June 4, 2015
There was once a dervish who took up his abode in the mountains, in order to enjoy perfect solitude. In that place were many fruit-trees, and the dervish made a vow that he would never pluck any of the fruit, but eat only what was shaken down by the wind. For a long time he kept his vow; but a time came when there was no wind, and consequently no fruit was shaken down.
The dervish was true to his vow for five days, but he could then endure the pangs of hunger no longer, and he stretched out his hand and plucked some of the fruit from the branches. The reason of this lapse on his part was that he had omitted to say “Allaah willing” when making his vow; and as nothing can be accomplished without Allaah’s aid, he could not possibly keep his vow.
Shortly afterwards the chief of the police visited the mountains in pursuit of a band of robbers, and arrested the dervish along with them, and cut off his hand. When the chief discovered his mistake he apologized very earnestly; but the dervish reassured him, saying that men were not to blame, as Allaah had evidently designed to punish him for breaking his vow ‘by depriving him of the hand which had sinned in plucking the fruit.’
(adapted from Masnavi i Ma’navi,
translated by E.H. Whinfield, p. 192 - 193)
* * *
Vows are easy to make, but can be challenging to uphold. Yet it is for this very purpose of upholding vows through challenges that vows are taken. No traditional vow would state: ‘I vow not do something until I do it.’ If a vow is taken to refrain from an action, the person who seriously embraces the vow will not commit that act no matter what -- even if one must die to uphold the vow. This level of conviction in upholding vows is becoming rare in the modern age, particularly in this society where almost half of marriages -- a vow to be spouses until death -- end in the violation or dissolution of this sacred vow.
Traditional Islam rests upon a vow: the shahaadah, which is the first pillar of Islam. It states: “There is no deity but Allaah, and Muhammad is Its Messenger.” A contextual understanding of the first part speaks to one of the main themes of the above story. In Islam, and the larger Arab culture of Muhammad’s (p.b.u.h.) time, what a person identifies as one’s deity that person worships. This goes beyond mere ceremonial acknowledgment and praise: in a traditional sense, what one worships dictates the whole of one’s life. Every action (before being performed), every thought (before being engaged) is weighed to see if it is in harmony and obedience to what one worships. No act or thought is considered too small to weigh, no room is left for excuses or for one to be even slightly casual. This calls for the highest levels of commitment, mindfulness (attentiveness), and honesty. If there is even a question of if an act fits within the scope of such harmony and obedience, the ancient elders teach that one should err on the side of upholding the vow and not commit the act. To this end, to remind Muslims of the importance of allowing only the Absolute to determine the course of one’s life, the practice became established of uttering inshallaah (Allaah willing) before committing any act or stating an intention for future acts, such as promises and vows.
This “Allaah willing” was lacking when the dervish took up his abode in the mountains, in order to enjoy perfect solitude. For Sufis, when one is in perfect solitude, there is only the Beloved: even the lover dissolves (disappears) into the boundlessness of Love, the Absolute. For most, the quest to such realization means being a humble lover who surrenders all will and self-effort to live in complete reliance upon and obedience to the Beloved. Thus, the dervish made a vow that he would never pluck any of the fruit, but eat only what was shaken down by the wind. But he omitted to say “Allaah willing.” This goes beyond words spoken as a social norm. When he made this vow, although with good intentions, did he weigh whether this course of action was in harmony with what the Beloved wills? The Beloved placed these many fruit-trees there, perhaps to support to the dervish’s opening to perfect solitude. But did the Beloved forbid him to eat any fruit that did not fall from the trees? Or was this a condition self-imposed?
These questions reveal the depth and clarity of the dervish’s surrender to the Beloved: allowing the Beloved to