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 A Sufi EncounterThe Spiritual Traveler
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I
first met Leonardo Stout a number of years ago, but the circumstances
of that meeting are hazy to me. I knew he belonged to a Sufi
order called the Naqshbandi, and I remember that he struck me as having
a very charismatic quality. At the time, I thought that if I
ever wanted to consult with someone who was an authority of
spirituality, he would be the right person. I bumped into
him on occasion, but he always seemed to be preoccupied, in the company
of other people, or otherwise unapproachable, so I never managed much
more than a smile and a brief eye contact, in
greeting. Finally, however, I started to do a series of
interviews, and it occurred to me that he would make a good
subject. I knew where he had his shop--a natural healing
boutique--and even wrote down my intention to look him up there in the
notepad on which I keep my weekly schedule. But before I was
able to follow up on this intention, I suddenly spotted him one day
directly across the street. I ran up to him and breathlessly
started peppering him with inquiries.
"Wait a minute, he stopped
me. "You hardly say a word to me in three years, and all of
a sudden you're asking me all these questions?"
 I
slowed down, and started telling him about my interview
project. Gradually, he seemed more receptive, and agreed to
meet with me again discuss the possibility of an interview in more
detail. The next week I dropped by the shop. It
was a very pleasant place to browse, filled with herbal remedies,
scented candles, and soft music. I was talking with the
clerk behind the counter when Leonardo walked in, shook my hand with a
smile, and disappeared into the rear of the shop. I waited
for him to make his reappearance.
"Do you think he knows I've come to speak to him?" I asked the
clerk. "Maybe he thinks I'm just browsing."
"I told him," the young man
at the counter replied. "I think he's in prayer."
"Oh, I see. I
don't want to disturb him. Perhaps there's a place I can sit
down."
The clerk indicated a narrow
hallway with bookshelves on both sides, through which Leonardo had
exited. Beyond this was a small waiting area that contained
a couple of plush chairs set in front of a VCR. I sat down
and decided to do a brief contemplation. I closed my eyes
and when I opened them again was surprised to see Leonardo sitting
beside me, also engaged in the same activity. I looked at
him as he, too, opened his eyes.
"Where did you go in your contemplation?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said, "but it was definitely somewhere else."
"You know, I've had my eye on you over the past few years," he said.
I professed surprise at this
remark, but the only thing that really surprised me was his
candor. I'd had my eyes on him, as well, but I was less
forthright about this. "I suppose I've noticed you, too," I
replied, in a deliberate
understatement.
"Do you believe in God?" he asked me suddenly.
It was a very direct
question. "I wasn't taught to think of a God that was
interested in my personal affairs, or that I could turn to for personal
guidance," I replied. "But I've come to appreciate how
valuable such an attitude can be."
I pressed him about the
interview. "I'm finding it difficult to be patient, lately,"
I explained, apologetically.
"Patience is the greatest of
all virtues," he replied. "We're all waiting to take our
last breath."
Once again I was struck by what he said. Normally, when we
think of patience as a virtue, it is relation to things we wish for in
our life. But the moment of our death is generally something
that we are fending off or avoiding. Yet, ultimately,
Leonardo was right. Death IS what we are waiting for.
He was noncommittal about the interview, and asked me to read a book beforehand. The book was entitled The Last Barrier. Its
author, Reshad Field, was a evidently a British student of the Sufi
path. The book told the story of the author's initial
meeting and subsequent relationship with his spiritual instructor, and
his gradual initiation into the ways of this mystical
order. In the course of the narrative, the author makes
contact with the Sufi, Hamid, in a very intuitive way. Hamid
is the owner of an antiquarian shop. The author walks in one
day, and asks him out of the blue if he knows anything about the Sufi
path. Hamid's initial reaction is to look at the author
quite suspiciously. He seems taken aback by the question,
but then softens and treats the author very courteously. The
whole scenario was very reminiscent of my encounter with Leonardo.
After having read the book, I tried various times to set up a follow-up
appointment with Leonardo, but he was difficult to get hold
of. When I finally succeeded in finding him, he seemed very
busy and asked me to come back another time. Frustrated by
his elusiveness, I was just at the point of giving up on the prospect
of an interview entirely. Almost as an afterthought,
however, I looked up the web site of the Naqshbandi Order, found an
e-mail address, and sent a message requesting an interview with a local
member of the Order. To my surprise, I received an almost
immediate reply from an individual named Mateen Siddiqui. He
invited me to attend a Dhikr and meet Shaykh Muhammad Hisham Kabbani,
the head of the Order in the United States at a place called the
Haqqani Center, in Fenton Michigan.
Fenton is about the last place I would have expected to find a
spiritual retreat, much less the center of a world Islamic
movement. I drove north from Ann Arbor on US23, turned east
on M59, and then north again on Fenton Road. A gateway led
past a pasture where a couple of handsome horses grazed and up to a
long, brown-painted building shaped somewhat like a barn. I
went around to the back, where a large green banner was hung near the
entrance. The banner said "Al-Haqqani Center: World Islamic
Conference, 1999," and around the edges were the names of participating
countries from all over the Islamic world, with many former Soviet
republics and republics in the present Russian Federation
included.
The international character of the place was reinforced by the diverse
nationalities of the people there, which seemed to include Saudis,
Pakistanis, Lebanese, Americans, and many more that I could only guess
at. I felt as if I had suddenly transported to an
Islamic-centered world, very different from the Western world just
outside the gates of the retreat.
 Eventually,
Shaykh Kabbani emerged from his cottage, wearing a peaked turban and
carrying a thick walking staff. A number of men came out to
greet him, having finished attending to their evening
prayers. An even greater number of women and children
appeared, as well. Finally, the assemblage entered the
barn-like building, and moved down a long hall toward a stairway in the
middle. Shoes were left at the bottom of the stairs, and we
ascended in our stocking feet. The stairway led to an
immense loft, decorated like a mosque with a wall-to-wall green carpet,
numerous small oriental rugs, plaques and banners with Koranic verses,
a prayer niche, and a throne-like chair on which Shaykh Kabbani seated
himself. Children were allowed to roam around, while the
women gathered in a corner of the loft, separated from the main group
by some cabinets.
The Dhikr was quite contrary to my expectations. I had
imagined a very restful, peaceful repetition of the word HU, the secret
Islamic name for God. But instead, the chanting was a
forceful, vigorous singsong of Koranic verses, reminiscent of a
campfire gathering. Since I had some degree of familiarity
with the Koran, I was able to follow along with some of the verses, but
a person without such familiarity would have been quite
lost. The chanting of individual words turned out to be only
a very small part of the Dhikr, although its occurrence approximately
in the middle of the session seemed to indicate that it held a special
significance. Very suddenly, the Koranic verses gave way to
the chanting of the word HU. This was done with a good deal
of force, in short, sharp syllables. There was another shift
to the word HAQQ, and a third shift to the word HAYY. The
word ALLAH was also chanted in this way, more forcefully than anything
else. I noticed a crescendo, during which the Shaykh
literally shouted the word into the microphone at his side.
After the Dhikr, the Shaykh asked the adults to escort all the children
out of the room, and when this had been done, he proceeded to give a
discourse to the remaining audience. There were perhaps
twenty men seated on the carpet in front of him--some in scullcaps,
others in peaked turbans, with short beards and long, and all in a
variety of attire that seemed to reflect the diversity of their ethnic
backgrounds. I could not write Shaykh Kabbani's words down
verbatim, but these were the notes I jotted down:
"Many people today are interested in
spirituality, or what we know as the Science of the Soul," he began. "Spirituality
is the source of energy that cleanses and enlightens the
heart. It is not a theory, but a taste. Think of
light that goes through a prism, and now think of that prism as your
heart. To the eyes, the light is the same. But to
the heart, the light is differentiated. Each color has a
different taste. Just so, the light that goes through a
person produces different colors…
"Now think of your body. Your body is made up of over a
trillion cells. Each cell is under the direction of an
angel. Think of a trillion angels, each one governing a cell
of your body. Now understand that each angel has a name, and
that each name is unique, distinct from every other. Each
has a different taste…
"The angels carry the light for every particle in
existence. The smallest particle in the world has an angel
assigned to it. If the angel were to disappear, the particle
would disappear. But angels never die, so energy can never
be destroyed. It can only be transferred…
"Remember that the Prophet
Muhammad said: 'I have perfected your religion.' The main
essence of spirituality comes from Islam. The saints could
turn the whole world to Islam in five minutes, but they keep this power
for when it is needed. They are working to raise each
follower to a new level every 24 hours. At the time that a
follower dies, he will recognize what his Shaykh has done to raise him
up…
"The heavenly light is like a rope coming down from heaven toward you,"
he concluded. "Hold on tight to that rope…"
 I
guessed that when the Shaykh talked of the different colors produced by
light going through an individual, he may have been referring to the
'aura'. And when he spoke of the heavenly light that was
like a rope, I suspected he was alluding to the experience of seeing
the Light of God in one's inner vision. After the discourse,
the Shaykh rose, and we all got up in unison with him. A
circle was formed, and we each approached Shaykh Kabbani to pay our
respects. Then he walked to the back of the room and sat
down in a more casual posture, choosing the very seat that I had
vacated. The rest of us sat cross-legged on the floor in a
rough semicircle around him. After some brief conversation,
he turned to me.
"So, what do you think of spirituality?"
he asked.
"Well," I replied hesitantly, "if I might be permitted a
question…"
"Yes," the Shaykh nodded.
"You spoke of spirituality, and you also spoke of
religion. What is the relationship between the two?"
"Religion is the car, and spirituality is the gas," Shaykh Kabbani replied without hesitation. "If
the car runs out of gas, it will sit and rust in the sun, a mere heap
of scrap metal. Or, if you prefer, you may make a comparison
to a nut. Spirituality is the kernel, and religion is the
shell. The shell protects the kernel.
"This is a world of matter and energy. An atom is made up of
both. It is not energy alone. It has a nucleus,
around which the electrons spin. Every person is happy with
spirituality. But spirituality needs a structure, just as a
structure needs spirituality. Everyone needs discipline, and
this is what religion provides. The discipline of religion
is the complement to the freedom of spirituality. Both are
necessary for an individual to achieve balance.
"We have a living Shaykh, a living Master," he added, "who
is connected with the Prophet Muhammad through a direct lineage--a
continuous, unbreakable connection spanning over 1400
years. In the field of spirituality, there is a new
discovery every day. For this reason, you cannot depend
solely on the teachings of departed Masters. If you don't
have a living Shaykh, you can't get that direct connection from the
heavenly source that will keep you in tune with the new realities that
are appearing daily."
 More
than anything else, I was struck by the openness of the Naqshbandi
Order. Their willingness to open the Dhikr to a non-Muslim
like myself was unprecedented in my experience. If I had
been in an Islamic country, and sought to enter a mosque, I would
normally be greeted with a good deal of suspicion. I made
this comment to Mateen, over a dinner of rice, chickpeas, and stew
meat, after the service.
"The Naqshbandi is one of 41 Sufi orders," he said, "but it is distinct
from the other 40. All the other orders are much more
specialized. If you think of the analogy that Shaykh Kabbani
made to a prism, the other 40 orders are each like a separate color in
the spectrum, but the Naqshbandi order is like the pure, white light."
"Is this what makes the Naqshbandi Order able to appeal to people in a
much more universal way than the other orders?" I asked.
"Exactly," he replied.
My impression of the Naqshbandi Order was a very positive
one. I was struck by what seemed to me to be a similarity to
New Age movements in the West, which appeal to a thirst for
spirituality that many people can no longer find in their established
religions. Yet at the same time, the Naqshbandi movement is
actually a very traditional one, hearkening back to a current of
spirituality that has always been a part of the body of
Islam. In this sense, Naqshbandi Sufism has the potential to
expand possibly more than any other spiritual movement in the world
today, and deserves the attention of Muslims and non-Muslims alike. |
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Date Submitted:
1/2/04 |
Copyright Information:
Copyright © The Spiritual Traveler, 2001 |
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