Unitarian Universalist Meeting of South Berkshire

 

 

January 28, 2007

 

 

“Happy Birthday, Dear Rumi”

 

 

Rev. Kathy Duhon

 

 

            Rumi – you’ve probably heard the name and you might know who this is, or you might be thinking, is he some 20th century poet, musician, religious leader?  Sounds like Raffi, Rilke, Romney, but he’s not any of those guys.  Rumi, is he Italian?  Indian?

            Actually, he’s Persian, born in what is now Afghanistan, and he died in what is present-day Turkey.  Although extremely popular lately, Rumi is ancient – this is the year when we celebrate Rumi’s 800th birthday.  He was a 13th century religious poet, storyteller, and mystic.  2007 has been declared the “Year of Rumi” by the United Nations to celebrate his legacy. 

            Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi was a Sufi, which is the mystical branch of Islam. 

His followers are commonly called “Whirling Dervishes” today, but he is mostly known for his spiritual poetry that seems to speak directly to people, transcending religious, cultural, and ethnic differences.  Rumi said, “I am neither Muslim nor Christian, Jew nor Zoroastrian; I am neither of the earth nor of the heavens, I am neither body nor soul.”

            We sing a song based on one of his poems, “Come, Come, Whoever You Are”, but the words were adapted by one of our ministers.  Here is Rumi’s poem:

            Come, come, whoever you are.

            Wanderer, idolater, worshipper of fire,

            Come even though you have broken your vows a thousand times,

            Come, and come yet again.

            Ours is not a caravan of despair.

 

            Rumi’s invitation is to all.  Not just to those with any religion, or lack thereof, but whoever you are, wherever you are, on life’s journey of broken dreams and promises.  Come together, and give up your despair.

            I want to pause for a bit to consider Rumi in the larger context of mysticism, something we rarely have contact with, but which has surfaced everywhere, in all time and throughout the realm of religion.  Mysticism sometimes sounds flashy to us – mystics are the ones who are said to do all kinds of odd things with their bodies and have experiences that don’t make much sense in the natural world.  Mystics see and hear what we do not, and live quite differently from those around them – often aescetically, not eating much or partaking of even the most rudimentary comforts in life.

            Actually, these effects are often associated with mystics, but are not what mysticism is all about, and are not even necessarily present.  St. Theresa of Avila, one of the greatest mystics of all time, was clear that love was primary, that the mystical happenings were not sought, nor even particularly wanted, but that if they helped others to a place of more love in their lives, then so be it.

            Mysticism is really about a way of being that is soulful, and may have bodily aspects, but not always.  In Sufism, as in most mysticism, the understanding is that there is a deeper unity and that we miss it much of our lives, but that it is possible to experience this union, oneness, unity.  The primal oneness is often called the Beloved by Rumi and other Sufis. 

            Mystics both belong to a religion, and usually break from some of the traditional aspects of their religion, tending to find common ground with other religions.  If there are theologies or practices or rules that get in the way of the union they seek, then such challenges are re-cast, or else, cast aside.  That’s why you’ll always find women mystics, no matter how many strictures a religion has put on women – they are able to go beyond the transient and broken parts of their religion.  Before Rumi, there was an extremely important Sufi woman, Rabi’a, from the 8th century, who found love to be at the heart of the universe and she felt absorbed by love.  Mystics are not always able to transcend their religions successfully – many a mystic has been imprisoned or killed.  Also, sadly, some mystics have themselves derailed, breaking rules that are good; letting power corrupt them. 

            In general, religion is about communion – coming together with others and with whatever the understanding of the sacred or divine is.  Mysticism, on the other hand, is about union – realizing that communion is good, but actually an illusion, since there is no distinct other to come together with – all are one.

            We have glimpses of what the mystics experience, in those rare moments when we are fully here, in the now, and sense a beingness that is pervasive and real and beyond any division.  We most often sense what the mystics know, however, in the negative.  We  feel separate, alienated, wounded, alone, and this seems all wrong.  It is.   We need to listen to the inner oneness that declares the illusion, the falseness of any experience of separation.

            Sufism started a century or so after Muhammad’s death, with followers protesting the new Islamic establishment who were wearing silks and satins, and were not deemed religious enough.  So they wore wool, suf, and that is where the name Sufi comes from.  They were interested in the internal life, of returning to love at the center and not being separated from the deep inner reality of God.  They often turned to ecstasy to give them some sense of this internal union.  Instead of saying, “There is no god but Allah”, a first faith statement for Muslims, they said, “There is nothing but God.”

            Back to Rumi.  As a teenager, forced to move by a Mongol invasion, Rumi followed his father, a theologian and mystic, and his father’s followers.  It is said that a great mystic poet, Attar, saw the entourage and immediately recognized Rumi as a great soul.  Seeing the father walking ahead of Rumi, Attar said, "Here comes a sea followed by an ocean." He gave the boy his book about entanglement in the material world, and Rumi began his mystical journey.  Rumi’s father had a school, and when he died, Rumi took it over at age 25, but he still studied mysticism with one of his father’s teachers for many years. 

            After this teacher died, Rumi had an amazing, life-changing teacher named Shamsi Tabrizi, or Shams, who, it is said, sought out Rumi to teach him.  When Shams was a boy, he had to explain to his parents, who were torn between sending him to a monastery or the village of fools, about his differences with the following story:  A duck’s egg was found by a hen and hatched.  The hen raised the duckling with her chicks.  One day they walked to a lake and the duck went right in the water, swam and dove.  The hen stayed carefully on the shore.  Shams said to his parents, “Now, father and mother, I have found my place.  I have learned to swim in the ocean, even if you must remain on the shore.”

            It is said that Shams was searching for someone whom he could relate to, or as he said, who could “endure my company” and he heard a voice say that he was seeking Jalal ad-Din Rumi.  The voice asked what he would give to be with Rumi and Shams said, “My head!”  (Much later, followers of Rumi are said to have jealously murdered Shams, so he did give up his head, the story goes.)  Rumi loved Shams and felt he had found the Divine through him, and after Shams died, wrote about him, eventually feeling that he had merged with Shams.  He wrote a great deal and was encouraged by others to write more.  He did, a vast collection of poetry and stories.

            Rumi told some stories that are told in other religious traditions, mentioning that they had come from Hinduism or from India, or such, and attaching his own interpretation.  Among these is the famous blind men and the elephant story, where each blind man feels a different part of the elephant and has a totally different understanding of what is before him.  Rumi said it was like seeing the foam on the ocean.  “Let the foam go, and gaze with the eye of the Sea.”

            Here is another old story, which I’ve heard in the Zen tradition – who knows where it originally came from – Rumi told it this way:  Four Indians enter a mosque and begin the prostrations.  Deep, sincere praying.  But a priest walks by, and one of the Indians, without thinking, says, “Oh, are you going to give the call to prayers now?  Is it time?”  The second Indian, under his breath, says, “You spoke.  Now your prayers are invalid.”  The third cried, “Don’t scold him!  You’ve done the same thing.  Correct yourself.”  The fourth, also out loud, said, “Praise to God, I haven’t made the mistake of these three.”  Rumi interprets:  So all four prayers were interrupted, with the three fault-finders more at fault than the original speaker.  Blessed is one who sees his weakness, and blessed is one who, when he sees a flaw in someone else, takes responsibility for it.  Because, half of any person is wrong and weak and off the path.  Half!  The other half is dancing and swimming and flying in the Invisible Joy.

            Rumi was and is truly beloved by Muslims and by people all over the world.  He is said to be an “insani kamil" — the perfected or completed human being.  Dear Rumi, beloved mystic, what a gift to the world.

            I want to leave you with a final story from Rumi that illustrates his understanding of mystical unity.  He tells this story about himself.  Rumi knocked on the door of his beloved.  “Who’s there?” came the answer.  “It is I, your lover, Rumi,” he said.  From inside came the voice, “Go away, there is no room for the two of us in here.”  Rumi went off to his meditations and prayers.  Later he returned to the house of his beloved and knocked again.  “Who is it?” the beloved asked.  “It is you.”  With a welcome, the door was thrown wide open.

            Who is here?  It is not the many we think we are, as it was not the two of the lover and the Beloved; it is the one, and all of us today are having a birthday celebration of oneness.  Happy birthday, dear Rumi!