Sufism came to free the human being from the sense of his own greatness. Yet many who walk its path regard themselves as superior to others. They want people to acknowledge their spiritual eminence and to recognise their rank.
From this sense of superiority grows the desire for tasarruf, the power to act upon the world. Such a person wishes that anyone who quarrels with him should be shattered, and that anyone who hurts him should fall into misfortune, so that the world may bow before his spiritual strength. The true destination of Sufism, however, is not the mastery of tasarruf but the station of taslim and rida, surrender and contentment. The deeper one’s gnosis, the more the awareness of one’s own power and authority fades. The accomplished seeker does not even count his own influence. He reflects that this entire universe belongs to his Lord, so what right has he to intervene in His dominion? What a strange reversal it is that on a path whose destination is self-negation, we have set out to prove our own greatness.
This sense of superiority sometimes takes the form of a quiet indifference to the commands of the Shariah. No sooner do some people attach themselves to a spiritual order than they begin to consider themselves above ordinary Muslims. Prayer, fasting and other religious obligations come to seem, in their eyes, matters for beginners.
Two incidents come to mind. On one occasion, after we had prayed, a man of the so-called qalandar temperament looked at us and remarked, “Are you still at the stage of prayers?” On another occasion, a man began to laugh on seeing us pray. When asked why, he explained that prayer is like milk for infants, who cannot yet digest solid food, and that we were evidently still at that stage.
These are, no doubt, extreme examples. Behind them, however, lies a tendency that appears in milder or harsher forms within certain circles. The entire journey of the spiritual path is undertaken in obedience to the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), and no stage of his life was one of independence from worship. As his nearness to God increased, so did his devotion. If gnosis makes a person indifferent to prayer, then something is surely wrong with that gnosis, for the very Being whose knowledge is sought is the One who commanded prayer. Shariah and tariqah are not opposing roads. The tariqah is the internalisation of the spirit of the Shariah.
The same sense of spiritual superiority gradually breeds the habit of looking down on others. A person begins to treat his worship, his remembrance, his spiritual lineage and his inner experiences as proof of his distinction. Yet the foundational lesson of authentic Sufism is to regard one’s own self as lowly and to claim no greatness over others. Sufism came to remove arrogance from the human heart. If arrogance now grows in its name, how great a loss that is. The concern for self-reform and the desire for spiritual progress are worthy, but to consider oneself better than others is to nourish the very ego that the path was meant to discipline.
This sense of superiority does not remain confined to the individual. It spreads to the Sufi orders themselves. Each follower seems busy proving that his order is the finest, his master the most exalted and his method the most authoritative. Instead of benefiting from the strengths of other orders, people search for their weaknesses. Virtues, miracles and anecdotes of the masters are piled up, as though the purpose of the path were to supply evidence for the glory of one’s own lineage. In this way, the individual ego is replaced by a collective one.
There is another matter worth reflecting upon. We tend to associate spirituality with deliverance from trial. We wish that no one should oppose us, that no one should hurt us, that no one should act against our will, and that if anyone does, divine retribution should seize him at once. It is as if attachment to a spiritual order grants a special exemption from the hardships of life. The history of the people of truth tells an entirely different story.
The Prophet (peace be upon him) spoke of believers among earlier nations whose bodies were cut with saws and whose flesh was torn from their bones with iron combs, yet who remained steadfast in their faith. He himself was stoned at Ta’if until he bled, and when the angel of the mountains offered to crush his persecutors, he chose instead to hope that their descendants would one day worship the One God. At Uhud he was wounded. His Companions made unparalleled sacrifices and endured the hardship of digging the trench. In the lives of these noble souls, trial was not an unusual accident but a part of the path of truth. Their greatness did not lie in never having suffered, but in the fact that suffering never diminished their servitude, their steadfastness or their trust in God.
On what basis, then, do we expect that every hardship will be lifted from us the moment we join a spiritual order? Does nearness to God mean exemption from trial? The tariqah is the discipline of the self, the sacrifice of desire and contentment with the will of one’s Lord. Here one does not ask for privileges. One asks for the grace of patience and perseverance.
The summit of Sufism is not that whoever hurts us should be ruined. It is that when someone hurts us, we are still able to pray for his good. Disagreement should not wound our spirituality, and mistreatment does not lower our station. Likewise, the misfortune of an opponent is no certificate of our sanctity, and the greatness of another order takes nothing away from the greatness of our own.
The finest expression of love for the masters is not to recount their miracles but to embody their character. Presence of heart in prayer, honesty in dealings, courtesy in disagreement, patience in trial and goodwill towards others: these are the true blessings of the spiritual path.
The fruit of the tariqah is not that we become greater than others, but that we stop thinking of ourselves as great. How can a journey that begins with self-negation end in self-exaltation? If humility, forbearance, love and good character have not taken root in us, then the question must be asked: what, after all, have we gained from the path?
Muhammad Zubair Civil Servant
