Adab: The Sufi Art of Conscious Relationship

 Some years ago, a group of American spiritual teachers, all of whom were representatives of traditional Sufi lineages, were gathered in a home in San Francisco. Someone proposed a question: Of all that this tradition has taught us, what stands out as most important and valuable? Now Sufism is a path that comprises not only personal practice, but a whole way of life, and a vast culture as well. We were, moreover, all trained in different orders, and from cultures as different as Turkey, North Africa, Iran, and South Asia. I think we were all startled by how quickly we arrived at a consensus that “adab,” a difficult to define concept, stood out as the most uniquely valuable teaching we had received.

Neither our American culture nor the times we lived in had put much emphasis on “manners.” We had been a rough and tumble generation that had passed through a period of rebellion toward what we saw as the hypocrisies of our society. Informality was viewed as real and authentic behavior; manners, or etiquette, would have been, at best, a quaint and irrelevant concept. What, then, would account for the magnetic power of adab?

 From what I remember of our conversation that day, we seemed to think that adab had enabled a certain quality of relationship among ourselves, across the boundaries of our orders, and in the teaching situation within our own communities. It had softened our egos and introduced a quality of refinement in our relationships. On the path of Sufism my own idea of spiritual attainment had been transformed from a notion of some austere and impersonal enlightenment, to an embodied humility. This is not to say that any of us felt we had attained this ideal, but we held an image of it in our hearts, an image that had been formed by contact with certain of our teachers who were, for the most part, quite good examples of humility, sincerity, sensitivity, respect, courtesy—in short, adab.

Some of the best examples of adab are those I have seen being lived in certain Sufi families. We have known and welcomed as guests into our home three generations of the direct descendants of Jalaluddin Rumi. A more cultivated and courteous family I have never known. Adab is reflected in every aspect of life: dressing, eating, serving food, speaking, welcoming guests. I remember one cold winter morning in our farmhouse in Vermont when I came down to the “mud room”(you have to have lived in a place like rural Vermont to truly appreciate what a mud-room is and is for), there to find that the dozens of shoes and winter boots had all been aligned in rows with the toes pointing into the house. Jelal Chelebi, the twenty-year old twenty-third generation descendant of Rumi, had taken it upon himself to put our shoes into order. Instantly, it came back to me that in Turkey I had never seen a chaos of shoes in a Sufi home and I remembered: this is Sufi adab I had forgotten. Yet when I thanked our young Chelebi, it was clear that this ordering that he had taken on himself was not an expression of a “should” as much as it was an act of humble service.    

I have observed that children in Sufi families are lovingly given subtle cues about how to act and move through the world. Abdulbaki Golpinarli, perhaps the greatest documentor of Sufi life in the last century wrote about his own upbringing in this way:: 

I remember that, when I was a child, if I walked quickly, or stamped my feet, people would say to me (not out of anger), “What are you doing, Baki? What kind of a way is that to walk? My child, everything has a heart, a life, a soul; wouldn’t the wood get hurt? Look, it’s laid itself on the floor for us to walk on. Shouldn’t we show respect, and not hurt it?”

If I smacked my lips during a meal, all it took to stop me was a look. Except for conversation, a meal was to be silent. If one made a noise by setting one’s glass down, for instance, it was considered unmannerly, a sort of minor sin; neither the glass nor the place one put it on should be treated carelessly. What a bad thing it was to drink water without interacting with the glass, without kissing it before drinking from it, or again before putting it back down! “The glass,” they would say, “is serving us; we should honor it.” While going to sleep every night and again while waking up every morning, I would kiss the pillow; while pulling the sheets up over me or taking them off, I would interact with them as well.  

In the Mevlevi tradition this respect was extended to inanimate objects to such an extent that one would never, for instance, say, “Please put out the candle,” but rather “. . . put the candle to rest.” Nor would one “close” a door, but “cover” it. Fastidious care was taken to convey in language a positive respect. And for every object that one uses in daily life, one would engage in a reciprocal seeing with the object. In other words, as I pick up my coat, I might kiss it lightly, see it, and be seen by it. In Turkish there is a phrase which literally means “seeing with it.” Golpinarli continues:

 In our household, we wouldn’t shout to each other, or interrupt someone while he was speaking, and when in a group, we would speak to the whole group, not just to one or two people. The idea of whispering in someone’s ear, or of laughing loudly, was foreign to our household.  

The practical outcome of adab was to help create an atmosphere of sharing, of unity, of coherence. I have come to expect that within a Sufi environment conversation around a table does not quickly break up into several personal discussions with whoever is adjacent, but proceeds as a shared experience at the table. If one had reason to address another person, one wouldn’t thereby cut oneself off from the conversation of the whole.

Another aspect of adab is being conscious when one uses the words “I” or “me,” if one uses them at all. In certain Sufi orders, for instance, it would be customary not to use the word “I” at all while working or serving in the Tekke. Some prefer to refer to themselves as “this fakir,” meaning someone who is destitute and utterly dependent on God for everything.

How different is this milieu of social interaction from the one we so commonly experience in our society. How often do we find ourselves in situations where conversation may be dominated unconsciously by whomever is a good talker, or whomever commands and holds the attention of others, whether the rest of the people at the table are particularly interested or not. And yet in the adab of learning, one may need to cultivate listening and receptivity and even control one’s urge to immediately express one’s own opinion.

It isn’t easy to convey this way of being to people of the modern world. To become critical and judgmental because others may fail in their adab, would be rude and antithetical to adab itself. And for adab to degenerate into rigid formality would also belie its essence, for there is a proper adab for every situation. Among intimate friends, for example, the proper adab may sometimes be utter informality and ease. Adab is best learned by example and in community, and once we have some grasp of its potential, it might begin to play more of a role in our own lives, schools, and organizations.

It is said that there is an adab within spiritual circles, with parents and children, with elders, and even with God. Al Hujwiri, an early (d. 1077) commentator on Sufism, wrote:

 A person who neglects this discipline cannot ever possibly be a saint, for the Prophet said, “Adab is a mark of those whom God loves.” One must keep oneself from disrespect toward God in one’s  private as well as one’s public behavior. We have it from a sound Hadith that once, when God’s Messenger was sitting with his legs akimbo, the Angel Gabriel appeared and said: “Muhammad, sit as servants sit before master.”

 There is a story of a Sufi, Muhasibi, who for forty years never stretched out his legs even when alone (to point the soles of one’s feet directly in the direction of others is not considered well-mannered in most cultures outside of America). When questioned, he answered, “I am ashamed to sit otherwise than as a servant while I remember God.”

It should be emphasized, however, that in Sufi understanding substance takes precedence over form, inner intention counts for more than outer behavior. The Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings upon him, said that the ritual prayer must be accompanied by presence (hudhur) to be valid, so it is not the outer form itself which is obligatory. And at the same time, Rumi proposes that the observance of these outer requirements polishes the essence. Properly understood and consciously applied, attention to the details of form is a way of working on our own essence. Ritual prayer gives the body an experience of surrender that would be difficult to achieve in any other way.

The Prophet Muhammad is known to have acted in specific ways—always putting on the right sandal first, or stepping into a house with the right foot, and out of it with the left. His behavior is widely imitated. Some formalists insist on imitating his behavior as if there was something objectively better about using the right foot first, but could it be that these behaviors might be reminders to help us live more consciously?

The outer aspect of adab is intended to guide us toward greater consciousness and to inner sincerity. The form is not an end in itself but a potential container for various qualities of being.

The spiritual path of Sufism is informed by an awareness of levels of reality, of inner purification, of qualities of consciousness. Four levels of attainment are commonly described:

 Shari`ah, the level of religious law and external morals. In the Qur’an, where shari`ah is mentioned only once, it describes the broad path to human well-being: a healthy, balanced, and moral human life. Unfortunately, in some people’s minds it degenerates into a self-righteous legalism and various forms of authoritarian behavior. We would do well to keep in mind Muhammad’s injunction: Woe to anyone who makes this Religion (or Path) difficult for others.

Tariqah, the esoteric path. At its best, it is a complete education of the human being under the guidance of a teacher, i.e. with the friendship of someone more advanced on the Way. At its worst, it may sometimes degenerate into cultish and even superstitious behavior, although such distortions have been relatively uncommon given the lived example of the Prophet Muhammad, which was utterly humble, grounded, and practical.

Marifah, gnosis or realization, the goal to which the Path should lead, and finally,

Haqiqah, realization of Truth, apprehension of the Real, intimacy with the Divine and the corresponding transformation of character that this brings about.

 Among the Sufis, adab practically became their “shari`ah.” Instead of merely avoiding immoral and destructive behavior, the Sufis attempted to embody the qualities of kindness, thoughtfulness, generosity, and self-sacrifice.

Now, with these distinctions in mind, here is a story as told by Abdulbaki Golpinarli[1] that shows how he as a young child was taught the significance of adab in relationship to the mystical Path:

 One day, I went to a tekke with Ahmed Hamdi Tanyeli to ask a question. I knocked on the door of the harem, and we heard a shrill female voice, as if it was scolding us: “Who is it?”

Ahmed Hamdi Tanyeli said that it must be the tenants. We asked for the shaikh.

The woman shrieked again:

“They are on the other side of the building.”

“I told you so,” said Ahmed Hamdi.

We went to the selamlik, the part of the building reserved for greeting people outside the immediate family. From the main entrance we walked through the garden and knocked on the door. From inside we heard a sweet voice ask us, “Who is it?” We asked for the shaikh.

She replied, “He has traveled to Allah.” We asked for his son. The sweet voice said, “He has gone as well.” She asked if we needed anything. “Please, sit on the bench in the garden,” she said, “and fakir will soon come to you.”

We sat down. After a couple of minutes, a middle-aged woman came out and served us cups of Turkish coffee. She sat down and greeted us. We told her what we had come for, and she gave us as much information as she could.

We talked a little more, and then we asked for permission to leave. She accompanied us to the door, and as we departed we heard behind us her sweet voice saying, “Goodbye! Be well! You brought good luck. Inshallah, come back again.”

Ahmed Tanyeli turned to me and said:

“That first place we went to was shari`ah; this place is tariqah.”

 It will certainly seem unfair in the eyes of some to dismiss, or even condemn the level of shari`ah in this way. One cannot deny that the fundamental ethics of outer behavior are essential to justice and social well-being, and that shari`ah itself teaches a basic adab. Perhaps what the shaikh was pointing to is the need for another level of awareness. Sufis refer to an “adab of service”: the realization that every moment of our lives can be lived in service to Allah. If such an adab were to permeate one’s life one would know how little belongs to us and how much is owed to God.

 For many years I have reflected on how this word, adab, can be translated. Etiquette, manners, thoughtfulness—no single word adequately captures it, which is why we continue to use the word adab, even in English. Interestingly, the word for the faculty of literature in a university is called “adabiyyah,” which suggests refinement and culture. To have adab is to be cultured.

It has been said that the highest attainment of Sufism is nothing but good character. What is meant, however, is not a moralistic personality commanded by external expectations, but a natural, spontaneous beauty of character that is the result of a long maturing process of transformation. Adab is the ability to sense what is appropriate to each moment and to give to each its due—a continuous process of refining one’s speech and actions. The ripened fruit of this kind of understanding and practice is not an abstract and impersonal enlightened person, but the kind of person one would like to sit down and have a cup of tea with. It is an embodied spirituality.