I no longer expect those disciples whose hearts have been kneaded with sedition, ambition, rancour, and hatred, and whose breasts are filled with resentment, to comprehend the pure ethos of Sufism, the adab of the people of the Path, or the subtleties of the way of love. In one respect, perhaps the blame is not entirely yours. You were taught to call hatred love, hostility loyalty, and the outpouring of resentment upon others zeal. You were made to adopt rancour as a principle of conduct, fanaticism as submission, enmity as fidelity, and the dissemination of falsehood and slander as spiritual service and guidance. You were led to believe that love for your own elders could only be proven by belittling other elders, and that fidelity to your own spiritual threshold required hostility toward every other threshold. From a heart formed in such a manner, and from a tongue trained upon such habits, it is indeed difficult to expect either love or justice.

Yet this is not the Sufism we learned from our masters. Sufism is not the preservation of the blameworthy qualities of the ego beneath a religious garb; it is their dissolution in the fire of purification. It is the cleansing of the heart from attachment to all that is other than God, from arrogance, envy, rancour, and the tyranny of selfhood. In a celebrated definition attributed to Junayd al-Baghdadi, Sufism is described as: “That the Real should cause you to die to yourself and bring you to life through Him.” The essence of the Path, then, is not to fortify the ego, but to break its claim to sovereignty. If, upon entering the spiritual path, a person’s “I” does not diminish but instead grows larger through affiliation, and if yesterday he boasted of his worldly status while today he boasts of his shaykh and his order, then he has merely changed his garments; he has not changed his self.

Imam al-Qushayri, in his Risala, transmits the well-known principle of Junayd al-Baghdadi: “This path of ours is bound by the Book and the Sunnah.” Accordingly, no form of love may annul the justice of the Sacred Law, no affiliation may render falsehood lawful, and no attachment to a shaykh may license the violation of a Muslim’s honour or dignity. Love for a spiritual guide has value only to the extent that it draws a person nearer to the character of the Messenger of God ﷺ. If justice is abandoned in the name of love, slander is committed in the name of loyalty, people’s private affairs are pursued in the name of service, and Muslim hearts are broken in the name of religious zeal, then the name of Sufism may remain, but its spirit has departed.

The reality of Sufism is not the breaking of hearts but their mending; not the hunting of faults but their concealment; not the dividing of people but the reconciliation of hearts. A saying transmitted from Sari al-Saqati expresses a criterion of the Path: “Sufism is the name of three meanings: the light of gnosis does not extinguish the light of scrupulousness; one does not speak of an inward knowledge that contradicts the outward meaning of the Book; and spiritual gifts do not lead one to violate the sacred limits of God.” The reality of spirituality, therefore, lies not in transcending the boundaries of Sacred Law and ethics, but in guarding them with even greater vigilance.

So too with love for one’s shaykh. To love one spiritual guide does not require hatred of another. One need not extinguish the lamps of other lodges in order to keep one’s own lamp alight. Genuine love stands by virtue of its own truth; it does not need enemies in order to nourish itself. If a person can only exalt his own master by diminishing others, then what speaks within him may be less the reality of love than the ego’s possessive attachment to affiliation. For hatred is not proof of love. The duty of the disciple who loves his shaykh is not to revile the shaykhs of others, but to embody, through his own character, the refinement he has received from his guide.

How meaningful, in this regard, is the saying attributed to Abu Hafs al-Haddad: “Sufism is entirely adab; every moment has its adab, every state has its adab, and every station has its adab.” If Sufism is adab from beginning to end, then the disciple must preserve adab even while defending his shaykh. Insult, intimidation, contempt, falsehood, slander, and the violation of people’s dignity cannot be called defence. Whoever wishes to manifest the greatness of his spiritual guide should first show what portion of that guide’s training has appeared in him. Let him embody such forbearance, mercy, and dignity that those who meet him become curious about the master who formed him. There are few praises of a spiritual guide more eloquent than the beautiful character of a disciple.

For this reason, the state of the disciple is a mirror in which the quality of his formation becomes visible. If a man bends low before his shaykh but leaves the doorway only to look down upon others, then his body has bowed while his ego has not. If prayer beads are in his hand while the honour of Muslims is upon his tongue, the beads have reached his fingers but the remembrance has not yet entered his heart. If the Divine Name never leaves his lips, while his heart carries years of unresolved rancour toward a fellow believer, then a long journey still lies before him. For the purpose of dhikr is not merely the movement of the tongue but the purification of the heart; the purpose of spiritual companionship is not merely ecstasy and tears but the refinement of character; and the purpose of rabita is not merely the imagination of a form but the reception of something from the state, discipline, and adab of the spiritual guide.

A saying attributed to Abu ‘Ali al-Rudhabari declares: “Sufism is to remain at the threshold of the Beloved even if you are driven away.” This expresses the steadfastness of the dervish. Yet remaining at the threshold does not mean expelling others from it. The dervish sees his spiritual affiliation as a grace, but he does not turn that grace into a ladder by which to rise above others. The gaze of the Sufi is directed first toward his own faults. Whoever occupies himself with counting the faults of others will find little time to read the register of his own soul. The spiritual path is not a journey of discovering the defects of other people; it is the unveiling of the veils within oneself.

The Pitfalls That Confront the Wayfarer on the Path of Spiritual Wayfaring

At this point, an important distinction must be made. The subject here is not, God forbid, any inherent danger or deficiency in Sufism itself. Sufism is a path of formation whose aim is the inward realization of those Qur’anic and Prophetic truths concerned with ihsan, purification, detachment, reverent consciousness of God, and noble character. Yet however pure the road may be, the traveller still carries with him a self that has not yet been fully trained. For this reason, the wayfarer may encounter certain pitfalls arising from his own ego, excess, mistaken perceptions, immoderate attachment, or sectarian loyalty to a particular spiritual temperament.

The expression “pitfalls” used by Bediuzzaman Said Nursi in discussing certain errors into which the people of the spiritual path may fall is particularly apt. A pitfall does not condemn the road; it warns the traveller. The presence of a precipice does not mean that the destination is false; it means that the traveller requires vigilance, discernment, and guidance. Thus, what is being criticised here is not the tariqa itself, but the pitfalls into which a wayfarer may fall when he becomes captive to the stratagems of the ego while travelling upon the Path.

Among the gravest of these pitfalls is the transformation of love into fanaticism. It is entirely natural that the wayfarer should love his shaykh; indeed, such attachment may form an important bond within spiritual wayfaring. But when love loses its balance, and a person begins to prove his loyalty to his own guide by diminishing other guides, then love has assumed another character. When he comes to regard his own spiritual temperament as the whole of truth, his own order as the sole path of salvation, and his own shaykh as the standard by which all the friends of God are measured, he has approached the edge of a pitfall without even realizing it.

Among the meanings to which Bediuzzaman draws attention is that excessive partisan attachment to a tariqa can lead the wayfarer to place the customs and litanies of his own path ahead of the universal principles of religion. Yet the tariqa is in the service of the Sacred Law; the Sacred Law is not in the service of the tariqa. The spiritual guide is a guide toward the Prophetic Sunnah; the Sunnah is not subordinate to the person of the guide. The shaykh is loved, but he is not placed above the measure of the Messenger of God ﷺ. The disciplines of a path are observed, but they are never set above the clear and binding principles of religion.

One of the subtlest pitfalls of the spiritual path is the reversal of means and ends. The spiritual guide is a means to God; the end is God. Dhikr is a means by which the heart awakens to God; the end is God. Spiritual companionship is a means by which the heart is revived; the end is God. The tariqa is a path by which the wayfarer is purified; the end is again God. When the means begins to eclipse the end, the orientation of spiritual wayfaring becomes disturbed.

Another pitfall arises when the ego removes the garment of the world and puts on the cloak of the dervish. A person who once took pride in his wealth may later take pride in his shaykh. A person who once looked down upon others because of rank may later look down upon them because of his tariqa. Yesterday he said: “I am wealthy, I am powerful, I am important.” Today he may say: “I am the disciple of such-and-such a master; our way is unlike the others; our spiritual lineage is superior.” The words have changed, the affiliation has changed, the garment has changed; but the sovereign “I” within has remained untouched.

Indeed, this second form of arrogance may be more concealed than the first. Worldly arrogance is naked, and for that reason easier to recognize. But arrogance hidden behind religious and Sufi affiliations may present itself to its owner as virtue. A man may be arrogant while imagining himself humble, fanatical while imagining himself loyal, and contemptuous of others while imagining himself to be honouring his shaykh. This is among the most subtle pitfalls of the Path: the ego does not die; it merely changes form.

Another pitfall is to mistake the anger of the ego for zeal in defence of religion. A person calls his envy “zeal,” his rancour “hatred for God’s sake,” his fanaticism “loyalty,” his harshness “majesty,” his obstinacy “steadfastness,” his gossip “information,” and his slander “defence.” By doing so, he does not heal the illnesses of the ego; he clothes them in religious language. It is here that the discernment of the wayfarer is truly tested. For the pitfalls of the Path do not always appear as obvious sins; sometimes they come as egoic impulses dressed in the garments of truth.

The wayfarer must therefore remain suspicious of his own ego and weigh his emotions against the scales of Sacred Law, Prophetic practice, conscience, and justice. If love causes you to abandon justice, there is a pitfall. If loyalty leads you into falsehood, there is a pitfall. If attachment to your shaykh causes you to violate the dignity of other Muslims, there is a pitfall. If love for your own spiritual temperament leads you to despise other paths, there is a pitfall. If defending your spiritual guide draws you into slander, then what you are defending is no longer the guide; it is the ego itself.

In short, the issue is not the danger of Sufism, but the pitfalls of the Sufi wayfarer. The road is pure, but the traveller carries his ego with him. This is precisely why training is necessary. Spiritual wayfaring is not a journey without hazards; it is a journey in which the hazards are recognized and overcome through the direction of the guide, the measure of Sacred Law, the light of the Sunnah, and constant self-accounting.

Once this is understood, it also becomes clear how mistaken it is to attribute the ugliness sometimes seen among certain affiliates of Sufism to Sufism itself. The fanaticism of a disciple is not Sufism. The rancour of a dervish is not Sufism. The falsehood, harshness, or injustice of an affiliate is not Sufism. These are merely manifestations of a self which Sufism came to discipline but which has not yet been disciplined. Just as the illness of a patient is not a defect in the physician, the illnesses of the ego are not the essence of Sufism.

For this reason, one of the most subtle afflictions into which a person may fall is to mistake the rage of the ego for religious zeal. When a man names his envy “zeal,” his rancour “righteous aversion,” his fanaticism “loyalty,” his harshness “majesty,” his stubbornness “steadfastness,” his gossip “intelligence,” and his slander “defence,” he has not cured the illnesses of the soul; he has granted them religious legitimacy. Yet changing the names of things does not alter their realities. Backbiting does not become lawful because it is called service. Slander does not become truth because it is called defence. Oppression does not become justice because it is called loyalty. Fanaticism does not become gnosis merely because it has been dressed in the garments of Sufism.

Among the principles repeatedly emphasized in the discourses of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani is the accusation of the ego, preoccupation with one’s own defects, and the reform of the inward self. The spirit of the Qadiri training is not that a person should declare himself pure, but that he should call his ego to account. Therefore, whoever constantly speaks the name of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani should first ask how much of the Qadiri discipline has actually entered his own soul. To recount the virtues and miracles of the Ghawth is one thing; to receive a share of his chivalry and adab is another. Speaking of miracles is easy. Living in steadfastness is difficult.

The dictum attributed to Baha’ al-Din Naqshband, “Our way is companionship, and goodness lies in togetherness,” expresses the same truth. If companionship separates people, plants hostility between hearts turned toward the same qibla, and erects new walls between believers, then one must reconsider what spiritual companionship is meant to accomplish. Companionship is not for feeding the ego but for disciplining it; not for strengthening partisan identity, but for directing hearts toward God. A person who rises from genuine companionship should become lighter, not heavier; his rancour should diminish, not increase; he should see his own faults more clearly, not himself as greater than others.

The Hikam of Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah al-Iskandari repeatedly warns against the hidden deceptions of the ego. Among its central meanings is the danger of admiring what comes from oneself and failing to subject the self to suspicion. When a person begins to see his own actions as inherently beautiful—especially when he performs them in the name of religion—the gate of self-accounting begins to close. He no longer asks, “Could I be mistaken?” Rather, he says: “I am on the side of truth; therefore everything I do must be true.” Sufism exists precisely to shatter this delusion.

Submission to a spiritual guide never means the abolition of reason, conscience, or one’s personal responsibility before Sacred Law. The guide is a guide toward God; he does not replace the judgment of God. Persons are measured by truth; truth is not measured by persons. Belonging to a group does not oblige one to regard everything done by that group as correct. True loyalty is not to abandon truth for the sake of one whom you love; it is to preserve truth even in relation to one whom you love. Justice is not justice only toward those we love. It is justice also toward those we do not.

This, in fact, is where the real test of Sufism begins. To smile at those who share your spiritual temperament, to praise those who praise you, and to love those who love your shaykh are easy things. True gnosis is to preserve justice toward those who do not belong to your circle. To acknowledge a true word from one who criticizes you is fairness. To respond to injustice without yourself becoming unjust is spiritual chivalry. To refuse to lie about someone with whom you are angry is God-consciousness. Character is not tested only in the company of friends; it is tested before one’s adversary.

In the spiritual vision of Mawlana Rumi, love is that which expands the human being rather than constricts him. As love increases, the capacity of the heart should widen. A person who repeatedly says “my shaykh, my branch, my community, my spiritual temperament” while his inner world becomes ever narrower should ask how much he has truly received from the expansive mercy of Sufism. Genuine affiliation does not lead a person to despise other affiliations; it moves him to fulfil the responsibilities of his own. A rose does not need to destroy the fragrance of other flowers in order for its own perfume to spread.

A Sufi lodge is not a front line. A tariqa is not a political party. A spiritual guide is not a factional leader gathering supporters around himself. The lodge is, before all else, a school of spiritual formation. One enters it not so that the ego may grow, but so that it may shrink; not so that enemies may multiply, but so that one may recognize the true enemy within. If a person has spent years struggling with everyone outside himself but has never struggled with his own ego, then he has mistaken the direction of spiritual wayfaring. If he has seen faults in everyone but himself, he has turned the mirror the wrong way. If he has laboured to reform the whole world but forgotten to reform his own heart, then he has missed one of the first lessons of Sufism.

In the ethical and spiritual programme of Imam al-Ghazali, the primary struggle is likewise the struggle against the self. No genuine perfection arises from outward affiliation alone while the diseases of the heart—arrogance, envy, ostentation, self-admiration, love of status, and anger—remain untreated. Sufism is therefore not the art of concealing the illnesses of the ego behind love for a shaykh. It is the path of uncovering those illnesses one by one and treating them. Envy must be uprooted. Rancour must be uprooted. Arrogance must be broken. Self-admiration must be treated. Greed and resentment must be extinguished. In their place must be planted love, mercy, humility, adab, fairness, forbearance, spiritual chivalry, and justice.

If you have spent many years at the door of a Sufi lodge and still rejoice at the misfortunes of others, delight in the fall of your brother, spread every negative report without verification, regard all those outside your circle as enemies, weep when the name of your shaykh is mentioned yet feel nothing when the dignity of a Muslim is violated, then you must ask yourself: Have I spent all these years disciplining my ego, or merely strengthening its fanaticism?

It is easy to wear down the beads of a rosary; it is difficult to wear down the ego. It is easy to go to the lodge and return from it; it is difficult to carry the adab of the lodge into one’s home, street, and dealings with people. It is easy to repeat the name of a shaykh a thousand times; it is difficult to acquire even one trait from his character. It is easy to wear the dervish cloak; it is difficult to become forbearing. It is easy to place a crown upon one’s own head; it is difficult to treat others as a crown upon one’s head. It is easy to recount the miracles of the friends of God; it is difficult to live their steadfastness.

For this reason, we did not come to know Sufism as a field in which hatred and hostility are legitimized. We learned Sufism from the adab of the Junayds, the spiritual chivalry of the Jilanis, the companionship of the Naqshbandis, the love of the Mawlawis, the purification of the Ghazalian tradition, and the gnosis of the Shadhilis. There, there is love rather than rancour, humility rather than arrogance, concord rather than division, pardon rather than vengeance, reverence rather than humiliation, servanthood rather than selfhood.

The spiritual guide we know does not enlarge the hatred of his disciples; he diminishes their egos. The companionship we know does not teach a person the faults of others; it reveals his own faults to him. The remembrance we know does not merely increase the number of repetitions upon the beads; it increases mercy within the heart. The guidance we know does not make a person the servant of his shaykh; through the training of the shaykh, it makes him a better servant of God. The Sufism we know does not add new enemies to the heart; it removes the old enmities already dwelling there, one by one.

A tree is known by its fruit. Sufi formation is likewise known by the fruit it produces in character. As the years pass, have you become more merciful, more forgiving, more humble, more just? Do you conceal the faults of others more often and see your own faults more clearly? Has your justice toward those who disagree with you increased? Has your anger diminished? Has the word “I” grown smaller in your heart? Has your tenderness toward the servants of God increased? This too is part of the accounting of spiritual wayfaring. The number of years since your initiation, the number of litanies you have completed, and the number of spiritual gatherings you have attended are not, in themselves, the measure of perfection. If the Path has not changed you, what meaning is there in boasting merely that you have walked upon it?

In sum, the fruit of spiritual guidance is adab; the fruit of wayfaring is purification; the fruit of gnosis is humility; the fruit of remembrance is tranquillity; the fruit of companionship is beautiful character; the fruit of service is sincerity; the mark of Sufism is mercy; and the inheritance of the friends of God is love. Spiritual guidance cannot coexist with rancour, nor spiritual formation with resentment, nor service with slander, nor loyalty with oppression, nor dervishhood with arrogance, nor gnosis with fanaticism. The path of love leading to God cannot be illuminated by the darkness of hatred.

It is easy to wear the garment of Sufism; it is difficult to carry its character. It is easy to appear a dervish; it is difficult to become one. It is easy to take the hand of a spiritual guide; it is difficult to free one’s neck from the grip of the ego. It is easy to speak about the friends of God; it is difficult to receive a share of their states. It is easy to say “adab” a thousand times; it is difficult to remain courteous in the moment of anger. It is easy to say “love” a thousand times; it is difficult to remain just toward one’s opponent.

And if a person has stood for forty years at the threshold of a spiritual door and has still lost nothing of his rancour, arrogance, envy, greed, and resentment, then he should no longer ask how many years he has stood at that door.

He should ask:

What entered my heart through that door?

The true wayfarer does not spend his life asking, “Who is superior to whom?”

Rather, with Niyâzî-i Mısrî, he asks:

“Where is the Beloved?”

And perhaps, when all the clamour of the ego falls silent, the heart begins at last to hear the answer to that question.

O men of the Path, O masters of Reality,
Give me but a sign: where is the One beyond all signs?

Where lies the homeland of the Beloved, where does His rose unfold?
O nightingale of the Beloved’s garden, where is that smiling Rose?

I searched across the land and sea, yet could not fathom this mystery;
Beyond body and soul, where is that hidden Sovereign?

I know the soul abides within the body, and the body lives through the soul;
Yet, alas, I know not: where is the Beloved of the soul?

Where is the One who is Niyâzî’s very life, the Sovereign within his secret,
His religion and his faith—where is that Placeless One, beyond all place?