Spiritual work
Sufism has always enjoined its followers to “be in the world without being of the world”. Unlike Christian monks, the Sufi disciple is a man (or a woman) who lives fully in this world: he works, marries, has children and friends, cares for his parents and his family, and leads a life that could readily be called ordinary, outwardly speaking. At a time when originality has become a positive value, when everyone tries to mark himself out from others by his speech, his dress, his way of eating or his activities, such an injunction appears particularly apposite for the struggle against our ego. For if we were to lead an ascetic life, filled with complicated exercises and harsh trials, the way others looked at us would very likely feed our pride. Accepting, indeed seeking, an ordinary life is today the heaviest burden for the ego. The disciple of the path is therefore outwardly an entirely ordinary person, with a small something more. That something is that, while living in the world, he strives not to abandon himself to it, but to remain at every instant, inwardly, firmly rooted in the divine presence. When we speak of spiritual poverty, what counts is not what we own but the hold those things have over us. When we speak of activity, what matters is less what we do than the intention we bring to it and the frame of mind in which we do it. And when we speak of contemplation, we withdraw from this material world to enter another dimension, that of the world of mystery and spirit.
It is in this light that the disciple can set about carrying out a genuine spiritual work. As we have seen, its purpose is to change our relationship to the world, not by trying to change the world, but by gradually modifying the way we perceive it. For this work, setting certain elements in place will be of considerable help to us, exposing our heart to spiritual effluences that both nourish and purify it. It is through a gradual recentering of our whole being on the perception of the heart that the openings and states will be given to us that carry us along the way.
We have already mentioned the discipline of life entailed by observing the rituals and principles of Islam. Through the twofold testimony we remind our ego that it is not the only master on board, but that, on the contrary, it is God who holds the reins of our existence. The ritual of the five daily prayers gives us an ever keener awareness of the cosmic time in which we live, and offers us, at regular intervals, the occasion to suspend the course of time to renew ourselves, to find ourselves again. The fast of the month of Ramadan reminds us of our fundamental dependence on our body, and therefore on its Creator. Almsgiving teaches us to detach ourselves from material possessions, and to realise the grace of having something to give. And the pilgrimage is like an initiatic death, a symbol of that path of return on which we have set out.
We have also seen that dhikr, both individual and collective, is the food of the heart, that which enables it to grow and develop. A true contemplation, it is the bond with our guide and the channel through which he transmits his education to us. It is the source of knowledges and spiritual states. Companionship, as exchange, sharing and putting into practice, is part of that education too. This is why keeping the company of fellow disciples is recommended.
Spiritual work is a long-distance undertaking, demanding patience and perseverance. It would be a mistake to think that everything will suddenly change merely because we attach ourselves to a living guide. If the divine secret is indeed contained in full within the initiatic pact, it is then for us to discover it for ourselves, and to make it bear fruit. “Wisdom is in the heart: he who wants water in his well must dig; the more he digs, the more abundant the water. If he stops digging, the water never rises above its first level”, explains Sidi Hamza. We have to purify our heart, and that takes work. What enables us to accomplish that work is our spiritual aspiration. “Some come to me with a request like a thimble, and I fill that thimble. Others come to me with a request like an ocean, and I fill that ocean: to each according to his request”, Sidi Hamza tells us. The shaykh is thus the cupbearer who pours the spiritual wine into the cup of our heart, according to its capacity to receive and the intensity of our thirst for God. That thirst, what is more, only grows as we are given to taste that wine: it is this need, this energy, that will make us travel. For God answers His servant’s call. And the divine help that results becomes more and more tangible, more and more concrete, for the one who is willing to open his eyes. Things that once seemed impossible fall into place of themselves, without our feeling that we have made an effort, and when one day we look back, we are surprised to see how far we have come.
The point is not to impose things that are too difficult on ourselves, but to agree to let ourselves be guided, whilst remaining vigilant against the ruses of our ego. As is often said on this path, it is a matter of “doing what you can, and a little more”. We must avoid getting stuck on one fixation or another; it is better to let events run their course by God’s will, whilst remaining firmly anchored in our practices. For one who wishes to tame his soul, it is not a question of being rough with it and forcing it at the risk of breaking it, but only of maintaining a certain spiritual tension, sufficient to keep it from abandoning itself to its passions. Here as elsewhere, the outcome is in God’s hands. And whilst we can truly speak of combat when we consider this journey from the side of the passionate soul, we can only speak of love when we look at it in relation to divine grace.
It is often said that “love is the crown of works”. This amounts to saying that, in a sense, all the practices we have just mentioned lead in fact to one thing alone: kindling and strengthening the flame of divine love in the disciple’s heart. Once that flame is alight, it burns everything, and the very notions of effort or work lose all their meaning. This does not mean the practices are then abandoned, but that they become what they truly are: acts of adoration. To quote Sidi Hamza: “Love is the mount of the spirits; it is through it that all things are known”. “When love dwells in the heart, one tastes a flavour in everything one does. Nothing seems difficult, one draws profit from all that happens. This is because, thanks to love, the veil separating us from reality grows ever thinner. One feels a deep joy because of this proximity, and one is then overcome by the perception of beauty. For in reality, there is only divine Unity that is.”
A text written collectively by disciples of the Qadiriya Boutchichiya path.
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