Rumi's The Book of Love

How is it that you can read something once and never be the same again?

My favorite poem comes from the Sufi mystic Rumi, in The Book of Love:

A certain preacher always prays long and with enthusiasm
for thieves and muggers that attack people
on the street. “Let your mercy, O Lord,
cover their insolence.”
He doesn’t pray for the good,
But only for the blatantly cruel.
Why is this? His congregation asks.

“Because they have done me such generous favors.
Every time I turn back toward the things they want.
I run into them. They beat me and leave me nearly dead
in the road, and I understand, again, that what they want
is not what I want. They keep me on the spiritual path.
That’s why I honor them and pray for them.”

Those that make you return, for whatever reason,
to God’s solitude, be grateful to them.
Worry about the others, who give you
delicious comforts that keep you from prayer.
Friends are enemies sometimes,
and enemies Friends. 

There is an animal called an ushghur, a porcupine.
If you hit it with a stick, it extends its quills
and gets bigger. The soul is a porcupine,
made stronger by stick-beating.
So a prophet’s soul is especially afflicted,
because it has to become so powerful. 

If you can’t do this work, don’t worry.
You don’t even have to make a decision,
one way or another. The Friend, who knows
a lot more than you do, will bring difficulties,
and grief, and sickness, as medicine, as happiness,
as the essence of the moment when you’re beaten,
when you hear Checkmate, and can finally say,
with Hallaj’s voice
I trust you to kill me.

I’ve read this poem hundreds, maybe thousands of times. I’ve read it silently, read it alone, read it together with friends, and even read it in conversation with strangers. My favorite way to read it is out loud, feeling the sounds vibrate in my chest and the rhythm dance on my lips. This new way of reading — actually old but new to me — has helped me know this poem in ways my intellect never could.

When I say the last stanza, I get shivers every time.

When I read I trust you to kill me I want to cry.

I’m not the same person I was before I read The Book of Love. Now I understand myself differently. I’m not so self absorbed. Now I relate to others, even when I want to be alone. I’m not as literal. Now I experience awe. I read this poem, and I’ve never been the same.

When Rumi loves the enemies who are Friends, he shares a level of devotion I never imagined. That love is bigger than turning the other cheek. Every time I turn back toward the things they want. I run into them. They beat me and leave me nearly dead in the road, and I understand, again, that what they want is not what I want. They keep me on the spiritual path. I can’t read that without being shocked. And I think that’s the point. 

Lao Tzu said of the Tao: The mystery of mysteries is the gateway of marvels. If I let myself embody the preacher in Rumi’s story, I feel his mystery. How can the preacher be so devoted that he loves those who leave him near death? How have I never been so devoted?

Mystery transforms.

Every time I read this poem, I feel new insights. These aren’t intellectual insights; they’re below the level of my mind. My first reading makes me wonder. My next reading makes me feel held. When he writes: If you can’t do this work, don’t worry. You don’t even have to make a decision, one way or another, I see a path and I feel hopeful that I can find spiritual freedom. When I mentioned to a friend how much I was thinking about this line, they led me to Seeing That Frees by Rob Burbea. It’s a beautiful resonance thousands of years after Rumi wrote this. 

I plan to read this poem thousands more times. I’m confident that as I do, I’ll find new moments of joy. Maybe I’ll even learn Persian so that I can read it in it’s original language. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. To quote Gregory of Nyssa: In our constant participation in the blessed nature of the Good, the graces that we receive at every point are indeed great, but the path that lies beyond our immediate grasp is infinite. This will constantly happen to those who thus share in the divine Goodness, and they will enjoy a greater and greater participation in grace throughout all eternity. 

Infinity transforms.

I love this poem, but I have a confession to make. I hate this poem too. I struggle with it. It’s hard for me to grasp, and I leave it physically far before I leave it mentally. But maybe that struggle is the point.

Change doesn’t happen to us. We don’t sit back and let stories, words, and experiences change us. We participate in our change. It’s work. Whether the change starts with a work of art, a psychedelic journey, or a religious realization, we actively cause the change we experience. To attend to creation is to attend to God.

I want Rumi to show me the path. I want to know how he found such clarity, such burning devotion in his own life. His account of the experience of the mystical life is beautiful, but I still don’t know how to walk that path. Here, in 2023, Rumi’s path is hard to imagine.

So I struggle. I ask for help; I show my heart to friends, new and old, and let them hold it for a minute. I cry when I can’t figure it out, and I cry when I finally figure something out. I’ve never worked this hard before.

Struggle transforms.

Rumi is a master as he shares his ordeals and magnificence. But the other side of transformation is emergence. And our language sucks at describing emergence. As a writer, not being able to describe something pains me beyond words (see, there it is again). I think that’s why you find pieces that talk about straining their mind to try and describe a reality beyond words. I roll my eyes when I read them, but I can’t do any better.

I feel like I’m going crazy, and I see others far deeper down this rabbit hole than I’ve fallen yet. I don’t know how to write about it. Maybe Plato said it best. 

In reality, the greatest blessings come by way of madness, indeed madness that is heaven-sent. It was when they were mad that the prophetess of Delphi and the priestess at Dodona achieved so much for which both states and individuals in Greece are thankful; when sane they did little or nothing.

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Have an intentionally beautiful week.

Latham

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