi. Another difference: the version of the Fihris given
in the Manâqib, undoubtedly later, states that this tafsir goes
up to sura Maryam (sura 19), not just up to verse 60 of sura Al-kahf (sura
18). The interpretation that Ibn ‘Arabî gives of verses 6 and 7 of sura 2, such
as we related in chapter 2, offers a characteristic example of what may be the
commentary on the Qur’an “from the point of view of Beauty," the point of
view prevalent in saints of the Christie type, as was pointed out in
Chodkiewicz, Sceau des saints, p. 102. The “point of view of Majesty” is
Mosaic, and the “point of view of Perfection" is Muhammadan.
5. Ibn ‘Arabî, Dîwân, pp. 136
71. These poems, too, are linked together according to the traditional order of
the suras. With the exception of a hemistich (p. 157, in the first verse of the
poem dedicated to sura Al- rahmân) which is found in the Futûhât
(vol. 3, p. 483), we have up to the present found no trace of these poems in
any other of Ibn 'Arabi’s works; in the Dîwân, however, texts taken from
other sources are often found (e.g., Mawâqi1 al-nujûm, Kitâb
al-isrâ, Futûhât'). R. Deladière, to whom we are indebted for
correspondence about a long, as yet unedited work on the sources of the Dîwân,
has confirmed this point.
6. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-isrâ,
ed. S. Hakîm (Beirut, 1988), p. 52. Besides this edition, preferable by far to
that published in Hyderabad in 1948, we have consulted MSS. BN 6104, f.
28b-58b, and Fâtih 5322, f. 97—108 (in the collection compiled by the copyist
mentioned in chap. 3, note 43).
7. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-isrâ, p.
177; on the seventeen first verses of sura 53, see also Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât
mawsiliyya, pp. 98-100. We will return (see below, chapter 5) to the
relationship between these verses and the modalities of spiritual ascension in
Ibn ‘Arabi’s doctrine.
8. Mashâhid al-asrâr al-qudsiyya, MS. BN 6104, f. ll-28b (u.ol mentioned by O. Yahia); Shehit Ali
1340, f. 88b-I08b (we owe the opportunity to examine this last manuscript to
the kindness of Mustafa Tahrali, who made a copy of it for us by hand).
9. Ibn Sawdakîn’s commentary, entitled Kitâb
al-najât min hujub al-ishtibâh, forms part of MS. Fâtih 5322 (f. 169b-201
for the Kitâb al-isrâ. f. 201-214 for the Mashâhid). On the
inseparable character of these two works, see f. 169b and 201a. Let us point
out that the Risâla ft l-wah'iya edited in Cairo (Mtíie journal Alif,
1985, pp. 7-38) by H. Taher is no /noce i han. the beginning of the Mashâhid
(f. 1-13 of MS. BN 6104). S. Hakim is preparing an edition of the very
beautiful commentary of the Mashâhid done by Silt al-'Ajam bint
al-Nafis, which begins with the account of a vision during which Sitt al-A i am
converses with Ibn 'Arabi before an assembly of prophets (see MS. Berlin We.
1833, f. 2b-3). It is worth mentioning that Sitt al-'Ajam states in fine
that she voluntarily refrains from explaining the structure of the Mashâhid
al-asrâr.
10. The double symbolism of “risings”
and “settings” which play an important role in another of the Shaykh al-Akbar’s
works, the Mawâqi'al- nujûin (Cairo, 1325 and 1384 A.H.), would require
explanations that we are unable to give here. Ibn 'Arabi, according to Ibn
Sawdakîn’s commentary, interprets the first verse of Al-najm (“By the
star, when it sets") by comparing it to Qur’an 6:76-78, verses in which
Abraham successively observes the settings of celesti al bodies: stars, moon,
sun.
11. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-isrâ, p.
57.
12. Ibn 'Arabî, Kitâb al-isrâ, p.
67.
13. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-isrâ, p.
68
14. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-isrâ, p.
57
15. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-isrâ,
pp. 58-59; Fut. vol. 1, p. 9; O.Y., vol. 1, p. 70. The poem, in the
version given by the Kitâb al-isrâ, includes two additional verses. The
first verse cited here is that which we mentioned in the introduction (Aná
l-qur’ân wa l-sab‘ al-matkânî) and which we have found an echo of in a poem
by a present day Algerian shaykh. Other passages of the Kitâb al-isrâ,
where the fata is not named, supply complementary information on the
subject. We intend to return to this theme in a future work.
16. Al-najât minhujub al-ishtibâh, f. 171b.
17. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-Abádila
(Cairo, 1969), p. 39. This edition, based on three manuscripts about which the
editor (p. 38) supplies only quite vague information, leaves much to be
desired, as we will explain below. We have used the Shehit Ali Pasha MS. 2826
(f. 7-6lb), which is dated 721 a.h.
18. See, e.g.„ Fus. vol. 1, p.
47. The title of the famous collection of poems, Tarjumàn al-ashwâq,
“The Interpreter of Desires,” is equally significant, as is that of the Kitâb
al-tarâjim, about which we will speak later.
1.9. He
underscores the importance of the poems that introduce the chapters of the Futûhât
in Fut. vol. 2, p. 665, and vol. 4, p. 21.
20. On this divine name, see D. Gimaret,
Les Noms divins en islam (Paris, 1988), pp. 300-301.
21. MS. Shehit Ali Pasha 2826, f. 57-60.
22. Ibn 'Arabî, Kitâb al-Abádila,
pp. 42-43. However, let it be noted that chap. 72 (pp. 181-83), as our friend
Abdelbaki Meftah has pointed out, also presents itself as an allusive
commentary on the Fdtiha. The structure of the work appears thus quite
complex and should be analyzed in a more detailed manner, using a more reliable
text.
■ 23. Ibn 'Arabî, Kitâb al-‘Abâd.ila,
pp. 43-44.
24. ïbn 'Arabî, Kitâb al-Abâdila,
p. 48.
25. Ibn 'Arabî, Kitâb al-Abâdila,
p. 82.
26. ïbn 'Arabî, Kitâb al-Abâdila,
p. 83. The idea of miraculous food is also associated with Mary in Qur’an 3:
37, and it represents, in the Qur’an, a characteristic of the kind of sainthood
that she incarnates.
27. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-Abâdila,
p. 87.
28. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al- Abâdila,
pp. 90-91.
29. Here we again are indebted to
Abdelbaki Meftah, who has drawn our attention to several important points
raised in the following pages of this chapter. The edition of the Tajalliyât
to which we are referring is that of O. Yahia, published in the journal Al-Mashriq
(1966-67). The Hyderabad edition is, as usual, defective. We have also had the
use of the copy of the Tajalliyât included in the MS. Beyazit 1686 (f.
38b-52b) and of Ibn Sawdakîn’s commentary, Fâtih 5322, 1-37.
30. Istilâh al-sûfiyya, definition no. 80. On the idea of tajallî, see also chap.
206 of the Fulûbiât (vol. 2, p. 485).
31. Ms. Fâtih 5322, f. lb-3a. According
to Ibn 'Arabî (Fut. vol. 2, pp. 117-18; O.Y., vol. 13, p. 74) the look
of God upon his saints is turned toward this “secret” (sirr).
32. Ibn 'Arabî, Dîwân, p. 137.
34. Six of them are preceded by the
group alif-lâm-mîm, five by alif- lâm-râ, two by tâ-sîn-mîm.
35. Another caesura in the second verse,
traditionally admitted for the same reason as the one taken into consideration
in our translation, sug- gests a slightly different meaning. Our choice is here
dictated by that of Ibn ‘Arabi as it is for the translation of the
demonstrative dhàlika, which Ibn ‘Arabi interprets as referring to the
group of three letters that precedes it.
37. See above, chap. 2, notes 39-40; Fut.
vol. 4, p. 312.
38. This saying of Dhû 1-Nûn is also
reported, without commentary, in the work that Ibn ‘Arabi dedicated to the
great Egyptian sufi, Al-kawkab al-durrî ft manâqib Dhî l-Nûn al-Misrî.
Translated into French by R. Deladrière as La Vie merveilleuse de Dhû l-NÛn
¡"Egyptien (Paris, 1988), p. 168.
39. Concerning this verse, see, e.g., Fut.
vol. 3, p. 161. Ibn ‘Arabî draws a legal conclusion from it, also (Fut.
vol. 1, p. 404; O.Y., vol. 4, p. 157): the divine order to turn in the precise
direction of the qibla for prayer is in effect only when one is able to
determine the direction; but, by virtue of Qur’an verse 2:116, which, for Ibn
‘Arabi, is not abrogated by the verses that prescribe orientation towards the
Ka‘ba, the worshipper who does not know where the qibla is can pray
facing any direction. Classical exegesis is usually much more restrictive and
more often considers this verse as abrogated. Concerning debates on this
subject, see Tabari’s Tafsir ed. Mahmud Shâkir and Ahmad Shakir,
(Cairo), vol. 2, pp. 526-36.
40. Fut. vol. 1, p. 201; O.Y., vol. 3, p. 257. The word ‘arcdis is
also used by Ibn ‘Arabi for the hidden saints in Fut. vol. 2, p. 32;
O.Y, vol. 11, p. 444; also Fut. vol. 2, p. 98; O.Y., vol. 12, p, 476;
see also Mawâqi1 al-nujûm (Cairo, 1325 A.H.), p.. 138. The
choice of this word is perhaps inspired by a remark by Bistâmî reported by
Qushayrî (risâla, Cairo, 1957), p. 118.
41. Let it be remarked that the
establishment of correspondence between the Tajalliyât and the verses of
sura 2 do not always rigorously conform to the arithmetical order, besides the
fact that one theophany can refer to more than one verse. Also, certain verses
are not taken into consideration. The surest guide is the correlation of ideas
and especially of terms.
42. First published, in the journal Etudes
traditionnelles (Paris), nos. 363-365 (1961), this translation was edited
posthumously and published as Le Livre de ¡’extinction dans la contemplation
(Paris, 1984), with an extremely rich introduction and notes. It is to this
edition that we are referring. The Arabic text appeared in Hyderabad in 1948 in
the series of Rasá’il Ibn Ai-‘Arabi, vol. 1, no. 1.
43. Ibn ‘Arabi, Le Livre de
l’extinction, pp. 9, 47—48.
44. Ibn ‘Arabi states expressly in the Kitâb
al-fanâ fî l-mushâhada that he is going’ to treat the subject more at
length in the fast al-manâzil (p. 48 in the French text, pp. 8-9 in the
Arabic). Concerning this manzil, see also chap. 369, wasl no. 17,
Fut. vol. 3, p. 395; chap. 559 (under no. 295, and not 286, as it should
be), Fut. vol. 4, p. 388; Ibn ‘Arabi, Dîivân, p. 174; Ibn ‘Arabî,
Ishârâi al-qur'ân. p. 37. In all these texts there are identical or very
similar expressions that underscore the relationship, but whose different uses
admirably illustrate the way in which one theme (that of Lam yakun,
about which we will soon speak) is dealt with in several different accounts.
45. Fut. vol. 3, p. 118. M. Valsan translates munázala by “divine
condescendence,”
46. Let it be remembered that 78 is also
the total number of times that the hurûf nùrâniyya (the “luminous
letters”) occur in the Qur’an, counting their repetitions.
47. Fut. vol, 2, p, 567; Kitâb al-shâhid (Hyderabad, 1948), p. 1.
48. Ibn ‘Arabi, Kitâb al-tarâjim
(Hyderabad, 1948), p. 4. We have also used, as a cross-reference, the MS. Fâtih
5322, f. 47-53. We have not been able to consult the commentary on this
treatise mentioned by O. Yahia, RG 737.
49. Ibn‘Arabi, Kitâb al-tarâjim,
pp. 1-2.
51. We limit ourselves to the case of
the Kitâb al-tarâjim and tin1 Kitâb al-shâhid in the
interest of clarity. The “networks” whose paths we trace here are actually much
more complex.
53. Kitâb al-shâhid, p. 17, Une 4.
55. The theme common to these three
texts is that of the debasement (dhilla) of the saint in this world. The
word itself or the verbal forms of the same root appear in these three texts.
See Fut. vol. 4, pp. 16-17; Kitâb al- shâhid, p. II; Kitâb
al-tarâjim, p. 50.
56. The title of this chapter (Fut.
vol. 4, pp. 17-18), as that of all the chapters of the fast al-munâzalâl,
is presented in the form of divine monologue. The corresponding chapters are
found in the Kitâb al-shâhid, pp. 11-12; and in the Jfekîb al-tarâjim,
p. 5 L
58. Fut. vol. 2, p. 126; O.Y, vol. 13, pp. 141-42. On the acquisition of
the “names” or the “divine characters” see especially Fut. vol. 2, p.
595, 602; vol, 3, p. 148.
60. Al-isfâr ‘an natâal-asfâr (Hyderabad, 1948), p. 17.
61. Fut. vol. 4, p. 50. On Qur’an 41:53, see, among others, Fut.
vol. 2, p. 16; O.Y., vol. 11, p. 343; Fut. vol. 2, p. 151; O.Y., vol.
13, pp. 356-57. Cf. also in Chodkiewicz, Sceau des saints, pp. 97-98,
our commentaries on a passage of chap. 36 of the Futûhàt.
62. Fut. vol. 1, p. 48; O.Y., vol. 1, p. 219. The relationship between the
contents of the Futûhât and the accomplishment of tawâfis
addressed at the end of the initial doxology (Fut. vol. 1, p. 10; O.Y,
vol. 1, p. 73).
63. Fut. vol. 1, p. 50; O.Y., vol. 1, pp. 224-25.
64. See Fut. vol. 2, p. 493
(where Ibn 'Arabi establishes a relationship between these six names and the
six directions in space). In Fut. vol. 2, p. 134; O.Y., vol. 13, pp.
238-39, the seven names are placed into symbolic correspondence with the
verses of the Fâtïha.
Chapter
5
2. See above, chap. 4 and chap. 4, note
49.
4. Tanazzulât, p. 45. The “two names” mentioned are rabb, Lord, and 'abd,
servant, as is explained by a verse from p. 41 (“Would that I knew who is
subject to legal obligation when there is only God alone present, and no one
other than him”) and two verses from p. 42—which express the same paradox (“If
you say “it is the servant [who is subject to obligation], lie is nonexistent”
[literally, “dead"]; and if you say that it is the Lord, whence would come
the obligation?”).
6. Mau>âqi‘ al-nujûm (Cairo, 1325 A.H.), p. 4.
7. Hilyat al-abdal, p. 8. Ibn ‘Arabî then added the chapter about the works of the
heart (see the partial translation of this chapter by M. Valsan: “La demeure
du coeur de l’invocateur,” Éludes traditionnelles, num. 389-90 (1965).
8. Fut. I., p. 334; O.Y., vol. 5, p. 156; see also Fut, vol. 4, p.
263.
9. The manzil of sura 56, which
this verse belongs to, is the one that chapter 328 of the Futûhât
describes. It is called manzil al-musâbaqa (“abode of precedence”: an
allusion to verse 10, where the elect, the “People of the Right,” are preceded
by the “Close Ones,” those who have reached the maqâm al-qurbaj. It is
part of the “temporal abodes” (manâzil al-duhûr) that correspond to the
suras beginning with idhâ, “when.”
10. Bukhârî, tafsîr, s. 31; imán,
37.
11. Mawâqi" al-nujûm, pp. 50-178. The central theme of the MawâqÛ al-nujûm is
briefly summarized in Fut. vol. 4, p. 169 (ch. 526).
12. Bukhârî, taivâdu‘. On the
interpretation of this hadith, often cited by Ibn ‘Arabi, see, e.g., Fut.
vol. 1, p. 406; O.Y., vol. 6, pp. 165-66; vol. 2, p. 68; vol. 4, pp. 20, 24,
30.
13. Asin Palacios translated or
summarized the essential of this part of the work in El islam cristianizado
(Madrid, 1931), pp. 397—428. His tendency to Christianize Ibn ‘Arabi’s
language is, as usual, somewhat disturbing. The French version of his book, L'Islam
christianisé (Paris, 1982), which is generally quite mediocre, presents the
additional inconvenience of having dropped the square brackets which, in the
Spanish edition, clearly separated Ibn ‘Arabi’s quotes from Asin’s summaries or
commentaries. (Pp. 269-316 of the French edition contains the summary cited.)
On the correspondence between the acts of parts of the body and divine graces
(and also the “doors to paradise”) see also Fut., vol. 4, p. 169.
14. The manâzil mentioned in the MawâqE
al-nujûm (not enumerated here) all have, as does this one, their
equivalent in the “abodes” of the fourth section of the Futûhât. We have
decided to not cross-reference, so as to not complicate things. In this passage
Ibn ‘Arabi mentions that he has written a special treatise on the subject of
the”pact with the Pole.” O. Yahi a (RG 487) has identified no manuscript of
this treatise. It might be supposed that the essential was taken up again in
chap. 336.
15. We are using the edition, published
in Cairo in 1961, with the title Latâdif al-asrâr. The edition is based
on three manuscripts, one writ- ten in Nâbulusî’s hand. Another edition, titled
Al-tanazzulât al- mawsiliyya, was published in 1986, also in Cairo. Our
copy has been misplaced and we were thus unable to compare it with the
preceding edition. It is to be noted that the Ishârât al-qur3ân,
to which we have referred numerous times, are described by Ibn ‘Arabî as a
complement to the Tanazzulat,^ thus emphasizing the Qur’ânic inspiration
of these last works.
16. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, pp.
35-36. In his introduction, the beginning of which we have just cited, Ibn
‘Arabî announces 54 chapters. The editors preferred to adopt a division in six
parts.
19. Ibn ‘Arabî recalls à propos
of this (Tanazzulât, p. 55) that the number 5 "protects itself and
protects all things” (as we pointed out in chap. 2 and chap. 2, note 36).
20. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
55.
21. Chap. 69, Fut, vol. 1, pp.
386-544; O.Y., vol. 6, p. 45, to vol. 8, p. 183.
22. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
54.
24. A similar remark is found in Ibn
‘Arabî, Kitâb al-Abâdila, p. 87. Literally speaking, celestial water is
rainwater, terrestrial water being that from springs. But it is actually the
interior disposition of the being that determines the degree of purity produced
by the performance of ablution.
25. Ibn 'Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
63.
26. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
63.
27. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
84.
28. Ibn 'Arabî, Tanazzulât, pp.
90-91.
29. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
92.
30. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
93.
31. Ibn 'Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
94.
32. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
61.
34. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
95.
35. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, pp.
98-100.
36. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
103. Identification of prayer as a mirmj is not, for the
sufis, a simple metaphor; it has technical consequences, a characteristic
illustration of which is found in a short epistle (attributed, certainly
incorrectly, to ‘Abd al-Karím al-Jîlî, but written much later than his time)
published in Cairo (n.d.) with the title Al-isfâr al-ghañb natijat al-safar
al-qarib. It is explicitly inspired by Ibn 'Arabi’s thought.
37. Muslim, salât, 62-63. The
passage on rukûd is found in Tanazzulât, pp. 100-102. See also Fut.
vol. 1, pp. 437-38; O.Y., vol. 6, pp. 370f.
38. Bukhari, tahajjud, 15; tawhid,
35 for the first hadith (“the divine descent in the last third of the
night") and Muslim, dhikr, 20-21-22 for the second (“lie who
approaches Me by an armslength").
39. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, p.
102.
40. Ibn ‘Arabî, Tanazzulât, pp.
104—105.
41. Fut. vol. 1, pp. 433-34; O.Y., vol. 6, pp. 347-49.
42. In order to simplify the
explanation, we are not dealing here with the distinction to be made between
the intermediate jalsa, which do not entail the recitation of the tashahhud,
and those that, after the performance of two mk'a and at the end of the
prayer, are accompanied by this recitation. Onjulús and tashahhud,
besides the Tmazzulât, pp. 108—109, cf. Fut. vol. 1, p. 427;
O.Y., vol. 6, pp. 310f.
43. Tmazzulât, p. 110. Cf. Fut, vol. 1, p. 441; O.Y., vol. 6, pp. 336f.
47. The term nawâfil is properly
applied only to supererogatory acts that have one of the obligatory works as model
and as “principle” (asl). CL Fut. vol. 1, p. 203; on their
compensatory role, Fut. vol. 2, p. 268.
48. Fut. vol. 4, p. 24. On the qurb al-fam1 id and the qurb
al-naivâfil, see also Fut. vol. 2, pp. 166-68, and vol. 2, p, 559;
vol. 3, p. 67; vol. 4, p. 449; Ibn ‘Arabî, Kitâb al-‘Abàdila, p. 54.
49. Fut., pp. 43-44; O.Y., vol. 12, pp, 81-86. See also Fut. vol. 3,
p. 222, where Ibn ‘Ajgbî writes: “Know that God has sittings with his ser-
vants equal to the number of acts which he has prescribed to them.” Tire word majâlis
is there to be understood in its broader sense and not in the specific sense (majâlis
al-hadîth.) that it has here.
50. This prayer, which is the first of
the day, is also the one that was instituted the first; this explains why Ibn
'Arabi mentions it at the beginning of the list. It must be clarified that the
number of jalsa here includes the short jalsat al-istiràha which
comes at the moment where the person in prayer rises from prostration before
returning to the vertical position.
51. Response to question 6, Fut.
vol. 2, p. 44; O.Y., vol. 12, pp. 87-89.
52. In the response to question 8, for
example, the traditional phrase of du‘á to be recited in the jalsa
is found word for word at the beginning of the text; and at the end of the
text, there is a significant allusion to the astronomical determination of the
times for prayer. As for the distinction the Ibn 'Arabi introduces (Fut.
vol. 2, p. 44; O. Y., vol. 12, p. 83) between his own point of view and that of
Tirmidhî (for which there are twelve extra majális “because he takes
into consideration the [physical] nature of man”), let us briefly say that it
is based on the fact that Adam’s body was created by “the two hands” of God
(while the spirit proceeds from a unique insufflation). To the witr, an
odd-numbered prayer, is then added the shaf, where the rak'd are
of an even number.
53. Fut. vol. 2, p. 47; O.Y., vol. 12, p. 105-106.
54. Fut. vol. 2, p. 47; O.Y, vol. 12, pp. 108-11.
55. Fut. vol. 2, p. 48; O.Y., vol. 12, pp. 113-19.
56. Fut. vol. 2, pp. 99-100; O.Y, vol. 12, pp. 483-90.
57. Fut. vol. 2, p. 100; O.Y, vol. 12, pp. 490-95.
58. Fut. vol. 2, pp. 101-102; O.Y., vol. 12, pp. 500-507. On “prostration
of the heart,” see in particular Fut. vol. 3, pp. 302-308.
59. Muslim, birr, 136; IbnMâjah, zuhd,
16.
60. Fut. vol. 2, pp. 103-104; O.Y,
vol. 12, pp. 508-20.
61.
Fut. vol. 2,
p. 103; O.Y, vol. 12, p. 514.
62.
Fut. vol. 2, p. 105;
O.Y, vol. 12, pp. 522-25.
63.
Fut. vol. 2, p. 107;
O.Y, vol. 12, pp. 538-44.
64. Dârhnî, wudú, 3. Cf. Bukhari,
wudü, 3, where it is said that those who observe the rules of ablution
“will have shining foreheads on the Resurrection Day.”
65. Fat. vol. 2, pp. 108-109; O.Y., vol. 12, pp. 545-61.
66. Fut. vol. 2, pp. 125-28; O.Y., vol. 13, pp. 140-51.
67. Here Ihn ‘Arabî recalls that he has
already dealt with this subject in chapter 69, on prayer (Fut. vol. 1,
p. 427; O.Y., vol. 6, pp. 310f.).
68. The word tahiyya, which has
the meaning of “salutation,” also has that of “vivification,” which is
essential to understanding this verse.
69. Fut. vol. 2, p. 88; O.Y, vol. 12, p. 408 (question 78).
70. Fut. vol. 2, p. 97; O.Y., vol. 12, p. 437 (question 86).
71. ‘Abd al-Karim al-Jîlî, Al-isfâr can
risâlat al-anwâr (Damascus, 1929), p. 274. Cf., also, the Nasîm
al-Sahar, p. 30, where JÎ1Î states that it is in ceaslessly observing his
own form in the science of God that the !abd achieves
contemplation of Divine Perfection. On the Risâlat al-anwâr itself, see
our analysis in Chodkiewicz, Sceau des saints, chap. 10.
72. Fut. vol. 2, p. 122; O.Y., vol. 13, p. Ill (question 138).
73. Fut. vol. 3, p. 41. On itbûda and related ideas see Fut.
vol. 2, pp. 213-16; vol. 3, pp. 18, 224.
74. Christian “exemplarism” (which has
its sources in St. Augustine, St. Anselm of Canterbury, and, more clearly, in
John Scotus Erigena) is inseparable from trinitary theology: it is in the Word
that creatures have their “eternal exemplar” (Cf. Suso, Œuvres complètes,
"Livre de la vérité”, chap. 3, trans. J. Ancelet-Hustache [Paris,
1977]). Our borrowing from the vocabulary of the Rhineland mystics is certainly
not to imply that their doctrine is identical to Ibn ‘Arabi’s.
75. Fut. vol. 4, p. 312; vol. 3, p. 255.
78. Contrary to usage, we translate dahr
here by eternity rather than by time. For Ibn ‘Arabi, al-dahr
is a divine name, which excludes the possibility of its assimilation into a
duration (cf. Fut. vol. 2, p. 201; vol. 3, pp. 201-202; vol. 4, pp. 175,
265). Cf. Jurjânî, Th‘ rîfât (Cairo, 1938), p. 94: “Al-dahr huwa l-ân
al-dá3im...wa bihi yattahid al-azal wa l-abad." On the
inclusion of Al-dahr in the list of divine names, see Gimaret, Noms
divins en islam, pp. 186-87 (see chap. 4, note 20). For all commentators,
the interrogative particle hal should be interpreted in this verse as
having the same meaning as qad.
79. Fui. vol. 3, p. 315. Concerning Ibn 'Arabi’s interpretation of ! Qur’an
76:1, see also Fut. vol. 2, pp. 201; vol. 4, p. 167, 340.
80. The authenticity of this hadith is
more than controversial. But
Ibn 'Arabi—after many other spiritual masters—validates it in
virtue of an "unveiling” (kashf). On this validation (or
invalidation, as the case may be) , of prophetic traditions, see Fut.
vol. 1, p. 150; O.Y., vol. 2, p, 358. \
81. Ibn 'Arabi, who gives different
interpretations of it according to Î
the context, cites it on a number of occasions: Fut, vol. 2,
pp. 298, 472, 508;
vol. 3, pp. 44, 73, 101, 275, 289, 301, 536; vol. 4, p. 245; Fus.
vol. 1, pp. 81,
122, 125, 145, etc. On the subject of the priority of knowledge of
the self over the knowledge of the Lord, see Fut. vol. 3, p; 378: “Our
knowledge of •
him comes after
our knowledge of ourselves.”
82. Concerning this saying, of which
there are several variations reported, cf. Suyûtî, Al-durr al-manthûr
(Beirut, 1314 A.H.), vol. 6, p. 297;
Râzî, Tafsîr, vol. 30, p. 235. ;
83. Fut. vol. 1, p. 710; O.Y., X, p. 359; Fut. vol. 3, p. 3. For
Rûzbehân ;
Baqlî ('Am’is
al-bayân, vol. 2, p. 352), the interpretation of Qur’an 76:1 is
in accord with Ibn 'Arabi's
doctrine.
84. Fut. vol. 1, p. 48 (verse); O.Y, vol. 1, p. 217. In the Kitab al-
Abâdila, p. 113, Ibn 'Arabi, alluding to the rock of Moses (Qur’ân 2:60)
and
to Qur’ân 2:74, states “Rocks are the places of secrets and the
springs of ■
life.” I
85. Ishârât al-qur’ân, p. 37; see also Ibn 'Arabi, Dîwân, p. 174. ;
86. For references to this hadith, see
note 10. i’
87. See M. Valsân’s translation
referenced in chap. 4, note 42, pp. :
48-50. 'Abd al-Karîni al-Jîlî gives the in lam takun tarâhu
in his Kitâb al- :
nuqta (Cairo, n.d.),
pp. 54-55, an interpretation based on the same caesura. :
88. See EP, s.v. ïbâdât,
G. Bousquet’s article.
89. Ibn Hishâm, Sîra nabawiyya
(Cairo, 1955), vol. 1, p. 238. This '■
validation of the Muhammadan revelation by a representative of the ■
Christian tradition is, from an Islamic point of view, neither the
first nor ■
the only one: there are also those of the monk Baliira, of the Najâshî
(the i
king of the Abyssinians), and of Salmân al-Fârisî, to whom a priest
taught |
the signs by which the awaited prophet would be recognized. i
90. Ibn 'Arabi, Rûh al-quds, p.
48 (no. 1); Ibn 'Arabi, Tarjumân al- i
ashwâq, p. 71
(commentary on the third verse of poem no. 18);^fei. vol. 3, i p. 395 (this last reference is to
the section from chap. 369 that completes chap. 286, where the manzil of
sura Al-bayinna is described; the citation is thus expressly connected
with the theme of Lam yakuri). In Ibn al-'Arif's Mahâsin al-majâlis,
ed. Asin Palacios [Paris, 1933], p. 97) there is another version of the wording
cited by Ibn ‘Arabi. On the problem of attribution that we mentioned, see the
article by B. Halff, “Le Mahâsin al-majâlis...et l’œuvre du soufl hanbalite
Al-Aîisârî,” REI, XXXIX, 2, p, 1971.
91. Ibn ‘Arabî, Kiiâb al-Abâdila,
p. 43. The term translated as “acts of supererogation” here is not nawâfil
but surtan, which actually refers to the acts of supererogation
instituted by the Prophet.
92. These are the verses already cited
in note 4 of this chapter. See also verses, of identical meaning, appearing in Fut.
vol. 4, p. 4L
93. On this recurring idea in Ibn
‘Arabi's writings, see, e.g., Fut. vol. 3, pp. 72, 286, 316, 364, 503;
vol. 4, pp. 212, etc.
95. Lisân al-drab, vol. 14, p. 466b.
96. Fus. vol. 1, p. 225. See also Fut. vol. 3, p. 378.
99. This is an allusion to the verse laysa
ka-mithlihi shay'un (Qur’an 42:11), Ibn ‘Arabi’s double interpretation of
which we summarized in chapter 2.
100. Ibn ‘Arabi, Thnazzulàt, p.
26. Our translation deviates slightly from the literal, to facilitate the
reading of this quite dense text,
101. Ijâz al-bayân, p. 30; Fut. vol. 1, p. 417; O.Y., vol. 6, p. 245.
102. Fut. vol, 2, p. 136; O.Y., vol. 13, pp. 250-51 (see above, chap. 2).
103. Fut. vol. 1, p. 389; O.Y., vol. 6, p. 63. On the related idea of “perpetual
invocation” (dhikr dâ’inï) see especially Fut. vol. 3, pp. 222
23, 417; vol. 4, p. 184.
104. See above, chap. 4 and chap. 4, note
28. We are dealing here with what Ibn ‘Arabi’s school calls “al-farq
al-thânî,’ the “second separation” (cf. above, chap. 4). On this theme of
“descendent realization," often brought up by Ibn ‘Arabi, in particular in
chapter 45 of the Futühât, see Cliodkiewicz, Sceau des saints,
chap. 10.
Professor
Michel Chodkiewicz is director of studies at the Ecole des hautes études en
sciences sociales in Paris. The majority of his works have been dedicated to
Ibn ‘Arabi and his followers. .
By the same
author:
Emir Abd
al-Kader: Ecrits spirituels, editor and
translator (Editions du Seuil, 1982).
Awhad al-Dîn
Balyânî: Epître sur ¡’Unicité absolue, editor and translator (Les Deux Océans, 1982).
Le Sceau des
Saints, prophétie et sainteté dans la doctrine d’Ibn Arabî (Gallimard, 1986). An English translation of this work is in
preparation.
Les
Illuminations de la Mecque, selected texts
from the Futûhât Makkiyya, edited and translated with the collaboration
of W. Chittick, C. Chodkiewicz, D. Gril, and J. Morris (Sindbad, 1988).
A’isha, 96 a'yân thâbita,
123-124, 134 n. 38 Abâdila, K. al-, 36, 80, 82, 93, 136 n. 53
abd, 27,103, 112,
116, 120-122, 125-128
Abd al-Azîz al-Dabbâgh, 13, 31, 135 n. 43, 144 n. 23
Abd al-Qâdir, 12, 17, 59, 136 nn. 51, 136 nn. 53-54
Abd el-Kader. see Abd
al-Qâdir abdâl, sing, badal, 103 ’Abdallah., Muhammad b.
(Sudanese
"Mahdî”), 11 abjad, 65, 69, 98 Abraham, 156 n. 10 Abû Bakr, 71, 125
Abû Dâwûd, 162 n. 18 Abû Hanîfa, 55 Abû Hurayra, 106 Abû Lahab, 67, 70 Abû
Madyan, 26 AbûNu’aym al-Isfahânî, 153 n. 31 Abû Sa’îd al-Kharrâz, 83 Abû Ya’zâ,
31 Abû Zayd, 136 n. 53, 138 n. 8 abwàb, sing, bab’, 61 Adam,
38-39, 44 45, 71, 87,164 n.
52
Addas, G., ix, 139 n. 15, 140 n. 39, 145 n. 30
adhâb, 45, 51 Afghânî, S. al-, 149 n. 63 Afîfî, Abû 1-Alâ, 1, 20 aflâk
sing, falak, 102 afrâd, 48-50, 87-89 ahad, 39-40
Ahadiyya, K. al-, 40
Abdâl, Al-, 19
ahkâm, 63
ahl al-adâb, 152 n. 29
ahl al-anwâr, 152 n. 29
ahl al-asrâr, 152 n. 29
ahl al-ims, 152 n. 29
ahwâl, 98
akbarî, 15, 55
akhlâq ilâhiyya, 51
al-farq al-thânî, 167 n. 104
Aladdin, B., ix, 134 n. 38,
154 n. 39
âlam al-barâzikh, 84
âlam al-khayâl, 9, 83
Alawiyya, 3
Algar, H., ix, 132 n. 16
Alî b. Abî Talib, 107
Alî Harâzim, 9-10
Alî Sâfî Husayn, 14, 135 n. 46
Aliwâ, Ahmad b., 3-4, 147 n. 45
a/nana, 18
âmîn, 48-49, 119
amr bi-ma'rûf, 104
Anotolia, 106
Anqâ mughrib, 10-11, 35, 134 n. 36
Ansarî, Abd Allâh al-, 127
Ansârî, Z. al-, 15, 167 n. 90 aql,
108
aqtab, sing, quib, 49
Arabî al-Darqawî, Al—, 14
aráis, 158 n. 40
Arberry, A. J., 1, 131 n. 5
ard al-samsama, 9
ârif pi. ârifân, 2
ârif bi-Llâh, 57, 63, 72, 96, 121,
126, 129
ârifân, sing, ârif, 2
arkân, 72, 107
Arûsiyya, 7
Attâr, Sulayman al-, 136 n. 53 awliyà,
sing, wall, 31, 82, 88 Awn, A. K., 22
awtád, sing, watad, 49
âyât, 96
bâ, 67, 119
Bff, K. al-, 152 n. 28 badal, pl. abdâl, 103
Badawî, Ahmad al-, 17, 155 n. 4
Baghdad, 106
Bahîra, 166 n. 89
Bahr al-masjûr, Al-, 131 n. 10
Bakri, MustafâKamal al-din al-, 11 baqà,
117
Baqlî, R, 142 n. 5, 143 n. 13, 144
n.
18, 166 n. 83
baraka, 15, 32 barzakh, 84, 98, 112, 120 bafira, 26, 103
basmala, 51, 67-69, 72,
81, 117, 119, 121
Basset., R., 7-8
bâlln, 23-24, 54, 91,
102, 116, 120, 128
bâtiniyya, 23-24
Bayt Âllâh, 28
Baytimânî, Hasan, 59
Belkacem, Muhammad b., 7
Ben Bàdïs, 4
Berque, J., 2, 131 n. 7—9
Biqà’î, Burhan al-dîn al-, 19
Bisstâmî, Abû. Yazid al-, 32
Bousquet, G., 166 n. 88 Bowering, G., 142 n. 3
Bughyat al-mustafid, 10,133 n. 29
Bukhârî, 143 n. 8, 144 n. 24, 149 n.
69, 161 n. 10;12, 162 n. 17, 163 n. 38, 164 n. 64
Bûnî, 9
Burhânpûrî, Muhammad b. Fadlal- lâh al-, 12, 135 n. 39
burning bush, 39,143 n. 13
Chembinischer Wandersmann, 124
Chittick, W., ix, 59
Chodkiewicz, A., ix
Chodkiewicz, C„ 148 n. 58
Chodkiewicz, M., 132 n. 17,135 n. 39
Coppolani, X., 8, 135 n. 43
Corbin, H., 20,83,139 n. 39,150 n. 4
dàbba, 43
Dàbbâs, A, 134 n. 38 dajjâl,
68, 146 n. 38 dâllûn, 52
Damascus, 16-17, 135 n. 43
Daniélou, J., 144 n. 15
Dârimî, 164 n. 64
Dâwûd b. Khalaf, 55
Deladrière, R„ ix, 147 n. 42,
149 n.
63, 155 n. 5,
158 n. 38
Depont, O., 135 n. 43
Dhahabî, 21, 55 dhikr, 7
Dhû 1-Nûn al-Misrî, 75, 83, 88, 158 n. 38
dihliz, 68
Dîwân, 14, 35, 78, 84
diyâ, 121
Doutté, E., 146 n. 38 du1
a, 113, 164 n. 52
Esdras, 84 essence, 111 Eve, 39
falak,, pl. aflâk, 102 fana, 128
Fanâ fi I-mushâhada, K. al-, 89,
94, 126, 159 n.
44
faqîh, 2, 21
faqr, 123, 125
faraid, sing, farîda, 115-116, 127 fardaniyya, 87
farîda pl, farffid, 115-116, 127
Fasl al-ma?ârif, 43
Fasl al-manâzil, 64—66, 73, 77,
88-89, 111
Fasl al-munâzalàt, 90-92 fasl pl. fusûl, 68, 94, 98 fata, 28-29,
79, 96, 98
Fatâwâ abhadîthiyya, Ab, 131 n. 1 Fâtima bint al-Muthannâ, 148 n.
53
fayd aqdas, 5-6
fayd muq addas, 5-6 faylasûf, 38
Fihris, 155 n, 4
fikr, 78
fiqh, 21, 54-56, 126
Fir’awn, 148 n. 53
Fîrûzabâdî, 4
Fitûrî, 7
Friedmann, Y., 5, 132 n. 16, 134 n.
37, 150 n. 6
fuijâr, 52
fuqahd1, 2, 4, 20-21, 37, 49, 54, 56 fuqarâ, 3, 48
Furqân, 110
fusûl, sing, fasl, 68, 94, 98
Fusûs al-hikam, 1-2, 5, 11, 40
42, 53-55, 59-61, 85, 93-94
Futûhât Makkiyya, xiii, 2-3, 6, 8, 10-13, 16, 18-19, 24, 27-29, 32, 36, 38-39, 41 43, 46,
48-50, 55, 59-66, 69, 74-79, 84, 88-95, 97-99, 104, 107, 111, 113, 116, 119,
122, 127, 131 n. 11
Gandillac, M. de, 146 n. 41
Geertz, G., 131 n. 7
Gehenna, 43, 95, 151 n. 12
Gellner, E„ 131 n. 7
Genesis, 39
ghafla, 122-123
ghayb, 29
Ghubrînî, 139 n. 15
Ghulâm Ahmad, 134 n. 37 ghulât,
14
Ghurâb, Mahmûd, 12, 20, 77,135 n. 42, 136 n. 53, 138 n. 11, 148 n.
60, 154 n. 1, 155 n. 2
ghusl, 108
Gilliot, G., 142 n. 6
Gimaret, D., 157 n. 20, 165 n. 78
Goldziher, I., 54—55, 148 n. 59
Gonzalez, A. G., ix
Grandin, N., 11, 134 n. 36
Gril, D„ ix, 77, 141 n. 47, 146 n. 37, 147 n. 44, 152 n, 28
Gümushkhanevi, 15
Habashî, Badr al-, 101 hadarât,
9, 116-117 hadîth, 24, 37-39,48, 51, 56, 73, 75,
85-86,95,102,104,107,111-112, 115-116, 119-121,126, 128
hadra, 117 hafaza, 23 hajj, 98, 107
Hâjj Umar, Al-, 10-11
Hakîm, S., ix, 132 n. 17, 1-36 n. 53, 155 nn. 6; 9
Halff, B., 167 n. 90
Hallâj, 14, 83, 87-88
Hamadhânî, Ayn al-Qudât, 132 n. 17
Hanafî, Muhammad al-, 32
Hanafî al-Baghdâdî, Al-, 132 n. 16 haqîqa,
57, 1.01
haqîqa muhammadiyya, 9 haqq, 37, 40, 98
Haqqî, Ismâ’îl, 8, 133 n. 21, 145 n.
29
Harrâq, Al-, 14, 135 n. 45 hàsidûn,
51
hâtimiyya, 15-16
Haydar Amolî, 60, 75, 138 n. 13, 150 n. 4
hijjîr, 93
Hilyat al-abdâl, 161 n. 7 himma, 103
Hiskett, M, 10, 134 n. 34
Hizb al-bahr, 146 n. 38
Homerin, T.H. Emil, 136 n. 53
Huart, G., 1, 131 n. 4
Hudhayfab. al-Yaman, 153 n. 30 hudûr,
117, 129 hukm al-ism, 19
hulûl, 52
hurûf nûràniyyu, 66 huwa, 40, 44, 70,118
ibâda pi.ibâdât, 40, 54,
106-108, 115,120, 123,126-127
ibáha, 19, 52
Iblîs, 42, 87
Ibn Abbâs, 28-29
Ibn Ajîba, 13-14, 135 n. 44
Ibn al-Arîf, 127, 167 n. 90
Ibn al-Fârid, 14
Ibn al-Imâd, 149 n. 66
Ibn al-Jawzî, 147 n. 50
Ibn Atâ Allah, 135 n. 44
Ibn Hajar al-Asqalâni, 138 n. 14
Ibn Hajar al-Haytamî, 1-2, 15, 131 n. 1
Ibn Hanbal, 55,163 n. 33;46
Ibn Hazm, 55, 149 n. 63-64
Ibn Hishâm, 166 n. 89
Ibn Khaldûn, 137 n. 55
Ibn Mâjah, 144 n. 24, 164 n. 59
Ibn Manzûr, 18
Ibn Mas’ûd, 125
Ibn Sab’în, 14
Ibn Sawdakîn, 79-80, 83, 155 n. 9,
156 n. 10, 157
n, 29
Ibn Taymiyya, 2-3, 12, 19, 42, 60,
139 n. 32, 144
n. 22
Ibrîz, K. al-, 12-13, 135 n, 43
Ibtâl al-qiyâs, 55
Idâh al-maqsûd, 11-12
Idrîs, Ahmad b., 5
ihsân, 102, 126
ijâd, 124
Ijâz al-bayân, 20, 77
Ijâza, 6
ilâh al-mu'taqad, al-, 128
Hâhâbâdî, Muhibbullâh, 59
Illaysh, Abd al-Rahmân, 12, 135 n.
40
ïlm al-hurûf, 29
imâm, 46, 48, 54
imam mubin, 29
îmân, 46, 72, 102
insân kâmil, 12, 29, 37, 72, 90,
95-97, 120
insân kullî, 96
iqâma, 81, 109
isaivî I-maqâm, 8
Isfâr, K. al-, 140 n. 33, 141
n. 45, 142 n, 53
Isfâr "an natâdj al-asfâr, Al-, 160 n. 60
ishâra, pl. ishârât, 3, 35, 53, 91 ishârât, sing, ishâra,
3, 35, 53, 91 Ishârât al-qufân, 11, 84 islâhî, 4
islam, 102, 107
Isrâ, K. al-, 78-80, 83, 112 isti" ara, 124 istfjâl, 122-123
Istilâh al-sûfiyyà; K. al-, 157 n. 30 istilâhât, 5 istiwâ, 114 i"tiqâd,
108 izâ r, 120
Izz al-dîn b. Abd al-Salâm, 4
Jalâl, 78 jalsa, 117 Jamâl, 78 Jâmî, 3, 5, 60, 75 jâmf,
28, 81
Jâmi’karamât al-awliyâ, 12
Jam’wa I-tafsîl, Al-, 20
Jandî, Mu’ayyad al-dîn, 60, 62,150 n. 4
Jawâb mustaqîm, 38
Jawâhir al-ma’âni, 9
Jawâmi" al-kalîm, 110 Jawhârî, 133 n. 22 Jesus, 104, 154 n. 39
Jibrâ’îl, 85
Jîlî, Abd al-Karîm al-, 3, 32, 59, 62, 87, 122, 124, 140 n. 42, 142
n.
57, 150 n. 3,
163 n. 36, 166 n. 87 jimâ", 108
jism, 102
julûs, 108, 114,117
Junayd, 83, 147 n. 50
Jurjânî, 165 n. 78
Ka’ba, 28-29, 154 n. 39, 158 n. 39 kâdhïbûn,
52
kâfir, pl. kuffâr
or kâfirûn, 45-46, 50-51, 67
kâfirûn, sing, kafir,
45-46, 50-51, 67
kalâm, 12, 103
Kamâl, 78
karamât, 102-103
kârûbiyyûn, 48
kashf, 38
Kashf al-ghayât, 87
Kashf al-ghitâ’, 19
Kâshifî, Alî b. Husayn al-, 132 n.
15
Kattânî, 7-8, 14,16, 133 n. 19
Khadir, 82, 103
Khâlid (shaykh), 132 n. 16 khalq,
86, 98 khalwa, 71
Khalwatiyya, 11
Khânî, Abd al-Majîd al-, 132 n. 16
Khatm al-awliyâ, 6, 8
Khatm al-walâya, 6
Khawwâs, Alî al-, 32
khayâl, 12, 39
Khazînat al-asrâr, 9
khilâfa, 108, 120
khinzîr, 19, 35
khirqa akbariyya, 15—17
Khomeini, 61, 151 n. 8
Khushaim, A., 132 n. 13 kibriyâ,
120
Knysh, A., 139 n. 21
kuffâr, sing, kâfir, 45-46, 50-51, 67 ku.fr, 21
kun, 51, 98, 121,124-126
Kurdî, Muhammad Amîn al-, 132
n. 15
Kûsawî, 132 n. 15
Lam ali fi 72
Lam yakun, 94, 125-129
Landau, R., 1, 20, 131 n. 6
Landolt, H., 153 n. 31
Latâ’îf al-asrâr, 7
law h mahfûz, 29
laylat al-qadr, 31, 141 n, 52.
Lévi-Provençal, EMfc-8
Lewisohn, L., ix
Lisân al-arab, 28,128
Mâ’ al-Aynayn, 8, 133 n, 20
Ma'ârif, 98 macrocosm, 38 madhâhib, sing, madhhab, 54 madhhab,
pl. madhâhib, 54 Mahdî, 11, 21, 68, 134 n. 37, 154 n.
39
Mahieddin, M„ ix majâlis,
sing, majlis, 116-117 majlis, pl. majâlis, 116-117
Maktûbât, 60 malakût, 103, 106 malâmatiyya, sing, malâmî,
48-50, 88-89, 123, 125
malâmî, pl. malâmiyya
or malâmatiyya, 48-50, 88-89, 123, 125
malâmiyya, sing, malâmî,
48-50, 88-89,123, 125
Malîjî, 10
Mâlik, 19, 137 n. 1 manâzil,
sing, manzil, 61, 64-66,
75, 84, 89-90, 92-93, 102, 105, 112
Manshûrât, 11
manzil, pl. manâzil,
61, 64-66, 75, 84, 89-90, 92-93,102,105,112
Manzil al-manâzïl, K., 64, 66-67,
maqâm, pl. maqâmât, 61, 98, 104 maqâm al-qurba, 50
maqâmât, sing, maqâm, 61, 98,104 Maqdisi, Abd al-Salâm b. Ghânim,
143 n. 13
maîqil al-d’râs, 84
Maqqârî, 131 n. 12, 139 n. 15 marbûb,
40, 127
martaba, 72, 102
Martin, B. G., 133 n. 20
Mary (Maryam), 157 n. 26
Masâ'il, K. al-, 144 n. 19
Mashàhid al-asrâr al-qudsiyya, 79 mashâykh, sing, shaykh: spiritual master, 5-7,
13-14
Massignon, L., 123, 154 n. 1
M'as’ûdî, 154 n. 39
Matbûlî, Ibrâhîm al-, 32 mawálid,
6
Mawàqb al-nujûm, 128
Mawàqif, K. al-, 16, 59 mawt, 71
Mdaghri, Y., 143 n. 13
Mecca, 9, 73, 96
Meftali, A., ix, 150 n. 1,157
nn. 22;
29
Meslin, M., ix
Meyer, F., 140 n. 39, 142 n. 55
Michon, J.-L., 135 n. 44
Mikâ’îl, 105
mi'râj, 66, 78, 87, 112,129 mithl, 37
Mîzâb al-rahma, 6-7
Mondésert, Cl., 144 n. 15
Monteil, V., 136 n. 55
Morris, J. W-, ix, 136 n. 53,
151 n. 7
Moses, 41, 71, 82, 84, 144 n. 18,
166 n. 84
miiâmalât, 54, 98
Mubârak, Ahmad b. al-, 12-13
Mubashshirât, K. al-, 149 n. 63
mudillûn, 52 muhaddathûn, 116
Muhallâ, K. al-, 55 muhaqqiqûn, 21 jnuhayyamûn, 48
mujâhada, 71 miijizât, 103 mujtahid, 55-56
Mulkhis ulüm al-Futûhât, 59
Mullâ Sadrâ, 60
Munabbih, Wahb b., 139 n. 32 munâja,
106-108, 117-119 munâsaba, 75
munâzala, pl. munâzalât, 90-91,101 munâzalât, sing, munâzala,
90-91,
101
muqarrabûn, 48-50, 122, 146 n. 41
ivhitjâtil, 142 n. 6
Murâdî, 59
Murcia, 16 inurîd, 5, 13, 26,
46, 98 musallî, 114, 118, 120-121, 128
müsâwî l-maqâm, 8
mushâhada, 89, 94, 117, 126 mushkilât, 75
mushrik, pl. mushrikûn, 41, 53/ mushrikûn, sing, mushrik,
417 53 Muslim, 143 n. 8,149 n. 69, 163 n, 37, 164 n. 59
mustanad ilâhî, 51
mutakallim, al-, 28-29, 79, 97-98 mutarjim, 80
muttassaddiqûn, 49
Nabhânî, 12, 135 n. 41
Nâbulusî, 11-12, 20, 32,134 n. 38, 136 n. 53, 142 n. 58, 161 n. 15
nafas al-Rahmàn, 73 nafas rahmânî, 5-6, 9 nafs, 49, 51, 83, 102, 104 Najâshî,
166 n. 89
Najm al-dîn Kubrâ, 31 nâmûs,
127
Nasr, A.J, 150 n. 3
Nass al-nusûs, 75 Nah al-bidâyât, 8-9 Nâzilî, 9
Nicholson, R A., 1, 20, 138 n. 6 nisab,
98
Noah, 18
Norris, H. T., ix nubuwwa,
46, 72 nubuwwa âmma, 49-50 nubuwwa mutlaqa, 48-50, 147 n.
43
nubuwwa shar’iyya, 48 nür, 95, 113
Nûrî, Abû 1-Hasan al-, 143 n. 13 nuzûl,
25
Nwyia, P., 143 n. 13, 148 n. 55
Nyass, Ibrâhîm, 10-11
Nyberg, H. S„ 140 n. 42, 144
n. 14
O’Fahey, R. S„ 5, 132 n. 16
Palacios, A., 161 n. 13, 167 n. 90
Parsâ, Abû Nasr, 132 n. 15
Pasha, S. A., 156 n. 17, 157 n. 21
Philo of Alexandria, 39,46,144 n. 15 Psalms, 30, 111
Pseudo-Dionysîus. 146 n. 41
qadS, 41—12
Qarabash, Alî, 11
Qârî al-Baghdâdî, Al-, 131 n. 12, 155 n. 4
qasâhd, 6, 14
Qâshânî, 1, 3, 8,11, 62, 133n. 21, 134 n. 37, 136 n. 53, 144 n. 15,
145 n. 27
Qassâb, Abû 1-Abbâs al-, 32
Qawâüd al-tasawwuf, 4
Qawl al-munbî, Al-, 20
Qaysarî, 62, 145 n. 27 qibla,
110, 119 qiyâm, 120
qiyâs, 55, 57, 149 n. 71 quds, 121
Qûnawî, 3, 62,136 n. 53-54
Quraysh, 72 qurba, 147 n. 44
Qurtubî, 143 n. 13, 145 n, 29
Qushayrî, 35, 37, 143 n. 13, 145 n.
29, 158 il 40
Qushshâshî, 15, 136 n. 50 qutb,
pl. aqtâb, 49 qutb al-zamân, 32
rabb, 40, 127
Rabinow, P., 131 n. 7
Radd al-matîn, al-, 20
Radtke, B., 143 n. 10, 145 n. 28
Rahma, 43-44 rahmân, 74 Rahmâniyya, 7
Rajab al-Tâ;î, Muhammad,
7 rak:a, 117 raqîm, 85
Rashahât ayn al-hayât, 5, 60
Râzî, Fakhr a]-dîn, 31, 37, 40, 42, 142 n. 6, 143 n. 13, 145 n. 29,
166 n. 82
ridâ, 120
Rifâ'î, 17, 132 n, 17 rijâl
al-mâ, 48
Rimah, K. al-, 10 risâla, 46, 72
Risâla muhammadiyya, 43—44
Risâlat al-anwâr, 9, 78
Risâlat al-sulûk, 7
Riyâd al-Mâlih, ix, 136 n. 50
rubûbiyya, 112
rûh, 102
rûh al-amîn, 109
Rûh al-bayân, 9
Rûh al-quds, 139 n. 17, 167 n. 90 rujûliyya, 72 rukhsa, 56 rukiï,
112, 120
sab’ al-mathânî, al-, 6,
111, 156 n. 15
sadaqa, 117
Saghîr, A, Majîd al-, 135 nn. 44;45 sâhirûn,
51 sahw, 123
Sakhâwî, 20, 138 nn. 5;14 sahína,
96
Saladîn, 21 salafiyya, 12 salâm,
114-115, 118, 121 salât, 107,109-110,116-118, 120-121, 129
sâlik, 56, 71, 79
Salim I, 17
Salmân al-Fârisî, 166 n. 89
Salwat al-anfâs, 7-8, 14, 16
Sammâniyya, 11
Sanûsî, 12, 136 n. 50
Sanûsiyya, 5
Saqallî, Al-, 16, 136 n. 48 sarâb,
40 sawm, 107
Sayyâd, Ahmad al-, 132 n. 17
Sayyid Qutb, 145 n. 29
Schimmel, Al., 14,136 n. 47 seal of
prophecy, 44 seal of sainthood, 18, 44, 68, 72
Shâdhilî, Abû Hasan al, 17, 146 n.
38
Shâdhiliyya-Darqawiyya, 3, 7
Shâfi’î, 56
shahâda, 107, 114
Shâhid, K. al-, 90-93, 95
shajara, 39
Shajara al-nuhnaniyya, Al-, 17
Shajarat al-kawn, 143 n. 13
Shâkir, A., 158 n. 39
Shâkir, M„ 158 n. 39
Shams al-dîn Muhammad, 32
Shams al-md’ârif, 9
Sha’râm, 4-5, 15,18, 32, 59, 132 n. 14, 133 m 21, 134 n, 32, 135 n,
41, 136 n. 53
Sharh-i Futühât, 59
Sharh mushkilât al-Futûhàt, 59
sharfa, 54-56,101, 106, 116
shatahât, 123
shaykh, pl. shuyûkh
or mashâykh (spiritual master), 5-7,13-14
Shiblî, 83
Shinqîtî, Muhammad al-, 7, 10 shirk,
52-53
shuhûd, 116-117
shurfâ, 16
Shushtarî, 14
shuyûkh, sing, shaykh
(spiritual master), 5-7, 13-14
siddiqiyya, 48
sifajamadiyya, 125
sifât, 98
Silesius, A., 124
Silk al-durar, 59
silsila, 6, 15-17
Sindî, Abû Alî al-, 32
siràt mustaqim, 41-42
Sir hindi, Ahmad, 5, 60, 150 n. 6
sirr, 119
Sitt al-Ajam, 155 n. 9
Skali, Fawzi, 14, 136 n. 48
Smirnov, A,, 139 n. 21
Stepaniants, M., ix
sûfiyya, 48
Suhrawardî, 153 n. 31 sujûd,
112-113, 117 sidûk, 7, 46, 71, 96 sûra, 37, 39
surâdiqât al-ghayb, 89
Surûr, Tahâ Abd al-Bâqî, 136 n. 53
Suso, 123
Suyûtî, 15, 166 n. 82
Syria, 6-7, 16-17, 73
Tabaqât, 7,46-49
Tabarî, 142 n. 6, 158 n. 39
Tadbîrât ilâhiyya, 9, 144 n. 14 tafjîr, 52-53
tafsîr, 3, 9, 11, 20' 35, 37, 63, 77
Tai’tâzânî, 136 n. 49 tahaqquq,
106 Taker, H., 155 n. 9 tahiyya, 121, 165 n. 68
Tahralî, Mustafà, ix, 132 n. 17, 155 n, 8
tahrîf, 45
tajallî pl. tajalliyât,
50, 82-83, 85-90
Thjalliyât, K. al-, 82,
84, 88-89, 93-94
tajalliyât, sing, tajallî,
50, 82—83, 85-90
tajarrud, 83 tajdîd al-kalq, 5-6 iakbîr, 109, 114, 117, 120
Takeshita, M., 139 n. 21 taklîf, 103, 128
Tanazzulât mawsiliyya, 65,
101, 106, 108-111,118, 120
Tanbîh al-ghabî, 19 tanzïh, 69 taqlîd, 128
taqyîd, 42
Tarâjim, K. al-, 90-95 tarîqa, pl. turuq, 4-5, 13-15, 17-18 tarîqa
akbariyya, 15 tarîqa alawiyya, 3 tarîqa khatmiyya, 5 tarîqa. sanûsiyya,
5
Tarjumân al-ashwâq, 21 tasbîh, 103
Tâsh Kabrizadé, 142 n. 55 tashabbuh
bi l-ilah, 95, 115 tashahhud, 114, 117-118, 121 tashâjur, 39
Tashkent, 5 tasmiya, 19, 35 tawdf, 97-98 tawajjuh, 31, 119
ta’wîl, 20 tayammum, 108 theomorphism, 115 theophany(ies), 82,
84—88, 94, 97 theôsis, 95, 113 thubût, 93, 123 Tijânî, Ahmad,
9-10 Tijâniyya, 10-11 tilasm, 85 tilâwa, 112 Tirmidhî, Hakim, 38, 43-44,
46, 51, 53, 65, 116, 119, 122, 143 nn. 11-12, 145 n. 28, 148 n, 55,164 n. 52
Tbrali, 30, 110 lïihfa, 12 turuq,
sing, tarîqa, 4-5, 13—15, 17-18
Tustarî, Sahl b. Abdallah al-, 35, 42, 83, 127
Ubaydallâh Ahrâr, 5, 60, 132 n. 15 ubbâd,
48
ubûda,120, 122-129 ubûdiyya, 112, 122-129 udhûba, 51 Udovitch, A.,
ix umanâ, 48—4-9
Umarb. al-Khattâb, 125 Umm
al-kitâb, 67, 121 umma wasata, 85 ummî, 13, 31 ummiyya,
31-33, 53,109,123,125 Uqlat al-mustawfiz, 140 n. 42 urüj, 67
Uryabî, Abû Ja’far al-, 32 usûl,
63 uswa hasana, 96
Valsan, M., ix, 89, 150 n. 1,
153 n.
31, 159 n, 45,
166 n. 87
wahy, 53
wajh, 40, 119
walâya, 7, 46-51, 54,
72, 80, 102, 115-116, 123
wall, pl. awliyâ, 31, 82, 88
waqâr, 120
wâqîfûn, 23
Waraqa h. Nawfal, 126-127 waratha,
23 wârid, 78 wâritli muhammadî, 96 IVasiya kubrâ, 7 watad,
pl. awtâd, 49 waw, 65, 98
Westermarck, E., 146 n. 38 Winter,
M., 134 n. 32-33 witr, 116 wudûi, 121
wujûd, 38, 93, 123, 127 wuzarâ al-mahdî, 11, 68
Yahia, O., ix, 22, 59, 64, 97, 131 n. 11, 133 n. 18, 136 n.
53, 137 n. 1, 138 n. 13, 140 nn. 43-46, 142 n. 3, 143 nn. 9-11, 144 n. 19, 145
n. 28, 146 nn. 35-36, 146 nn. 39—40, 147 nn, 43;45-49, 148 nn. 51;53-55, 149
nn. 62-63;68¡70-71, 150 n. 4, 151 nn. 10;12;20, 152 n. 22, 153 n.
30, 154 nn. 39-43;l, 155 n. 8, 156 n. 15, 157 n. 29;31,158 nn.
39-40, 159 n. 48, 160 n. 58;61-64, 161 nn 12;14, 162 n.
21, 163 nn.
37;41-43;49,164 nn.51-58;60-63, 165 nn. 65-67;69-70;72, 166 n. 80;83-84, 167
nn. 101-103 Yawâqît wal I-jawâkir, Al-, 10—11,
18, 59
Yemen, 73
Yûsî, Al-, 2
Zabîdî, Murtadâ
al-, 16, 136 ri. 50 zâhir, 23-24, 36-37, 102, 116, 128 Zâhirî Ibn Hazm,
55
zakât, 107 zâlimûn,
51. zandaqa, 19 Zarrûq, 4,
131 n. 13 záwiya, 7, 12-14 zindîq, 4 zuhhâd, 48
is to th ra as a whole.
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