There followed a ripple of laughter as the men in the room were eager to show their agreement with the judge—high-pitched, unconfident, and unhappy laughs from people used to toadying to superiors. I felt uneasy. Obviously it hadn’t been a good idea to bring the judge and the dervish together. “Perhaps I was misunderstood. I didn’t mean to say one could not find God if he stayed in his hometown. That is certainly possible,” conceded the dervish. “There are people who have never traveled anywhere and yet have seen the world.” “Exactly!” The judge grinned triumphantly—a grin that vanished upon hearing what the dervish uttered next. “What I meant to say, Judge, was that one could not find God if he stayed in the fur coat, silk garment, and pricey jewelry that you are wearing today.” A stunned silence descended upon the room, the sounds and sighs around us dissolving down to dust. We all held our breath, as if expecting something bigger to happen, though what could have been more shocking, I didn’t know. “Your tongue is too sharp for a dervish,” the judge said. “When something needs to be said, I’ll say it even if the whole world grabs me by the neck and tells me to keep quiet.” This was met with a frown from the judge, but then he shrugged dismissively. “Well, whatever,” he said. “In any case, you are the man we need. We were just talking about the splendor of our city. You must have seen many places. Is there a place more charming than Baghdad?”
Softly, his gaze moving from one man to another, Shams explained, “There is no question Baghdad is a remarkable city, but no beauty on earth lasts forever. Cities are erected on spiritual columns. Like giant mirrors, they reflect the hearts of their residents. If those hearts darken and lose faith, cities will lose their glamour. It happens, and it happens all the time.” I couldn’t help but nod. Shams of Tabriz turned to me, momentarily distracted from his thoughts, with a friendly flicker in his eyes. I felt them on me like the heat of a sweltering sun. That was when I clearly saw how he merited his name. This man was radiating vigor and vitality and burning within, like a ball of fire.
He was indeed Shams, “the sun.” But the judge was of a different mind. “You Sufis make everything too complicated. The same with philosophers and poets! Why the need for so many words? Human beings are simple creatures with simple needs. It falls upon the leaders to see to their needs and make sure they do not go astray. That requires applying the sharia to perfection.” “The sharia is like a candle,” said Shams of Tabriz. “It provides us with much valuable light. But let us not forget that a candle helps us to go from one place to another in the dark. If we forget where we are headed and instead concentrate on the candle, what good is it?” The judge grimaced, his face closing up. I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me.
Entering into a discussion about the significance of the sharia with a man whose job was to judge, and often punish, people according to the sharia was swimming in dangerous waters. Didn’t Shams know that? Just as I was looking for an appropriate excuse to take the dervish out of the room, I heard him say, “There is a rule that applies to this situation.” “What rule?” asked the judge suspiciously. Shams of Tabriz straightened up, his gaze fixed as if reading from an invisible book, and he pronounced: “Each and every reader comprehends the Holy Qur’an on a different level in tandem with the depth of his understanding. There are four levels of insight. The first level is the outer meaning and it is the one that the majority of the people are content with. Next is the Batm—the inner level. Third, there is the inner of the inner. And the fourth level is so deep it cannot be put into words and is therefore bound to remain indescribable.”
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