← Volver a la ficha del textoTHE SUFI AND
THE FRIAR
The Sufi and the Friar
The Sufi and the Friar
A Mystical Encounter of Two Men of God
in the Abode of Islam
Minlib Dallh
Cover Art: “Munajat” of ‘Abdullah Ansari, Library of Congress 1-87-154.91, Image courtesy of the
Mamma Haidara Commemorative Library.
Published by State University of New York Press, Albany
© 2017 State University of New York
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
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Production, Diane Ganeles
Marketing, Kate R. Seburyamo
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dallh, Minlib, 1968— author.
Title: The Sufi and the Friar : a mystical encounter of two men of God in the abode of Islam / Minlib
Dallh.
Description: Albany : State University of New York Press, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references
and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016041359 (print) | LCCN 2017027495 (ebook) | ISBN 9781438466194 (ebook)
| ISBN 9781438466170 (hardcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Beaurecueil, Serge de, 1917-2005. | Islam—Influence. | Ansari al-Harawial, ’Abd
Allah ibn Muhammad, 1006-1089. | Dar al-Islam.
Classification: LCC BX4705.B26515 (ebook) | LCC BX4705.B26515 D35 2017 (print) | DDC
261.2/7—dc23
LC record available at https://Iccn.loc.gov/2016041359
100987654321
To the memory of three unparalleled Dominican friars:
William C. Cenkner
(died on August 8, 2003)
Shigeto Oshida
(died on November 6, 2003)
James D. Campbell
(died on February 11, 2004)
Contents
Acknowledgments
Note on Transliteration and Style
Introduction
I. The Abode of Islam (dar al Islam)
II. The Religious Other in the Postmodern World
Chapter 1
Serge de Beaurecueil, OP (1917-2005): A Life Curve
I. A Wounded Privilege
II. Le Saulchoir: A Rebirth of Dominican Scholarship
III. The French Dominican Friars in Cairo
IV. At the IDEO
Chapter 2
De Beaurecueil: Heeding Ansari’s Call
I. A Journey to Afghanistan, a Promised Land
II. Born Under the Ghaznavi Rule (977-1186)
IH. Ansari: A Controversial Sufi Master (or Shaykh)
Chapter 3
De Beaurecueil: A Premier Scholar of Ansari’s Works
I. The Corpus Attributed to Ansari
Il. The Munajat or Cris du Coeur
Chapter 4
De Beaurecueil’s Pastoral Mysticism in Kabul
I. In the Footsteps of Jesus: Charles de Foucauld and de Beaurecueil
II. A Priest of Non-Christians
IH. My Children of Kabul
Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Acknowledgments
This book would have never seen the light of the day were it not for the
invaluable help of many people. I am grateful to them all.
Allow me to thank Bruce Schultz, OP and Catherine (Taffy) Field for
their careful reading and insightful observations which helped me refine my
thinking and avoid embarrassing mistakes.
Finally, my heartfelt gratitude to my mentors and advisors whose
support and guidance sustained me throughout my graduate studies at
Hartford Seminary and the University of Exeter (UK): Yahya Michot,
Sajjad Rizvi, Mahmoud Ayoub, David Burrell, C.S.C. and Ian Netton.
Note on Transliteration and Style
In general, Arabic words are rendered with complete diacritical marks.
However, Islamic terms commonly used in English, such as Allah or Islam,
follow the Oxford Dictionary transliteration, with neither over-bars nor
under-dots.
The Arabic letter ‘ayn is represented by an open single quote (‘), while
the closing single mark (’) denotes the Hamza consonant.
Dates are given in CE (the common era), but in some instances, such
as direct quotations, both AH/CE format are given (AH corresponds to the
Islamic Hira calendar).
Introduction
“Are there locks upon our hearts?” Are we adequately
susceptible, in our thinking and our relationships, to the content
and inward force of the non-Christian other? In particular, do we
erect the abiding and unmistakable uniqueness of Christ—into an
un-Christlike and therefore un-Christian inattention and
depreciation? Because Christianity is by definition “good news,”
it would seem fair to say that there must be a capacity for
hospitality in its custodians. We are the servants of the faith with
a universal invitation. Surely its openness to discovery by men
(and women) requires an openness to all men (and women) on the
part of us, its servants. The whole Christian relation in this
generation to the renascent faiths and ardently self-responsible
nations must be one of the fullest and wisest hospitality of mind
to their heritage and their hopes. For are not we ourselves the
guests of God in Christ?!
This book investigates the spiritual or mystical encounter of a French
Dominican friar, Serge de L. de Beaurecueil (d. 2005),* and an eleventh-
century Shaykh, Khwaja ‘Abdullah Ansari of Herat (d. 1089).° In a world
gone religiously awry, this study attempts to show how a Dominican mystic
and an erudite scholar of Islam received the gift of the Muslim other. De
Beaurecueil was one of the most significant Catholic scholars of the
mystical traditions of Islam (Sufism). Undoubtedly he was the foremost
expert of the life and work attributed to ‘Abdullah Ansari, an eleventh-
century Sufi. As a founding member of the IDEO* (the Dominican Institute
of Orientale studies in Cairo), his scholarship was the fruit of a lifelong
conversation with Ansari’s works. His spiritual journey was an attempt to
take seriously Kenneth Cragg’s challenge to Christians, “Are there locks
upon our hearts? Are we adequately susceptible, in our thinking and our
relationships, to the content and inward force of the non-Christian other?””>
Khwaja ‘Abdullah Ansari was a confrontational and influential
Hanbali Suff who wrote seminal spiritual treatises in both Persian and
Arabic. It suffices to note that although the relationship between Hanbalism
(the most conservative school of jurisprudence in Sunni Islam) and Sufism
(the mystical dimension of Islam) are often tense and difficult, many a great
Sufi master, such as ‘Abd Qadir al-Jilani (d. 1166), were Hanbalt. In his
case, Ansari remained faithful to a literalist reading of the Quran and the
Sunna (the Islamic tradition based/on the life and words of the prophet and
his companions). He adamantly rejected any kind of speculative theology
(kalam) and the use of reason or personal opinion in religious matters.°
Ansari lived in the Persian-speaking milieu of Herat and Khurasan
under the Ghaznavid and the Saljiq Dynasties. This period was
intellectually fertile and politically tumultuous. In addition, Ansari’s radical
dogmatism and his adamant defense of Hanbalism did not go unnoticed.
Like many Hanbali, he was accused of anthropomorphism and ridiculed and
persecuted by his adversaries.
De Beaurecueil lived most of his Christian discipleship as a guest in
the abode of Islam (dar al-Islam). From 1946 to his death in 2005, he spent
seventeen years in Cairo and twenty in Afghanistan in direct contact with
Muslims. Surprisingly, it was in Afghanistan, the homeland of Ansari, that
this French Dominican experienced a mystical conversion. His unique path
reads like the diary of a Frenchman running away from the Catholic
aristocratic milieu in Paris. Such an obsession of a twentieth-century
Dominican friar for an eleventh-century Afghani Sufi is above all a
transformative encounter of a Christian and a Muslim.’
This Dominican life given to the study of mystical Islam is the heart of
this book.® First and foremost, this book is an attempt to provide a
comprehensive and systematic analysis of de Beaurecueil’s contribution to
Christian-Muslim relations and a study of his life as a testimony to the
varied heritage of Dominican spirituality.” This scholarly investigation is at
once genuinely sympathetic and candidly critical and thus contributes to the
larger narrative of the Order of Preachers’ engagement with Islam and the
Muslim world. For the most part, de Beaurecueil’s works have not received
due attention.!° All in all, this book fills a lacuna in the literature devoted to
mystical approaches to Christian-Muslim dialogue, but it also seeks to reach
beyond students and scholars of the mystical approach to Christian-Muslim
relations. Readers from various Christian communities and people of no
faith at all will find de Beaurecueil’s experience in the abode of Islam a
compelling argument for dialogue between religions, cultures, and
civilizations.
Hence, the focus of this book is, first, de Beaurecueil’s scholarship on
the life and works attributed to his master-teacher, Khwaja ‘Abdullah
Ansari, also known as the Pir-of Herat or Pir-e tarigqat; second, his
experience of hospitality given to and received from the religious other;
and, third, his practical spirituality or praxis mystica. This third aspect is the
thrust and culmination of his mystical conversation with and study of
Ansari’s works. Ultimately, this study seeks to investigate the
transformative role of Islam and Muslims on de Beaurecueil’s orthopraxis
(correct action) and religious worldview. The present writer is not
particularly concerned with orthodoxy (correct belief) because the life of a
Christian in the abode of Islam is less defined by theology than by how the
person lives his Christian discipleship daily. Orthodoxy, nevertheless, is not
neglected because this study addresses questions such as “How did the
friar’s encounter with Ansari enrich his theological perspectives and nurture
his Christian-Catholic imagination?”
I. The Abode of Islam (dar al Islam)
In the limited circle of French Catholic scholarship of Islam, but equally
relevant to a larger context of Christian lives given to the study of Islam''
(to borrow the title of a recent volume), de Beaurecueil’s mystical legacy
might be considered a reversal of Christian “fulfillment theory,” or
praeparatio evangelica. This theory holds that all non-Christian religions
were “preparations for the Gospel” before the Christ event and have
become obsolete after the event and henceforth deprived of any positive
role in the salvation of their members.!* Contrary to the theory of
praeparatio evangelica theory, de Beaurecueil’s Christian discipleship
yielded its best promises in dar al Islam. His Christian background became
a fruitful ground where Islamic virtues of hospitality and attentiveness to
the religious other took roots. Hence, Islam and the Muslim world were
neither a means to Christian martyrdom/sainthood nor an occasion for
Catholic rhetoric or rationalization for canonization. Conversely, the abode
of Islam serves as one of the most fecund locations where Christian
triumphalism and exclusivism along with various forms of theological and
political arrogance are challenged and “evangelized.”!?
By and large, Christians do not reflect sufficiently on the import of
Islam or how Islam keeps Christianity honest and true to its core claims.'* It
seems that a persistent feeling of supersessionism (the belief that
Christianity supersedes every other religion) prevents many Christian
scholars of Islam from fully appreciating the “Muslim other” theologically
and politically. The untold and often underrated story in many studies of
Christian-Muslim encounters is the role that Islam plays in bringing to
fruition Christian ideals.!>
No doubt, de Beaurecueil’s life testifies to the issues at the heart of
Christian-Muslim encounters, that is, not only a complex history!® but also
radical theological incompatibilities. The Dominican friar Georges
Anawati, who was the leading figure at IDEO, asks, “Where do we locate
Islam in Christian salvation history?”!’ It is a baffling question to all
Christian scholars of Islam. Louis Massignon (d. 1962), one the most
influential French scholars of mystical Islam, considers the matter in a more
complex and delicate manner: “Do I need to remind you of the mystery of
Islam and the intractable questions it raises to Christian consciousness when
one tries to probe God’s providential aim for it?”!® These questions, and
others with issues such as the authenticity of the prophethood of
Muhammad or the revealed nature of the Quran, remain genuinely
contentious grounds between both traditions.!?
To state matters clearly, my argument does not, first, ignore Islam’s
grandeur (i.e., the formidable richness and contribution of Islamic
civilization to humanity) or its misery (1.e., the many failures of Muslim
communities in history). Second, the author does not forget the many
important criticisms of Islamic tradition both within and without. Third, I
do not engage in a deliberate antihero rhetoric. Rather, this study puts the
focus on the often forgotten or belittled role that Muslims play in
“evangelizing” Christian scholars who take Islam seriously. Most works on
Christian scholars of Islam, and particularly Catholic religious men and
women, are not primarily concerned with the role of Islam. For example, in
books penned in honor of René Guénon (d. 1951), Louis Massignon (d.
1962), Henri Corbin (d. 1978), Pierre Claverie (d. 1996), and the like, the
literature is dominated by a Christian worldview. Even Western authors
unconcerned with religious supersessionism have produced works that are
dominated by a secular European mind-set.”°
To return to de Beaurecueil, no scholar of Islamic mystical traditions in
any Western language has devoted more than half a century of his or her
entire scholarship to the Pir of Herat. At times, a secondary source opens
unexpected windows onto a primary source and allows a_ better
interpretation and grasp of a historical figure, and in this sense, de
Beaurecueil’s erudite work is an invaluable secondary source and a fine
hermeneutic of the corpus attributed to Ansari. Robert Caspar calls de
Beaurecueil’s work “a_ scientific monograph with theological
perspectives.””?!
However, de Beaurecueil’s mystical hermeneutic does not pretend to
understand the master’s work better than he understood Ansari’s corpus or
himself, and thereby offer a perennial interpretation that is timeless. Rather,
de Beaurecueil’s scholarship, legacy, and contribution fall squarely within
the vast and complex field of classical Islamic mysticism and particularly in
the tradition of Catholic studies of Islam.?* The French Dominican friar’s
lifelong theological and mystical conversation with Ansari’s work offers a
stellar example of an orthopraxis (correct action/activity) of dialogue.”
This mystical path combines the following aspects: first, a master-disciple
relationship exemplified by Louis Massignon’s study of the famous
Baghdadi Sufi Mansur al-Hallaj’s (d. 922) work; second, the ethical
dimension of Christian discipleship as a necessary component of interfaith
dialogue; and third, an attempt to emulate the hidden life of Jesus in
Nazareth before his public ministry.2* For de Beaurecueil, the ethical
dimension of his mystical conversation with Ansari compelled him to
abandon his position as a professor at the University of Kabul to attend to
Kabul street children by opening a house of hospitality called La Maison
d’Abraham. In so doing, the French Dominican friar gives us a magnificent
and luminous meditation not only on the hidden and abiding presence of
God but also on the aporia of the religious other. The friar’s life shows that
the non-Christian other remains an inevitable difficulty, puzzlement, and at
times a radical contradiction to Christian salvation history.
II. The Religious Other in the Postmodern World
How can “the context of otherness” reveal the possibility of God?°
Interfaith dialogue in our postmodern, fragmented, and pluralist world lays
bare the question of how the whole project of religious discourse and
practices are to be pursued in an all-pervasive “context of otherness. There
have been many attempts to rethink a theology of interfaith dialogue in a
world of manifest ambiguities and ever-new complexities. The history of
religions seems to defy and resist all attempts of reducing them to a
common denominator. Our modern and postmodern situations fit well
Theodor Adorno’s metaphors of “force-field” and “constellation” (the latter
one borrowed from Walter Benjamin). In his book Adorno, Martin Jay
defines the two metaphors:
“{T]|he force-field” (Kraftfeld) [is] a relational interplay of
attractions and aversions that constituted the dynamic,
transmutational structure of a complex
phenomenon ... “constellation” [signifies] a juxtaposed rather
than an integrated cluster of changing elements that resist
reduction to a common denominator, essential core, or generative
first principles.*°
In both cases, Jay points to a fragmented world where the common
denominator is elusive, and grand integrative narratives have vanished.
Faith traditions in our world today falls also squarely within Adorno’s
examination of “social phenomena.” Jay writes, “In examining cultural and
social phenomena, Adorno often used both metaphors to capture the subtle
relations between and among their subjective and objective, particular and
universal, historical and natural dimensions.””’ Interfaith interactions in a
globalized world are a combination of estrangement and familiarity,
reconciliation and aversion. A cursory study of the religions of the world
confirms Adorno’s intuition to a large extent. But the fragmentation of the
world is not foreign to religious traditions plagued with internal strife and at
times deadly theological divisions. Richard Bernstein, who utilizes both
metaphors in his writing on modernity and postmodernity, agrees with
Adorno but takes the matter further. He captures best the complexity of our
postmodern world:
There are always unexpected contingent ruptures and radical
instabilities that disrupt and break the project of reconciliation.
The changing elements of the new constellation resist such
reduction. What is “new” about this constellation is the growing
awareness of the depth of radical instabilities. We have to learn to
think and act in the “in between” interstices of forced
reconciliations and radical dispersion.”®
His observation questions many circles in the interfaith world that are
enmeshed in various attempts to simplify and reduce radical
incompatibilities to common features. Bernstein speaks of “instability and
dispersion,” and Adorno sees “force-field and constellation.” In this “field-
force” or “constellation” environment, a theology of dialogue raises crucial
questions about subjectivity, otherness, and “relationality.” The challenge to
most people engaged in interfaith dialogue is how to remain faithfully
rooted in their own religious tradition and yet become open to and
respectful of those committed to very different and sometimes incompatible
beliefs and values. It seems that the harmony of a wider and multifaith
world can only be promoted by maintaining the integrity and fragility of
each partner in the relationship.*’As Bernstein notes accurately, there is no
“final reconciliation—an Aufhebung—in which all difference, otherness,
opposition and contradiction are reconciled.”>° What is true for our world is
particularly true for faith traditions in the context of otherness. They feel an
increased sense of deep instabilities and radical dispersion. The mystical
approach, however, embodied in de Beaurecueil’s hermeneutic of Ansari’s
work seems equipped to live with instability, lack of reconciliation, and
dispersions. Mystical traditions are often attuned to paradox and unsettling
theological transmutations.
Equally relevant to de Beaurecueil’s experience is Michael Barnes’s
pertinent insight in his book Theology and Dialogue of Religions. He notes
that interfaith dialogue is “the negotiation of the middle.” He explains
further his position: “I do not mean by this some sort of haggling or
bargaining over positions of power but, more profoundly, a mediation of the
context of otherness.”?! As a Dominican friar invested in the study of
mystical Islam in Cairo or in Kabul, de Beaurecueil was constantly attuned
to the context of otherness. As we will see later, every encounter in the
abode of Islam for him was “a negotiation of the middle.” Even more
correctly, Barnes understands that this “middle” is always broken and
always mended, constantly unstable.*2 The negotiation of the middle,
Barnes concludes astutely, “is to recognize that all Christians [as well as
other believers] speak out of a dimension of irreducible otherness which
they encounter at the very heart of their own identity, the ‘middle’ of a
world shared with [the] other.”*’ This study would agree with Barnes that
interfaith dialogue has to negotiate the “middle” but also seeks to “give a
theological account of practices of welcome and hospitality towards the
other.”*4 For de Beaurecueil, the negotiation of the middle was a practice of
hospitality toward the non-Christian other. Even better, according to the
former archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, interfaith dialogue is a
theology of “learning about learning.”*> Williams sees a dire need to let the
other, the religious other, teach us something alien and even disturbing
about our own theological framework.
Furthermore, de Beaurecueil’s theological imagination has to clothe
itself in what the Cambridge theologian Timothy J. Winter terms a
“transcendently-ordained tolerance’*° or what Khaled Abou el-Fadl,
professor of Islamic law, aptly calls the “imperative of a collective
enterprise of goodness.”*’ This kind of hospitality and forbearance is not a
superficial sentimental longing for peaceful coexistence with the religious
other or with those from whom we differ theologically. Such a sacred
hospitality is “deeply rooted in a mutual recognition of, and respect for, the
holiness that lies at the core of different faith and wisdom traditions, and all
revealed religions.”** This study embraces this kind of mystical perspective
on religious dialogue because of its capacity to navigate intractable
dispersion and instabilities. This is not a recipe for mutual agreement over
tea and nice conversation or a Christian-centered salvation problematic Karl
Rahner points to our most sinister temptation when he cautions, “How are
we to ensure that the absolute optimism of Christianity does not become the
naive optimism which turns all human religiosity into some generalized
revelation of the divine?’”*’ Rahner insists on the particularity of each faith
tradition without adhering to a position that seems to seal the end of
dialogue and cannot adequately capture the open, porous, and dynamic
features of religious identity.4° Aware of the dangers of shallow
conversations and intrinsic instabilities, the mystical perspective on
dialogue seeks to preserve the freedom and integrity of each party, be it
within or without a particular religious tradition. This perspective
scrutinizes what happens to the identity of Christian theologians and/or
mystics when they encounter the other by crossing the threshold into
another world. This insight also gives an account of the vulnerability of the
self in the face of the religious other and touches on the whole
epistemological question of how mystics convey what happens in the
imagination before the terrain of logical and conceptual expression of the
mystical experience. Also, how does one name or evoke this mystical
apprehension that evolve sequentially as vulnerability, openness, and finally
conviction?
The concern for the otherness of the religious other is essential to this
research because the other is legitimately dissimilar, strange, and
unfamiliar. As Barnes puts it, “[H]ow can anyone claim to know the other
as other, let alone speak on behalf of the other?”*! The non-Christian other,
for example, remains an outsider to be a conversation partner and a location
for understanding. R. Bernstein helps us grasp fully the essential
requirements for such understanding. He writes, “[T]he basic condition for
all understanding requires one to test and risk one’s convictions and
prejudgments in and through an encounter with what 1s radically ‘other’ and
alien.”“* Thus, de Beaurecueil’s scholarship on Ansari’s thought and life is
a genuine encounter with “what is radically other and alien” on the most
difficult ground, religious beliefs, and traditions. This Dominican friar born
into a Catholic aristocratic milieu in Paris and educated in the Thomistic
tradition entered in conversation with the work of a Hanbali Sufi of Herat. It
was a transformative journey that led to a serious contemplation on the
meaning of one’s commitment to a particular religious tradition.
De Beaurecueil’s life journey was an attempt to craft a theology of
religious pluralism that “imagines the possibility of harmonious difference
and peace as the inner dynamic of the triune God,’*? to borrow Gerard
Loughlin’s beautiful line. The French Dominican friar learned to recognize
and appreciate otherness within and without and to develop a nuanced and
complex understanding of otherness, a sensitivity, and an openness to the
exterior religious other. Therefore, he had to move from a mere
philosophical and theological perception to a deep mystical imagination of
the other. This mystical imagination tried to avoid dogmatic, fanatical, and
irrational views. His life was an attempt to allow Islam to nurture a
Christian prophetic imagination and a faithful Dominican life.
The goal of a mystical imagination is to envision and foster a new
ethical and religious horizon of “understanding the other in his or her
strongest light,” to borrow Bernstein’s phrase.** For David Tracy, a Roman
Catholic theologian, “[t]he praxis of interreligious dialogue itself ... does
not merely bear a ‘religious dimension.’ It is a religious experience.”
Tracy sees the very presence of the divine in people’s endeavors to enter in
conversation with the religious other. This practice of hospitality to the
other is an encounter and an invitation to meet God and experience the gift
and challenge of otherness. Fortunately, encountering the other is often not
only a fertile ground for our hermeneutical sensitivity but also an
opportunity to expand our theological perspectives and curtail our
indifference and ignorance.
Therefore, a mystical perspective on religious dialogue is a “theology
which takes seriously the Christian [or other faith traditions’ ] responsibility
of hospitality to the stranger, the responsibility of narrating a story which
neither totalises nor relativises [the other].’*°
This study offers an embryonic methodology and a theology of
dialogue that could serve contemporary Catholic Christians in relation to
the religious other, especially at a time when the hopes and enthusiasm of
Vatican II reforms that encouraged greater dialogue with Islam seem to
have run out of steam. The mystical perspective on religious dialogue
allows Christians to remain faithfully rooted in their Christian vision of a
time-honored truth and permits others whose truth claims are different and
maybe incompatible to be neighbors in the biblical sense. Neither side
should need to dilute or minimize their beliefs when faced with differences.
In de Beaurecueil’s case, from 1946 to his death in 2005, Islam as a
religion, a civilization, and a polity—and particularly the mystical
dimensions of Islam—informed and shaped his Dominican life. De
Beaurecueil’s theological and political positions were the fruit of the
encounter of Islam and Christianity on the one hand, and a blending of
Western European, Arabic, and Persian worlds, on the other.
This study keeps track of de Beaurecueil’s unique contribution to
interfaith dialogue. His is a genuine encounter with the religious other and a
guest who welcomes his host. As Derrida puts it, “L’héte comme host est un
guest.”*’ Derrida refers to a kind of hospitality where the guest becomes the
host and vice versa. The French Dominican Claude Geffré is correct when
he notes that we must think about religious diversity as the theological
paradigm of our time.*® In de Beaurecueil’s case, he tries to understand
Islamic civilization from within and to experience its holy hospitality. It
seems that such a task demands what Jules Monchanin terms “a
monumental patience (une patience géologique).” It is the kind of patience
that Rainer Maria Rilke refers to in his Letters to a Young Poet:
Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love
the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that
are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the
answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be
able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the
questions now. Perhaps you will find them gradually, without
noticing it, and live along some distant day into the answer.*”
Such monumental patience signifies that no one has the final say on the
divine providence according to which men and women follow different
faith traditions with sincerity and authenticity and thus believe in different
paths of salvation. One of the most seasoned veterans of religious dialogue,
Mahmoud Ayoub, reminds us that the Qur’an cautions against arrogance
and presumption of righteousness. The text rejects overconfidence (or the
arrogant boasting) on matters that belong to God alone, such as people’s
ultimate destiny in the hereafter. Ayoub writes:
the Qur’an categorically condemns the arrogant boasting by any
of the followers of al three monotheistic religions of the
superiority of their faith over that of the two other communities. It
states, “It is not in accordance with your [Muslims’] wishes, nor
the wishes of the people of the Book; rather whoever does evil,
s/he will be recompensed for it, nor will s/he find any friend or
helper against God. And anyone who performs righteous deeds—
male and female—and is a person of faith, those will enter the
garden [of paradise] and they will not be wronged in the least.
(Q.4:123—24).” Thus we see that the criterion for acceptance with
God is neither religious identity nor class or gender but faith and
good deeds.*”
Ayoub’s position is well known among progressive thinkers across the
board and has the advantage of reminding believers that humility and
confidence in God’s judgment and providence are the hallmarks of
submission (aslama) to God. In his book Islam and the Faith of Others,
Mohammad Hassan Khalil offers a masterful assessment of one of the most
controversial and consequential questions in Islam: can non-Muslims be
saved? His insight brings Ayoub’s caution to an arresting conclusion: “the
ethos of the Qur’an and Sunna compels a hermeneutic leap of mercy, then
the end result is a positive ambiguity, the kind of ambiguity that leaves
believers with a deep sense of humility and hope for humanity.’””!
Furthermore, de Beaurecueil’s biography problematizes the hopes of
Christians and Muslims and dramatizes their struggle to see each other as
genuine and authentic believers. There is no place for romanticism and/or
bigotry in this encounter. There are obstinate and incompatible faith claims
that need to be reckoned with at the most fundamental levels. But one of the
goals of theology is a persistent attempt to square circles and faithfully
account for the limit of human endeavor in fully understanding “God’s self-
communication to humanity,” to borrow from Karl Rahner. This book is
also the author’s own journey to tease out the theological acumen of
otherness, particularly the religious other and what it really means to be a
theologian on the edge, constantly defining oneself vis-a-vis the larger
community. In addition, the personalities and unique characters of Ansari
and de Beaurecueil have deeply influenced my own theological
imagination. They were two deeply religious men endowed with special
qualities. This study is a spiritual journey toward the heart of a Hanbali Sufi
through the life journey of an exceptional Dominican friar. The mystical
dimensions of both faith traditions provide a plausible road map to
hospitality.
It is beyond the scope of this book to give a thorough and systematic
analysis of the mystical traditions of Islam and Christianity. This study
nonetheless focuses on aspects of Christian and Islamic mysticism directly
relevant to Ansari’s and de Beaurecueil’s milieus. Both mystics lived
ordinary lives with ups and downs, and their lives are witness to what it
means to take seriously one’s own faith tradition. Our interest lies in the
mystical tradition of the eleventh-century Khurasan and particularly the
spirituality of a Hanbali Suft.
The mystical legacies of Ansari and de Beaurecueil seem critical of
institutional religions and centers of power. In this case, although Margaret
Smith’s conception of mysticism is disputable, it is nonetheless useful for
our purpose. She writes, “Mysticism [has] its rise in a revolt of the soul, in
those who [are] really spiritually minded, against formality in religion and
also indifference to religion.”° Also, de Beaurecueil would agree that all
human language about God, in terms of doctrines, dogmas, and creeds, is
by definition inadequate. T. S. Eliot describes it as “shabby equipment
always deteriorating.”°> Eliot was concerned with the limitation and
inadequacy of poetic language, but mystics were and are concerned with the
inadequacy of all human language and images about God. Eliot wrote:
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure ...
... And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate.>*
Finally, in terms of mystical and intellectual lineages within the field
of Islamic studies, de Beaurecueil is closer to the path of the seminal and
revolutionary spiritual heritage of Massignon and to the ministry of
hospitality and presence among Muslims of Charles de Foucauld and Pierre
Claverie (d. 1996) than to the traditionalist or perennialist school of René
Guénon, Ananda Coomaraswamy, Frithjof Schuon, Seyyed Hossein Nasr,
and the like.>> To be certain, both lineages have played an influential role in
redefining the nature of religions and the meaning of religious diversity.
These two intellectual lineages are complementary in their contribution to a
wider and deeper understanding of the philosophical, mystical, and spiritual
dimensions of Islam.°°
This study uses the insights of comparative mystical theologies of
Islam and Christianity. In addition, a historical approach helps account for
the lives, spiritual milieu, and intellectual biographies of Ansari and de
Beaurecueil. What major events shaped their mystical paths? Who fostered
and nurtured their mystical quest and yearning? It is crucial to uncover, on
the one hand, the disparities between Ansari’s and de Beaurecueil’s human
journeys and, on the other, the similarities of their spiritual quests. The
differences between them in terms of geography and history are important
to an understanding of their spiritual paths. This study opens a window into
how de Beaurecueil read and treated Ansari’s work as a path of conversion.
There are four chapters. The first two chapters are biographical in
nature. In Chapter 1, de Beaurecueil’s biography is established on the basis
of published and archival material at the IDEO in Cairo, St. Jacques’s
Priory in Paris, the Angelicum in Rome, and Lycée Esteqlal in Kabul. I
follow the trajectory of de Beaurecueil’s life curve: his studies at Le
Saulchoir, first involvement with Islam, and relationship with the IFAO
(Institut Frangais d’Archeologie Oriental) in Cairo. Finally, the chapter
touches on the establishment of the IDEO.
Chapter 2 delves into Ansart’s life and historical milieu. His life story
and unique personality are, in my view, the key reasons that compelled de
Beaurecueil to dedicate a lifetime career to the Pir-of Herat and later to take
up residence in Kabul from 1963 to 1983. Also, the author locates, on the
one hand, the Pir of Herat within the Khurasanian Suft masters, examining
his Hanbalt spirituality, and, on the other, pays attention to the political and
theological upheavals of eleventh-century Khurasan. Who were his
influential teachers? This biography examines his belligerent temper,
outright hatred of speculative theology, and experience of prison and exile.
Ansari’s biography is an important building block in understanding de
Beaurecueil’s attraction to the Pir of Herat, and a necessary tool for
interpreting his entire mystical thinking.
Chapters 3 and 4 examine de Beaurecueil’s intellectual and spiritual
path. Chapter 3, “de Beaurecueil: A Premier Scholar of Ansari,” serves as a
springboard for the next chapter. It explores de Beaurecueil’s annotations,
translations, and commentaries on the spiritual treatises attributed to the Pir
of Herat. Two treatises regarding the stages of the spiritual path are under
consideration: Kitab sad maydan (The Hundred Fields) and Kitab manazil
al-sa ‘trin (The Stages of the Wayfarers). Ansari’s most popular and beloved
collection of intimate conversations with God, the Mundjat, concludes the
chapter.’ On the one hand, de Beaurecueil’s erudite scholarship sheds light
on the spiritual insights of the eleventh-century Hanbalt Sufi master, and on
the other, these spiritual treatises inspired de Beaurecueil’s Dominican life
and mystical quest in the midst of a Muslim community.
In chapter 4, I explore de Beaurecueil’s life among Muslims in
Afghanistan and the establishment of the Maison d’Abraham for Kabul
street children. My argument is that by providing hospitality to a group of
Kabul’s street children who found themselves alien and estranged in their
own land, de Beaurecueil experienced what Massignon called “the holy
hospitality of Islam.” It was in giving hospitality to his host that the guest
experienced true hospitality—what I refer to as the Dominican friar’s praxis
mystica.
This book offers a unique and yet limited example of a
mystical/spiritual approach to Christian-Muslim relations. De Beaurecueil’s
spirituality or mystical theology is Catholic and Dominican in scope,
dialogical in commitment, intuitive and yet practical in its goals. The
French Dominican friar’s life among Kabul street children raises
fundamental questions about the context of otherness, attentiveness to the
non-Christian other, hospitality, fragility, vulnerability, and interruptions.
Such an immersion transformed his orthopraxis (correct practice) and
“evangelized” his theological and spiritual imagination. Like many
Christian vowed religious men and women living among Muslims and
dedicated to the study of Islam, de Beaurecueil’s life exemplifies friendship,
hospitality, and alterity (alterité). In this case, the abode of Islam is the
ground where Christian and Islamic virtues meet. This mystical perspective
on religious dialogue embodied a praxis mystica in which the guest
becomes the host and the host becomes the guest. The study is skewed with
the present author’s own sense of otherness, spiritual dispersion, and
theological instabilities. Like J. Buttler, I confess, “This, then: my
symptom, my error, my hope ...”°°
Serge de Beaurecueil, OP (1917-2005)
A Life Curve
... of course, your task is not to engage in the conquest of Islam,
not even try to convert a few individuals here and there separated
from the Muslim community. On the contrary, you must give
yourselves utterly to an in-depth study of Islam, its doctrines and
civilization. This is a long and abiding apostolate of institutional
quality. !
One of the jewels of Cairo, the city of a thousand minarets, is known as
“Islamic Cairo” in the neighborhood of ‘Abbasiyya. In this part of the city,
visitors marvel at Cairo’s Islamic heritage, which is a world of famous
gates, medieval forts, shrines, and century-old marketplaces. Above all, the
vicinity is filled with Fatimide, Mamluk, and Ottoman mosques; and
mausoleums with breathtaking architecture. Another point of reference
nearby is the quarter of Gamaliyya, where Naguib Mahfouz (d. 2006)
locates the scenes of his major work of fiction. His Nobel Prize-winning
novel, Midag Alley (zuqaq al-midagq), is set in an alley in Khan al-Khalilt (a
major bazaar) in Islamic Cairo.
Indeed, in this historical district of ‘Abbasiyya, the Dominican friar,
Antonin Jaussen (d. 1962), built an impressive Dominican priory at Ist
Masna‘ al-Tarabish Road, about a mile away from al-Azhar’s Mosque and
University. Today the precious jewel of the priory is the library of the
Dominican Institute of Oriental Studies (IDEO),” named after one of the
founding members of the institution, Georges G. Anawati (d. 1994). It is
within the walls of this priory and its library that Brother Serge de Laugier
de Beaurecueil would start a unique journey that would lead him to
Afghanistan in the footsteps of ‘Abdullah Ansari. Correctly, Dominique
Avon remarks, “within the vast field of Islamic mysticism, Serge de
Beaurecueil cuts a path of astonishing originality.””*
Borrowing from J. J. Pérennés’s book Passion Kaboul: Le pére Serge
de Beaurecueil, this biography studies de Beaurecueil’s family background
and focuses on the social and theological backgrounds that influenced his
Dominican formation. The chapter is divided into four sections: first, de
Beaurecueil’s early life in Paris; second, his Dominican formation at Le
Saulchoir; third, the establishment of a Dominican center of study in Cairo;
and, last, his scholarly endeavor at the IDEO.
I. A Wounded Privilege
1. Negotiating an Aristocratic Childhood
On August 28, 1917, Serge Emmanuel Marie de Laugier de Beaurecueil
was born into an aristocratic family in his maternal grandfather’s house. His
birthplace was the luxurious district of Paris (16e arrondissement) at 42,
Rue Copernic, the present location of the Lebanese Embassy. His father was
le Comte Pierre de Laugier de Beaurecueil, a thirty-three-year-old cavalry
officer, away on the battlefields and trenches of World War I at the time of
his birth. His mother, Roberte de Quelen, came from a family of wealthy
Drogomans (interpreters) of the Ottoman Empire who had settled in
Istanbul for generations. De Beaurecueil gives a quick look at his
genealogy: “My family formed a surprising genetic melting pot, a mix of
Provengal and Brittany, Corsican and Polish, and all from an aristocratic
lineage, with a good dash of Jewish blood. My grandmother’s maiden name
was Oppenheimer.”°
Unfortunately, the privileges of an aristocratic heritage did not
guarantee a happy childhood. His parents married in 1914 and divorced in
1931. Three children were born out of this unhappy marriage: Serge, born
in 1917; his sister, Antonia, born in 1920; and younger brother, Raoul, born
in 1922. Antonia became a hermit in the Benedictine Order in the region of
the Droéme, and Raoul a social worker in Paris. Pérennés remarks about
Serge’s parents:
The couple was certainly from aristocratic stock but sadly
unhappy. They did not get along for multiple reasons: their
matriage was arranged as it was often the case in certain circles at
the time. Above all, the mother, a very beautiful woman, was
capricious, wounded herself by a difficult childhood.®
Hence, de Beaurecueil spent most of his childhood and youth with the
stigma of a child born into a privileged yet broken family. Catholic
aristocratic circles of the time were comfortable, bourgeois, and religiously
conservative. Divorce or birth out of wedlock was an anathema. In their
case, de Beaurecueil and his siblings paid a tremendous price even though
they had nothing to do with their parents’ divorce. They could not enjoy a
regular childhood where they invited peers to their house or visited others.
At this point, a brief exposé on the relation between de Beaurecueil’s
childhood misfortune and his later attachment and care for children in dire
situations is in order.’ The friar’s early life was marked by the neglect and
absence of his mother, the authoritative and military discipline of his father,
and the regime of boarding schools. Even later in life, he recalls, “In a
broken family like ours, children must be sent away. Hence, I followed my
fate. It was the beginning of a wretched childhood for children born to a
divorced couple. Even at the age of seventy five, the memories of this
period still burn vividly.”> Obviously his childhood woes had a lasting
impact on him. Perénneés believes that Serge’s childhood story is the key to
understanding his entire life and his spontaneous affinity with children in
difficult situations.” There are reasons to believe that the divorce of his
parents, the stigma he endured, his mother’s indifference, and lack of care
sparked in him a compassion for the afflicted.
Later in life, he would show a natural disposition, a remarkable
tenderness and care for children and youngsters. He seemed to have turned
this traumatic childhood experience around. Pérennés remarks, “Born into a
divorced family, he has always loved children, maybe trying to give
something he never experienced himself.”!° Throughout his life, children’s
hospitals would remain one of his favorite locations for ministry. However,
this view is a little far-fetched. Unlike Serge, his brother, Raoul, and sister,
Antonia, who suffered the same fate, did not exhibit such a disproportionate
attachment to suffering children. Seldom did Serge himself link his care for
children to his own childhood experience. It is safe to argue that the friar’s
childhood experience alone fails to explain fully his utter dedication to
suffering children in his mature age.
Therefore, the influence of his difficult childhood needs not to be
exaggerated but kept in due proportion. Although it is tempting to read too
much into these experiences of his early days,!! I believe that his premature
choice to join a religious order, his decisive will to go as far as possible
from the aristocratic Catholic milieu of Paris, and his utter compassion for
suffering children were the result of a web of reasons and circumstances.
Understandably, he was reluctant to open the pages of his early life and
entertain the memories of his relationship with his mother. Now and then,
he would volunteer a few facts about his parents, a grandfather, and an
uncle, but astonishingly little about his mother. Later chapters tease out the
different aspects of the influence of his childhood on the mature Serge.
At any rate, two words summarize his early childhood: fear and dream.
These sentiments fueled an unquenchable desire to go as far as possible
from Paris.!* For certain, the longing to go away stems mainly from a
lonely childhood experience. He refers to it as “a wretched childhood.” In
dreams he found the remedy against fear and loneliness. He hoped for a
journey that would take him away from France, from all that his childhood
symbolized.!* For example, he saw himself as the son of an Indian Rajah in
exile and hoping to return home one day.'* He said to himself, “I had to
dream to keep my mind away from family matters and school work.”!>
During this ordeal, he found solace in the world of his books as well. His
childhood dreams, born out of cultural and religious stigma, would find an
echo in his religious zeal for foreign lands and peoples. Here lies, in my
view, his deep-seated longing to travel the world and visit remote lands.
Egypt and Afghanistan would fulfill such a yearning.
Serge’s early childhood traumatic years and his determination to run
away explain his impetuous wish to join a religious community. These two
factors sowed the seeds of a deep longing, a search for otherness, and a will
to go to mission lands. He sought to leave his country, family, and friends
and go to unforeseen destinations. His life would be marred by points of
departure. No wonder he was mesmerized by the patriarch Abraham, who
was called to leave all beyond and trust in God’s providence on his journey
to unknown destination. It is probable that this earlier experience of
uncertainty and ambiguity would facilitate his encounter with the religious
other and later his mystical conversation with Ansari’s work. As his life
journey unfolds, his entire epistemology and hermeneutic of the religious
other took root at Le Saulchoir, continued in Cairo, and blossomed in
Kabul.
To return for a moment to his early life, under the care of his
grandfather, his early schooling and secondary education took place at the
most prestigious and elite schools in Paris. After Saint Croix de Neuilly, he
went to l’Ecole de Gerson and then to Lycée de Janson de Sailly where he
earned his Baccalauréat. Maybe the only laudable aspect of his childhood
was the prestigious schools he attended. Early on he developed a
fascination for foreign places and languages. At twelve he started learning
Russian, and at fourteen he enrolled in Arabic classes at Lycée de Janson de
Sailly. He passed his baccalaureate in philosophy with Arabic as a third
language.!° The dream of a future life in a distant land and the desire to stay
as far as possible from married life and aristocratic Paris might have opened
a window to religious life. He recalled his dream to join a religious
community at a tender age:
I dreamed a future far away from all my surroundings, and
henceforth my desire to join a religious community. I said to
myself: I will never marry because marriage is a recipe for
disaster. I would go as far as possible and within my childlike
logic, I convinced myself that if Jesus gave his life for me, I must
as well give mine for his sake.!7
2. An Unexpected Call to a Life as a Dominican Friar
De Beaurecueil spent some of his holidays in Vaulogé in the region of
Sarthe at the castle of his uncle de Carini. In spite of his fear of dark
stairways and nocturnal sounds, he paid attention to a painting of John of
the Cross!* holding a jug of water and a dry loaf of bread in his prison cell.
The holiness and austere demeanor of John of the Cross deeply impressed
the young man; with the naiveté of a teenager, he confesses:
In addition there was The Life of the Saints, which I read
constantly at my uncle de Carini’s castle on Thursday night after
the Boy Scouts’ meetings. John of the Cross, in his prison cell,
was in ecstasy, and wearing a frock and a white cloak. He was
locked up by his Carmelite brothers, who found him too
dangerous and subversive. I decided to be a Carmelite. !?
This spontaneous desire remained a childlike dream but points to a deep-
seated search or restlessness. Nevertheless, at the age of thirteen, during a
summer vacation at Mer-les-Bains in Normandie, he met a strange person,
Pere Aquity. This fortunate encounter would change the course of his life
and alter his dream to join the Carmelites. De Beaurecueil recounts his
meeting with Aquity:
At the young age of thirteen, we went to a summer vacation at
Mer-les-Bains in Normandy. It was our introduction to the sea. At
our hotel, there was a priest with a long beard, Pere Aquity, who
was also on vacation, and always ate alone. I will never forget his
name. One day, while it was too cold to swim, he invited me to
walk to the statue of the Blessed Mother in the hills. On the way,
he asked: what would you like to do when you grow up? I will be
a Carmelite monk, I replied. Do you know them? He asked. I
have never met one but I read about John of the Cross, Theresa of
Avila, and the ascetic life ... Believe me, the priest said, I lived in
the Holy Land for years and met many Carmelites. But, why not
think about Dominicans? In Jerusalem, I studied at the Ecole
biblique. I think, you would make a good Dominican.”°
This advice stayed dormant in his consciousness but not for too long.
Upon his return from Mer-les-Bains, de Beaurecueil searched for a
Dominican priory in his area. Fortunately he found one at rue Faubourg-
Saint Honoré (Couvent de |’Annociation) and took a chance on the priest’s
advice. He writes:
Pére Aquity’s remarks stuck in my mind and one day I paid a visit
to the Dominican priory at 2 rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. Pére
Kételaire welcomed me and noted “You came at the right time; I
am the syndic of the house.” Then, he gave me the tour of the
vicinity from the basement to the attic. I was mesmerized and
decided to become a Dominican.’!
His visit to the Dominican priory and the hospitality of friar Kételair
changed his mind. He felt a sharp difference between the atmosphere of his
childhood abode and his first impressions of the Dominican priory at rue
Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. He remarks:
What hospitality! He [friar Kételair] gave me a complete tour of
the priory. Everything pleased me: the white habit, the silence of
the cloister, and the impressive painting of Desvallieres entitled
“Dominican Apostolate.” Also, the brightness of the building, the
chanting at holy hours, and the smile of the brethren in the
hallways were unforgettable. What an environment imbued with
joy! Goodbye, the Carmelites! Of course Pere Aquity, I will
become a Dominican.72
After the enthusiasm of his first visit, de Beaurecueil stayed in touch
with the priory, and for four years he kept steady correspondence and
regular contacts with the Dominicans at rue Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. In the
meantime, his father did not take seriously his son’s desire to become a
Dominican. He had more suitable careers in mind for him than the life of a
Dominican friar. He hoped that the experience would be brief once the
youngster discovered the austerity of religious life. However, thanks to friar
Périnelle’s persuasion, the novice master at the time, Pierre de Beaurecueil
did not oppose his son’s decision to enter the novitiate. Therefore, on
October 14, 1935, de Beaurecueil joined the Dominican province of France
and started his novitiate in Amiens. Later he recalled that his father was in
the chapel when he received the Dominican habit.”?
Like many an immature young mind, he was very easily persuaded. It
did not take much to make him switch from a Carmelite vocation to a
Dominican one. It is remarkable, however, that the desire to join a religious
community took precedence over other possible careers. The aristocratic
environment of his grandfather’s and uncle’s castles, the emptiness left by
his mother’s absence and neglect, and his early boarding school life, all
provide some explanation for his great interest in religious life. None of
these experiences advocates for marriage as the most attractive option in
life. Maybe the aristocratic Catholic milieu also provides a hint as to his
early vocation. Religious life in such a milieu was looked upon with great
respect, even though his father, Pierre de Beaurecueil, was not amused.
Above all, the young man was searching for a place he could call
home. The Carmelites or the Dominicans seemed to offer a way out of a
dreadful childhood and lonely bourgeois upbringing. One can speculate on
the real meaning of his premature vocation to religious life. He seemed to
have made up his mind very early and never looked back. There is almost
no trace or hint of regret in his letters and other writings concerning his
choice to become a friar as such a young age. His choice might have looked
hasty, but he lived his religious life to the fullest and without regret.
Moreover, his choice to become a friar preacher opened the doors to
the fulfillment of his childhood dreams. From then on, the possibility of
going as far as possible from the Catholic aristocratic milieu of Paris was
within reach. In a posthumous tribute to de Beaurecueil, André Velter
writes, “Born in Paris in 1917 into a broken family, the youngster dreamt of
decisive projects which would take him as far as possible from France, and
God heard his prayers.”*4 Velter did forecast precisely de Beaurecueil’s
lifelong yearning to find in the farthest lands the face of the divine. In his
own words, he brings his childhood drama to a hopeful conclusion: “[My]
wretched childhood, however, was blessed and indispensable for my
experience in Kabul. My childhood was a ‘call’ to leave, to fly away
without looking back. I knew this intimately from within the experience of
a miserable childhood.”?> He finally found a family in the Order of
Preachers and a place where his dreams would become a reality, starting
with his formation years at the Dominican studium.
II. Le Saulchoir: A Rebirth of Dominican Scholarship~°
1. A Special School of Theology and History
Before probing de Beaurecueil’s scholarly endeavors, we must set the scene
by describing the Dominican studium (or seminary) of Le Saulchoir, where
de Beaurecueil was educated and formed as a friar preacher. In 1903, the
French government of Emile Combes (d. 1921) enforced rigorous policies
of a strict separation of Church and State.*’ Many religious institutes were
expelled from France, and the French Dominicans had to move their
formation house from Flavigny-sur Ozerain (Céte d’Or) to Belgium.**® The
Dominicans of the province of France relocated to Le Saulchoir Kain les
Tournai. The building was an old monastery abandoned by Cistercian nuns
and called Le Saulchoir because of a grove of willows (saules in French) at
the edge of a pond in the yard. The Dominican studium would remain in
Tournai for thirty-five years and return to France in 1939 at Etiolles, a few
kilometers from Soisy-sur-Seine. During those years of exile in Belgium
and upon its return to France, Le Saulchoir was a hallmark of scholarship
and intellectual excellence. Most of the best minds of the Order of
Preachers who would influence the Second Vatican Council were alumni of
Le Saulchoir.”?
At the studium of Le Saulchoir, the Dominican community lived a
quasi-monastic life away from city noise and mundane preoccupations. But
the friars were deeply aware of “the signs of the times.” Le Saulchoir was at
the beginning under the aegis of two great minds: Ambroise Gardeil (d.
1931) and Pierre Mandonnet (d. 1936).°° In the words of Yves Congar (d.
1995), Gardeil was “a thinker of the highest level in theology and
determined to raise the quality of the seminary studies (at Le Saulchoir) to a
university level.”*! His epoch-making book, Le donné révélé et la
théologie, stressed the primacy of the revealed word over tradition. The
book opens a path to a dialogue between Thomistic studies and
contemporary philosophy. In the words of Chenu, Gardeil’s book was the
“breviary of Le Saulchoir’s methodology; in other words, Dominicans
found therein the spirit and perspective to guide their own studies and
writings.”°* A. Gardeil was Regent of Studies for many years and pioneered
a school of theology that would integrate methods borrowed from social
sciences into theology and philosophy and be opened to public universities’
curriculum and the larger secular society. Chenu remembered his own early
experience at the studium:
By the time I arrived at Le Saulchoir, the studium had found its
inspiration, methods, and balance through the gifts of many friars
who, although they were living in the church of France which was
enmeshed in the modernist crisis, had serenely articulated a
theology which combines scientific principles, contemplative
richness and apostolic roots.°>
Along with Gardeil, Mandonnet insisted on the historical study of
medieval texts, particularly Thomas Aquinas’s writings. As a scholar and
historian of medieval philosophy, Mandonnet had for decades published a
series of studies that placed the writings of Aquinas in their historical and
cultural perspectives and provided Le Saulchoir with the methodology of a
new orientation. He introduced Chenu and many friars to the historical
study of medieval texts.*+ Thanks to Mandonnet, an institute of medieval
studies was founded at Le Saulchoir in collaboration with Etienne Gilson,
who chaired medieval studies at the prestigious university of La Sorbonne.
The rise of medieval studies and the application of historical methods to the
study of Thomas Aquinas would lead to the foundation of another important
center in North America, the medieval institute in Toronto, Canada.*>
In 1934, while the studium was still located in Belgium, two Pontifical
faculties of theology and philosophy were erected. There were twenty-two
professors and about one hundred students, including non-Dominicans. In
1932, Chenu was appointed Regent of Studies (the director of students’
study programs and head of the school).*° The biographer of Chenu, Jean
Pierre Jossua, is correct in remarking, “In 1932, M. D. Chenu became
Regent of Studies, and along with his friends Henri-Marie Féret and Yves
Congar, he would give Le Saulchoir an international reputation ... He was a
friar gifted with a marvellous human spirit and a spark of genius.”?”
Chenu’s tenure as rector is regarded as the most significant period in the life
of the institution.
As noted earlier, in both Kain les Tournai and Etiolles, Le Saulchoir
hosted remarkable friars, including erudite and prolific theologians
Antonin-Gilbert Sertillanges,*® Antoine Dondaine, Gerard des Lauriers,
Louis-Joseph Lebret, and Yves Congar; biblical scholars Roland de Vaux
and Pierre Benoit; liturgists Pierre Marie Gy and Irenée Dalmas; and
pastoral and moral theologians Albert Plé, Pierre Liégé, and Pie Régamey.
Famous Dominicans from other provinces, including Edward Schillebeeckx
(a Dutchman born in Belgium), Fergus Kerr, and Timothy Radcliffe (both
from Blackfriars in England), also were educated at Le Saulchoir. These
friars worked intensely, and those years were extremely productive.*? A
case in point is that, in 1907, they published the epoch-making the Revue
des sciences philosophiques et théologiques.*° The reputation of this
scholarly journal remains intact to this day.
The Dominican friars at Le Saulchoir were doing for theology and
philosophy what Marie Joseph Lagrange (d. 1938) was doing for scriptural
studies. At a time when ecclesiastical training was for the most part
accomplished by using theology manuals—second- and thirdhand accounts
of the scriptures, the fathers, the councils of the church, and the great
schools of theology—Le Saulchoir’s friars argued for theological formation
that used primary sources and embraced Gardeil’s and Mandonnet’s critical
methodologies in every branch of ecclesial studies. The friars called for the
absolute necessity of integrating historical criticism and scientific rigor in
all aspects of Catholic theology. The modernist crisis at the beginning of the
twentieth century and historical criticism had shattered the Catholic
weltanschauung and disoriented the advocates of philosophia perennis.
Chenu summarizes the situation:
After a long brooding period, the historical and philosophical
foundations of the Catholic faith were on the brink of collapse;
and thus, the entire edifice of religious studies, from practical
knowledge to scholastic theology, from biblical studies to
ecclesiology were unraveling.*!
Fully aware of the crisis, Chenu not only insisted on_ historical
criticism and engagement with modernity, but also called on the Dominican
friars of France to take seriously the study of other religions.** His first
intuition as a medievalist was the influence of Muslim and Arab philosophy
on Latin medieval philosophy and theology, particularly Thomism. Chenu
raised fundamental questions about the nature of Catholic theology in terms
of its methodology and pedagogy, particularly with regard to seminaries and
Pontifical schools. He tried to rethink theology’s fundamental relationship
with history on the one hand and faith on the other. Chenu was a wellspring
of daring ideas and had the intelligence to forecast necessary theological
and ecclesial turns. Christopher F. Potworowski believes that “[i]t would be
very difficult to write an accurate history of Catholicism in the 20th century
without granting a pivotal role to the contributions of the French theologian
M. D. Chenu.’”*?
Indeed, the year he was appointed rector (1937) of Le Saulchoir,
Chenu wrote a little pamphlet destined to shake the ground of Catholic
seminary education. He questioned the entire structure of Dominican friars’
initial formation in his Une école de théologie: Le Saulchoir. Claude Geffré
calls it “Chenu’s small programmatic book (son petit livre-programme).”“
He sought to articulate a vision for Le Saulchoir and its theological,
philosophical, and pastoral programs, which were faithful to Gardeil’s and
Mandonnet’s visions. Paul Philibert, in a book he coauthored with Thomas
O’Meara, summarizes the content of this remarkable book: “In this small
book ... [Chenu points to] the school’s fidelity and to the genius of
Lacordaire and Gardeil. He spoke of the spirit and method of its
philosophical and theological teaching. Finally, he gave an appendix listing
the publications of the members of the school.’*° Also, in an interview with
Jacques Duquenes, Un théologien en liberté, Chenu recounts himself the
circumstances of the book’s inception:
This book started as an improvised short pamphlet. Indeed, it was
customary to deliver a lecture on the feast of St. Thomas Aquinas.
In fact, it was a good occasion to take stock of our deep
motivations. I did so as the Rector of Le Saulchoir in a short
address. My paper impressed students and faculty alike and they
took notes and decided to publish it. After all, the first draft was
improvised, so I decided to rewrite the entire paper and further
clarify my views on the historical critical method in theological
studies.*°
It was not only Catholic theology and its neo-Thomistic approaches that
were in dire need of rethinking. Chenu saw clearly that:
The intelligibility of the mystery of faith has to be understood in
its historical context and sacred history. Of course, such a position
challenges the concept of “perennial theology” which freezes
theological thought in time and space. Here, theology is dragged
into relativism, or in other words, into the complex game of
relations which modify not the substance of faith, but its historical
expressions.*/
One can hardly overestimate the influence of Chenu and Le Saulchoir
on de Beaurecueil. This period of formation was crucial for him and for the
entire community at Le Saulchoir. Like others, he had to rethink the
Catholic approach to history, philosophy, hermeneutics, and other faith
traditions. He had to place the entire work of Thomas Aquinas and its
influence in the context of thirteenth-century medieval Europe and take
seriously the influence of Islamic civilization on the Latin West. In other
words, historical situations and circumstances, the limitations of theological
formulations, and dissent in theological matters were part of a theologian’s
worldview and epistemology. He questioned the pertinence of neo-
Thomism and neo-scholasticism, which had dominated Catholic theological
imagination for centuries. The three confreres Anawati, Jomier, and de
Beaurecueil would carry these radical approaches to Catholic studies
learned at Le Saulchoir, which would influence their own research of
Islamic studies, with them.
Under Chenu’s aegis, de Beaurecueil learned to cut against the grain,
to listen to the movement of the Spirit, and to be bold in his choices.
Unfortunately, Chenu’s revolutionary view did not fare too well in Catholic
circles, particularly in Rome.*® Concerning Roman authorities, Philibert
notes, “in general, they mistrusted the use of history in theology and
considered it a risk destined to lead to relativism by abandoning a timeless
philosophia perennis.”*? In 1942, Chenu was silenced and forbidden to
teach and publish. His book was banned by Rome and put on the Index
Librorum Prohibitorum by Pope Piux XII.*°
However, history has its way of vindicating forerunners. Indeed,
twenty years later, the Second Vatican Council of 1962-65, under Pope
John XXIII, started an aggiornamento (or updating of the Church). During
the council the Catholic Church’s theology toward other faith traditions
would change drastically. Chenu’s solid theological understanding, erudite
historical insights, intuition, and remarkable creativity cost him dearly but
also resulted in fruitful new departures that have remained classical
resources for contemporary theology, particularly for the French Dominican
order’s engagement with the Arab and Muslim world.
Chenu and his teaching team insisted that theologians must keep their
eyes on the signs of the times by discerning possible “seeds of the Word” or
the inchoate reality of the reign of God, as Vatican II sees Christian
vocation. Anawati, Jomier, and de Beaurecueil all were the fruits of
Chenu’s intelligent and prophetic foresight.*! Jean Pierre Jossua summed up
Chenu’s life in these words: “His fundamental optimism and
communicative genius made him an incomparable brother and teacher. The
French Dominicans owe to him the splendid vitality of this period of their
lives, and so does the Catholic Church even more, although she has ever
been willing to acknowledge it.”°? In a nutshell, Chenu revitalized the
tradition of Dominican formation and scholarship. With regard to de
Beaurecueil, he energized Dominican engagement with the Muslim world.
2. Summoned to Islamic Studies by M. D. Chenu
De Beaurecueil was nineteen when he arrived at Le Saulchoir de Kain Les
Tournai in 1936. He had already started learning Arabic at Lycée de Janson
de Sailly in Paris, a move that would serve him well later on. After a year of
novitiate in Amiens (northern France), he started his study in Catholic
theology and philosophy along with his senior brothers Jomier and
Anawati. As noted earlier, Chenu would have a decisive role in the
direction their lives would take. It was at Le Saulchoir and under Chenu’s
persistent call that the Dominican investment in the Arab and Muslim world
would take a providential turn. They were groomed for a serious study of
Islam and Muslim societies. Chenu wanted them to study Islam as a
religion, a civilization, and a polity in order to correct long-standing
historical misconceptions about Muslims. At the time, the wave of la
nouvelle théologie and the Catholic ressourcement movement deeply
questioned Catholic theology and its triumphalist and arrogant views of
other faith traditions.
At Le Saulchoir, de Beaurecueil became the third member of a core
team designated for Islamic studies. Chenu protected the trio against any
attempts to assign Jomier, Anawati, and de Beaurecueil to a different task.
Many times he would intervene to cancel assignations with regard to
them.°? At the studium and during four years of intense study in the
Dominican tradition, de Beaurecueil achieved a deeper understanding of his
Dominican calling. Theology and philosophy at Le Saulchoir were taught in
the context of a renewed understanding of Thomism. In addition to classical
courses in Catholic and Thomistic tradition, Chenu introduced the trio to
Massignon and encouraged them to attend his lectures at the College de
France. Regis Morelon, the former director of the IDEO, reports
Massignon’s first visit to the Dominican studium at Le Saulchoir de Kain
Les Tournai:
An interesting event! L. Massignon, professor of Arab civilization
at the College de France, during a visit at Louvain University for
a conference, called from Brussels to ask for a meeting at Le
Saulchoir between 1h30 and 2h30 in the afternoon. Father Syave,
who knew him well, welcomed him kindly, and we all gathered to
visit with him. On Father Mandonnet’s prompting, Massignon
came to see how Latin medieval scholars (that we were) could
collaborate with Arabist medieval scholars for the study of the
relations between Arab and Latin philosophies of the XIII
century.°4
This occasion was a sign of a solid rapprochement between this outstanding
Orientalist and the Dominicans of France. Massignon would remain a close
friend of the Dominicans and a frequent guest at the IDEO in Cairo. Later
he would be instrumental in helping de Beaurecueil embark on the study of
mystical Islam.
Sadly, in 1939, the Second World War broke out, and de Beaurecueil
had to interrupt his studies. He was called to military service and sent to the
city of Jounieh in Lebanon. At the time, Lebanon was a French protectorate.
Throughout his entire stay, he hoped to practice Arabic and encounter
Lebanese. Unfortunately, he missed the opportunity because of the dire
military restrictions. His first experience in a predominantly Muslim
country was a disappointment. He remarked, “Nothing is more detrimental
to one’s desire to know a people and its land than the life of a soldier living
in a barracks for marines. All relations were lost because of the uniform.”>°
This missed opportunity did not, however, crush his desire for a scientific
investigation of Islam and Muslim civilization.
De Beaurecueil stayed in Jounieh for eight months; then he was sent
back to France. Upon his return, he spent two months in Mont-Clergeon,
near Rumilly, in Haute-Savoie, where he volunteered to work with young
people in a program called Les jeunes des chantiers de jeunesse.°® In June
1940, he was discharged from military duties and reentered Le Saulchoir at
l’Etiolle to complete his studies. Toward the end of his theological studies,
and mostly building on his missed opportunity in Lebanon, de Beaurecueil
enrolled at /’Ecole nationale des langues orientales in Paris to continue his
studies of Arabic. It was there that he furthered his relationship with
Massignon. The latter would have a decisive influence on de Beaurecueil in
terms of what Chenu called “Islam as a vocation (L’/slam comme
vocation).”
In so many ways, Massignon’s honest, generous, and at times
controversial views of mystical Islam sank deep into de Beaurecueil’s
consciousness.°’ As a result, he read and studied Ansari, like Massignon’s
study of the famous Baghdad mystic al-Hallaj. Although there was a
communion of thought in terms of epistemology and hermeneutics between
the two Orientalists, de Beaurecueil and Massignon did differ.°° Massignon
was an exceptional Orientalist but not a theologian. Avon is correct in
noting that de Beaurecueil departed to a certain degree from both
Massignon’s Hallajism and L. Gardet’s neo-Thomism. He notes:
At the beginning I enjoyed Gardet’s articles. Later on, however, I
distanced myself as I did for Massignon. I did not care for
Gardet’s neo-thomism, particularly, his distinction between
natural and supernatural mysticism. Also, I did not like the
tendency (in Massignon’s case) to make al-Hallaj the towering
figure of mystical Islam.>?
In 1943 de Beaurecueil completed his theological studies at Le
Saulchoir with the equivalent of a doctorate in theology? and earned a
licentiate in Arabic literature from /’Ecole nationale des langues
orientales.°! The same year, he was ordained as a priest in the Order of
Preachers by Cardinal Suhard of Paris.°* By that time, Anawati and Jomier
were already in Cairo at the IDEO. This project of a Dominican study
center, launched in 1938 by both the Dominican Order and the Vatican,
could finally be implemented. Anawati, Jomier, de Beaurecueil, and
Jacques Dominique Boilot are often considered the founding members of
the institute. Their endeavor is in the lineage of the French Dominican
province’s involvement with the Arab and Muslim worlds, but it also fits
the larger context of the Order of Preachers’ history with Islam. Indeed, the
IDEO is the terminus ad quem of the history of Dominican erudition in
Islamic studies.
Anawati, Jomier, and de Beaurecueil formed an unusual trio in terms
of personalities, destinies, and talents. Even though these friars shared
bourgeois and upper-class upbringings, they were very different in
temperament. Avon speaks of “diverse founding members (une équipe
foundatrice bigarrée).”®> Their success remains a historical achievement.
For decades, these friars (with the help of countless others) managed to
make Dominican scholarship on Islam and Muslim civilization one of the
best in Catholic traditions. As noted, the IDEO was built on the original
idea of Marie Joseph Lagrange (d. 1938), the handiwork of Antonin Jaussen
(d. 1962), and the adamant belief of Chenu (d. 1990) in the signs of the
times.°*
Il. The French Dominican Friars in Cairo
1. The Vision of Biblical Scholar M. J. Lagrange
A brief history of the IDEO is in order at this point. The foundation of the
Dominican house in Cairo was first the dream of Lagrange. At the Ecole
biblique,° Lagrange directed his students to investigate the entire land of
the Bible scientifically in terms of exegesis, Semitic languages, history,
geography, epigraphy, and archeology. He added study travels to various
sites mentioned in the biblical narratives. According to Lagrange, “the bible
should be read in relation to the land in which it was written, and studied in
the physical and cultural context that gave it birth.”
Lagrange had the extraordinary talent of spotting genius in young
Dominicans friars. Within a decade, he selected and formed the first
generation of astonishingly talented young Dominicans in biblical studies.
The most important were Antonin Jaussen, a specialist of Arab
ethnography;°’ Louis-Hugues Vincent (d. 1960), considered the father of
Palestinian archeology; Antoine Raphaél Savignac (d. 1951), an excellent
Semitic epigraphist; Felix-Marie Abel (d. 1953), a scholar whose erudition
and keen critical sense resulted in an incomparable mastery of the history
and geography of Palestine; and Edouard-|Paul Dhorme (d. 1966), an
Assyriologist and the first to decipher Ugaritic.°*
In Lagrange’s foresight and vision, Cairo, Egypt, was a natural
destination where students of biblical studies could be initiated into
archeology and Egyptology. Almost a century after Napoleon Bonaparte’s
expedition to Egypt (1798-1801), the French had established in 1898 the
IFAO,°? which would be an undeniable support to the Dominican biblical
scholars in terms of Egyptology and the archeology of Ancient Egypt. As a
seasoned scholar, Lagrange understood the historical and _ cultural
importance of Cairo. He wrote:
The great interest of this institute is that Cairo is the intellectual
heart of Sunni Islam and the location of important European study
centers. There is a considerable interest in establishing an
institution of high education for young Catholic religious which
could help prepare Muslim intellectuals for an unforeseeable
future, and impress upon them a respect for secular sciences,
attract oriental Christians and finally anchor Latin Catholics in
their faith. ... If 1 am so adamant about such a school, it is due to
my global vision for the Ecole biblique, which must take priority
at the beginning. However, there is clear advantage to start slowly
and avoid undue publicity.
Hence, he sought to build a kind of pied a terre (an adjunct house) in the
service of the Ecole biblique. He insisted:
It would be honorable for the Catholic Church to have in Cairo an
institute for the study of Christianity in Egyptian, without
mentioning Egyptology and Arabic studies. Cairo is by far the
most important intellectual center for Islam, and it has an
important center of Egyptology. The Catholic Church must be
represented by a center of such studies. 7!
In 1911 Lagrange officially proposed to the Dominican province of France,
gathered at Le Saulchoir de Kain, the project of establishing a house in
Cairo, which would include an institute of study (Egyptology in connection
with biblical studies) and a little apostolic team to support pastorally and
spiritually the small Latin community of Cairo.’* The city of Cairo seemed
a natural choice because it is the location of one of the most prestigious
Sunni universities, Al-Azhar University, which forms and educates Muslim
religious leaders and scholars from Indonesia to Senegal. Unfortunately,
Lagrange’s idea ran into a number of complications mainly because of the
difficulties of finding a consensus between the Holy See, the Dominican
headquarters in Santa Sabina (Rome), St. Etienne’s Priory in Jerusalem, and
the province of France. Luckily, Jaussen, from the province of Lyon, would
bring Lagrange’s hope to fruition.
2. A. Jaussen: The Builder of a Dominican Institute
As noted earlier, Jaussen was a professor at the Ecole biblique of Jerusalem,
where he taught Oriental archeology, ethnography, Arabic, and Sabean
script. He spent a great deal of his study in anthropological research among
the Bedouins of the region. From 1895 to 1925, Jaussen and A. R. Savignac
(d. 1951) traveled through the region to document the people’s way of life.
Jaussen was one of the first Western scholars to delve into Arab and Middle
Eastern anthropology. His Coutumes des Arabes au pays de Moab et
Coutumes palestiniennes-Naplouse et son district and a three-volume book
titled Mission archéologique en Arabie (mars—mai 1907) are classics in the
field of Arab Bedouin ethnography and anthropology.’* During World War
I, he traveled all around the Middle East working for the French and British
alike.
Jaussen settled in Egypt in 1928. Until 1932, he lived alone and
worked tirelessly to raise money to build the Dominican house in Cairo. In
1931, thanks to his relationship with Egypt’s King Fuad (d. 1936), he
bought a piece of property at half-price in the name of the Ecole biblique in
‘Abbasiyya. According to the contract signed with the Egyptian authorities,
the Dominican house was affiliated to St. Etienne in Jerusalem, and its sole
purpose and vocation would be strictly scientific.’* Clearly, no proselytism
would be allowed; otherwise they would lose their property. By 1935 the
main part of the building was completed. As Morelon explains, “As put
forth by father Jaussen, the purpose of this institute is faithful in its
principles to father Lagrange’s intentions during his first visit, but the goal
is now much more ambitious.”’> However, Lagrange’s dream took a long
time to come to completion.
With regard to the foundation of the IDEO, Lagrange conceived the
idea, Jaussen built the priory, Chenu imagined the decisive turn, and
Anawati led the first crew on the ground. The friar who held things together
between Jaussen and Anawati was Marie Dominique Boulanger (d. 1961).
He was the first to be assigned to Cairo and arrived in 1932. He would take
over after Jaussen moved to Alexandria, where he settled permanently in
1937 until his return to France for health reasons in 1959.7°
In Cairo, Boulanger and another newcomer, Anselme-Bertrand
Carriere (d. 1957), would devote themselves to the pastoral care of the
French Catholics of the Latin rite and the Dominican Third Order founded
by friar Martin Rousseau (d. 1940) in 1910.’’ Boulanger and Carriére
maintained the Dominican presence until the decisive turn initiated by
Chenu in 1938. Meanwhile, Boulanger took great care of the priory and in
1933 founded the “Thomist Circle” of Cairo. The Circle was an intellectual,
cultural, and religious forum and a veritable formation place for the French-
speaking community associated with the Dominicans.
Jaussen, Lagrange, and other members of the Ecole biblique visited
often to give conferences.’® In 1934, the Circle printed its first bimonthly
journal, “Cahiers du Cercle Thomiste.”’? The Cahiers were the printed
versions of the conferences given by Dominican friars and lay scholars who
were members of the Third Order. Unfortunately, the original goal of the
institution—Egyptology related to biblical studies—seemed to have been
forgotten. Also, in terms of Islamic studies, there was no resident scholar
yet. Jaussen nonetheless had sown the seeds of a solid network that would
greatly benefit the friars later. Morelon remarks:
Finally, one must add that the intellectual reputation of father
Jaussen and the web of relations he established in Egypt were
very valuable to the first three members of the institute from its
inception in 1944. This network allowed the founding members
of the IDEO to acquire good and credible reputation very early
on.8°
Since 1932 and under the leadership of Boulanger, the Dominican
priory in Cairo has been a functioning institution. But, the decisive turn in
terms of its destiny (i.e., Islamic studies) took place in the academic year
1937-1938 at the studium of Le Saulchoir d’Etiolles, thousands of miles
away from Cairo. Chenu, dean of the studium,®! groomed three student
brothers for a scientific study of Islam and its civilization. This initiative
almost coincided with the request of the French Cardinal Eugene Tisserant
(d. 1972), secretary of the Congregation for the Oriental churches, request
on behalf of the Vatican. Tisserant invited the Dominican Order to initiate a
committee to consider a scientific engagement with Islam and the Muslim
world.
Unlike Chenu, Cardinal Tisserant’s first intuitions were to support the
Oriental Christian minority. First he met with the Missionaries of Africa
(the White Fathers) in Tunis, where they had established a study center
(IBLA: Institut des belles-lettres arabes),8* and then the Dominicans.
Cardinal Tisserant had been a student of J. M. Lagrange at the Ecole
biblique and had a real connection to the Order. He asked Martin-Stanislas
Gillet (d. 1951), the Master of the Order at the time, to envision a
Dominican mission in predominantly Muslim lands. In response, Gillet sent
Chenu on a tour in Jerusalem, Cairo, Tunis and Algiers, where the
Dominicans had priories and houses. Chenu did not reinvent the wheel of
Dominican Orientalism, but he gave this endeavor a decisive turn.
For Chenu, the time had come to bring his vision to fruition. He has
always believed that a proper understanding of medieval European thought,
particularly Thomistic philosophy and theology, needed a good knowledge
of its sources, Islamic and Arabic philosophy. According to Chenu,
European medieval thought is
largely unintelligible if it is not connected to its Arab and Muslim
sources 1n which it takes its roots, and draws its fundamental
structure and vitality with regard to philosophy as well as other
sciences such as mathematics, astronomy, and medicine.**
The necessity for Dominicans to open a center of Islamic studies had never
been so urgent in Chenu’s eyes. He writes:
Therefore it is necessary to study Islam seriously and directly
from its original sources and not rely upon questionable
translations barely faithful to primary material. Muslim scholars
would have no respect for you unless you are capable of reading
and discussing primary text in the original Arabic
language. ... And of course, without a hint of proselytizing.*4
The question of proselytizing is extremely important and could derail the
whole project. It 1s understandable that even Cardinal Tisserant agreed
wholeheartedly with Chenu:
This endeavor is not a direct attempt to establish an apostolate
which would be not only useless but objectively uncalled for.
There is a serious project ahead: to know Islam, its history,
doctrines, civilization, sources, and to do so through in-depth and
prolonged studies which require the dedication of a life time of a
scholar.®°
Even though there were a lingering colonial sentiment and missionary
impetus in both Cardinal Tisserant and Gillet, the Master of the Order,°*°
Chenu would push vigorously for the idea of Islamic studies for its own
sake, away from missionary conquest and zeal. Fortunately for Chenu and
the Dominicans, they had a young Arab Christian, Anawati. He was
brilliant, eager to learn, and hardworking.®’ However, it would take a few
more years for the Dominicans to have a team on the ground in Cairo.
Nonetheless, the vision of a new approach to Islamic studies within the
Catholic Church, particularly for Dominicans, was under way. Hence, the
prophetic and almost providential turn at Le Saulchoir with Chenu broke
the mold in the history of Dominican Orientalism. This history concludes
with the foundation of the IDEO in Cairo, where de Beaurecueil started his
Orientalist journey.*®
IV. At the IDEO
1. The Choice of Abdullah Ansari
Very early, as Pérennés notes, de Beaurecueil showed a keen independent
spirit and a gift for languages. He writes, “The third member of the crew,
Serge de Beaurecueil, was a strong personality as well.”®? Upon arrival in
Cairo, however, de Beaurecueil did not have a solid background in Islamic
studies, particularly in Islamic mysticism. At Le Saulchoir, he delved into
Catholic Thomistic theology. Avon agrees: “Until his arrival in Egypt, the
Dominican friar [de Beaurecueil] was mostly busy with his classical
theological studies in the Dominican tradition. He did not take introductory
courses in mystical Islam either at Le Saulchoir or at any other
University.””?
Thus, once in Cairo, de Beaurecueil had to find a field of research in
Islam. His confrére Anawati opted for classical Islamic philosophy, and his
other confrére Jomier chose contemporary Islamic thought and modern
Qur’anic commentaries as a field of scholarship. De Beaurecueil decided on
the mystical dimensions of Islam.?! However, how did he embark on the
study of the life and work of ‘Abdullah Ansari of Herat? Tradition? has it
among the Dominican friars in Cairo that Anawati prompted de Beaurecueil
to have a conversation with Osman Isma‘il Yahya (d. 1997).°° Yahya at the
time was a student at the University of al-Azhar and later would become
one of the leading scholars of Ibn ‘Arabi. He was a regular reader at the
library of the IDEO and a close friend of the Dominican friars. According
to J. M. Mérigoux, Yahya told de Beaurecueil, “Who am I to counsel you
about Sufi masters? I can just say this much: by far two Sufi masters have
influenced me most: Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah al-Iskandari (d. 1309) and ‘Abdullah
Ansari of Herat (d. 1089).”4
De Beaurecueil took Yahya’s advice seriously and consulted
Massignon, who wrote back, “Do not hesitate. Ansari is crucial to mystical
Islam and no one has seriously studied his work. A few years ago, I spent a
night long prayer vigil at his tomb in Herat.”®° In addition, an Iraqi Jesuit,
Paul Nwyia (d. 1980), was already working on Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah with a
remarkable expertise.°° De Beaurecueil said to himself, “It would have been
unwise to tread the same path ... I settled for Ansari.”?’ This episode lends
itself to a popular Chinese saying, “When the student is ready, the teacher
will appear.”
De Beaurecueil engaged his studies with such zeal and discipline that
he would rapidly overcome his prior lack of knowledge in Islamic
mysticism. In addition, the environment of the IDEO mirrored the lifestyle
of the Dominicans at Le Saulchoir. The rigorous intellectual discipline and
the expertise of his early teachers were decisive. He also had to learn
Persian to fully engage his studies. Fortunately, fate was on his side. A year
after his arrival, Cyprian Rice (d. 1966),’8 an English Dominican, arrived at
the IDEO. He was an excellent Persian scholar and became de
Beaurecueil’s teacher. Pérennés recalls:
In 1947, a British Dominican Cyprian Rice (1889-1966) joined
the community in Cairo. He was, however, a little older than the
rest of the friars and much more attuned to Iranian studies than
Arabic. He could have been an asset to the nascent priory because
he was trained at Cambridge University and had an excellent
command of Arabic, Persian and Turkish. Unfortunately, he was
assigned to Cairo without prior consultation [with him] and more
interested in Shi’?ism than Sunni Islam. Thus, Rice did not fit into
a francophone milieu invested in the Arab world. He would leave
the community three years later. During his short stay,
nonetheless, his contribution to the burgeoning community was
important with regard to Persian studies and mysticism. He was
de Beaurecueil’s first Persian teacher.””
During the following years, de Beaurecueil worked hard to acquire the tools
he needed to excel in his research, namely, fluency in the needed languages
for Islamic scholarship and the techniques of editing ancient manuscripts.
2. The Studious Years of a Burgeoning Orientalist
For seventeen years at the IDEO, de Beaurecueil edited, translated, and
commented on Ansari’s spiritual treatises (mainly) and but also on other
mystical works. While in Cairo, he worked intensively and mastered
Persian with such ease that his confrére Anawati was happily surprised.
However, he faced two important hurdles; on the one hand, Cairo’s Muslim
intellectual circles were not interested in Islamic mysticism, and on the
other, he had to learn how to edit ancient manuscripts. Concerning the
former issue, he befriended Yahya al-Khachab, professor of Persian studies
at the University of Cairo, who fortunately was interested in Persian Sufism.
Providence came through with regard to the latter problem. Professor Pierre
Nautin (d. 1997),!°° one of the best patristic scholars, stayed at the IDEO
while working on the manuscripts of Didymus the Blind (d. c. 398), the
great Alexandrian theologian of the early church. Under the tutelage of
Nautin, de Beaurecueil learned the techniques of editing ancient
manuscripts. Hours spent on this painstaking job finally paid off. Avon
summarizes the daunting task facing de Beaurecueil’s early years at the
IDEO:
[He] has to start from scratch because at the time, mystical
Islamic had no currency in Cairo’s intellectual circles, maybe at
the exception of professor Yahya al-Khachab, who taught Persian
literature at the University of Cairo. For the most part, de
Beaurecueil was busy editing, translating, and commenting on
various mystical treatises. Luckily, one of the visitors of the
Dominican priory, Professor Pierre Nautin, a historian of the early
church, came to do research on Didymus the Blind (d. c. 398).
Professor Nautin gave de Beaurecueil a precious gift. He taught
him the techniques of editing ancient manuscripts. Nautin’s
teachings were instrumental to the friar’s successful task of
untangling the complex web of manuscripts of Khwaja ‘Abdullah
Ansari’s Stages of the Wayfarers. His edition and translation of
this treatise is considered the best in any western language. !°!
Like many other friars at the IDEO, de Beaurecueil joined with
Anawati and Jomier in building relationships with Egyptian intellectuals,
religious and secular scholars alike. In their search for partners for dialogue
and conversation, Anawati was the key figure. De Beaurecueil lived
through the ups and downs of the IDEO. He took an active part in Le Circle
Thomiste and “T’Association des fréres sincéres, (Ikhwan al-Safa)” and the
famous meetings titled Les Mardis de Dar al-Salam.'°* These forums were
occasions of Christian-Muslim encounters. He delivered papers on Ansari
at these meetings. The lectures at these gatherings were geared toward
philosophical, theological, and spiritual discussions, initiated by Massignon
and Mary Kahil (d. 1979).!°
Indeed, Les Mardis de Dar al-Salam were unique experiences where
Christian Catholics and Orthodox, Muslim, and secular intellectuals met to
discuss societal and religious issues, comparative religions, and matters
related to spirituality. It was, as Pérennés put it, “the creation of a space for
dialogue with Muslims” (/’invention d’un espace pour le dialogue avec les
musulmans).'°4 The friars befriended many important Egyptian scholars,
such as Taha Hussein, Youssef Karam, Mahmoud al-Khodeiry, Yahya al-
Khachab, Naguib Mahfouz, and many more. Also, Anawati reached out to
the scholars of al-Azhar and crafted a working relationship between the
IDEO and the most famous Sunni University in the world. In such an
environment, de Beaurecueil lived the most rigorous and yet rewarding time
of his formation as a scholar of mystical Islam.
Nevertheless, these years of hard work and commitment to Islamic
mystical dimensions went through periods of difficulties as well. As Avon
correctly notes, “The endeavor was tedious” (La mise en route est
laborieuse).'°° During the period of 1946 to 1950, de Beaurecueil
experienced at times some frustration with the community and also fatigue
due to the rigorous and painstaking scientific research on tedious Sufi texts.
Consumed by a thorny environment, he neglected his scholarly work and
dedicated much of his energy to pastoral activities. In a letter to Father
Avril, a close friend and his provincial at the time, he explained his
disappointment:
At the moment, I am not particularly involved with my work as
an orientalist. I do not feel connected to Egypt and it would make
no difference if I were in Paris or Peking. ... In Cairo, very few
are interested in mystical Islam and many look at Sufism as a
strange product of antiquity, while others fall into the despicable
spectacle of Sufi orders’ popular piety.!°°
During these periods of lack of interest in research, he held a few
others’ pastoral positions: first as a chaplain at the Christian Brothers’ high
school located in the popular and impoverished quarter of Khurunfish,
where he celebrated the liturgy in the Coptic rite. He also devoted part of
his time to Catholic Boy Scouts of Wadi al-Nil, located in the same vicinity.
Finally, he worked as a chaplain to inner-city factory workers.!°’ His
choices show an affinity for the less fortunate and a persistent desire to
experience the life of the social and religious other. Unlike many friars, he
wore the Tarbush and mingled with Egyptians in coffee shops and
restaurants, where he perfected his ‘a@miyya (colloquial Egyptian Arabic).
He was, in the words of Pérennés, “a cheerful and yet unusual character”
(un personnage chaleureux mais atypique).'°® His personality also clashed
at times with Anawati’s and Jomier’s or with other members of the
community. One could conjecture that these years of pastoral ministry
prepared him for his days in Kabul, and the uneasy relationship with his
brothers at IDEO would play a role in his departure from Cairo in 1963.
This chapter has described de Beaurecueil’s early life, his formative
years as a Dominican friar, and the beginning of a life as a scholar of
mystical Islam and his complete devotion to the life and work of Ansari.
The Dominican stadium of Le Saulchoir, the decisive influence of Chenu,
and the establishment of the IDEO shaped his scholarly and religious
vocation. The scope of this chapter depends on selective historical data and
literature relevant to the friars’ involvement with the Muslim and Arab
worlds. This chapter is also an attempt to locate de Beaurecueil in the
tradition of Dominican involvement with Islam at large, and particularly his
role as a founding member of the IDEO. In a tandem arrangement, the
second chapter investigates Ansari’s eventful life and enables us to
understand the dialectical relationship between de Beaurecueil’s scholarly
work and spiritual discipleship.
De Beaurecueil
Heeding Ansari’s Call
This chapter attempts to answer two key questions: Why would de
Beaurecueil feel the impetus to travel to such distant lands as Kabul and
Herat in Afghanistan? Who was Ansari to command such love and
dedication on the part of a French Dominican friar who lived nine centuries
after his master’s death? In answering these questions, my analysis seeks to
anchor Ansari’s biography in the friar’s mystical journey. Unlike many
biographies, this inquiry does not pretend to offer more than a rough sketch
of Ansari’s life, but a sketch can be useful and can at least open new
perspectives. Thus, the focus of this chapter is to track de Beaurecueil’s two
study travels to Afghanistan and to present sociopolitical and religious
events that shaped the master’s life. Ansari’s strict adherence to Hanbalism
and his often quarrelsome personality led to incarceration, exile,
persecution, and life under suspicion. This historical and geographical
inquiry sheds light on the spiritual and intellectual connection between de
Beaurecueil and his “patron saint.” Events and circumstances in Ansari’s
life captivated de Beaurecueil’s imagination and led him on an exceptional
path in the field of mystical Islam. The chapter starts with de Beaurecueil’s
journeys to Kabul and Herat and then focuses on the eventful life of the Pir
of Herat within the political and theological setting of eleventh-century
Khurasan.
I. A Journey to Afghanistan, a Promised Land
After de Beaurecueil’s fateful conversation with O. Yahya in 1946, Ansari’s
life and work took center stage, and the IDEO provided the indispensable
environment to launch de Beaurecueil’s studies. Unlike Massignon’s
erudition on al-Hallaj, de Beaurecueil’s choice of Ansari does not carry any
hagiographic overtones.! At the outset, the endeavor was riddled with
difficulties and hurdles. First, there was little scholarly research in Western
languages on Ansari’s life and works. Likewise in Arabic, resources on the
master were disappointing and sparse. While Ansari was popular and
revered in the Persian world, to a certain extent he was neglected in Arab
scholarship. Second, manuscripts attributed to the Pir of Herat were in dire
need of editing.* Finally, the contempt for mystical Islam in Cairo’s
intellectual circles of the time and the spectacle of popular Sufism, or what
Yahya Michot terms “spiritual diabetes,” was problematic. Nonetheless,
Ansari’s theological attachment to the literal meaning of the Qur’an and the
Sunna afforded his teaching respectability and reliability in the eyes of de
Beaurecueil. Avon agrees:
[H]is [de Beaurecueil’s] commitment to the very person of Ansari
helped him stay on the course. Although a mystic, Ansari’s
faithfulness to the Qur’an and the Prophetic tradition as well as
his fidelity to the school (madhhab) of Ibn Hanbal was deemed a
guarantee to the orthodoxy of his mystical theology. Ansari has
never dispensed himself from the strict observance of the precepts
of the divine law.°
Indeed, the master’s mystical Hanbalism sparked in the Dominican friar
reasons to mine further and farther. L. Gardet (d. 1986) and G. Anawati (d.
1994), in their classical book on Islamic theology, believe that for Ansari,
mysticism is a “deep understanding or full comprehension (figh)” of the
Qur’an and the Sunna.*
De Beaurecueil’s adamant will to visit the land of his master and its
people is reminiscent of M. D. Chenu’s advice to the student brothers at Le
Saulchoir in 1937: “[D]o not study doctrines, but those who conceived them
in their context and time. Without it, you run the risk of missing its
meaning.””° Chenu knew firsthand the crucial necessity of understanding the
historical, geographical, and sociopolitical background of doctrines and
those who constructed them. Persuaded by Chenu’s intuition and heeding
Ansari’s call, de Beaurecueil journeyed to the land of his master and
consequently decided to live in Kabul for twenty years. It is important to
remark here that his scholarly “obsession” with the Pir of Herat and desire
to go to Afghanistan were also fueled by his childhood longing to travel
away from all that aristocratic Catholic France had to offer. Second, after
seventeen years in Cairo, he was ready to move on to a different land and
encounter a different people. He yearned for a direct experience with
Persian-speaking Muslims. Third, his relationships with Anawati, Jomier,
Boilot, and the rest of the IDEO community were not always ideal.° Those
friars had different personalities, and community life could be dreadful at
times.’
To be certain, de Beaurecueil’s departure to Kabul was driven by a
myriad of personal and professional reasons. This move gave him complete
latitude in his choice of ministry and how to organize his religious life.
Away from a regular Dominican friar’s life and ecclesial structure and
financially independent, he found himself in uncharted territory. In such a
context, mystical Islam and the examples of ordinary Muslims bore the
signs of the time and embodied the presence of the divine. It was in
Afghanistan that Islam and Muslims helped him to hatch an “evangelical”
sense of humanity and solidarity with the most vulnerable. The dire poverty
of Afghans and their ethnic and religious complexity overwhelmed his
Parisian aristocratic upbringing. In dar al Islam, Muslims showed him
another way of being a Christian.
1. The Road to Kabul
De Beaurecueil summarizes the endeavor that led to Kabul and Herat:
What a task! Relying upon Arab and Persian sources that I must
track, I had to reconstruct the life of a man in his time and
location, to follow the itinerary of his experience and thought, and
to unleash his quintessential ideas. In addition, I had to edit,
study, and translate his work, and to monitor its interpretations,
and the influence he had upon his later commentators. Like a
puzzle, the endeavor was both tedious and exciting. Although, I
lived in Cairo, in my mind I was in Herat for hours every day.®
This undertaking took seventeen years in Cairo and twenty in Kabul. His
longing to visit Ansari’s shrine in Herat and the opportunity to uncover
hidden manuscripts in Kabul remained a dream. In 1954, however, the road
to Kabul became a reality when Evariste Lévi-Provencal (d. 1956) came to
Cairo for his annual lecture series at the University of Giza (today Cairo
University). In a conversation with G. Anawati, Lévi-Provengal inquired
about de Beaurecueil’s work.? Anawati replied that de Beaurecueil was
“still entangled in Ansari’s work daily. He would like to go to Herat
someday, and to explore the very place where Ansari lived, and to hunt for
hidden manuscripts.”!° Lévi-Provencal replied, “Of course, that is easy. He
has to apply for a study grant in my department at the CNRS (National
Centre for Scientific Research) and I guarantee him a scholarship for
Afghanistan.”!!
Furthermore, by 1954, a number of Afghan scholars and intellectuals
were familiar with de Beaurecueil’s expertise on Ansari and very much
interested in his possible visit to Afghanistan. A case in point is ‘Abd al-
Ghaftrr Ravan Farhadi.!? A short diversion is necessary here. In the summer
of 1952 while in Paris, de Beaurecueil paid a visit to Massignon to update
him on his work. Unexpectedly, Farhadi, a student at the Sorbonne, rang the
bell while de Beaurecueil and Massignon were at the doorstep. De
Beaurecueil recalls, “We were swiftly introduced. The following day,
Farhadi was my guest at the priory. This was the beginning of a lifetime
friendship despite the vicissitudes of time.!* In addition to Farhadi,
Salahuddin Saljiiqi, the ambassador of Afghanistan to Egypt, was a
personal friend and fellow scholar. Saljtiqi, a native from Herat, was
pleased by the Dominican’s erudition on the master of Herat. Nonetheless, a
flight to Kabul in 1954 was no easy feat. After a year of negotiations, he
was granted a visa and a scholarship from CNRS. Avon accurately notes,
“{T]hanks to a scholarship granted by the CNRS, de Beaurecueil took a
study trip to Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, and India from September to
January 1955.”!4
His journey to Afghanistan was eventful and lasted about three
months. He arrived in Kabul on October 11, 1955. He noted, “Before me
and in contrast with a colorful India, a plain landscape opens up. A clear
sky bathed the mountains. What a spectacular picture! Kabul, nothing but a
big borough, was undistinguishable from afar. I for one discovered the city
of my dreams, the land of Ansari, and my country.”!> Concerning Kabul,
the capital city was devastated by years of civil war. Nonetheless, de
Beaurecueil’s first impression of Kabul was romantic. “It is impossible to
picture Kabul. One must see it. Imagine a chain of high mountains and in
the valleys, at 1800 meters elevation, one sees a multitude of clustered and
stumpy houses with terraces in clay hanging on the hillsides. A few
remnants of pre-Islamic walls still protect the city. The river which runs
through the city is almost dried, but turns furious in spring.” !© Was it love at
the first sight? Not exactly, but de Beaurecueil had fallen in love with the
land of his master long before he ever set foot in it.
2. In the Land of Ansari
Once in Kabul, de Beaurecueil realized the technical and _ logistical
difficulties of collecting manuscripts. They were scattered all over the city
in different libraries and often in private collections. Luckily he found help
from the Afghan authorities. Avon described the goal of this first journey to
Kabul and the enthusiastic response of Afghan authorities:
The main goal of the Dominican friar was to photograph
important manuscripts attributed to the master. Afghan
government supported kindly his mission and facilitated his
research in various libraries (Herat Museum, the ministries of
communications and education as well as access to private
libraries, particularly King Zaher Shah’s). Also, government
officials arranged official meetings and exchanges with local
scholars like Farhadi, who was a professor of law at the
University of Kabul. The latter even volunteered some of his
students to help out. Salahuddin al-Munajjed, the director of the
Arab Manuscripts section, advised de Beaurecueil to take the
opportunity to establish a succinct catalogue of all Arab
manuscripts and to take the photograph of the most valuable
ones, !7
Hence, from October to December 1955, de Beaurecueil spent his time
hunting for manuscripts and cataloguing them systematically.'* Though his
time in Kabul seemed successful, one of the main goals of his long voyage
remained unfulfilled. He had not visited Herat and prayed at the tomb of
Ansari. He lamented, “[B]Jefore I depart from Afghanistan, I still have to
attend to the most important thing: a visitation to Ansari’s mausoleum.”!?
Thanks to Farhadi, they embarked on a trip to Herat on January 1, 1956.
Herat was a shadow of its heyday during the Ghaznavid (977-1186) and
Timurid dynasties (1370-1507). The four-hundred-kilometer journey from
Kabul to Herat, separated by the Hindu Kush Mountains, turned out to be
an odyssey. They flew from Kabul to Kandahar, then drove for four days.
Finally they arrived in Herat on January 6, 1956. De Beaurecueil recalls:
On the morning of January 6th—on the feast of the Epiphany—I
lay my eyes on Herat which was illumined by a lovely sunrise
and a piercing cold. The city was completely different from
Kabul. There were lines of conifers fencing the avenues, green
pastures, a broad horizon, rooftops made of small domes placed
side by side, pieces of trampled walls, gray pigeons and a
majestic citadel opened to the blue sky.”°
He seemed satisfied when he noted that he had “arrived at the harbor
and was deeply moved.””! As soon as Farhadi and de Beaurecueil reached
their destination, a series of visits began. De Beaurecueil noted, “We started
touring the city, and famous people’s tombs and monuments, which ancient
grandeur can only be imagined. At the small museum, I found some
manuscripts and catalogued them. People seem ready to open their doors;
the hospitality was magnificent, particularly at the Gazorgah.”*? Herat
offered much to see and visit, but the most important rendezvous was about
to take place. His first visit to Herat concluded with an intimate
conversation with his patron saint:
I took some photographs but above all I had a téte-d-téte with my
“old” master. Near the stele in white marble, I recited the Pater
Noster and al-Fatiha. And then, I had a word with the Pir-é-
Herat. I told him “I heard your call, would you like me to stay in
your country? I am ready but it is up to you to make it happen. I
must return to Egypt, but you know that my heart stays here.”?°
Three comments are in order. First, the Afghans opened their treasure
chests willingly and welcomed a stranger with open arms. His work would
have been nearly impossible without them. Unfortunately, only the
manuscripts and de Beaurecueil, who collected them, are remembered.
Apart from a few prominent names, we have no record of countless
Afghans in Herat and Kabul who were instrumental to the success of his
trip. Without these nameless and forgotten Aghans, his first study travel
would have been far less successful.
Second, Ansari, a devout Hanbali, would not have approved such a
journey. He was among the fiercest critics of pilgrimage and visits to graves
(zivarah). One can hardly fault de Beaurecueil’s Catholic Christianity for
such behavior because countless Muslims engage in similar acts. The
controversies driven by Hanbali and other conservative Muslims who stand
against visitations of graves have not diminished Muslims’ devotions to
saints and their shrines. The bitter irony of history is that the grave and
burial sites of the most adamant critics of ziyarah often became shrines and
loci of visitations.** Maria Eva Subtelney remarks, “It is noteworthy that a
concession to Ansari’s Hanbalism was made in the construction of his
shrine by Shah Rukh.”*> The Timurid sultan’s “return to Islam policies””°
banked upon Ansari’s Hanbalism by building a shrine for the master of
Herat. Ansari’s strict attachment to the Qur’an and the Sunna paved the way
for his grave site at Gazurgah to be developed into “a little city of God.”?’
What a tribute to Hanbalism!
Third, at the shrine, a surreal monologue of a Dominican priest and a
Hanbali Sufi took place. Many criticisms can be leveled against such an
intimate conversation. No doubt, it is a baffling and a disturbing scene for
some, but for others it is part of the mystical topography of sacred places.
No one has spoken so remarkably of the spiritual significance of
pilgrimages and visitations than Massignon.”® Patrick Laude notes, “For
Massignon, pilgrimage is the only genuine means of collective
sanctification: it is the support par excellence of a kind of communal
meditation in action.”?? The visitation of the master’s shrine was for de
Beaurecueil “a way of going out of oneself in order to converge with
another in the presence of the Divine Absentee.”*° For the Dominican friar,
this visitation was a prayer and a blessing. This first visit was fruitful and
planted the seed for a possible return. However, the chance of a second visit
was uncertain. Afghanistan has never been a tourist hub. He conceded,
“This engagement ritual with Afghanistan seemed desperately without
future.”?!
Providence would decide otherwise. Seven years later, de Beaurecueil
was surprised by good tidings:
One day in 1962, after I gave up all hope to return to Kabul, I was
invited to the embassy where good news awaited me. On the
ninth lunar centenary anniversary of Ansari’s death, a conference
was organized in Kabul and the Afghan government wanted to
make the occasion an international event. I was invited and my
travel expenses covered. I returned to Kabul for the second
time.*?
During his second and unexpected visit to Kabul, the friar took active
participation in the conference to celebrate the ninth lunar centenary
anniversary of Ansari’s death. After the festivities, de Beaurecueil seized
the opportunity to collect more manuscripts. It was during this second trip
that the possibility of living in Kabul took a serious turn. This time, the
invitation came from his host Dr. Anas, the incoming minister of education.
In a conversation with de Beaurecueil, Dr. Anas asked: “Don’t you feel at
home here? So, what is the rush? In fact, why wouldn’t you live and work
in Kabul? Since your last visit, things have changed.”*? This invitation was
unexpected but welcome. One recalled the friar’s conversation at the shrine
of his master in Herat six years earlier. A path had been opened, but its
realization remained uncertain.
After laborious negotiations among the different parties—D. Boilot,
the superior at the IDEO; P. Avril, the provincial of the province of France;
and the Afghan authorities—de Beaurecueil’s dream came true.** The
university decided to hire him to teach the history of Islamic mysticism and
the techniques of editing manuscripts.*? De Beaurecueil recalled his feeling:
“T returned to Cairo for my last winter where I thought I would live the rest
of my life. Little that did I know that seventeen years in Cairo were just a
phase, a crucial training ground for another adventure, an unpredictable
one. I was forty five, an ideal age to go on a mission.”°° J. M. Mérigoux is
correct in calling de Beaurecueil’s first trip in 1955 “the engagement” (/es
fiancailles) and the second one in 1962 “the wedding” (les épousailles).>'
The narrative of de Beaurecueil’s path to Afghanistan offers a background
to the question: who was Ansari to command and elicit such a passion for
and dedication to a land such as Afghanistan? Ansari was not an ordinary
Sufi master.
II. Born Under the Ghaznavi Rule (977-1186)
The celebrated Hanbalite Suff ‘Abdullah Abt Isma‘tl al-Ansari Ibn
Muhammad Abi Mansur was born in Herat on May 4, 1006. We read the
following report from Ansari:
I was born on Friday at dusk, the 2nd of the month of sha’ban in
the year 396 H/1006. I am “vernal,” for I was born in Spring. I
love Spring very much. The Sun was in the seventeenth degree of
Taurus when I was born, and every time it reaches that point
again I complete another year. It is the middle of Spring, the
season of flower and herbs.*®
Spring is definitely a preferred season for many. Gerard Manley Hopkins,
S.J. echoes Ansari in one of his poems, “Nothing is so beautiful as Spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush ...”°? Who could
have imagine that Ansari and Hopkins share a love for spring? At any rate,
most of Ansari’s biographers depended on reliable sources.*? There are
sufficient resources to ascertain the historical data on his life. According to
Mojaddedi:
The earliest biography of Ansari is found in Muhammad b. Abt
Ya‘la’s (d. 1133) Tabagat al-Handabila. Ibn Abi Ya‘la introduces
Ansari, in his brief (15 lines) biography, as the leader of the
Sunnites (ahl al-sunna) in Herat, who is known by the title
Shaykh al-Islam, and is called Khatib al-‘ajam (the orator of the
Persian), on account of the depth of his knowledge, his eloquence
and his eminence.*!
Ansari lived in the Persian-speaking milieu of Herat and Khurasan, but
books attributed to him are both in Persian (his mother tongue) and Arabic
(the lingua franca of the empire and Islam).4? Ans4ri’s life under both the
Ghaznavid and the Saljtiq Dynasties was intellectually fertile yet
tumultuous.*? In addition, Ansari’s radical dogmatism and his adamant
defense of Hanbalism did not go unnoticed. His literal reading of the
Qur’an and the Sunna and above all his disdain for rationalism were
legendary in Persian Sufism. Like many Hanbali, he was accused of
anthropomorphism and ridiculed by rationalist theologians. Qasim Ghani
filed this unflattering report:
Khwaja ‘Abdullah Ansart was devoid of the liberalism and
freedom of intellect expected of the Sufi masters. He considered
the path of attaining truth as subservient to obedience to the
artificial aspects of Hanbalite School. In enjoining the good and
prohibiting the evil, in harassing the mystics and Sufis, and even
in accusing of corruption and blasphemy those mystics who fell
short of performing their religious rites according to the Hanbalite
mandates, he surpassed all legal and religious authorities.“
Hamid Dabashi takes the matter even further when he writes, “Khwaja
‘Abdullah Ansari is the most radical example of nomocentric reaction to
mystical ecstasy. In his Mandazil al-sa’irin, he becomes more Hanbalite than
Iman Ibn Hanbal himself in defending the cause of a radical literalism in the
routine observance of rituals.”*
Ansari was a Sufi of a different kind, though comparable in importance
to Sufi giants in the Khurasan region, such as Abt Sa‘id-i Abu’! Khayr (d.
1049),*° Aba’l Qasim al-Qushayri (d. 1072),47 and ‘Ali ibn ‘Uthman al-
Hujwitt (d. 1073).4% First, he shared with Hujwiti the honor of having
composed one of the first Safi treatises in the Persian language.*? Second,
unlike the theologian and Sifi al-Qushayri, Ansari was neither a theologian
nor a philosopher, and neither a jurist nor a writer but a master-teacher (a
Roshi in Zen tradition). He taught the mystical way, and his oratory skills
mesmerized his audience. Third, Ansari and Abu Sa‘td-i Abi’! Khayr were
important figures of the formative period of Sufism and central to the
development of organized Sufism.
However, both masters represented two distinct models of leadership.
Abi Sa‘id was perhaps the most colorful and famous of all Khurasan Sifis.
He studied law, theology, and other religious sciences before adopting an
ascetic life under the tutelage of Abw’l-‘Abbas Ahmad al-Qassab al-
Amuli.°° Abii Sa‘id is one of the key figures in the earliest evolution of
successful Sift Orders and centers.°'! Ansari’s personal and professional
fortunes changed as the religious and political pendulums swung in
different directions. He was a committed polemicist, a celebrated Sufi
master, and a stern Hanbali.
Il. Ansari: A Controversial Sufi Master (or Shaykh)
1. Formative Years in Herat (1006-1033)
Herat was for Ansari what Florence was for Dante and Paris was for de
Beaurecueil. Hamdallah Mustawfi Qazwini pays tribute to Herat:
If you are asked, which is the most beautiful of all the cities?
And if you wish to answer, say Herat!
This world is similar to a sea and the Khurasan is like an oyster,
The city of Herat is a pearl enclosed in this oyster.>*
Farhadi reports the following: “He [Ansari] said ‘I was born in the Old
Citadel (Kohan-dezh). I grew up there, [and] no other place has been
dearest to me.’ >? Among the major cities of medieval Khurasan, such as
Balkh, Marv, Bukhara, Samargand, and Nishapir, a few such as Herat still
remain major modern provincial cities.°* Substantial architectural and
historical sites convey a sense of continuity with the city’s glorious past.
Among such prestigious places are Ansari’s shrine, the city’s old Fort, the
famous Timurid Friday Mosque, and Goharshad’s tomb.°> Herat is in the
area that has been the site of cities since the time of Alexander the Great,>°
but with the advent of Islam it became important following the Arabs’
conquest in the middle of the 7th century.
Later the city was incorporated successively into the Samanid,
Ghaznavid, Saljiiq, and Ghurid territories. “The Pearl of Khurasan,” as the
city was known, owes its existence to Hart Rud River, which takes its
sources in the mountains of Ghur and eventually vanishes in the sands of
the Karakum desert.°’ The city is located at a principal road junction and
towers more than 3,000 feet above sea level. Herat was one of the centers of
the vast province of the Khurasan. According to Jurgen Paul, scholarly
works on the city’s history before the Timurid period in the fifteenth
century are few and far between. The author believes that the city was never
the center of an empire but retained the status of a provincial center.** Paul
concludes that “the city was to achieve imperial grandeur only in the post-
Mongol period, as the center of a regional state in the fourteenth, and later
on, as the brilliant center of Timurid imperial culture in the fifteenth
century.”°?
Nonetheless, Herat played a prominent role in premodern Islamic
civilization and was an important site of learning, second only to Nishapur
in cultural and scholarly achievements.°? The great polymath and erudite
Qur’an commentator Fakhr al-din al-Razi died in Herat in 1209. It is
tempting to speak of Herat in biblical terms (paraphrasing Matthew 2: 6). O
you, Herat! You are by no means the least among the old provinces of the
Khurasan, because from you shall come an erudite and staunch Hanbalite
poet and Sufi, who would honor your long legacy of being a fertile soil for
mystically inclined souls. Indeed, prophesy was fulfilled in 1070, when the
‘Abbasid Caliph al-Qa’im (d. 1075) invested Ansari with a robe of honor
and the title of Shaykh al-Islam.®! Farhadi reports that the decree further
mentioned the titles of Shaykh al-Shuyukh, Zayn al-‘Ulama (Ornament of
the Scholars) and Nasir al-Sunna (Supporter of the Prophetic Tradition).°
Likewise, in 1082, the Caliph al-Mugqtadt (d. 1094) repeated his
predecessor’s gesture and sent a sumptuous robe of honor to the master of
Herat. Ansari was and still is the Pir of Herat, or the Pir -e tarigat. He is par
excellence “the spiritual master of Herat,’ and his shrine is still popular.
The Pir of Herat is descended from the Ansar (helpers), and his
genealogy traces him back to the people of Yathrib, who welcomed and
helped the Prophet of Islam after his hijra (migration) in 622. According to
tradition,°° Ansari’s ancestor Abi Ayytb took charge of the Prophet’s
journey and was known among the Ansar as the “companion in charge of
the camel saddle” (sahib al-rahl). It is believed that Abt. Ayyiib’s son, Abi
Mansir al-Ansari, had settled in Herat with the conquering armies of Islam
in the seventh century during the Caliphate of ‘Uthman (d. 656).°° Farhad
proposes the following genealogy:
‘Abdullah Abt Isma‘tl Ansari, son of
Muhammad Abi Mansir Ansari, son of
‘Ali Abi Ma’ad Ansari, son of
Ahmad Ansari, son of
‘Alt Ansari, son of
Ja‘far Ansari, son of
Mansur Ansari, son of
Abt Mansir Ansari, son of
Abi Ayyiib Khalid ibn Zayd al-Khazraji al-Najjari al-Azdt.°’
Schimmel, de Beaurecueil and Farhadi agree that Ansari’s father,
Muhammad Abi Mansir (d. 1039), who was a shopkeeper in Herat at the
time of Ansari’s birth, had been a mystic himself in his youth in Balkh.®* W.
Thackston confirms that “ ‘Abdullah inherited a tendency toward Sufism,
the ‘inner’ or spiritual aspect of Islam, from his father, Abu Mansur
Muhammad, who had been trained in the way of abstinence and
renunciation of worldly affairs by an ascetic in Balkh.”©? Aba Mansiir was
first a disciple of the ascetic Suff Shaykh Abt °l| Muzaffar Habbal al-
Tirmidhi. This master schooled Ansari’s father in the rigorous art of
spiritual discipline and exercises and in scrupulous observation of dietary
laws.’° Later, Abii Mansir joined the Sufi circle of Shartf Hamza ‘Aqili of
Termez (d. 1060),’! who was revered for his spiritual blessings or divine
graces (baraka) and supernatural powers (kardma). He had a circle of
renowned Sufis with him, among whom were ‘Abd’1-Qasim Hannana, ‘Arif
‘Ayyar, and ‘Abd’I-Malik Iskaf, one of the few surviving disciples of al-
Hallaj (d. 922).”
Although Abu Mansir returned to Herat and started a family, he
remained a dedicated Sufi and associated with Sufi masters in the city.
Married life, however, never suited him. One day, while Ansari was still
young, his father abandoned his shop, wife, and family to return to his
mystical life in Balkh. Hence, he left Ansari and his siblings in a dire
socioeconomic predicament. Most of Ansari’s biographers speculate about
the time of his father’s departure. De Beaurecueil believes that his father
left while AnsarI was about ten years old. He writes, “The departure took
place, we believe, around the year 1015. His son was about ten years old.””°
Others suggest that Ansari was almost fourteen when his father left Herat
for good./* In spite of this short-lived marital life, de Beaurecueil asserts,
“Abu Mansur gave his son an example of an austere life, a yearning for
science, and a deep sense of religiosity.”’> Ansari’s childhood was neither
idyllic nor comfortable but blessed with key teachers and mentors who
instilled in the young man a love for learning and an enthusiasm for
memorization that would determine the course of his life.
Before Ansari’s father deserted his family to return to ascetic Sufi life
in Balkh, he enrolled his son in school at an early age. He made sure that
the youngster had proper and sound religious education and good
knowledge of Arabic and Persian. In the words of de Beaurecueil, Ansari
revered his father because he was pious and righteous, scrupulous on
matters of ritual practices, and strictly observant of the shari‘ah. He was a
Suff who read and recited the Qur’an constantly. He was the man who
guided his son’s first steps toward an accomplished religious and mystical
life.’° Farhadi and de Beaurecueil note that by the age of four, Ansari had
started learning to read the Qur’an under a female teacher.’’ Soon, however,
he was removed and put under the tutelage of a male teacher. In his own
words, Ansari tells the history of his early education:
First, I was sent to a female teacher, but some thought that it
might be harmful to me. At the age of four, I was sent to the
school of Malini. At the age of nine, I learned to write under the
supervision of gadi Abu Manstir and Jarudi. At the age of
fourteen, they allowed me to sit among their pupils. Still very
young, I took courses with another learned teacher. I was very
good at composing poetic verses and my classmates became
jealous of me.’®
When it came to hadith instruction, Ansari’s father made a
deliberate choice to entrust his son to two esteemed traditionists,
qadi Abi Mansur Azdi (d. 1019) and the remarkable hafiz Jaridt
(d. 1023). The former was an eminent jurist and a staunch
traditionist. He was the chief shafi‘ite gqadi of Herat.
Notwithstanding his advanced age, he stood aggressively against
rationalist theologians and earned the title of “a sharp sword
against the innovators.”’? This temperament of gadt Abi Mansir
Azdi would later match Ansari’s own aggressive character against
his opponents. Until qadt Abii Manstir Azdi’s death in 1019,
Ansari took lessons from both Shaykhs. Jaridi took the youngster
under his tutelage for hadith lessons. Unlike qadi Abi Mansir
Azdi, Jarudi was not confrontational but a man endowed with an
unusual gift of memorization. He was respected for his
detachment from earthly goods and scrupulous in avoiding illicit
or prohibited things.°? After the death of qadt Abi Manstir Azdi,
Jarudi took complete charge of Ansari’s education. JarudI was so
impressed by his disciple’s intelligence and hard work that he
chose Ansari to succeed him after his death. From qadt Abu
Mansur Azdi, Ansari inherited an aggressive zeal against the
“imnovators,’ and from Jartidi he acquired a methodology of
Qur’anic commentary and the art of hadith memorization.
To return to Ansari’s early education, it is important to remark that his
father, Muhammad Abi Mansir, not only was determined to provide a
correct religious education for his son, but he also sought to extend his
son’s curriculum to Persian and Arabic literati. Thus, poetry was added
under the supervision of a few literati of Herat. Ansari learned fast and
memorized many passages of the Qur’an, large numbers of hadiths, and
poetry to the point that he soon started writing prose and poetry himself.
Even though the family remained poor, friends and relatives helped. But it
was the intelligence and steadfastness of Ansari himself that kept him in
1,81
school.°* He would continue to study the Qur’an, the prophetic tradition,
and poetry steadily. De Beaurecueil filed this report verbatim on behalf of
Ansari:
Early in the morning, I attended Quranic recitation. Upon return, I
wrote down six pages that I committed to memory. Once this task
completed, around nine in the morning, I went to my literature
teacher where I wrote/copied all day long. Such a busy schedule
allowed me no time for rest. However, I was not at the end of my
task because I had to attend to other work, to the point that very
often, I prolonged my days way beyond the last prayer of the
evening.*?
Once Ansari was deprived of his father’s care and guidance, he found
spiritual and material abode with two Sufi shaykhs, Yahya ibn ‘Ammar
Shaybant and Abt Isma‘ili Ahmad Muhammad ibn Hamza, known as
shaykh ‘Ammiu. ‘Ammar Shaybani was an erudite Qur’anic commentator
and a staunch adversary of the Ash‘ari theology. He taught the youngster
Qur’anic commentary and generously took care of his student’s material
needs. From Jami’s Nafahat al-Uns, de Beaurecueil quotes Ansari’s tribute
to his teacher Yahya Ibn ‘Ammar Shaybant: “Would I have not met him, I
would not have been able to utter a word concerning Quranic exegesis,”*?
and he adds, “Yahya was a King disguised as a servant.”*
It was, however, the distinguished Sufi master, shaykh ‘Ammiu, who
picked up where Ansari’s father had left off. The shaykh had traveled
extensively in pursuit of spiritual knowledge and met venerated Sufi
masters in Baghdad, Mecca, and all over the Khurasan region. He built a
Suff lodge (Ahanqah) at the outskirts of Herat, where mature Sufts and
novices met for spiritual exercises. His traveling routine kept him on the
road, and he would later appoint Ansari to become his successor after his
death. The close relationship between the young man and his master
seemed to defy the age gap and the standard master-disciple bond. De
Beaurecueil writes:
In spite of the age difference, the relationship between Ansari and
his Shaykh was not typical of a disciple and a master. Rather, it
was friendship among equals. If Shaykh ‘Ammii taught the
youngster the wealth of knowledge he had accumulated during his
countless travels, and recited aphorisms and anecdotes received
from other distinguished Shaykhs, ‘Ammu did not hesitate to
learn from his pupil whose curiosity and vitality of a young soul
were characteristic of his demeanor.®>
Another important figure in Ansari’s life was Abd’|-Jabbar Jarrahi, a
fine scholar in hadith. He had a minor yet decisive influence on Ansari. He
taught his pupil the Prophetic tradition from al-Tirmidhi’s Jami‘
(Collection). For the rest of his life, Ansari preferred Jami‘ al-Tirmidhi to
Bukhart’s and Muslim’s sahihayni or any other hadith collection, for that
matter. To the people of Quhandiz, Shaykh ‘Ammiu declared, “Watch out
for ‘Abdullah; he dispenses the aura of an imam.’’°
The most significant teacher was Shaykh Abu ‘Abdallah Taqi Sijistant
(d. c. 1025), a Hanbali Suft. Taqi won Ansari’s respect and reverence for his
Hanbalism and his versatility in spiritual matters. The youngster seemed to
have struck a chord of sympathy and admiration in many of his teachers.
Taqi would praise the young man in flattering terms: “O ‘Abdullah Ba
Mansir! Praise be to God! What a light God has put in your heart!”°’ From
Taqi, Ansari acquired a visceral attachment to Hanbalite theology and
spirituality and also an aversion for honors, with a lifelong suspicion of the
rich and powerful. Later he paid tribute to his teacher in these words: “He
[Taqi] was my master and teacher in Hanbalite creed. Had I never met him,
I would never have come to know the belief of the Hanbalites.”**
In his final days, Ansari wrote in one of his poems, “I am a Hanball,
while living and dying. This is my testament, O brothers.”®? Makdisi
asserts,
This Harawi (al-Ansari al-Haraw1) was a Hanbalt; so Hanbali was
he that he declared that his last will and testament would be to
exhort all Muslims to become Hanbalis. Harawi had lived his
whole Sufi life and died a Hanbalt when Ghazzali had not yet
come to Baghdad; in fact had not as yet turned seriously to
Sufism.”
De Beaurecueil remarks that Hanbalism for Ansari was strictly theological
and not juridical. The Pir of Herat was unyielding in his attachment to the
letter of the Qur’an and the Sunna, but often enough, Ansari adopted Shafi‘T
solutions in jurisprudence.”! “We must remark that it is only in matter of
belief (i ‘tigad). In jurisprudence, Ansari opted for Shafi’1te solutions. But
when it came to matters of faith, he remained an adamant disciple of Ibn
Hanbal.”°* Similarly, in the preface of his English translation of the Sad
maydan, Munir Ahmad Mughal states, “Khwaja ‘Abdullah followed the
school of Imam Ahmad bin. Hanbal in matter of As/ (fundamental) and
Imam Shafi‘T in matter of furi‘ (branches).”?? At any rate, up to this
moment, Ansart seemed satisfied with his life in Herat; however, the
passing away of his major teachers altered his stable life.
2. Maturity and Study Travels to Nishapir
His father, Abi Mansir, and some important teachers, such as Yahya Ibn
‘Ammu, Taqi Siyistani, and many other influential Sufi mentors and
traditionists, contributed to the spiritual, moral, and intellectual formation
of the young Ansari. These teachers taught the Pir of Herat core Islamic
sciences: tradition, Qur’anic exegesis, and Sufism. Unfortunately, after the
death of Taqi in 1025, Ansari’s life took a new turn. Deeply affected by the
loss of several other teachers (qadi Manstr Azdi in 1019, Jarrahi in 1021,
and Jartdi in 1023), he decided to travel to Nishapir (capital of the
Khurasan) to further his education. De Beaurecueil asserted that Ansari left
a year after Taqi’s death to pursue his study of hadith and figh.?* He also
looked forward to sitting at the feet of renowned and learned teachers to
take advantage of their scholarship, receive their blessings, and enjoy their
company.
Once in Nishapir, Ansari collected hadiths largely from the students of
the great traditionist Abi ’1-‘Abbas Muhammad ibn Ya’qutb al-Asamm (d.
957), most of them advanced in age, such as Abt Sa‘id Sayrafi (d. 1030),
the well-versed Hanbalt Abi’l-Hasan ‘Alt Tirazt (d. 1031), the Qur‘an
commentator Abt Nasr Mansir al-Mufassir (d. 1031), and the grammarian
Abi ’Il-Hasan Ahmad Saliti (d. 1030).°° But he stayed away from all
scholars of the Ash‘arite and Mu‘tazilite schools. He refused to hear and
collect hadiths from the great qadi Abi Bakr al-Hirt (d. 1030) because he
was an Ash‘arite in theology. He sought to receive hadith only from
traditionists at the exclusion of “innovators.”?°
This uncompromising position penalized him dearly. He did not have
the honor of meeting such renowned scholars in Nishapur as Imam Ibrahim
al-Isfayani (d. 1027), Abt Muhammad al-Juwayni (d. 1047) (the father of
the great Imam al-Haramayn), Shaykh al-Islam Isma‘Tl al-Sabuni (d. 1032),
and Abi Qasim al-Qushayri, all of whom followed Ash‘arite theology.?’
Therefore, Ansari’s inflexible Hanbalism set him squarely in opposition to
all kinds of rationalist schools. Both his zeal for learning and his staunch
Hanbalite stand served him well but also hurt him at times.
Unlike many Islamic scholars of his time who traveled extensively,
Ansari left Herat on only a few occasions: in pursuit of knowledge in
Nishapiir, in two attempts to perform the pilgrimage (hajj) in Mecca,’® and
following exile due to theological conflicts. After his study travel to
Nishapur in 1026, Ansari agreed to accompany Imam Abi ’1-Fadl b. Sa‘d
of Herat to Mecca for hajj in 1032. But when their caravan reached
Baghdad, they learned that there was a dire shortage of water in Mecca and
the prices were exorbitant. In addition, an epidemic of smallpox had broken
out in the Hyaz in western Arabia and the Khurasan region. They had to
abort the trip and return home.’ Undeterred by this first failed attempt to
go to perform the hajj, Ansari embarked on his second attempt a year later,
hoping for a better outcome.!” This time, the caravan had not passed Rayy
when bad news reached them. The roads between Iraq and Hijaz were too
dangerous for travel. Many pilgrim caravans were being robbed and
brutalized by bands of Bedouins. Once again, his attempt to go to hajj was
unsuccessful. But on his way back to Herat, AnsarI met with some
prominent Sift masters. In Damghan he visited with Shaykh Muhammad
Qassab ‘Amuli, a disciple of the famous Abii ’1- Qassab.!0!
In Nishapur he had the good fortune of meeting the Suff Shaykh ‘Alt
ibn Ahmad Abii ’Il- Hasan Kharaqani (d. 1033).!°? In Kharaqani: Paroles
d’un Soufi, Christiane Tortel remarks that Kharaqani was hailed as a
supreme master and a Qutb (pole or pillar) of his time in spiritual matters.
Through his insightful words, he was in the spiritual, mystical, and
historical genealogy of those who bear the divine light. He was illiterate but
unparalleled in mystical matters, and he distinguished himself by the power
of his ecstatic sayings. Sultans and established Suft masters sought his
counsel and spiritual wisdom. Most of his phrases were bold utterances in
which the humility of the masters collided with God’s glory.!° During
Ansari’s visit with Kharaqani, the Shaykh mesmerized the young Ansari to
the point that he declared later, “Had I never met Kharaqant, I would never
have known Reality. He mixed, constantly, this and That, namely, the self
and Reality.”!°* De Beaurecueil adds, “The Reality (haqiqah) is the secret
of the mystical life, beyond the appearances.”!°° Kharaqanl was not a
scholar or theorizer of spiritual life, but he was a Sufft without guile. How
did this critical encounter occur? Fate had it that while in Nishapir, Ansari
ran into the famous Suff Abu Sa‘id Abu’l-Khayr (d. 1049), who told him
about Kharaqani.!°° The elderly and illiterate Safi would have the deepest
impact on Ansari’s mystical journey.
Schimmel reports, “This enthusiastic and demanding master
[Kharaqani1] caused a spiritual change in ‘Abdullah Ansari, with the result
that Ansari began to write his commentary on the Koran, which was,
unhappily, never finished.”!°’ Kharagant read into Ansari’s heart and
answered his spoken and unspoken fundamental questions. “He not only
deterred Ansari from trying to go on pilgrimage by making him realize that
“God was as likely to be in Khurasan as in Hiaz,” but also instructed him to
start training his own disciples.”!°° Farhadt reported that while in
conversation with Ansari, “Kharaqani went into ecstasy and burst into
tears.”!9? From Kharagani, Ansari learned that to be a Sufi does not consist
of outward appearances; “one does not become a Sufi by virtue of one’s
patched frock and prayer mat; one does not become Suft by adopting the
customs and manners of the Sufis; a Sufi is that which is not!” As
Kharaqant concluded, “A Sufi is a day that has no need of the sun, a night
that has no need of the moon and the stars, a ‘not-being’ that has no
being.”!!° De Beaurecueil believes that two masters have mostly inspired
Ansari: Taqi al-Sijistanit and Kharaqant. The first made him a Hanbali and
the second a Suft. He writes, “An adept reader of hearts like Taqt Siistani,
the elder and illiterate peasant impressed deeply Ansari. Their meeting was
like going on pilgrimage and he decided to abandon his desire to return to
Mecca.”!!!
After meeting with the ecstatic Kharaqanit, Ansari viewed Sufism as
“something that neither harms the soles of the feet nor leaves a trail of dust
behind.”!!* For him, a Sufi perfects him- or herself through actions of
genuine humility and frees him- or herself from the pitfalls of pride. He
returned to Herat and embarked on teaching hadith, Qur’an commentary,
and Sufism. At the age of twenty-seven, Ansari was ready to take on
teaching responsibilities after being schooled by different teachers in and
out of Herat. Hence, the first trip to Nishapur (1026) after the death of his
childhood teachers and the two failed attempts to go to Mecca for hajj
(1032-1033) gave him the opportunity to meet key traditionist Stfis, hadith,
and Qur’an scholars. These study trips crystallized his skills, and the
encounter with Kharaqani offered the spiritual impetus he had been looking
for in life. Ansari was ready to gather around him a circle of disciples and
students. Soon enough, his lectures were attended by senior Sifis and
learned folks of Herat and its surroundings. !!°
Ansari was an erudite orator and a bold preacher. He lectured at the
Suff lodges and mosques. There, he triumphed before his audiences. He
exerted his utmost talents in full consciousness. Ansari was an orator and a
popular preacher. He declared, “Whoever has not seen my manner of
conducting meetings and preaching, and yet speaks ill of me, I forgive
him.”!!4 Those years after he returned from Nishaptr were fruitful and
calm. However, tranquility was not to last long. Soon enough, Ansari would
engage in polemics and debates against rationalist theologians. As a result,
he suffered trials and hardships at the hands of his rivals. His literalist
reading of the Qur’an led to accusations of anthropomorphism (tashbih).
But, similarly to Imam Ibn Hanbal (d. 855), his harassment, exile, and
imprisonment would be vindicated later. His fame grew, and the multiple
public persecutions by Ash‘ari and Saljiiq political authorities did not deter
Ansari’s staunch criticism against rationalism of all types.
2.1. Hardship and Triumph (1042-1063)
As noted earlier in this chapter, Ansari had to confront opposing and
clashing schools of thought in his town about key theological issues: God’s
essence and attributes; the created or uncreated nature of the Qur’an; literal
or metaphoric hermeneutic of the Qur’an; and hadith, predestination,
human agency, and free will. As a solid Hanbali, he was convinced that the
teaching of the prophetic tradition could not remain neutral. He opposed
head-on what he considered vain discussions and, above all, a sacrilegious
intrusion of reason where the Qur’anic revelations had settled the matter.
He advocated a literal reading of the text and submission to its letter even
though humans could not explain the modality (the why and how). He
attacked the Ash‘aris and Mu‘tazilis publicly and engaged in a serious
conflict with them. In 1039, the Sultan Mas‘id was visiting Herat, and
Ansari’s adversaries sought to denounce him and obtain his condemnation
for anthropomorphism.'!> Summoned before the Sultan, Ansart defended
his position by reciting the Qur’anic passages and hadith that mentioned
God’s throne, hands, and face. The Sultan Mas‘tid, as de Beaurecueil
remarks, had other more urgent affairs to handle than worrying about
Ansari’s alleged anthropomorphism. He was dismissed with honor.!!°
This victory would be short lived. After Mas‘itid (d. 1949) was
suddenly assassinated in 1041, a group of theologians gathered and banned
Ansari from teaching and holding meetings. He was forced to leave Herat
and sought refuge in nearby Chakiwan. In 1044, he returned to Herat and
resumed his teachings. He was forty years old and had matured and been
seasoned by several ordeals. De Beaurecueil believes that Ansari restarted
his major commentary on the Qur’an upon his return. He adopted the
methodology of his former teacher, Yahya Ibn ‘Ammar, but he went beyond
a literal treatment of the sacred text to pay attention to questions it raised.!!7
Sadly, forty-three years later, at his death, his commentary on the Qur’an
had not been brought to a conclusion.
At the time of Ansari’s return in Herat in 1041, even with a greater
sense of spiritual maturity, his troubles were not over. In 1046, another
alliance of Ash‘arite and Mu‘tazilite theologians took advantage of the
political confusion and condemned Ansari. This time they exiled and
imprisoned him in Buchan (a two-day walk from Herat). As usual, prison
and exile were a time of deep soul-searching and heavy spiritual exercises.
He recalled Taqi’s and Kharaqgani’s wisdom and advice and decided to
return to the essentials in his teaching and preaching. According to de
Beaurecueil, he meditated for hours on this passage: Q.2:160—65.!!8
Fortunately for Ansari, this later imprisonment would last just a year. His
days of trials then seemed over, and he would experience tranquility for a
long while.'!? Upon his return to Herat, he taught and commented
extensively on Q.2:160—65. He focused his lectures solely on the spiritual
life, understood as a perpetual effort to love God according to the Qur’an
and the prophetic example. For a little while, Ansari dropped his polemics
against rationalist theologians. The reason might have been that on the
military front, Mawdud, son and heir of Mas‘ud’s throne, was battling the
Turkmen to salvage his power. The people of Herat were deeply
preoccupied by the political situation and tired of theological skirmishes.
For Ansari, the triumph of the Saljtiq Sultan Tughril Beg over Mas‘tid
of Ghazna ushered in an era of tranquility. Tughril Beg’s vizier, Abt’ Nasr
Kunduri, chased away the “innovators” and cursed them openly.!2° Many
scholars lost their teaching positions and were harassed, silenced,
imprisoned, or had to flee. Al-Qushayri intervened to defend the rationalist
schools but to no avail. He wrote a treatise bemoaning the state of the
community at war with itself and torn apart by hatred and theological
oppositions. Thus, Qushayri, in his Shikdyat ahl al-Sunna bi-hikaya ma
ndlahum min al-mihna (The complaint of the people of Sunna in telling the
story of what has befallen them during the inquisition), defended the
rationalists’ cause, but he could not stop the persecution. Another giant,
Imam al-Haramayn al-Juwayni (d. 1085), was forced to flee from Nishaptr
to the Hijaz.!*!
Unlike these seminal scholars and masters, this period was a time of
vindication for Ansari. For the next eleven years, he enjoyed peace and
prestige (1053—1064).!7 His fame reached far beyond the Khurasan region,
and renowned scholars, such as the prominent Baghdadi poets Abu ’!
-Hasan al Bakharzi and Abt ’Il-Qasim al-Zuzani (known as al-Bari), sought
to meet him. They traveled to Herat to sit at the feet of the Pir and listen to
his lectures on the Qur’an and the Sunna and enjoy his mystical poems. !?
Determined to assert his Hanbalite Sufism against all odds, Ansari
launched a renewed systematic attack against those he labeled “innovators.”
His determination, however, was quelled by a change of power in Baghdad.
Tughril Beg’s successor, Alp Arslan (1063-72), and his great vizier, Nizam
al-Mulk (1072-92), were now in power. The Sultan and his vizier were
Ashfarite in theology and Hanafi and Shafi‘l in madhhab, respectively.
Thus, Ansari ran into trouble again. In 1064, while Nizam al-Mulk was
passing though Herat, Ansari was summoned before him to answer
accusations put forward by Shafi‘t and Hanaft jurists. According to de
Beaurecueil and Farhadi, Ansari was challenged to engage in theological
debate with his opponents. Called upon by the vizier to answer a specific
question, Ansari replied, “I do not discuss matters other than what I have in
my left and right sleeves.” And the vizier asked, “So what do have in your
sleeves?” Ansari replied, “In my right sleeve, the Book of God, and in my
left, the Sunna of the Messenger of God.”!** The vizier dismissed him
without any blame and ended the debate, but his opponents did not give up.
Two years later in 1066, they convinced the vizier Nizam al-Mulk to exile
Ansari to Balkh for a year.!*°
2.2. The End Game (1080-89)
Concisely, de Beaurecueil describes Ansari’s final years:
Far from slowing down, ill health seemed to have enticed Ansari
to dictate his most important works to his young and fervent
disciples. The voluminous book, Condemnation of Speculative
Theology and its Practitioners (Dham al-Kalam) was dictated in
474/1082; The Stages of the Wayfarers (Manazil al-sa’irin) the
following year, and a brief treatise on the deficiencies of the
Stages (kitab ‘ilal al-maqamat) shortly after. Probably, his
Generation of Sufis (Tabaqat al-Sufiyya) dated back to the same
period. !°
During his last years (1080-89), Ansari experienced “celebrity and
grandeur”!?’ but also the infirmities of old age. The respect and reverence
due a master-teacher arrived almost at the time when Ansari had lost his
sight at the age of seventy-four. Unlike the year 1066, when he was exiled
to Balkh by Nizam al Mulk, in 1082 the vizier convinced the caliph al-
Mugtadi to honor Ansari, as his predecessor had.!2° Ansari received another
robe of honor along with honorific titles. According to de Beaurecueil,
Nizam al-Mulk’s move was more of a political tactic than a genuine action.
He used the opportunity to maintain peace in Herat between Ansari and his
disciples and rationalist theologians. These honors were meant to quell any
attempts to stir up unrest and conflict and nothing more. !°
Most importantly, the Pir of Herat harnessed all his energy to dictate
his last didactic manuals for wayfarers to attack rationalist theologians.
Subsequent to his lost vision and with an awareness of his own end, he
seems to have been prompted to accelerate his instruction to faithful
disciples. Ansari knew that time was running out and death was near.
Among his closest students and scribes, the following are worth
mentioning: Abd ’1-Awwal, the hafiz ‘Abi ’1 Khayr ‘Abdallah ibn Marziq,
‘Abi Nasr al-Mu‘tamin Saji, ‘Abd ’I-Malik Karrukhi, Muhammad
Saydalani, Muhammad Ibn Tahir Magqdisi, and Yisuf al-Hamadhani, the
inheritor of his legacy.!°° At the age of eighty-three, Ansari died in the city
of his birth on Friday, March 8, 1089, and was buried in Gazargah, near the
Shaykh ‘Ammii’s tomb and khangah.'?!
There is a consensus about the Pir of Herat’s legacy:
His biographers are unanimous in praising his piety, the breadth
of his knowledge in all branches of the religious sciences, and the
indomitable fervor of his devotion to the Qur’an, Sunna, and the
school of Ibn Hanbal, which led him to be accused by his enemies
of bigoted fanaticism and anthropomorphism.”!*?
Two periods marked this unique life, a time of formation (from birth to his
meeting with Kharaqan1) and a phase of teaching (from his return from his
second failed attempt to go to perform the hajj until his death).!** Despite
three exiles, two imprisonments, political unrest, and theological upheavals,
Ansari remained true to his Hanbalite theology and spirituality. After all his
troubles, he experienced peace and honor. When he lost his sight later in
life, he finally acceded to his disciples’ request to dictate his most important
manuals for the wayfarers on the spiritual journey. De Beaurecueil
summarizes his life:
Nubadhan harkens back to humility, and sets him off on a long
spiritual journey marred with trials. Here, the life of the mystic
and the polemicist meet. In 438 H., imprisonment at Bushanj
teaches Ansari the path of mystical love, which would inspire his
quranic commentaries for a long time. The exile at Balkh in 456
H., awakens in him the understanding that beyond love, God is
the source of all things in spiritual life. He would discover step by
step and through painful experiences the inner Reality which
Kharaqani drew his attentions to powerfully. He seems to have
understood Reality because once he lost his sight; he would
promptly dictate his book on the spiritual stages to his young
disciples. !34
Ansari was a gifted and erudite mystic but also aggressive against his
opponents in theology.!*> De Beaurecueil considered him to be “one of the
outstanding figures in Khurasan in 11th century: commentator of the
Qur’an, traditionalist, polemicist, and spiritual master, known for his
oratory and poetic talents in Arabic and Persian,”!*° and the friar often
referred to Ansari as his master and teacher. In his biography of Ansari,
there is a kind of posthumous conversation between the Dominican friar
and his “patron saint.” This is a kind of “mémoire d’outre tombe” (memoirs
beyond the grave) written by de Beaurecueil. His biography of the master is
the most comprehensive and well documented in any Western language. It
is no wonder that Farhadi translated it into Persian.!*’
To the best of our knowledge, all scholars of Ansari in Islamic and
Western languages take de Beaurecueil’s scholarship seriously. He read and
studied Ansari as a disciple and as a devotee would study his or her master.
He called upon Ansari in his prayers and intimate conversations. In a sense,
there seems to be a real similarity between de Beaurecueil’s relationship
with Ansari and Massignon’s with al-Hallaj, or H. Corbin’s with Yayha
Suhrawardi. There is little indication of manifest incompatibilities between
de Beaurecueil’s teacher’s faith tradition, Islam, and de Beaurecueil’s
Roman Catholic convictions. Maybe the real hint of the Dominican friar’s
“obsession” with his master lies here:
Thus, will, self-denial, detachment, patience, sadness, fear, hope,
thanksgiving, love, and nostalgia are the stages of people of the
law who are in pursuit of the essence of the inner Reality. When
they grasp it, the stages of the wayfarers vanish, and whatever is
not real disappears, and only subsists that which has never ceased
to be—“But will abide forever the Face of your Lord.”
(0.55.27)
Ansari’s biography is a window into the complex reasons of de
Beaurecueil’s scholarship. Equally important are his formation at Le
Saulchoir and his fascination for such distant lands as Afghanistan. The
narrative of both lives prepared the ground for the spiritual and mystical
connections set out in the following chapters. Both men were different in
temperament. Ansari was a fierce polemicist who did not hesitate to use
violence against his rivals, and de Beaurecueil shied away from theological
confrontations and diatribes. The spiritual connections between them seem
to have defied centuries of separation and incommensurable differences of
religious tradition, culture, and civilization.
The first and second chapters of this book have laid bare those
differences to clarify the following two chapters. These two biographical
narratives, and particularly the master’s biography, hint at the real interest
of a twentieth-century French Dominican friar who will find a spiritual
teacher in a Hanbali Sufi of eleventh-century Khurasan. Those narratives of
two religiously devoted men (“deux hommes de Dieu”) unveil their
personalities and show the force of their influential teachers. The Sufi
Shaykh ‘Ali ibn Ahmad Abi ’l- Hasan Kharaqani (d. 1033) was as
influential on Ansart as Marie Dominique Chenu (d. 1990) was on de
Beaurecueil. Concerning de Beaurecueil, the context in which he worked
and the ways in which his work and ideas took shape shed essential light on
chapters 3 and 4. Indeed, those chapters focus on de Beaurecueil’s
intellectual biography, which reflects his erudition on works attributed to
Ansari. Finally, the thrust of the friar’s scholarship is his practical
mysticism, praxis mystica. His endeavor represents a significant and unique
path in the field of scholarship on Islam.
De Beaurecueil
A Premier Scholar of Ansari’s Works
De Beaurecueil’s erudition was the backdrop for his pastoral mysticism in
the land of his master. The life-giving principle of his work in Kabul is
rooted in his Dominican spirituality and years of scholarship on the
master’s spiritual thought and teachings. Unfortunately, a single chapter
cannot do justice to the depth and breadth of de Beaurecueil’s scholarship.
His approach to the study of Ansari’s works in the original and contribution
to the understanding of Hanbali Sufi tradition are beyond the scope of this
chapter. However, because de Beaurecueil’s mystical intuition led him to
focus primarily on the master’s spiritual manuals,! this chapter intends to
survey Ansari’s bibliography with a focus on his spiritual teachings. This
study draws attention to how this spiritual (or mystical) conversation
transformed de Beaurecueil’s religious weltanschauung from “a dry erudite
Orientalism” (un orientalisme séchement érudit)* to a deeply personal
understanding of his own identity as a friar preacher. Claude Geffré reminds
us that “anytime we take the religious other seriously in his or her alterity,
we are invited to a deeper grasp of our own identity.”
This chapter explores parts of Ansari’s work through selections of de
Beaurecueil’s annotations, translations, and commentaries on the most
important and widely circulated books attributed to the Pir of Herat. I offer
an overview of the collection of books attributed to Ansari and touch on the
questions of authenticity and reliability that have plagued the available
manuscripts. Finally, this investigation focuses on the most representative
spiritual treatises, Kitab Sad Maydan (The Hundred Fields/Grounds)* and
Kitab Manazil al-Sa ‘irin (The Stages of the Wayfarers), and concludes with
Ansari’s most popular collection of intimate conversations with God, the
Munajat (Intimate Conversation with God).
I. The Corpus Attributed to Ansari”
In her dissertation on Ansari’s Sad maydan (The Hundred Grounds), Nahid
Angh brings a fresh insight to the discussion at hand. She rightly notes that:
Abdu’llah Ansari’s spiritual and literary expertise covers an
extensive domain from spiritual and religious teachings to works
of literature and poetry, from exegesis of the Qur’an to the
stations of the spiritual journey, devotional invocations and
biographies of Siifis and teachers.”
De Beaurecueil could not have agreed more. On February 9, 1971, he
presented his lifetime research on Ansari’s spiritual thought and life in
fulfillment of the requirement for the degree of doctorat d’Etat at the
Sorbonne.’ It was a moment of great achievement in his long career as a
scholar of the mystical dimensions of Islam, and particularly, his investment
in the life and writings attributed to Ansari. Arguably, de Beaurecueil is the
best biographer, exegete and translator of the Pir of Herat’s corpus in any
Western language.®
For de Beaurecueil, academic recognition for his work was secondary
compared to the deep motivation at the source of his scholarship. He
believed that mysticism was universal in nature and concrete in expression.
Ansari’s works were more than the subject of a monograph or an
orientalist’s obsession or passion. His scholarship led him into an
unexpected territory, a land of encounter. Chronologically, de Beaurecueil’s
scholarship on the Pir of Herat’s work falls into three major periods: in
Cairo at the IDEO from 1946 to 1965, then in Kabul from 1965 to 1985,
and finally in Paris from 1985 to his death in 2005.
In his biographical collection on Ansari, de Beaurecueil gives an
account of the master’s bibliography both in Persian and Arabic. In terms of
Persian mystical history, Ansari was a pioneer in many ways. He was the
first to produce in local Persian dialect a short mnemonic treatise on a
difficult and complex subject matter like Sufism, namely, Sad maydan (The
Hundred Grounds). Even though Hujwirl’s Kashf al-mahjub (Revelation of
the Mystery) in Persian and Qushayri’s Risdla in Arabic? were also early
works on the meaning of key Suft terms, “Sad mayddn remains,” as
Purjavadi writes, “the first independent and single classic written in Persian
to address stations and the levels of swlak, the inner journey.”!° Farhadi
agrees with Purjavadi and adds, “His [Ansari’s] Hundred Grounds,
however, retains its importance as the first didactic treatise on Sufism to be
written in Persian, and specifically intended to serve as a mnemonic manual
for mystics.”!! Ansari’s Tabaqat al-Sifiyya (The Generations of the Siifis)
and Kashf al-asrar (Unveiling of the Secrets) are both pioneering works in
Persian mystical tradition.
De Beaurecueil remarks that the master’s spiritual treatises influenced
generations of scholars and Sufis within and beyond his immediate circles.
He found more than forty manuscripts and examined the work of many
commentators on The Stages of the Wayfarers from the thirteenth to
twentieth centuries.!* In addition The Hundred Grounds and The Stages of
the Wayfarers were read, meditated on, commented on, and used by Siufis as
far away as Andalusia. Ibn al ‘Arif (d. 1141), Ibn ‘Arabi (d. 1240), and Ibn
al-Khatib (d. 1374) wrote commentaries on the master’s work.!? Likewise,
Ibn Taymiyya’s famous student Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (d. 1350) wrote
one of the most comprehensive commentaries on the master’s The Stages of
the Wayfarers.'* The Pir of Herat’s teachings on the spiritual journey have
become standards in both the Persian and Arabic worlds. With regard to the
entire corpus of the master, de Beaurecueil did establish a comprehensive
list that includes both Farhadi’s index and other works. !°
Ravan Farhadi, who wrote a short introduction to Ansari’s life and
work, classified the books attributed to the master in four categories:
1. Works on faith, creed, shari‘a, and tafsir: *Kashf al-asrar
(Unveiling of the Secrets); Dhamm al-Kalam (Condemnation
of Speculative Theology); Takfir al-Jahmiyya (The Impiety of
the Jahmites); Arba ‘tn fil-Sunna (Forty Traditions); Arba ‘tn
fil-Sifat (Forty Attributes of God); Al-Fartgq fil- Sifat (The
Distinction Between the Attributes of God); Al-Qawa ‘id (The
Fundamentals); and Mandgib Ahmad ibn Hanbal (The
Excellent virtues of Ibn Hanbal).
2. Work on Sufism: *Tabagat al-Sufivya (The Generations of the
Sufis).
3. Works on spiritual stages: *Sad Maydan (The Hundred
Fields), Mandazil al-Sa’irin (The Stations of the Wayfarers),
‘Tlal al-Maqamat (The Flaws in the Stages); *Maqulat-o
andarz-ha (Sayings and Advices).
4. Works on devotional invocations: *“Mundjat (Intimate
Invocations).!°
To appreciate the variety of Ansari’s corpus, it suffices to sample these two
treatises (one in Arabic and the other in Persian): Sad maydan, Manazil al-
sa’irin and the Munajat, which is a collection of aphorisms. But before
focusing on those works, issues surrounding the authenticity of the corpus
must be discussed.
1. Questions of Authenticity
At the outset, it 1s important to note that though questions of authenticity
are important, modern readers of ancient manuscripts should refrain from
imposing their sense of authorship on the ancient texts. Our modern
understanding of authorship and authority is foreign to the premodern
Islamic world. Many authors dictated their work to their students. Most of
Ansari’s biographers, de Beaurecueil included, agree that the master
probably never wrote a single book with his own hands.!’ His corpus is
largely composed of notes and a compendium of his spiritual teachings
gathered by his disciples and students. In addition, most of his teaching
took place in the intimacy of his khdnqah (Sufi lodges), where the master
spent time among his disciples and family. De Beaurecueil translated the
rules of the master’s khdngqah in a short pamphlet and remarks, “[The rules]
were the expression of the ideals of loyalty, subtleness, discretion and
faithfulness to the Quran and the Sunna. In his intimate circle, Ansari
expanded upon the lectures he gave in public.”!® There is no doubt that the
master preferred oral delivery of lectures and sermons rather than writing
them down. He seems to have excelled in teaching and was renowned for
his oratorical skills.
Farhadi affirms that “Ansari was more a teacher than a penner who
wrote. His training as a student and later as a teacher of Traditions (hadith),
enhanced by his prodigious memory, enabled him to speak like a book.”!?
The corpus of writings attributed to him is the fruit of his disciples’ and
students’ notes and collections of his preaching and lectures on spiritual
discipline and exercises. The Swedish Iranist and translator Bo Utas best
captures the issue:
There is, to begin with, no doubt about his existence (...) but did
he write anything (1.e., in the narrow sense of the word, excluding
the more general sense of “compose,” or “formulate”)? That we
cannot say. As matter of fact, not one of the works ascribed to
him appears to have been written down by himself, and only one
of them, his Arabic Mandazil as-sa’irin (Station of the Travelers)
is certain to have been dictated by him in a definitive form
intended for written transmission. This was _ furthermore
confirmed by his written ijazah (authorization) in at least one of
the first manuscripts.7°
Bo Utas had done extensive work on classical Sufism and Persian
poetry and was well aware of the intractable difficulties in identifying the
exact authors of important writings. Ansari is in good company in this
matter. De Beaurecueil noted that in his final years, the master would ask
his students to read their notes back to him after his lectures to check the
accuracy of their collections. Earlier manuscripts of the Mandazil were
confirmed by the master’s written ijaza.7! De Beaurecueil’s research shows
clearly that Kashf al-Asrar (Unveiling the Mysteries), Tabagat, Munajat,
and many other works were compiled and edited by one or more of his
disciples. The Manazil, for example, was dictated after he lost his sight at
the age of seventy-four.2? The master’s written ijaza and an affinity in
writing style were important clues that allowed the Dominican friar to piece
together the Munajat. In Manuscrits d’Afghanistan, de Beaurecueil presents
a comprehensive collection of the corpus attributed to the master. These
manuscripts are, in his view, largely authentic and reflect the rhetorical style
and theological and spiritual teachings of the Pir-of Herat.
Farhadi differs and remarks that among the large collection of works
attributed to him, the master did not always check systematically the
accuracy of his students’ notes.*? This confirms my assumption that due
caution is advised in compiling a genuine index of works attributed to the
master. Surprisingly, it seems easier for scholars, particularly de
Beaurecueil,** to write the biography of Ansari than to compile his
bibliography because the latter is riddled with reliability issues.*° In
addition, many works were falsely attributed to him, and fragments or
paraphrases of a particular book are sometimes contained in other
manuscripts. The Mundjat are a case in point. Farhadt concludes: “In a
general way, many parts of the texts found in the 15th century manuscripts
can also be traced in earlier manuscripts (such as Kashf al-Asrar and
Tabagat al-Sifiyya).””°
Farhadi believes that two main factors explain the authenticity
problems. First, some writers, calligraphers, and scribes attributed works to
Ansari because he was a famous figure. Second, other writers simply
plagiarized or imitated the master’s style of writing.*’ N. Angha, in her
research on Ansari’s Sad Maydan, remarks that “in reading manuscripts
related to him [Ansari] we come across repetitions, additions, deletions, and
some revisions. Over time and through more research and study, we have
come to believe that some works related to him can no longer be considered
authentic.”*® Two examples illustrate the problem. Scholars differ
concerning the master’s code of Sufi conduct, titled Mukhtasar fi Adab al-
Sufiyya.*? Angha, a scholar and a Sufi, and Nasr Allah Pirjavadi, who is
arguably one of the most important Iranian scholars of Ansari, support the
renowned Swiss Islamicist Fritz Meier (d. 1998), who wrote wide-ranging
and seminal works on Sufism. Meier claims that Mukhtasar fi Adab al-
Sufiyya 1s wrongly attributed to Ansari. He believes that the real author is
the much later but no less famous Najm al-Din Kubra (d. 1221).°° De
Beaurecueil is joined by A. T. Karamustafa, professor at the University of
Maryland College Park and Gerhard Bowering, the German-born
Orientalist and professor at Yale University, in disagreeing with Meier’s
conclusion. Béwering admits that the master’s Adab al-Sifiyya appears to
be very similar to the Adab al-muridin ascribed by Meier to Kubra and that
the two treatises are identical word for word except for a very few details.
However, he insists:
The absence of quotations from sources later than Ansari, the
complete independence of the work from Abu an-Najib as-
Suhrawardi’s Adab al-muridin (hardly explicable in a work by
Kubra, whose Sifi affiliation is commonly traced back to Abt an-
Najib via ‘Ammar al Bidlist); the cross-reference to Ansari’s
Manazil as-Sa’irin within the work; the strong plea for Sunni
attitudes in the Sufi master that is consistent with the fervent
Hanbali trend of Ansari, yet hardly compatible with the Shiite
leanings of certain Kubrawis; and finally the conformity of the
treatise with the thought and style of Ansari, all suggest that the
work was compiled by a direct disciple of Ansari and later
plagiarized either by Kubra himself or one of Kubra’s early
followers.*!
Similarly, the only surviving manuscript of Kashf al-asrar is Rashid
al-Din Maybudi’s (d. c. 1126) commentary based on Ansari’s and not the
master’s own Kashf al-asrar.** Indeed, almost forty years after the death of
the master, Maybudt compiled, edited, and extended the lecture notes
written down by the master’s pupils on his Qur’anic commentaries.
According to Bo Utas:
Maybudi claims that he has read (tdla‘tu) the Kitab Shaix al-
islam ... “‘Abda’llah ... Ansari (gaddasa ‘llahu rithahu) fi tafsir
al- Qur’an, finding it a wonder of expression and meaning, of
ornate and rhythmic prose (tarsi‘), but also extremely concise,
thus deciding to amplify it. And amplify it he did. It fills ten solid
volumes in the edition of ‘Ali Asghar Hikmat.*?
Still, in a paper published at the millennium lunar anniversary of the
master’s birthday, de Beaurecueil lamented the careless behavior of a
number of scholars who continued to attribute works to Ansari that are
obviously not his.>4
Concerning the Persian dialect that the master used during his
teachings, Farhadt and Angha note that Sad maydan was dictated in Dari-
Persian or Herati-Persian.*> On the language issue, Wladimir Ivanov’s
article “Tabaqat of Ansari in the Old Language of Herat” is insightful and
worthy of attention. This article is a meticulous philological analysis of
Ansari’s Tabaqat al-Sufiyya (the Generations of Suft). Ivanov’s analysis
traces the language of the manuscript back to eleventh-century Herati. The
author borrows the expression “the Old Language of Herat” from Jami’s
introduction in his Nafahat in reference to the eleventh-century dialect of
the city of Herat.*° De Beaurecueil, Farhadi, and Angha all agree that the
preface to Sad maydan, which reads “Tardjim-i-Majdlis-i ‘aqida
(Introductory notes to lectures concerning the articles of faith),’”*’ does not
mean that the book was first written in Arabic and then translated into
Persian. The word tardjim has to be understood as “records, expositions”
and not as “translation.”°® For his part, de Beaurecueil refers simply to the
master’s Persian dialect. He is interested in the significance of Ansari’s
decision to use the vernacular. He writes:
Persian was the common language of the inhabitants of Herat, and
used by Ansari and his disciples in everyday conversation, and in
supplications to God. It is a familiar and poetic idiom, not
technical, but conducive to explanation for ordinary people, and
suitable for heartfelt prayers. Arabic, on the contrary, is the sacred
language of the Quran and Islamic sciences including Sufism with
its technical vocabulary, precision of thought, and the mode of
communication among scholars in the entire Islamic world,
regardless of ethnic background. Therefore, in The Hundred
Fields, Ansari had in mind his close entourage and in The
Deficiencies of the Stages, the readership is much larger, people
from Herat and beyond. Precise definitions would replace mere
translations or brief description of Arabic expressions. Subtle
analysis in which each word has a value would replace vague
descriptions or loose comparisons which often lack rigor.*”
Another issue is that, over time, many versions of works attributed to
Ansari were discovered, such as several versions of ‘T/lahi nama, Mundjat,
Sad mayddan, Tabagqat al-Sifiyya. Also, multiple versions of his sayings,
poems, and manuscripts are scattered all over the Persian and Arabic world.
De Beaurecueil worked on manuscripts located in Kabul, Bombay, London,
Paris, Tehran, and Istanbul.*° In his series of Ansdrivyat published in the
BIFAO;*' he devoted an article to the question of manuscripts.
Painstakingly, he went through all the manuscripts available at the time and
evaluated their authenticity and relevance. His article shows how dexterous
and skillful he had become in editing manuscripts.*? It is no wonder that
when de Beaurecueil opened his Maison d’Abraham in Kabul and gave up
hunting and editing manuscripts, his Dominican brother Georges Anawati
and many of his colleagues thought it was a waste of talents and a loss of
erudite scholarship on Ansari’s work.
At any rate, de Beaurecueil’s scholarship has sought to sort out the
authenticity question and arrive at a reliable catalog of books attributed to
the master. His annotated and translated works have largely cleared the
confusion. Apart from some minor mistakes in his early bibliography of
Ansarl, de Beaurecueil gives readers an appendix of accurate works,
including poems and sayings.** Hellmut Ritter, a German scholar of Persian
literature and mysticism and author of Das Meer Seele (The Ocean of Soul),
the voluminous book on Farid al-din ‘Attar, pays tribute to de Beaurecueil’s
pioneering and groundbreaking research on the master of Herat. Ritter
writes, “A work of such magnitude is a lifetime endeavor. It is time
consuming and demands patience ... We could, however, understand the
feat of those who embark on such a painstaking research.”*° A clear
example of de Beaurecueil’s investment is best appreciated in his
Manuscrits d’Afghanistan published in 1964, which was the fruit of two
visits to Afghanistan in 1955 and 1962.*° During both visits, de Beaurecueil
collected 1,596 manuscripts from the private library of the last King of
Afghanistan, M. Zaher Shah, and from five other public libraries, including
the Kabul Museum, the Ministry of Information, the Ministry of Public
Education, the Herat Museum, and the Faculty of Fine Arts of the
University of Kabul.*” This overview of the body of work attributed to
Ansari demonstrates the place that the master holds in the mystical tradition
and imagination of the Persian world. Let us turn to a few masterpieces
attributed to the Pir of Herat to appreciate their spiritual acumen.
2. Two Spiritual Treatises: The Hundred Fields and The Stages of the
Wayfarers
Beginners on the spiritual path are often in dire need of precise and well-
defined stages and stations. It comes as no surprise that in the mystical
tradition of Islam, there are many works that try to answer such needs.*8
The three treatises under consideration fall squarely within this purview.
The Pir of Herat was not a theoretician of the mystical path but one who
lived it and taught students and novices the stages and pitfalls of the
spiritual journey. The form, content, and spiritual doctrines of the master’s
treatises were mostly influenced by the writings of Abt Sa‘td Kharraz’s (d.
899) Kitab al-sidg (The Book of Spiritual Authenticity) and Abi Mansir al-
Isfahant’s (d. 1107) Risadla nahj al-khass (The Path of the Privileged). But
de Beaurecueil and Farhadi believe that among these masters, the most
influential work on Ansari was Abi Mansir al-Isfahani’s.*” Indeed, in his
Tabaqat al-Siifiyya, the master speaks highly of al-Isfahani, calling him “the
Imam of the esoteric sciences and the sciences of divine reality, the paragon
of his age, unique among Masters.”°° Ansari also refers explicitly to other
seminal Sufi masters such as ‘Ubayd al-Basri (d. 761), Dht l-Nin Misri (d.
860), Abi Yazid Bastami (d. 874)°', Junayd Baghdadt (d. 910), and Aba
Bakr al-Kattani (d. 934).>2
In his treatises, Ansari sought to systematize the mystical journey.
Even though these treatises differ in terms of language (Persian and
Arabic), literary genre, the circumstances and period of composition, and
the extent of their influence, they nevertheless shed light on each other.
Thus, it is crucial to compare them to grasp their spiritual intelligence. In
these spiritual teachings, the master addressed morality (akhlaq) and good
conduct (adab) as well as chivalry (futuwwa) and magnanimity
(muruwwa).°> He underscored spiritual discipline, devotion, and above all a
strict respect to the divine path. As a Sifi and a Hanbali in theology,**
Ansari relies only on the Qur’an and the Sunna, and as a literary genius, he
weaves verses of the Qur’an and hadiths together to craft a mosaic of
rhymed and rhythmic prose, beautiful to recite and easy to remember.
Hence, the references to the sacred book and the prophetic tradition are not
epiphenomena, but they confer religious value and authenticity to his
thought.°° In the preface of Mandzil, the master goes through the entire
chain of transmission (isndd) of a number of hadith cited to prove the
dependability and reliability of his sources.°° Likewise, his spirituality is
based on the sacred texts. Angha makes an astute remark concerning the
master’s view of the relationship between Sufism and Shari’ah. She did not
see a conflict for Ansari between Hanbali legalism and the mystical path.
She wrote:
To him [Ansari] the divine law is the foundation of understanding
and awareness of the divine truth, and the divine truth is
expressed in the divine law, and the seeker is to understand and
obey both on the path towards understanding the reality of God.
His Hanbalism and his devotion to the Qur’an and hadith is
expressed in every detail of his teachings, and his mystical
teachings are also expressed in every detail of Sad maydan. They
exist not in opposition to each other but in harmony.°’
Similarly, de Beaurecueil, in his “Présentation d’Ansdri,” notes that
for Ansari, there is no internal contradiction or duplicity between
Hanbalism and Sufism. His personality and works testify to both his Sufism
and his Hanbalism.°® The spiritual life and the mystical experience go hand
in hand with the observation of the demands of the religion. For Ansari,
Sufism is Islam lived more deeply, and a good Muslim should be a Suff and
a Sufi should be a good Muslim. He teaches: “The Reality is entirely the
Law. The Law is the foundation of the Reality. The Law without the Reality
is useless, and the Reality without the Law is useless. Those who act
without these two are (themselves) useless.””°”
Furthermore, de Beaurecueil’s attachment and reverence for the master
lie primarily in the following remarks. Ansari’s mystical thought and
spiritual teachings sought to preserve the tension between a strict respect for
the Qur’an and the Sunna on the one hand and their inner meaning
(istinbat) on the other. In his Kashf al-asrar (Unveiling the Mystery/Secret),
Rachid al- Din al- Maybudi tried to bring together the exoteric (outer
meaning) and esoteric (inner meaning) exegesis of the Qur’an already
present in the master’s commentary.® On this note, it is important to
remark that commentators on Ansari’s works are multiple and varied. The
master’s admirers are found among both Ibn ‘Arabi’s as well as Ibn
Taymiyya’s students.°! In both Sad maydan and Manazil, Ansari is aware of
the differences in aptitude and varying dispositions of his students. He
teaches his disciples to grow in spiritual matters step by step. His
methodology is not new, but his poetic style makes the stages easy to
memorize.
De Beaurecueil was not only a scholar of Ansari’s work; he was also a
student and disciple of the master’s mystical teachings. He did not hesitate
to incorporate parts of the master’s aphorisms, sayings, and poems into his
own liturgical worship. His liturgical celebration (Eucharist and the Hours)
in Kabul features many sayings of the Mundjat. These aphorisms or
monologues with God nourished his spiritual imagination and helped shape
his daily horarium. For example:
O God
To converse with your friends is like cool water on the soul.
To converse with others than them is torment to the soul.
Concerning Sad maydan and Manazil, they served as stages or dwelling
places on the spiritual journey. In so many ways, de Beaurecueil’s endeavor
is comparable to the work of an iconographer in Orthodox Christian
tradition. Writing (instead of painting) an icon was not just an act of art but
a prayer. This master-teacher conversation was the nourishing ground on
which the Dominican friar’s life as a religious and a priest rested in the land
of Islam. He seemed to have reconciled his Dominican spirituality of
contemplari aliis tradere (contemplate and share the fruit of one’s
contemplation) with the master’s spiritual vision. It is no surprise that the
Munajat were at his bedside in his final days in France. De Beaurecueil’s
work offered a systematic reading of the master’s spiritual thought. The two
treatises that are the subject of our study are famous for their insight, style,
and spiritual wisdom.
A parallel reading of Sad Maydan (the Hundred Fields) and Mandazil
(The Stages of the Wayfarers) shows Ansari’s own spiritual development
and maturity. Most of de Beaurecueil’s effort to understand the master’s
spiritual teaching lies in these two treatises. Ansari dictated Sad maydan at
the age of fifty, around the years 1056—57,°* twenty-two years after his
sama‘ experience in Nubadhan, which led to a decision to forsake drunken
mysticism once and for all.°> The master dictated his work at a point where
he had enjoyed almost twelve years of serene life without trials of exile or
prison. During this time of reprieve, he devoted his energy to teaching and
particularly to his commentary on the Qur’an. For example, the backdrop of
the Sad Maydan was his commentary on Q.3:31: “Say: if you love God,
follow me: God will love you and forgive you your sins.”°*
In 1082, twenty-six years later, the master revised, expanded, and
retitled his previous work from Kitab Sad Mayddan to Kitab Manazil al-
S@ irin. By that time, he was blind and had only seven years to live. The
Manazil finally answered a persistent request of his students and followers
in Herat and Balkh to rework his earlier treatise and correct its failures and
inconsistencies. This second treatise, written in Arabic, was the master’s
ultimate spiritual gift to posterity. There was a difference not only in
structure but also in the content. The master introduced each station with a
related Qur’anic verse with remarkable care. The differences in structure
and content, however, confirm a general progress in his spiritual thought
and reinforced the spiritual connection between Kitab Sad Maydan and
Kitab Manazil al-S@ irin.
In both treatises, the master is aware that spiritual growth differs from
one student to another, and he insists on God’s absolute freedom to impede
or increase spiritual progress. The images and terms used are designed to
reveal and describe the “fields” and “stages or stations.” His use of chapters
suggests a dynamic character of the spiritual path.°> The term “station
(maqam) signifies that which may be attained by control and may be
realized through seeking hardship and suffering, and the station (manzil)
may be considered as a stopping place for training.” Interestingly enough,
the master does not use the word maqam (demeure, dwelling) in either of
the titles of his major treatises; he prefers maydan (fields) and manazil
(stations). De Beaurecueil finds this choice significant: Ansari would speak
of The Hundred Fields (mayddn), a neutral expression referring to an
exercise ground and a battlefield.°’ As Angha observes, however, in Sad
Maydan, the master at times uses dwelling (magdm) and station (manzil) as
synonymous terms and does not oppose or differentiate them.°* As the
master teaches in the preface, “each of these thousand dwelling places is a
stage for travelers and a dwelling place for those who stop.”°”
De Beaurecueil and Angha have examined in detail the differences in
terms of vocabulary, structure, and classification of stages, citations,
definitions, and descriptions of the terms between the two treatises.’°
Angha notes that “Sad Maydadn and Manazil have fifty-one stations in
common and differ in forty-nine stations.”’! De Beaurecueil adds that even
though the two treatises stem from the same author and share many
features, the differences are obvious. He writes about Mandazil:
[T]he introduction announces a strict structure (ten sections which
are sub-divided in ten chapters, and analyzed on three levels), the
list of terms studies is not the same, their position on the spiritual
path has changed as well as the Quranic citations which
introduced them. The definitions of terms are rigorous, the
analysis leaves little room to fantasy, the comparisons are
discrete, and the eloquence is measured. ’”
According to Angha, the master sought in Sad Maydan to lead
wayfarers to God or to attain proximity with God (gurb).’ Each field
follows a standard structure: definition and description of the field, a
ranking of the class of wayfarers, and a grouping of the attributes of each
station.’* According to Ansari, there are three types of people on the
spiritual journey: “They are people of spiritual realization and verification
(ahl-i tahqiq), or those who have listened to God and are enraptured by the
divine ecstasy (ahl-i sama‘), finally, there are the people of self-delusion
who claim that they do know (ahl-al da‘wa).”’> The master dwells on the
qualifications of the three groups and teaches that the first group is the ‘arif,
those who know and have discovered the knowledge of the spiritual path,
and the divine light illumines their hearts. The second group refers to
people of ecstatic rapture (ahl -i sama‘). This group is mentioned in field
number eighty-seven of Sad Maydan. They have found illumination through
the experience of hearing God’s word and commands (amr). The last group
pretends to have spiritual knowledge but is in self-delusion (ahl-al
da‘wa).’° Likewise in the Mandzil, the master classifies the wayfarers in
three groups: the murid (disciples), murdd (masters), and impostors (da ‘wi
kunanda)." In the master’s own words:
Indeed, on the spiritual path there are three types of wayfarers:
first, a person who acts, but is torn between fear and hope and is
inclined toward love without modesty—that is the murid. The
second is a person who is pulled from the places of distraction
towards the valley of concentration on God—that is the murdd.
Third, a person who is neither the first nor the second is an
impostor who lures others into temptation and seduction.’
The master also classifies the dwelling places (mandzil) as follows:
For your sake, I distinguish the levels of each dwelling places in
order that you know the level of the common person, and then the
level of the advanced and finally the level of the Realized. Each
one of them has a rule for the itinerary, a path and a direction
assigned to them.’?
Angha relies on the view of another important Iranian scholar of
Ansari’s work, Savar Mulla’1, to show the place of Sad Maydan in the
Persian world. She declares, “This treatise is one of the most important and
carefully systematized esoteric masterpieces ever written in Persian on the
stages and stations of the spiritual journey. It represents not only Ansart’s
logical and analytical mind but also his poetic and literary style on
describing the stages and stations of the inner journey,”®° and she adds that
the Sad Maydan is “written in a rhythmic prose literary form similar to
poetry with a calculated beat.”*! There is no doubt that Ansari’s literary
skills and poetic talents contributed to the success and popularity of his
spiritual teachings. De Beaurecueil puts Sad Maydan in context: “The book
is [a] compilation of notes taken by a disciple (or by many given [that] there
are various versions and manuscripts) during the master’s oral lectures
where he let his inspiration of the moment lead him.”** Sad Maydan begins
with repentance (tawba) and concludes with the field of subsistence in God
(baga’). The master adds another stage, love (mahabba), which is the
sublimation and unification of all the hundred fields.
De Beaurecueil does recognize that the two treatises are not equal in
literary quality and spiritual acumen. “[I]n the series of teaching on the
spiritual path, the Hundred Fields offers just a rough draft, because during
his sermons the master was available to sustain freely his arguments by
answering his audience’s questions. The book needs not to be asked to offer
more than it has.”®? Bo Utas agrees and calls Sad Maydan “a Persian sketch
of the Manazil.”** De Beaurecueil’s earlier remark is well taken because
many scholars would lament part of the structural problem and
inconsistencies in Sad Maydan.®> Angha notes that in The Hundred Fields,
stations follow each other without a solid organizing structure to bind them
in a coherent manner. Some fields do not follow the three-by-three schemes
—a definition of the field, a ranking of the classes of the wayfarers, and a
grouping of the attribute of each station.®° In conclusion, de Beaurecueil
notes:
The Hundred Fields with its imprecision and unevenness is
wanting at times, and it is normal that the book leaves us
unsatisfied. The Hundred Fields was a mere compilation of
lecture notes. It would have been different to hear Ansari teaching
his disciples. Some chapters are, however, marvelous, such as,
annihilation and subsistence in God (chapters 99 and 100). The
power of their conciseness is unmatched.®’
The inconsistencies and failures in structure and organization
contained in Sad maydan are corrected in Mandzil.** In this latter spiritual
manual, the master states clearly the reasons for his endeavor. His thought
has evolved from a moralistic perspective to a focus on the mystical path.
The structural difference and the shift in classification both point to an
evolution in the master’s own understanding of spiritual stages and their
importance. Hence, the Manazil is a revised and polished version of Sad
maydan with a reordering of the fields and the suppression of a few others.
Farhadi corroborates this view and lays out the structure of the treatise. He
notes:
If there is a classical Sufi treatise with a clear structure, it is this work.
[Its features are:]
1. Dictated in Arabic by Ansari who, by then, was blind.
2. The book contains a preface and an introduction.
3. And has ten sections (abwab). Each section contains ten
chapters, and each chapter presents a “station” or manzil. An
epilogue, which is at the end of the Hundredth Station is the
Unification (tawhid).°°
This clear structure, however, would change between the two treatises.
In the first treatise, the master starts with tawba (return to God) and ends
with mahabba (love); the second treatise starts with yagaza (awakening)
and concludes with tawhid (Unification).?” Angha, in her study of Sad
Maydan, shows clearly the difference in structure and classification of both
treatises.”! The originality of this treatise (1082) reflects the master’s own
spiritual maturity through trials (prison and exile). There are a hundred
maqamat divided into ten groups or sections, which are bidayat
(Beginnings), abwab (Doors), mu ‘amaldat (Actions), akhlag (Virtues), usil
(Principles), awdiya (Valleys), ahwal (Spiritual States), wilayat
(Guardianship), hagd’ig (Realities), and nihayat (Fulfillments).?? In
addition, each maqam or station has three stages of realization (darajat).
With a few exceptions, the master remains faithful to the structure. The
three-to-three schemes are maintained with absolute rigor through the
hundred stages. The introduction gives crucial clues to the goal of and
reasons for the treatise. The book is an answer to students and disciples in
Herat and Balkh. Ansari explains in his own words why he wrote the book:
A group of those who are interested in the path of the wayfarers
toward God, the meek people of Herat and beyond, asked me
years ago to offer a short exposé on the subject matter, which
would serve as lampposts on the spiritual journey. I granted their
request with this book, after invoking God’s help and guidance.
The people begged me to present these stages in a manner that
shows their order of succession, and to point to the relations
between them, but to leave out other masters’ sayings for
conciseness sake in order that the book is delightful to read and
easy to memorize.”*
In addition, the significance of Mandzil is reflected in the number of
commentaries on the treatise in both the Arab and Persian worlds. These
commentaries cover a range of schools of thought from the followers of ibn
‘Arabi to the disciples of Ibn Taymiyya.” In the words of Caspar:
The influence of this shaikh al-Islam was considerable, a fact to
which the numerous commentaries on his writings testify. More
remarkable still is the fact that these commentaries represent a
wide range of tendencies extending from the monists (disciples of
Ibn ‘Arabt) such as Shams al-Din al-Tustari to Ibn Qayyim al-
Jawziyya, the impetuous disciple of Ibn Taymiyya. His influence
appears still to exist in our time, for one can find in Cairo recent
editions of the Book of Stages and the commentaries of Ibn
Qayyim al-Jawziyya.”>
The broad ranging commentaries proved the influence of the treatise
among the unlikely school of mysticism. This attraction is due to the fact
that the master’s spiritual path was not rigid and unyielding, but he crafted a
flexible and dynamic structure suitable to wayfarers’ spiritual experiences.
Sad Mayddadn and Mandazil are not linear classifications of spiritual stages,
but spiritual road maps with stages that were simple to follow and to
remember. The main reasons for the treatises were didactic and mnemonic.
After all, the spiritual path depends on the student’s discipline and God’s
grace.”° The master refers in the preface of Sad Maydan to Abii ‘Ubayd al-
Basri’s observation: “God grants to some of his servants the privilege of
tasting, at the beginning of their spiritual journey, the fruits of the ultimate
stages.”?/
These various interpretations were valuable sources for de
Beaurecueil, and he depended on them to craft his own understanding. He
noted that Kashani and Darguzini were ingenious interpreters, while Ibn al-
Qayyim offered a courageous critical reading. Ansari is indeed a master,
and his work is pregnant with insight, with something that remains to be
developed or needs to be unfolded and unpacked. His mystical intuition
expresses well the ineffable experience of an encounter with God. One
could conjecture differences in poetic possibilities between writing in
Persian dialect and in formal Arabic; however, de Beaurecueil and others
scholars do not see a dramatic influence due to the language shift. The real
impact of Manazil, written in Arabic, is the conciseness and precision of the
terms. In addition, the latter treatise profits from theological and mystical
technical terms in Arabic plus expands his readership above and beyond the
Persian world of Sad maydan.
Finally, let us examine the style or literary devices of these treatises.
Apart from the similarity in organization between Sad Maydan and
Manazil, the master utilizes a common literary device. Angha believes that
Ansari borrows the simplicity of the Samanids’ literary style along with the
complexity of the Ghaznavids’ and Saljiks’ approach. The master tends to
avoid unnecessary words and verb repetition in rhymed prose. According to
Angha, these mystical treatises were collected at a time when the
Ghaznavids and later the Seljuks favored and encouraged the development
of mystical writing.”® Most of the master’s treatises are built in the same
format, following an eleventh-century literary style of saj‘.°? Angha defines
the style as follows:
Saj ‘ rhyming and rhythmic prose is a literary style between poetry
and prose. It does not entirely follow the restricted technique of
poetry nor does it follow the free style of prose. It includes
rhythm, its phrases usually consist of three to four words, phrases
have similar beats, and certain words or letters are repeated in
every phrase.!
... [T]he literary style of saj‘ in Sad mayddn is composed
with such a thoughtful calculation that reader must dwell on each
phrase in order to understand his point and be able to discover the
meaning that links the ideas together. !°!
Indeed, the saj’ literary style in these spiritual treatises is designed to
capture readers’ attention and bring them to a still point. According to
Wheeler Thackston, one of the most significant American scholars of
Persian literature and Sufism and Qur’anic studies, “the use of internal
rhyme at pausal point, a device known as saj‘, encountered throughout the
Qur’an and common in Arabic and Persian literary style, gives these
sentences an extraordinary rhythmical fluidity and cadence.”!°? Devin
Steward, associate professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at Emory
University, is in agreement with Thackson. His important article “Saj ° in
the Qur’an: Prosody and Structure” supports Thackson’s argument. !°?
Novices and students on the spiritual path are invited to linger on each
line or phrase to understand and grasp the undergirding ideas. Even though
the phrases are short and seem simple and concise, the underlying message
is complex and sometimes difficult to follow. The master’s use of rhyme
and rhythm are deployed to awaken in the reader the esoteric understanding
of the spiritual stages and stations. As literary masterpieces, these treatises
have stood the test of time and inspired many other mystics because of the
depth of the message. These treatises represent the master’s astute choice of
words and unparalleled use of rhythm and rhyme.
For his part, Farhadi, under the rubric “Stylistic Features of The
Hundred Grounds,”!™ explains the master’s method of composition. He
remarks that his approach was entirely practical with the underlying goal of
being “didactic and homiletic, designed to guide his student-novices in the
memorization of difficult subjects.”!°° The master used three main
techniques of memorization in the mnemonic tradition of The Hundred
Grounds: first, “Eloquent and vigorous expression in the form of aphorisms,
adages, maxims, and precepts,” and, second, “parallel ends and internal
rhyme or a saj‘ (rhymed prose with rhymes recurring by way of consonance
or assonance, at parallel points in a sentence),” and, third, the “Itemization
into ternary form of the treatise’s subject-matter or ideas.” !°
Even though Mandazil is a mature work and profits from the literary
and technical genius of the Arabic language, the first field (tawba) in Sad
maydan, in our view, captures best the saj’ rhyming and rhythmic prose and
the master’s mnemonic and didactic style. De Beaurecueil’s French
translation is much more poetic than the English versions of Angha,
Mughal, and Farhadi.'°’ A sample gives us a better grasp of spiritual
lessons turn into poetic utterances in saj‘ form:
The 2nd Field: Magnanimity (muruwwat)
From the field of Repentance the field of Magnanimity is
generated. Magnanimity means being humble and living with
poverty, as God Most High says: “Stand out firmly for justice”
(Q.4:135).
Magnanimity has three cornerstones: living wisely and
intelligently with oneself, living with patience with people, and
living in need of God.
The indications of living wisely with oneself are three
things: knowing one’s worth (gadr), evaluating and realizing the
limits of what one can do, and striving to improve oneself.
The signs of living patiently with people are three things:
being satisfied and content with people according to their
respective capacities, accepting and understanding _ their
apologies, and being fair to them to the best of your ability.
The signs of living in need of God are in three things:
considering it incumbent upon oneself to be thankfully grateful
for whatever one receives from God, considering it incumbent
upon oneself to apologize for whatever deeds one does for God’s
sake, and accepting God’s will as rightful and best for oneself. !°°
This erudition of the master’s three treatises shows the insight,
wisdom, and sagacity of his spiritual teachings. De Beaurecueil’s choice to
title the translation of these three treatises Chemin de Dieu (Path to the
Divine) reveals his own understanding of them. These treatises are spiritual
guidebooks for wayfarers on their paths to God, and above all, the texts try
to articulate and keep track of the ineffable experience of an encounter with
God. Ansari’s choice to dictate his Sad mayddn in a local Persian dialect
made it a forerunner in Persian mystical manuals. His poetic style of
rhythmic and rhymed prose, the saj‘ literary style, and his three-scheme
structure for mnemonic and didactic purposes struck a chord in de
Beaurecueil’s spiritual thought. Angha remarks, “The poetic style of the
rhyming prose he [Ansart] employed in Sad maydan was to usher in a new
literary style in Persian literature, soon to be followed by Sifi writers and
sages such as Sa‘di of Shiraz’! in his Gulistan.'!° Notwithstanding
Manazil’s mature and refined nature, Sad maydan remains decisive in terms
of language, readership, and context.
Furthermore, the master’s teachings offer a holistic approach to the
spiritual path. He divides the way to God in stages, stations, or fields; he
ranks the disciples in terms of novice, advanced, and privileged; and finally
he calls the wayfarers to be attentive to the deficiencies and pitfalls of the
stations. He addresses inner thought and outer behavior; he explains the
level of knowledge and interaction between novices and outsiders. The Pir
of Herat seems to have combined in his treatises the qualities of a number
of Sufi masters, such as Qushayri’s penchant for fine psychological analysis
and his deep understanding of the experiences of the mystical wayfarers
from the novice (murid) to the master (shaykh), Sahl al-Tustari’s erudite
mystical hermeneutic, the moral insights of Muhasibi, and the scriptural
authority of Abi Nasr al-Sarraj.!!!
In his presentation of the master’s treatises, de Beaurecueil finds
almost no fault with the corpus beyond a few minor qualms. This
veneration and master-student conversation sustained his theological
endeavor and fueled his mystical interest and scholarship. Unlike
Massignon, de Beaurecueil did not equate the Pir of Herat with any great
figure in the Christian tradition and did not elevate Ansari to a position
unknown in Islamic mystical history. At the same time, no one could deny
that he, like many Western scholars of Islamic mysticism with zeal, passion,
and admiration for a single figure, often was led to overlook other important
Sufis and exaggerate the place of his master. De Beaurecueil’s choice to
uphold one mystic above all others and dedicate a lifetime of scholarship to
the Pir of Herat is a case in point, even though the Dominican friar believed
that his trajectory was largely providential.
Likewise, his Dominican and Catholic faith plays a prominent role in
his hermeneutic of the master’s work and life. He shares with Massignon a
similar religious intuition born in the intimacy of their faith and mystical
experience in the land of Islam. In the face of incompatible tenets of faith
between Islam and Christianity and the impossibility of reconciling them,
both seem to have chosen the seminal character of the patriarch Abraham as
the pivotal figure. De Beaurecueil not only exemplified for them the
primordial link between the two religions, but most unequivocally Abraham
embodied the notion of mystical substitution on behalf of the other (his
prayer for Lot and the city of Sodom and Gomorrah), his hospitality (to
God’s messengers), and his compassion.'!* In both the Qur’anic and
Biblical texts, the patriarch Abraham is revered for his hospitality to the
strangers who visited him and turned out to be God’s messengers. Abraham
is the prime example of a host for Massignon and de Beaurecueil.
At any rate, no thorough investigation of de Beaurecueil’s scholarship
on Ansari’s life and work could afford to neglect the collection of intimate
conversations with God, which made the master famous and popular all
over the Muslim world, particularly in the Persian countries. Hence, the
third section of this chapter examines the Mundjat.
Il. The Munajat or Cris du coeur
There is no better introduction to the Mundajat than de Beaurecueil’s own
observation:
The Munajat, these outpourings of feelings, violent, enthusiastic,
and sometime reproachful of what is in and on one’s heart,
contain prayers, advice, and intimate thought. Very popular, these
Munajat (cris du coeur) have reached beyond the immediate
circles of Sufis, in order to feed ordinary believer’s prayers ...
Composed in saj —a genre of prose with scant assonances—
these cris du coeur try to convey an unfathomable spiritual
113
experience.
According to Farhadi, Mundjat mean “intimate and _ confidential
conversations,” “intimate invocations to God,” or “sincere and opened-
hearted prayers.”!'4 On his part, Wheeler Thackston speaks of “intimate
conversation with someone.”!!> Annabel Keeler, researcher at the Faculty
of Asia and Middle Eastern Studies (Cambridge University) and expert in
Siifi hermeneutics, prefers “intimate prayer and communing with God.”!!®
The aphorisms and sayings in the Mundjat constitute a passionate yet
private and familiar monologue with God.!!7 It is de Beaurecueil, however,
who captures best the spirit of these intimate conversations. He remarks that
“confidence” is too polished and “oraison” too reminiscent of prayer; he
prefers cris du coeur. He explains that “their often violent, enthusiastic or
reproachful tone prompted me to entitle them cris du coeur.'!® These
intimate conversations with God are the Pir of Herat’s spiritual and poetic
chef-d’ceuvre. They have maintained an unprecedented level of popularity
among rich and poor, Sufis and ordinary believers, and have served as lyrics
for songs and a cash crop for many calligraphers and scribes throughout the
centuries. In Herat, the birthplace of the master, they are as popular as the
Qur’an itself. !!°
If the Sad maydan and Mandazil are famous for their mnemonic and
didactic acumen, the Mundjat are celebrated for their literary beauty and
striking spiritual wisdom. These aphorisms and phrases are the fruit of deep
spiritual experiences and mystical inclinations. Schimmel, in her preface to
Danner’s and Thackston’s translations of Ibn ‘Atd’illah’s Hikam and
Ansari’s Munajat, writes, “[T]he brevity of both Hikam and Mundjdat proves
the immense self-control of the mystics who were able to condense their
deepest feelings and their loftiest experiences in small, gemlike, perfectly
polished sayings.”!2° These “gemlike, perfectly polished sayings” were
used as prayers for their artistic quality, their exquisite wisdom, and the
spiritual comfort they bestow on wayfarers. De Beaurecueil sees a
connection between the language of the texts and the intensity and depth of
their messages. He writes, “[T]hese Mundjat are made of prayers and
comments in rhymed prose, in addition, the music of the language matches
the depth of the thought.”!7!
In its Persian rhyming prose and rhythmic quatrains, the Munajat
speak of the wisdom of a searching and at times disheartened and yet
hopeful mystic. According to W. Thackston, “Ansari speaks of his love, and
longing in abject, human frailty vis 4 vis God’s omnipotence.”!7* Readers
meet a Suft shaykh “who pours out his feelings in the presence of the Lord
like little sighs, for the rhythm of these prayers is like breathing in its
constant change of contraction and expansion.”!*? These intimate prayers
became the companion of de Beaurecueil in good and sad times. He would
comment on, rely on, and take comfort in the most exquisite sayings. He
would agree with Schimmel that the Munajat “offer a perfect code of life:
complete trust in God, deep faith in His grace and awareness of His justice,
and an insight into His mysterious working through the contrasting
manifestation of this created world.”!*+ These luminous aphorisms bring
together superb poetic skills and transcend time, culture, faith traditions,
and even language.
1. Textual History
More than any other work attributed to the master, the textual history of the
Mundjat is very problematic. There is no or little textual continuity between
the master’s original text and the edited copies known to scholars today.!*°
Thackston best summarizes the situation: “It is probably safe to say that no
two printed versions of the Mundjat agree with regard to the material
included. Some are significantly longer; others markedly whittled
down.”!*° These collections seriously challenge our modern understanding
of authorship. The popularity of the Munajat was a mixed blessing. On the
one hand, the text is found in superb calligraphic and ornamented
manuscripts, and these popular and commercial pamphlets are scattered all
over both the Persian and Arab worlds. But on the other hand, their
popularity led to multiple editions and corrections by successive scribes and
calligraphers. In the words of Bo Utas: “After all, these changes in the
textual tradition show to what extent the texts have been alive all through
the nine centuries that have passed since the death of Ansari.”!7/
In the introduction to his translation of the Mundajat, Thackston
observes that if one judges by content alone, irrespective of style, some
parts of the book cannot be ascribed to the master but to elements common
to later mystical thought.!*® On the basis of the surviving manuscripts of
works such as Sad mayddn and Tabagdt al-Sifiyya, de Beaurecueil
concludes that the master dictated and taught in Herati. Ansari’s Mundajat
share with a few other famous works the problem of authenticity. For
example, the so-called “wandering quatrains” of ‘Umar Khayyam are
probably the most famous case in point.!*? The multiplicity of copies and
manuscripts makes it almost impossible to trace the original text. Speaking
about the Mundjat, Thackston remarks that:
The dialectal peculiarities, however, have been normalized by
successive copyists and redactors, who, typical of premodern
litterateurs on the Perso-Arabic tradition, did not hesitate to make
corrections, and emendations, not to speak of additions, in
accordance with their personal taste. The result is a collection of
prose sentences, characteristically rhymed, the ascription of
which to the Pir of Herat rests on a certain historical basis but to
which later accretions have adhered. !2°
Bo Utas describes in detail the difficulty of ascertaining the continuity
in the textual tradition of the Mundjat in his article and notes that in the case
of Ansari, the question of authorship is even more complicated. He
concludes: “Generally there is only partial, or no, continuity to hold on to in
the bewildering mass of material. These texts have, no doubt, grown and
changed incessantly during the centuries.”!*! De Beaurecueil echoes Bo
Utas’s concern and explains further his methodological approach to
maintaining continuity in the textual tradition of the Mundjat:
In the Arab world, Ansari the is famous for his Stages of the
Wayfarers, but in the Persian world is celebrated for his Mundjat.
Over the centuries, the Mundjat have often changed their
complexion and have also snowballed. In order to avoid
presenting beautiful and yet unreliable excerpts, we decided to
stick to a few passages cited in the Generation of the Sufis. The
style and thinking pattern are difficult, but they reflect admirably
the character, thought and talent of the master. Neither literature
nor prettiness, but the experience seeks to couch itself in rhythm,
rhyme and images by successive waves, in more intimate manner
than didactic works. This is where one must go to meet Ansari. !°?
Interestingly enough, the collection of the Mundjat as we know it
today has been expanded and contracted by various copyists who managed
to improve the texts. These various scribes cleared frequent archaic words,
phrases, idioms, and expressions from the early compositions that had made
some passages difficult for readers to understand with regard “to phonetics,
morphology and semantics.”!3? As Thackston observes, “if we were to edit
out all that is obviously not the words of Khwaja ‘Abdullah, we would lose
much of value and beauty.”!**+ Also, if we abandon anachronism in terms of
authorship and realize that in oral culture memorization is thought to be
more reliable than writing, modern readers might avoid sterile criticism of
the textual authenticity of the Munajat. Hence, it would be wise to
recognize a certain authenticity to most of the manuscripts, even the later
ones, and not dismiss them altogether.
Nonetheless, the changes in the textual tradition are nothing compared
to the damage resulting from the translation from Persian to European
languages, as many translators bemoaned. The rhymed prose of these
intimate conversations is the main reason for their great popularity in the
Persian-speaking world, and as Farhadi puts it, “The aesthetic and
psychological effects of such assonance are, unfortunately, lost in
translation.”!*> Both Thackston and de Beaurecueil lament the impossibility
of translating the saj‘ literary style and many peculiar Persian idiomatic
expressions into English or French. Thackston writes:
Ansari’s sentences appear to be the essence of stylistic simplicity,
yet masked by the brevity and conciseness of expression is a
considerable amount of subtle rhetorical play. The parallelism and
internal rhyme characteristic of so many of the prose sentences
are devices impossible to recapture in translation. Extensive use 1s
made of the rhetorical device known as tarsi, where the sequence
of vowels in two or more parallel lines is exactly the same, with
only the consonants varying. !*°
2. Literary and Spiritual Acumen
In his French translation based on reliable manuscripts and not on
commercial pamphlets, de Beaurecueil notes that Ansari proceeds like both
a painter and a musician by successive touches and the unfolding of the
melody.!?? The images used by the master are related to a number of major
themes: journey, light, water, vegetation, fire, commerce and gain, life and
death, suffering and illness, joy and feast, the Royal Court, food and drink,
justice, war, lamentation, and tears.'°° There are also other less important,
isolated themes or images used sporadically by the master, such as, guilt,
breath, smell, touch, and so forth.'°° The study of these images and themes
led de Beaurecueil to conclude, “If one compares the images that were just
listed to those in the Stages of the Wayfarers, the coincidence is striking.
The major themes are identical: journey, light and water linked to
vegetation. Such an affinity testifies in favor of the authenticity of our
selections.” !4°
The master’s thought focuses on searching for and finding God, the
divine decree and its consequences, the love of God, the memory of God,
the friends of God, and the question “Who am I?” repeated many times as a
leitmotif.'4! These aspects anchor his teachings in a constant effort to
describe for his disciples the subtle yet powerful intimate relationship
between God and the wayfarer. His thought in the Mundjat is in perfect
agreement with his didactic and spiritual manuals. Here the tone of the
conversation is intimate and at times austere or sober. The master speaks
freely, and his fierce temperament comes through. He instills in the very
structure of his writing a theology. The text is built on a repetitive opening
phrase: “O God!” It is an intimate utterance and a sign of nearness to God.
The text is full of redundancy, paradoxes, and association of opposite terms
and images. De Beaurecueil takes seriously these paradoxes and
oppositions because they are the best representatives of the master’s
wisdom. !* For example:
O God! People indicate how near You are, but You are loftier than
that. People think how far You are, but You are much closer than
the soul. You are found (mawjiid) in the spirit of Your champions,
(for) You are present (hddir) in the hearts of those who mention
Your Name. !43
More explicitly, in the following excerpts the paradoxical language reaches
its climax:
How could I have known that the mother of joy is sorrow, and
that under every misfortune a thousand treasures are hiding? How
could I have known that the desire is the bringer of Union, and
that beneath the cloud of Munificence despair is impossible? How
could I have known that the Possessor of Majesty is so
comforting toward (His) devotees, and that the friends (of God)
are so much favored by him? How could I have known that what I
am searching for is in the midst of the soul, and that the honor of
Your Union is for me an opening and a victory?!“4
Furthermore, Ansari’s Munajat celebrates the glory of God but seems
to suggest the annihilation of the wayfarer as the ultimate goal. A close
reading of the text shows that each passage is structured in the dialectic of
the divine (You) and the human (1). God and God’s servant are metaphors
of sorts for each other. In fact, the servant is defined and qualified according
to God’s commands and human status before his Lord is fully realized.
Fortunately, the wisdom and spiritual insights of the Munajat seem to have
managed to transcend obvious translation loss and give to non-Persian
readers a compelling view of the Pir-e tariqat. The following excerpts are
tangible examples of these flashes of grace or gemlike spiritual jewels from
the master. The Munajat are a successful attempt to put into words the
ineffable encounter and conversation with the divine. A few samples of
these gleaming gems of spiritual wisdom help make our point:
In the agony suffered for you,
the wounded find the scent of balm:
The memory of you consoles the souls of lovers.
Thousands in every corner, seeking glimpses of you,
Cry out like Moses, “Lord, show me yourself!”
I see thousands of lovers lost in a desert of grief,
Wandering aimlessly and saying hopefully
“O God! O God!”
I see breasts scorched by the burning separation from you;
I see eyes weeping in love’s agony.
Dancing down the lane of blame and censure,
your lovers cry out, “Poverty is my source of price!”
Pir-i Ansari has quaffed the wine of longing:
Like Majntn he wanders drunk and perplexed
through the world.!*°
This chapter sought to examine primarily de Beaurecueil’s (and other
scholars’) study and interpretation of the corpus attributed to Ansari with
emphasis on a few seminal works. The Dominican friar’s scientific
assessment and textual criticism of the master’s corpus is unparalleled in
Western languages. Robert Caspar paid tribute to his scholarship in these
words:
Serge de Beaurecueil has taken up the considerable task of editing
and studying the whole of the thought of al-Ansari. During the
first phase of his study he edited the commentaries with The Book
of Stages, at least the two earliest ones. Then he followed the
critical edition of the text itself. The life of al-Ansart was studied
in its historical context. Finally, various smaller works filling in
the teaching of the master [were] edited. All this constitutes the
scholarly aspect of the work of Serge de Beaurecueil. One can
only admire him for the high quality of his scholarship: the
investigation of manuscripts accessible only with difficulty (some
of them have been found in Afghanistan in private libraries
hitherto unexplored), the establishment of relationships between
manuscripts and above all a meticulous concern for precision in
the use of terms and ideas relating to the mystical experience of
al-Ansari. It is indeed works as exacting as these that bring about
progress in the study of Sufism and make the elaboration of a
valid, general view of Muslim mysticism possible.!*°
The questions of authenticity surrounding the works attributed to the
master should not cast excessive doubt on the authorship of the corpus.
Most scholars mentioned in this study have concluded that notwithstanding
the multiple editions and additions on the part of various students and
copyists, the corpus attributed to the master is largely accurate. The
question of authorship must be understood in the context of eleventh-
century Khurasan and not in reference to any other period. The master’s
students, disciples, and the general readership were concerned with the
spiritual insights of the corpus and not with the exact wording of his
teaching. Our study 1s a window through which the most important part of
de Beaurecueil’s scholarship can be assessed. The master’s spiritual
manuals, Sad maydan, Manazil, ‘Ilal al-Maqamat, and the Mundjat, were
for de Beaurecueil jewels of spiritual lessons, and he understood himself as
much as a disciple as a scholar of the master’s work. No erudition on his
part could conceal his deep affection for his patron saint.
The Dominican friar’s writings paint the portrait of a man who sought
to live an authentic Dominican life in the most unlikely milieu. This chapter
is also a springboard for the next one. The Dominican friar’s life parallels
the erudition of Massignon, is reminiscent of the life of Charles de
Foucauld among Tuaregs, and encompasses the ethical dimension of
interfaith encounter. These different dimensions reach their summit in his
twenty years of pastoral ministry in Kabul from 1963 to 1983. The next
chapter examines the embodiment of this mystical praxis with its intractable
difficulties and hopes.
De Beaurecueil’s Pastoral Mysticism in Kabul
On August 31 1983, de Beaurecueil was evacuated for medical reasons
from Kabul to Paris. He arrived completely exhausted at the priory of I’
Annonciation.! This bleak physical state echoed a tragic departure, which in
turn symbolized a disastrous end of his love affair with the Afghan people
and the land of Ansari. The tragedy of the Afghan civil war and the friar’s
dreadful departure stood in stark contrast to the enthusiasm of his arrival in
Kabul in 1963. His journey to and in Afghanistan represented a rise of his
mystical intuition and praxis. He became less and less concerned with an
orientalist’s scholarly work. Rather, he was more and more attuned to the
praxis of a spiritual life, the day-to-day human encounter and the practice of
everyday life.* This unusual path seemed strange to many close observers
and friends. In an article written in honor of Louis Massignon, de
Beaurecueil explained:
Dear Louis Massignon, I am no longer an orientalist, just an
elementary school teacher. First, I abandoned my research
position for a faculty position, and then left my professorship to
teach at a grammar school. Now, I am on the verge of becoming a
primary school teacher. The scholar that you were might regret at
first glance this strange downward mobility ... However, the man
of God, the prophet and servant would certainly understand this
unusual path of mine. My journey is marred with broken steles
adamantly pointing to heaven ...°
What the friar lost in academic endeavor, he gained in pastoral engagement.
In de Beaurecueil’s mystical conversation with the Pir of Herat, he
combined interspirituality (Islam and Christianity) with enculturation
(adaptation of his Christian liturgy to an Afghan background). His
attachment to people, particularly children living in dire socioeconomic
situations in a beautiful and yet devastated country, tested his core identity
as a friar and a priest. In the abode of Islam, he traveled unparalleled roads
and had to rermagine what it meant to be a faithful Christian disciple among
Muslims.* He strove to craft a genuine religious life that was Christian in
faith but Afghan in culture. This process demanded a slow and careful
method of integration and reevaluation of his vocation as a friar preacher.
Kabul street children were the greatest gift of his life and the most painful
and formative aspect of his mystical journey. The living encounter between
Christianity and Islam took place at the House of Abraham, where he
attempted to offer hospitality and share “bread and salt” with the
descendants of the Pir of Herat. His adventure uncovered a deep
understanding of how mysticism and praxis converged in the depths of
contemplative consciousness in the deepest dimension of Islam and
Christianity. The convergence in de Beaurecueil’s case went beyond
speculative theology and settled on spiritual life and practice. He observed:
Sufism brought me to Afghanistan, but Afghanistan forced me
out of Sufism in order to engage a more vital research, no longer
in books but in the mundane and everyday service to people. In
this gloomy environment all steles as soon as erected are
mercilessly broken, but still pointing to heaven.°
To explore de Beaurecueil’s praxis mystica or pastoral mysticism, this
chapter draws, first, a comparison between the lives of de Beaurecueil and
Charles de Foucauld in their attempts to follow the prophetic and mystical
example of Jesus of Nazareth among Muslims. The second and the third
sections focus respectively on two books, A Christian in Afghanistan and
My Children of Kabul. These books are portraits of de Beaurecueil’s life as
a friar preacher in a land he learned to love and cherish. This investigation
is a window into his spirituality or mystical theology, which is Catholic and
Dominican in scope, committed to dialogue, intuitive yet practical in its
goals.
I. In the Footsteps of Jesus: Charles de Foucauld and de Beaurecueil
If de Beaurecueil’s erudition on Ansari parallels Louis Massignon’s work
on al-Hallaj, the friar’s pastoral mysticism is reminiscent of the path of
Massignon’s mentor Charles de Foucauld (d. 1921) in Tamanrasset among
the Tuaregs of the Hoggar (Algeria).° Both de Foucauld and de Beaurecueil
shared an aristocratic background, and their families had deep ties with the
French army. They were nonetheless different in temperament and life
trajectories. With regard to our inquiry, both men shared a stunning
commonality: an attempt to live an authentic Christian religious life in the
context of religious and cultural otherness. Like Jesus of Nazareth’s quiet
and hidden life before his public ministry, de Beaurecueil and de Foucauld
chose to live a quiet Christian life among Muslims. These two men lived as
guests in the abode of Islam, where in relation to Muslims they tried to live
a genuine Christian discipleship. Even though de Foucauld died a tragic
death and de Beaurecueil’s sojourn in Kabul ended abruptly, their lives
were signs on the rocky road of Christian-Muslim relations. The first
section explores the mystical and prophetic lives of both men as imitatio
Christi.
1. Religious Life as a Prophetic Life Form!’
Why would de Beaurecueil consider the topic of prophethood? It seems that
he saw his ministry in Kabul as a prophetic call. He lays out his definition
of a prophet:
Whatever one thinks, prophets are not fortune tellers but speak on
behalf of the divine. God chooses, sends and gives them a word to
speak and a work to do. Unfortunately, prophets are human
beings, and God loves them too much to reduce them to robots or
tape recorders ... They must first listen, receive and eat the word
like Jeremiah; and often the message is not to their taste ...°
Indeed, the remarkable character of de Beaurecueil’s life in Kabul combines
a prophetic witness and the ethical dimension of religious dialogue. He
traveled the path of a Christian prophet and mystic among Muslims.
According to John Henry Newman, authentic Christian prophets and
mystics are those:
who live in a way least thought of by others, the way chosen by
Jesus of Nazareth, to make headway against all the power and
wisdom of the world. It is a difficult and rare virtue, to mean what
we say, to love without deceit, to think no evil, to bear no grudge,
to be free from _ selfishness, to be innocent = and
straightforward ... simple hearted. They take everything in good
part which happens to them, and make the best of everything.’
Even though every comparison is ephemeral and limited, I argue that
both de Beaurecueil and de Foucauld tried to live a genuine religious life in
Kabul and in Tamanrasset among Muslims. Their witnesses in the footsteps
of Jesus of Nazareth, even though human and broken, are congruent with
the description of Sandra Schneiders, one of the most prolific scholars of
Christian spirituality and Catholic religious life. She argues that “Jesus was
extraordinarily ‘unattached,’ he had no family to provide for or to protect.
He owned no personal property that he could lose. He held no official
position of power, political or ecclesial, that his actions could jeopardize.”!°
Faithful to Jesus’s life, these men are but two of the too few examples of
what Schneiders calls “[rJeligious life as a prophetic life form.”!! The thrust
of their lives was a participation in the prophetic mission of Jesus of
Nazareth rather than concern with ecclesial power structures. Schneiders
sees three main prophetic characteristics in Jesus’s life that could be
extended to both men:
First, Jesus’ prophetic vocation was rooted in and expressive
of his mystical life, the intense contemplative prayer life that the
Gospels present as the roots of his experiential knowledge of
God.
A second requirement of prophetic identity and mission is a
certain freedom from attachments which pressure the person to
prefer personal and institutional goods, the maintaining of the
status quo within which one’s own position and interests are
protected, to God’s interests or the good of those to whom one is
sent.
Third, a major non-negotiable criterion of the true prophet is
the coherence between the prophet’s message and the prophet’s
lie.“
Without a doubt, these religious men tried to imitate Jesus’s
detachment from worldly affairs, but each in a different manner. De
Foucauld’s lifestyle was that of a hermit and a monk, whereas de
Beaurecueil shared his abode with orphans and Kabul street children.!*
There were irreducible differences between these religious men’s
experiences, but their lives shared the common denominator of “Call,
response and the task of prophetic action,”!* though of course with its
human flaws and shortcomings. I am well aware of Dominique Casajus’s
insightful reading of de Foucauld. He believes that de Foucauld was one of
the best scholars of the Tuaregs’ language but doubts that he was an
example of Christian-Muslim dialogue. At least de Foucauld’s life was an
encounter. !°
2. Imitating the Hidden Life of Jesus of Nazareth
Tamanrasset and Kabul were quite unusual settings for a Catholic monk and
a Dominican friar. One could argue that de Beaurecueil found himself in a
place where the theology of priesthood in Christian tradition and his
scholastic formation as a friar preacher seemed of little help. His seventeen
years of erudite work on Ansari were far more useful than his years of
formation at Le Saulchoir. This is not the place to do a lengthy exposé on
the Christian theology of priesthood!® or religious life,!’ but I do need to
deal with these issues briefly. The questions posed by de Beaurecueil’s
Kabul years must not be underrated; on the contrary, one must shed light on
them to follow his journey. How could he be a Catholic priest for non-
Christians in a country like Afghanistan?!* How could he live an authentic
Dominican life without a religious community? What about the theological
incompatibilities between the two faith traditions? He had become a friar
preacher to live a conventual life, namely, the common liturgy of the hours
and partaking in the Eucharist, study, and community life. He would have
been the first to recognize his awkward predicament:
Often I thought about it. At eighteen I became a Dominican
mostly because of the liturgy of the hours, the conventual life, the
habit and of course the tonsure. At sixty, here I am: no habit, no
liturgy of the hours and I live thousand miles away from my
priory of assignment (Beirut), which I have not seen in years.
Here, I am overwhelmed by my profane work ... Nothing like
what I first had in mind apart from going away in a non-Christian
country. Ironically, I feel right at home. Am I faithful?!°
It seems that in the midst of Muslims, de Beaurecueil opted for the
hidden life of Jesus, namely, the imitation of Jesus in Nazareth as the ideal
form of religious life. He and de Foucauld understood well that in his
prophetic ministry, Jesus did not claim an independent personal divine
authority when he acted. Jesus claimed to be speaking for God, and in the
name of God is Father. What would be the theological meaning of this
hidden life?
Of course, a neatly parallel reading of de Foucauld’s and de
Beaurecueil’s lives is a stretch,2° but it is a worthwhile venture because
both were Christian lives implanted in the heart of an Islamic land. Again,
both men were different, and their itineraries seem to diverge. De Foucauld
was a former military officer and an agnostic aristocratic Parisian whose
dramatic return to the Catholic faith more resembled that of Massignon, his
spiritual pupil. His encounter with Islam in North Africa had a profound
effect on him. He was impressed by Muslims’ constant remembrance of the
names of God, their prostrations in prayer in the open desert, and the
overwhelming rhythm of the call to prayer by the muezzin.7! There is
enough literature on de Foucauld’s life and work among the Tuareg of
Tamanrasset; as Dominique Casajus, a French scholar of the Tuareg
language and poetry and a keen reader of de Foucauld’s life, remarks:
To this day, the stream never stopped. As these books roll in year
after year, they have obscured instead of shedding light on the
enigma of a troubled soul who was haunted, obstinate and
excessive. Charles de Foucauld’s life has, however, incited
authentic work by historians, who have, for two or three decades,
given a more complex and human image to him than his popular
hagiographical icon.”
Unlike many biographers, Casajus does not focus on de Foucauld’s
path to holiness and martyrdom, but he investigates the relationship
between the Tuaregs and the Christian hermit from August 1905 to
December 1916. His books and articles try to answer the following
questions: What was de Foucauld’s self-consciousness, or how did he
understand himself? What kind of relationship did he have with the
Tuaregs, who saw him as an ally to the French colonizers? How did the
language, culture, and religion of the Tuaregs influence his life and work?
What did the Tuaregs think about his religious practices of severe
asceticism and celibacy? For example, the Tuaregs did not find any virtue
in his celibate life. As Casajus notes, “What is considered an ideal of
chastity by some is regarded as a shameful life which gets away from the
duty of child rearing.”** This crucial point underscores the cultural and
theological gaps that exist at times between these two faith traditions:
Catholic religious ideals and Islamic ones. There are many biographies
written by Christians about the Hoggar hermit, but there are few accounts
from Muslim authors.
In addition, de Foucauld’s biographers do not always separate
hagiographical material proper to Christian martyrology from serious
historical questions surrounding the role of a former French army service
man who became a hermit living among defeated and colonized Tuaregs.
‘Ali Merad, a Muslim and Algerian himself, seems to offer a worthy
approach to what he terms “[a] Muslim’s view of Charles de Foucauld.”4
There is no doubt that Merad’s views are questionable at times, but his
argument suits our needs at this point.° He asserted, “It is in the land of
Islam ... that Charles de Foucauld felt, if not the irresistible outpouring of
grace, at least the initial inner thrill that heralded the first movement of his
soul toward the path of faith.”?° Muslims’ radical monotheism (tawhid) and
sense of God’s providence (tawakkul) summoned him deeply. He confessed,
“The sight of this faith, of these souls living in the continuous presence of
God, has made me aware of something greater and truer than worldly
preoccupation.’ By both the local Tuaregs and the French military, de
Foucauld was regarded as a local French agent. Never did he sever ties with
his military past or his French nationalism. His devotion to the colonial
army and French supremacy never abated. His life ended in apparent
failure. He had made no converts nor left any successors. He waited in vain
for Louis Massignon to join him in Tamanrasset. His rule of life for a new
religious order existed only on paper.*® None of these aspects was found in
de Beaurecueil’s life.
However, de Foucauld and de Beaurecueil shared a key sense of
Christian missiology, namely, a form of religious life in reference “to the
mystery of Nazareth—the mystery of the Word assuming the life of the
‘little people’ who toil in the world and thus show forth respect,
understanding and sensitiveness.”*? They did not come to build hospitals,
schools, and churches or to convert Muslims. They did not come to live
among the rich and powerful but among the poorest of the poor in Muslim
lands. Both men were deeply impressed by the land and its inhabitants.
Islam played a key role in the blossoming of their spiritual vocation and the
development of their religious awareness.
De Beaurecueil recognized in the religious other the face of the
infinite. He knew the Afghans did not lack spirituality or need another faith
tradition to be saved. He understood that it is in giving that we receive.
Robert Bédon, in his preface to A Priest of non-Christians, writes, “You
gave them all, and the more you give the more you are a recipient of their
gifts.”°° De Beaurecueil learned to respect the religious others regardless of
their material poverty and/or physical handicap. The most important aspect
of this encounter was to honor the irreducible difference of the religious
Other. De Beaurecueil chose to serve not an institution but people under the
guidance of the Spirit of Truth. The hidden life of Jesus of Nazareth was the
quiet and silent life before the beginning of his public ministry.*! De
Foucauld defined it in the following terms:
Jesus came to Nazareth, the place of the hidden life, of ordinary
life, of family life, of prayer, work, obscurity, silent virtues,
practices with no witnesses other than God, his friends and
neighbors. Nazareth is the place where most people direct their
lives. We must infinitely respect the least of our brothers. Let us
mingle with them. Let us be one of them to the extent that God
wishes and treat them fraternally in order to have the honor and
joy of being accepted as one of them.**
And de Beaurecueil followed suit:
The incarnated Word of God took seriously the old saying. He
started with silence for thirty years without giving up on the
mission. At times, silence is the best medium for the Message.
For the incarnated Word silence embodied prophetic utterances.
There are times the prophet must speak in spite of threats; there
are times the prophet must keep silence, not because of fear but
the Spirit demands it for the sake of the Word that the prophet
bears and must not betray.°°
De Beaurecueil and de Foucauld took seriously this hidden life of
Jesus and used it as the framework of their spirituality among Muslims.
Nazareth meant not just a hidden life lived in detachment from the world, a
life of work behind the walls of a monastery, but a life amid the poor in the
world. The mystery of Nazareth was understood by both men as to come
and be, to dwell among others, to be seen first before being heard, to
understand first before being understood. As de Foucauld put it, “Your
vocation is to shout the Gospel from the rooftops, not in words, but with
your life.”°4 De Foucauld and de Beaurecueil wanted to be among those
who were the furthest removed, the most abandoned. They wanted all who
drew close to them to find a brother, “a universal brother.”*> They formed a
kind of fictive kinship with Muslims in their respective settings. With great
respect for the culture and faith of those among whom they lived, their
desire was to shout the Gospel with their lives. De Foucauld writes, “I
would like to be sufficiently good that people would say, ‘If such is the
servant, what must the Master be like?’ ”°°
Both religious men chose to listen, think, and observe quietly for years
in order that from their long, pregnant silence would come forth the word of
God in its purity. They lived lives of Christian compassion among Muslims.
In Tamanrasset, villagers called de Foucauld a marabout (or a holy man),
and in Kabul, de Beaurecueil was the padar (father). Their deep sense of
solidarity and hope for the people they lived with explained the joy, peace,
and love that radiated from their silence and hidden life among Muslims.
Both men were “holy fools” consumed by an inner fire that was for them
the love of Jesus and a passion for the imitation of the Nazarene. Seeking to
emulate the hidden life of Jesus and to welcome all humanity, de Foucauld
wrote:
I want to accustom myself to all the inhabitants, Christians,
Muslims, Jews, and non-believers, to look on me as their brother,
their universal brother. Already they are calling this house “the
fraternity house” (Ahaoua)—about which I am delighted—and
realizing that the poor have a brother here—not only the poor, but
all men [and women].”?’
The lives of these two aristocratic men, turned religious, proclaimed the
inner core of the Reign of God, and their mission gave birth to an authentic
religious life.
But in de Foucauld and de Beaurecueil, both of whom devoted their
lives to bearing witness to their Christian discipleship before a Muslim
community, there were legitimate questions at stake. Alongside their
friendship and care for Muslims hovered a lingering paternalism in these
Frenchmen’s relations with their Muslim counterparts. It is fair to hold
against de Foucauld the fact that he was an objective ally of the colonial
army. He was shaped by his education, his military training, and the ethos
of French colonialism in northern Africa. The historical background of his
generation was the moral and intellectual climate of late nineteenth-century
Europe with Gobineau’s Essay on the Inequality of the Human Race; Ernest
Renan’s (d. 1892) infamous lecture “Islam and Science,” in which he
described Islam as intellectually inferior and incompatible with science; and
Monseigneur Lavigerie (d. 1892), founder of the Missionaries for Africa,
who held similar views.** There is no evidence that de Foucauld read
Gobineau and Renan, adhered to their philosophy of races, or borrowed
their approach to Islam. Nonetheless, it would be naive to think that he
lived in a French colonial land with the background of a former officer in
the French army but remained free from colonial biases. Casajus proved
that Foucauld never severed his ties with the colonial French army in North
Africa.’ For instance, he hoped for the conversion of Muslims to
Christianity and believed that adherence to Catholicism meant fidelity to
France, “the first daughter” of the Roman Catholic Church, as his homeland
was called.
The Christian marabout was aware of the difficulty of his position and
wondered, “Will they [the Tuaregs] know how to distinguish between
soldiers and priests, to see us as servants of God, envoys of peace, universal
brothers.’*° De Foucauld sought to prepare the Saharan souls for the seed
of the Gospel. He notes, “My little work goes on ... preparatory work ... I
have not yet come to sowing. I am preparing the ground, other will sow, and
others will reap.”4! Merad remarks that de Foucauld’s hope for the Tuaregs’
eventual conversion to Catholicism was unreasonable:
But there is a threshold beyond which, it seems to us, he could not
reasonably hope to succeed: that is from the moment that the
guest and the Christian marabout resolved not only to win the
hearts of Tuaregs, but their conscience. For it is one thing to seek
the friendship of the Muslim population and summon them
ceaselessly to make them better. It was another thing to try to
shatter their certainties in order to induce them to get rid of all, or
part, of their beliefs and give up ancestral faith. Such a
renunciation would have meant the “unraveling” of the intimate
fibers of their beings.”
To the question “What was their inner feeling about Islam and its
Prophet?,” the silence of de Foucauld on the authenticity of Muhammad’s
prophethood points to the difficulty of the issue.** Merad questions his deep
motives:
There was his charitable work, his inexhaustible kindness, his
undeniable desire to do good to the Muslims around him. But
beyond his silence about the Qur’an, the Prophet and the saints,
as well as on the subject of Muslim practices in general, what
were the Christian marabout’s innermost feelings about Islam?’“*
One could argue that, like many holy and exemplary lives, ambiguity and
mixed motives did not shatter his legacy but rendered it more human.
Merad concludes, “Beyond the inevitable blunders and errors of
judgment ..., there remains this exceptional human adventure that will
continue to summon the Muslim as well as the Christian consciousness.”
De Foucauld’s devotion and compassion to the Tuaregs, desire for authentic
brotherhood, and constant effort to see and treat Muslims not as strangers
but as neighbors and to share their lot endured until his death. No wonder
that Merad asks, “Under the circumstances, would it be too much to think
that, although he may belong to Christianity spiritually, the great hermit of
the Sahara belongs in some way to Islam, since he chose a Muslim country
for his last dwelling place?’“° I rather agree with D. Casajus’s conclusion
that it might be controversial to call de Foucauld a pioneer of Christian-
Muslim dialogue, but his friend and disciple L. Massignon was one of the
most prominent ones in France.*/
On his part, de Beaurecueil did not take a position concerning the
thorny issue of the authenticity of the Prophet of Islam. He did not see,
however, any spiritual inferiority in Muslims. On the contrary, Persian
mystics and mystical poems nourished his sacramental, liturgical, and
spiritual life and imagination. At times he sounds a little presumptuous,
leaving his confused readers thinking that he had a messiah complex.
Correctly, Bédon remarks, “Personally, if I have read this book without
knowing you, but would I have done it? I would have shrugged my
shoulders and said, ‘he thinks he is God himself.’ ”“® How could he make
Muslims participate spiritually in the mystery of Christian sacraments? He
writes, “[O]n their behalf and even though they are not aware of it, I
reinterpret their lives, aspirations, mystical poems, and liturgical acts, and I
bestow upon them Christian and salvific values and give them back to God.
Intercession and substitution combine to guide my life.”*
The Dominican friar was fully aware of the difficulty of praying with
his house full of children. He could not live with the fact that Christian
liturgical and sacramental rules excluded those with whom he shared daily
life. He tried several liturgical schemes to include them but the results were
artificial and ambiguous. Finally, he recognized the irreducible differences
between the two traditions. particularly for liturgical prayer. Christians
cannot pray the salah, and Muslims cannot be communicants at the
Eucharist. The Dominican friar’s action raises valuable questions for
interfaith dialogue. Could Christians and Muslims pray together, and could
prayer be a meeting place? For Christiaan van Nispen tot Sevenaer, S.J.,
who lived most of his life in Egypt, prayer is a legitimate meeting point.
Praying together might not be possible, but prayer is a fundamental
expression of both the Christian and the Muslim faiths. As long as prayer is
not limited to its liturgical expressions, it could represent a real openness to
the divine and the other. Sevenaer writes, “Prayer as well as the entire
spiritual life can be a real place for encounter between Christians and
Muslims. A place of encounter does not erase the differences but it offers an
opportunity for both sides to walk towards the other and in so doing they
walk toward God.”>?
Furthermore, de Beaurecueil was influenced by Massignon’s and Mary
Kahil’s (d. 1979) notion of badaliyya, which means to take the place of the
other or substitute for another.*! Kahil defines badaliyya: “Massignon and I
made a vow. We offer ourselves for Muslims’ salvation. Not for them to
convert but for God’s will to be done upon them and through them. We
want to make ours their prayers and lives and offer them to the Lord.”
Indeed, in 1934, Kahil and Massignon made a vow before the altar of a
Franciscan church in Damietta (Egypt) to the God of Abraham, father of the
Jews, Christians and Muslims. They dedicated their lives to pray to God
with and for their Muslim neighbors. Until the end of his life, Massignon
wrote an annual letter to the members of the badaliyya that expressed the
intensity of his spirituality and deep mystery of mystical substitution. In
addition, badaliyya embraces Massignon’s own understanding that by
learning the language and experiencing the tradition and culture of the
religious other, our own religious life is enhanced.
The idea of intercession for the religious other, particularly the Muslim
other, not for conversion but for the will of God to be realized with them
and through them, deeply marked de Beaurecueil’s spirituality. He saw
himself, like Massignon and Kahil, offering to God prayers (du‘a‘) on
behalf of the Afghans and other Muslims of the world. The following
prayer, titled “‘a prayer of a priest in Kabul,” makes our point:
Thus at night, when my people are at sleep, barefoot, and
squatting in the recesses of my chapel, I intercede for them like
Abraham, Jacob, Moses and Jesus ... A perfume from a stick of
sandalwood symbolizes those consumed by daily hard labor,
affliction and love ... And I am there, weighed down by my
people’s shortcomings, grieved by their pain, but filled with hope.
All those who have passed away today and thought they are
meeting a Judge; I introduce them to their Savior and invite them
to the Eternal Banquet. All the little ones born today, I make them
children of God. Today, every prayer said in their houses and
mosques, I convert them into the “Lord’s Prayer” ... My heart has
become the crucible where the fire of the love of Christ melts all
our mish-mashes and transforms them into gold. Through my lips,
the entire Afghanistan raises its voice towards the Father—the
Abba who gives them the Spirit.°°
This statement could sound arrogant, grandiose, and off-putting not
only for Muslims but for Christians as well. This is an example of how
unaware of his own biases yet sincere the Dominican friar was among
Muslims. Also, in Christian theologies, intercession on behalf of another
person seems widely accepted. In Islam, on the contrary, the idea of
intercession raises heated theological debates that are beyond the scope of
our immediate purpose. Badaliyya is certainly open to serious criticism,
particularly on the Muslim side. Who are those Christians who believe they
could intercede for their fellow Muslims? De Beaurecueil’s prayer is laden
with Christian fulfillment theologies and will sound problematic to most
ears, especially Muslim ones. Does badaliyya fail to take seriously both
faith traditions’ irreducible difference? In any case, praying for or with the
religious other could be a sign of care, hospitality, and recognition of a
shared and deeply ingrained truth: together we stand before God and in the
name of God. Even though intercession or praying together remains a
delicate and unsettling issue for interfaith dialogue, it seems that badaliyya
could foster a respectful attention to the religious experience of the other.
Maybe it is in these irreducible differences of faith traditions that religious
dialogue is most appreciated.**
To return to Christians’ view of Muslims, at least for de Beaurecueil
and de Foucauld, one could argue that they did not think that their hosts (the
Muslim peoples of the Sahara and Afghanistan) were to be freed from their
“spiritual dereliction” and delivered to Western religious culture. But could
these Christian lives implanted in the heart of Islamic lands be allowed an
epoché or to bracket the irreconcilable doctrinal and theological questions?
It seemed that as guests they recognized that there were boundaries to their
actions and that they must observe a certain restraint and deference.
Also, unless they wanted to be presumptuous, they needed to
acknowledge the limitations of an outsider who by definition lacks the inner
knowledge to appreciate the genuineness of the religious faith of the other.
The practice of great reserve on doctrinal and theological matters meant that
“perfect imitation of Jesus by a Christian must assume a great moral and
spiritual significance in the eyes of Muslims.”°> For de Beaurecueil, God’s
providence for humanity is unfathomable and surely includes the Afghan.
In his article “Pas de frontiers au Royaume de Dieu,” he came back to the
distinction, on the one hand, between a Christian and a disciple of Jesus,
and on the other, between the reign of God and the historical Catholic
Church.°° His role was to be the best Christian guest to his Muslim hosts by
faithfully imitating Jesus. Hence, the prophetic and hidden life of Jesus of
Nazareth grounded also de Beaurecueil’s theology of priesthood. The
orthopraxy of his religious life and priesthood was the dialogue of life of a
Christian in Afghanistan.
Ul. A Priest of Non-Christians
This section follows the Dominican friar’s meditation on specific features
of his religious identity among Muslims.
1. A Catholic Priest in Kabul
Our investigation pays attention not to the classical role of a priest in a
Christian community but to how the Muslim community and other friends
in Kabul shaped de Beaurecueil’s theology and praxis of priesthood. The
Christian theology of priesthood borrows from the cultic priesthood of the
Hebrew people and the New Testament theology.°’ If the classical theology
of priesthood in Christian tradition seems of little value to de Beaurecueil in
Kabul, could one argue that the Qur’anic treatment of “the People of the
Book,” and particularly its portraits of monasticism (rahbdniyya)® and
monk (rahib), had some influence on him? Among the primary sources for
Muslims’ understanding of Christianity and particularly monasticism, a few
Qur’anic verses seem pertinent.°? It is there that our investigation looks for
Muslims’ expectations of a Christian priest.°° To be certain, the Islamic
view of monasticism is diverse and complex, and the Qur’an itself is
ambivalent and ambiguous about Christian monks and priests.
Four Qur’anic verses refer directly to monks or monasticism: verse 82
of surat al-Ma’idah, 31 and 34 of surat al-Tawba, and 27 of strat al-
Hadid.®! Generally, Q.5:82 and 83 seem to praise and hold Christian monks
as good models and commend their practice of mortification. However, the
Qur’anic verse 27 of surat al-Hadid remarks that monasticism was a
Christian invention and Christian monks failed to live up to its demands.
The verse recognizes nonetheless that the motive of monastic life is to
please God. Also, a number of positive characters are ascribed to
Christians, such as “kindness and mercy.” Likewise, verses 82 to 85 of
surat al-Ma’idah point to Christian monks’ humility and meekness and
describe them as the “nearest in friendship.”® Finally, in the early days of
Islam, Abu Bakr al Siddiq’s instruction to Yazid ibn Abi Sufyan before the
conquest of Syria seems to suggest that Christian monks were protected.”
Similarly, M. Ayoub, a scholar of Islamic studies and a seasoned writer in
Christian-Muslim relations, asserts that this tolerant attitude of Q.5:85 is
pertinent even in times of conflict and hostility and could serve as a
reminder for Muslims to show restraint against the common human
tendency to cruel revenge against the enemy. He traces the application of
these principles back to the time of the Prophet and concludes that they
became Sunna, an example binding on all later generations. He refers to a
hadith related on the authority of Abi Bakr:
Do not betray [one another in war]. Do not commit treachery. Do
not mutilate or kill a young child, an old man or woman. Do not
cut down trees bearing fruits. Do not slaughter a sheep, a cow or a
camel except if you need it for food. You shall pass by people who
have dedicated themselves to acts of devotion in their hermitages.
Let them be, and that to which they have dedicated themselves.
Nonetheless, there are dissenting voices that remark that, first, even
Q.5:82 is not particularly favorable to monasticism, contrary to the
interpretation accepted by many Christian-Muslim dialogue circles. Second,
the verses in surat al-Tawba are anticlerical and very critical of Christian
monks, and third, the verse of surat al- Hadid justifies the condemnation of
Christian monasticism. These critics see a fundamental rejection of
priesthood in Islamic tradition.©° In the case of de Beaurecueil, however,
these fears and critical approaches to Christian monasticism did not play out
in hostility, and the Afghans seem to have accepted his religious status.
They read Q.2:62 and 5:62 favorably to Christians in this case.
Another reason for sympathy was that de Beaurecueil’s Christian idea
of religious life, holiness, and imitation of Christ did not fit surat al-
Tawbah’s depiction of Christians in verses 31 and 34. On the contrary, his
life was in stark contrast to abuses of power and wealth in some Christian
religious circles and to the cult of shaykhs and saints in certain circles in
Afghanistan. It was (and is) a common practice in parts of the Muslim
world that the shaykh had almost unlimited authority over his followers.°/
This was contrary to de Beaurecueil’s care for Kabul street children.
Unlike some religious leaders, priors and abbots, or marabouts and
shaykhs, who lorded it over their own communities, the Dominican friar
assumed the hidden life of the poor and strove to live humbly. He came to
identify Kabul with Nazareth or Jerusalem. At least one could say that de
Beaurecueil’s apostolate was Christian and mystical at its core but also
congruent with some Qur’anic mandates: “[T]he most honored of you in the
sight of God is the most righteous of you”; “Lo! The noblest of you, in the
sight of God, is the best in conduct” (Q.49:13); and “So vie one with
another in good works” (Q.5:48). He did not see himself adhering to these
Qur’anic mandates. He saw himself squarely faithful to his religious life,
namely, the life and ministry of Jesus of Nazareth and the life story of Saint
Dominic. To be certain, a mysterious impulse led the Dominican friar to the
House of Islam and opened his heart to the poor. In Kabul, he tried to
humanize a land so wild that it seemed to be torn from a lunar world.
There is no doubt that the examples of Afghan Muslims played an
important role in de Beaurecueil’s spiritual growth and transformed his
views of mission. In Christianity as well as in Islam, the individual and the
community of faith serve and worship God, and in Kabul, servanthood and
worship were two faces of the same reality for him. The obvious influence
is the work and life of his master, Ansari. From the Hanbali Sufi, he
understood God’s absolute sovereignty and majesty (ja/a/), and from Rumi
he took away God’s love and beauty (jamdl).°® These two mystical
intuitions present in Christian tradition also nourished a sense of awe and
freedom in him. Likewise, the simplicity, dignity, humility, and poverty of
most Afghans touched him deeply and forced him to be more authentic in
his religious life and priesthood. Afghanistan’s austere climate and the
exquisite beauty of its landscape shaped its people and children, and de
Beaurecueil experienced the beauty and the misery firsthand. He could not
stand idle before children’s pain and death. The suffering of innocent
children due mainly to their families’ dire socioeconomic situations
prompted in him a revolt against an inhuman condition.
Furthermore, the whole notion of self-renunciation had a powerful
appeal to Muslims. In our case, the Afghans were impressed by the sacrifice
of a religious man who gave up wealth and comfort (de Beaurecueil came
from aristocratic stock) and the security of conventual life to share the lot of
the poor in the desert and mountains of Afghanistan.°’ From the Muslims’
point of view, the Dominican friar’s imitation of Jesus corresponded to the
Islamic expectation of the People of the Book and was “the most eloquent
way to espouse the authenticity of the Gospel message.”’? For example, Dr.
Abdul Hamid Rahimi’s friendship with de Beaurecueil was extraordinary.
Both men shared a close spiritual affinity and a strong bond of brotherhood.
Dr. Rahimi was a devout Muslim and a luminous example of evangelical
life. De Beaurecueil recalled with great respect and admiration Rahimi’s
crucial distinction between a Christian and a disciple of Jesus. In
conversation, de Beaurecueil called him an “anonymous Christian.” No, he
replied, I am not a Christian, but a Muslim who is also a disciple of Jesus. It
is not the same thing. One can be a disciple of Christ without being a
professing Christian. ’!
Similarly, de Beaurecueil’s other closest friends were French
expatriates’? (coopérants), most of them atheists and in whom he had a
keen interest. Bédon, referred to as “the infidel of Kabul,” paints this
portrait of his Dominican friend: “[W]hat is certain is that you put your
faith into practice by giving yourself completely, and living the principles
of the carpenter of Nazareth that you claim. What is certain is that you
believe in your role of pastor and prophet without boasting at all, instead
with humility, stubbornness and at times with unbounded kindness in a
tough world.”’> Another close friend, Etienne Gill, who lived with him for
years and edited his diaries and letters during the civil war, speaks of the
friar’s deliberate attempt to live in harmony with Afghan culture and
religious sensibilities as a token of hospitality to his household members
and friends in Kabul. In addition, he cultivated a sincere friendship with the
Little Sisters of Jesus, who follow the life example of Charles de Foucauld.
De Beaurecueil’s Kabul years were a perpetual learning curve, a constant
reimagination of his religious life in uncharted territory. It is no wonder that
his religious experience was completely other and almost impossible to
duplicate. Our contention is that such a religious life betrays a scandalous
inner freedom proper to prophets and mystics.
At any rate, de Beaurecueil’s theological meditations about priesthood
are the fruit of a Christian religious life shaped by Muslims. His whole
theology of priesthood and religious life is squarely biblical and focused
exclusively on the prophetic life and priesthood of Jesus of Nazareth. His
theology is an attempt to retrieve the original intuition of the life and
ministry of Jesus before “Constantinian Christianity” or what the South
African Dominican friar Albert Nolan terms Jesus before Christianity.’* De
Beaurecueil’s meditations are a kind of ressourcement or going back to the
roots to understand the divine intuition at work in the portraits of Jesus
given by the Christian scriptures. In his book Un Chrétien en Afghanistan,
he sets a parallel between Jesus in Jerusalem and de Beaurecueil in Kabul
as the celebrant, the prophet, the servant, and the pastor. Hence, our analysis
is Christian in its orientation and Catholic in substance.
De Beaurecueil remained a Dominican friar to the core even though he
took much liberty in contextualizing his religious life. In such a case, it is
almost impossible to expect an immaculate consistency between spiritual
experience and theological discourse. But there is not a total discontinuity
between words and experience. His letters, articles, and books are treasures
of spiritual meditations, and their titles are in themselves gems of
wisdom.’> The spiritual journey of this Dominican friar in Kabul expresses
one way of being a Christian, a member of a religious order, and a priest in
the Muslim world. As he puts it, “disciple and priest of Christ in my
mountains, in the midst of my people who are unaware, I am constrained
and my mission is to perpetuate the life of the Nazarene.”’° His priesthood
expressed itself in two ministerial forms.
2. A Lonely Pastor and Celebrant
De Beaurecueil’s meditations on what he calls A Priest of Non-Christians
explores the pattern of Jesus of Nazareth’s public ministry. His choice to
parallel his life in Kabul in 1967 with that of Jesus of Nazareth in Jerusalem
might seem pretentious on his part. However, a close examination of his
meditations reveals his constant search to emulate the prophetic life form of
the historical Jesus.’’? According to Etienne Gill,’* the Dominican friar
turned out to be a pedagogue, theologian, and creative liturgist. Gill was a
firsthand witness to how the Dominican friar managed to keep a daily
horarium and celebration of the Eucharist in the most unusual
circumstances. He recalled that de Beaurecueil’s constant aim was to create
a liturgical and sacramental life inculturated into his Afghan milieu.
First, the Dominican friar believed that the Gospels and Christian
religious life could find an abode in other cultures as they could inhabit the
Greco-Roman one. De Beaurecueil attempted to remove his religious
experience and theological imagination from the ambit of Western Latin
Catholicism to be incarnated in the religious worldview of the people
around him,’? even though in his case, he was most of the time the only
Christian at his liturgical celebration.8° He realized that the celebration of
the Eucharist among Muslim children was laden with serious
misunderstanding. Christian liturgical experience was just too foreign for
his household members. For him, the Eucharist embraced all human
dimensions and unites the sacred to the mundane.
Second, he believed his entire religious life had to be founded not just
on a theology congruent with his Afghan environment and thought forms,
but on a properly Afghan style. Hence, he celebrated the liturgy of the hours
and the Eucharist not in the white Dominican habit but in local attire. He
translated “the lamb of God” in the Agnus Dei as “the lion of God.” He
chose the Eucharistic prayer from the Didache, used the Byzantine rite, and
included Persian poetry. In Kabul, his theological imagination was stretched
to its utmost capacity, and his liturgical experience was itself in a situation
of utter otherness where nothing was familiar. In such a case, he
surrendered to the promptings of Spirit.
De Beaurecueil’s liturgical imagination in Kabul was reminiscent of
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s*! Hymn of the Universe, written when de
Chardin, in the course of a scientific expedition, found himself in the Ordos
Desert (in China), where it was impossible to celebrate the Eucharist. One
can argue that de Chardin’s “The Mass on the World” spoke of the amazing
lucidity of his scientific vision and mystical wisdom. Both he and de
Beaurecueil experienced what most well-institutionalized religious life
often undermines—the constant abiding presence of God, who surpasses all
imagination and renders naught our petty attachment to liturgical elements.
In de Chardin’s case it was bread and wine, and in de Beaurecueil’s the
routine of conventual life. Here the friar, the priest, and the celebrant were
united in the breaking of bread and salt.
3. We Share Bread and Salt
Often the dreadfulness of daily life is the ideal place where the most sacred
religious experience occurs. Jesus’s parables were ordinary stories pointing
to the extraordinary presence of God. Similarly, the ordinary and almost
mundane visit of Abdul-Ghaffar Paktiyani at the Maison d’Abraham was a
fateful day that changed de Beaurecueil’s life. Ghaffar said, “I came to ask
you a favor. Would you like to share bread and salt with me? Once at your
house and another time at mine and we will be friends forever.”°* Hence, de
Beaurecueil and Ghaffar were host and guest in each other’s households for
a brief time. Tragically, Ghaffar died several weeks later in a car accident.
The sharing of bread and salt with Ghaffar was the ultimate sign, a turning
point in de Beaurecueil’s love affair with Afghanistan. At this point, it is
fair to say that scholarly research on Ansari takes a back seat and a new era
comes forth. It is not far-fetched to compare Ghaffar’s invitation to Jesus’s
conversation with the Syrophoenician woman (Mk. 7:25—30 and Mt. 15:21—
28) or Jalal al-Din Rumi’s encounter with Shams Tabrizi. Ghaffar’s
invitation and sudden death were an epiphany for de Beaurecueil. He
remarks:
This accident deeply distressed me. I meditated on his invitation
to share “bread and salt” together, and a quasi sacramental value
was given to this gesture with indescribable consequences. It was
during my meditation that all became clear to me. Undoubtedly,
Ghaffar gave me the key to understand the meaning of my life in
Kabul. I was here to share the life of Afghan people in the
ordinariness of daily life, such as sharing a meal with them. This
meal together tied my destiny to theirs and sealed my duty for
intercession—very dear to Massignon—, and I became a link
between the Afghans and Christ—a silent channel of grace.*?
This ephemeral gesture was a profound religious experience and spoke
volumes to the Dominican friar. The experience provided meaning and
significance to his role as a presbyter (sacerdoce) in an exclusively Muslim
environment. In Afghanistan he rediscovered the meaning of prayer and
sacramental life and the importance of pilgrimage when he visited Ansari’s
and Ghaffar’s graveyards. De Beaurecueil could really say with honesty and
gratitude:
Afghanistan is my spiritual home and Promised Land. My father
(Ansar1), my brothers (Rawan, Payanda and many others), my
children (Ghaffar and others); these Afghans loved as they are in
their grandeur and misery, joy and pain and hopes. They are the
ones with whom I share bread and salt every day and I am fully
aware of the significance of this sacred gesture.*4
The sacramental dimension of this gesture strikes a chord in the Dominican
friar’s self-consciousness. To break bread with the religious other is to share
life, and out of this gesture, hospitality is offered and received, prayer is
uttered, and a possibility of companionship is found. This gesture is a
source of nourishment for spiritual and human friendship. First, de
Beaurecueil shares bread and salt with Ghaffar, and after his death, anytime
he does it with other Afghans, he realizes that this broken and shared bread,
this simple and daily gesture symbolizes the agape, the communion of lives,
and the presence of the divine in their midst. Theology is imbued in life,
prayer, and love; and the discovery of spiritual links nurtured by sharing
bread and salt,®° and he concludes,
Faithful to this call, I repeat the prophetic gesture every day, at
meal I share bread with my fellow Afghans and I embrace deeper
and deeper their destiny. Every evening on their behalf, I
consume the Bread, anticipating, prefiguring, and preparing the
advent of the moment when illumined by the Spirit, filled with
faith, consumed by love and answering their eternal invitation,
they would have access to the mystery of the Altar.*°
For de Beaurecueil to share bread and salt with Afghans has ushered in
a community and fosters a common destiny. Sharing salt and bread has
opened his eyes to a new meaning of “Church,” the local community that is
part of the larger human community deeply loved and graced by God. He
sees in this community the promise of the reign of God, already present and
not yet accomplished. However, what about the religious other for whom
the Catholic sense of sacramentality is completely foreign? The Dominican
friar recognizes that the reality is not only beyond the religious other but
most of all beyond himself. He remarks, “Afghans did not understand of
course ... but the reality was there independent of our grasp. Precisely,
sharing bread and salt has a deliberate goal: to foster a community of lives,
a unity of being, and in and through me they have a share in the mystery. ...
87
In Catholic Christian theology, the Eucharist is the ultimate place
where God’s self-communication to humanity and human response meet in
the most intimate way. It is not a moment of theological and philosophical
discourse but a mystical encounter. For de Beaurecueil, sharing bread and
salt contextualized his priestly and religious life, but above all, his daily life
with his children at the Maison d’Abraham provided a unique Eucharistic
milieu where he was the only Christian. de Beaurecueil recalled with some
nostalgia his earlier years in Kabul, particularly the routine of a regular
religious life with the liturgy of the Hours (three times a day), the
celebration of Eucharist in the evening, and Compline (night prayer) before
bedtime. The Eucharist was the highlight of a day of labor, the sacralization
of daily bread, and the symbol of life shared with the Muslim other.*®
This liturgical celebration, however, was a lonely experience in the
midst of Muslim children who looked bewildered and at times amused by
the rite. In addition, he realized that there was a danger in playing the role
of an indispensable minister—a role that none had given him. For centuries,
the Afghans had lived without him, and the Holy Spirit had not waited for
him to move their hearts.°? It is yet another example of how the Dominican
friar was forced to live an authentic religious life away from false piety,
spiritual vanity, and arrogance. In the face of the religious other, he grasped
the meaning of spiritual poverty and evangelical humility. De Beaurecueil
seems to have found his treasure or the pearl of great price among Kabul
street children.
IH. My Children of Kabul
The context of civil war and the invasion of Afghanistan by the Red Army
from December 27, 1979, to February 15, 1989, completely disrupted the
life and routine of the Maison d’Abraham. Three years of the physical and
emotional misery, death, and destruction wrought by the war ended a
transformative experience of shared life with Kabul street children. The
experience of war, though important, did not drastically influence de
Beaurecueil’s praxis mystica. Etienne Gill and Sylvie Heslot edited and
published a trail of letters that de Beaurecueil wrote from December 1979
until his departure in 1983.°° The editors organized the letters in three
volumes titled Lettres d’Afghanistan de Serge de Beaurecueil: chronique
d’un témoin privilégié (La terreur, vol. 1, 1979; Au bord du désespoir, vol.
2, 1980; and L’impasse, vol. 3, 1981-83).
In these letters, de Beaurecueil describes the tragedy that befell
Afghanistan and particularly his household. These accounts do not reflect
the views of an insider close to the government or the rebellion forces
battling the Soviet army and its local allies, but the diaries of an advisor at
Lycée Esteqlal and the padar of the Maison d’Abraham. His narratives are
stories of the disappearance and incarceration of his “children,” the dire
consequences of a civil war, the sinister sound of army choppers over
Kabul, and people’s unbearable tension and deep anxiety. These
circumstances fostered an environment that was a living hell. The accounts
are naive at times, but also perceptive and nuanced. This collection of
letters portrays the appalling turn of his adventure and particularly the
demise of a dream: to live the rest of his life in Kabul and die in the land of
his master. Pérennés writes, “Serge’s narratives are a day to day chronicle,
real Stations of the Cross for an entire people with whom he remains
faithful to the end. These pages cannot be summarized, and are often
written like a sailor in deep despair tossing a bottle into the sea.”?!
These “Chroniques d’un témoin privilégié” and Rahimi’s documentary
movie Nous avons partagé le pain et le sel raised serious questions. The
fate of many children turned sour, and their lives were threatened because
the Soviet and Afghan authorities used all means, including these children,
to force the Dominican friar out of the country. He was accused of being a
spy for Western capitalist countries. One may question whether or not his
earlier departure from Kabul would have prevented this disastrous outcome.
His sense of hospitality for and solidarity with the people of Afghanistan
created an ethical dilemma similar to the predicament of many religious
men and women living among Muslims (or others for that matter) in time of
war and civil unrest.?* In this case, the longer de Beaurecueil stayed in
Kabul, the longer some of the youngsters suffered severely. He was torn
apart between leaving the country and staying in solidarity with those he
cared for deeply.
For many Christians, the example of Jesus of Nazareth and his words
are the lynchpin for their choices. A verse such as “There is no greater love
than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (Jn. 15:13) and the ethical
demand to stay with the suffering other loom large. In his civil war diaries,
de Beaurecueil meditates often on “Blessed are you when people insult you,
persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.
Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same
way they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Mt. 5: 11-12).
Nevertheless, did the Dominican friar stay too long in Kabul because
of a twisted savior complex or in the pursuit of martyrdom or holiness? Was
he responsible for the ordeal of some of his protégés? In times of civil war,
a decision to stay or leave is laden with unbearable consequences. Despite
the horrible circumstances of his departure, he continued to work for the
well-being of his Kabul children, and many of them found asylum in
France. His sincerity and compassion were not a misplaced pursuit of
holiness or martyrdom. The poverty and helplessness of Kabul street
children were not an opportunity for a show but a tragedy to remedy.”* He
left heartbroken and felt guilty of betraying the very people he called his
icons. He estimated that solidarity with the suffering other outweighs the
risks. On August 23, 1983, a few days before his departure from Kabul, he
sent a letter to a priest friend, Jean d’Auferville, in Leaz (France) to
summarize the agony and tragic end of the Maison d’Abraham.
My dear Jean, it is agony. I have enough of sobbing all night long.
I must leave, otherwise I will go mad. Six of my “children” were
arrested and a seventh (sixteen) died a few days ago because of
intestinal obstruction because of his parents’ imprudence. Who is
next? It seems that I am the source of their tragedies. Tell Georges
that I joined the club of the wretched. The padar (father), the hero
of the far away adventure is no more. I am alone and writing to
you in tears. My dear Jean, I groan in the depth of the abyss. Tell
all my friends to pray for me and to howl to the Lord on our
behalf!?>
Obviously the Dominican friar shared equally the tragedy of his
household, and this proves his sincerity and solidarity with the suffering
other.
1. At the House of Abraham
Afghanistan Demain is a nongovernmental organization (NGO) that was
founded by Ehsan Mehrangais, one of de Beaurecueil’s “children,” in 2001
while the Taliban were in power. It is a proud heir of the life and work of de
Beaurecueil in Kabul.?° De Beaurecueil was the honorary president until his
death in 2005. The organization seeks to perpetuate the spirit of the Maison
d’Abraham, which was tragically interrupted by the Soviet invasion.?/
Mehrangais writes, “I established this NGO to help forsaken children and to
continue father Serge de Beaurecueil’s legacy. He dedicated his life to help
children in need with a spirit of tolerance.”?* Faithful to de Beaurecueil’s
legacy, the organization is devoted to feeding, clothing, educating, and
providing health care to a number of children who live on and from the
street of Kabul. This section focuses on de Beaurecueil’s eventful life in
Kabul through his book Mes enfants de Kabul, which chronicles the legacy
that Afghanistan Demain would like to perpetuate.
The stories of these children are intertwined with his journey. In
Kabul, the Dominican friar experienced what it meant to rely on God’s
providence (tawakkul), to trust the strangers or the religious other and to
remain faithful to the Spirit of truth. In such a case, where doubt and
interrogation crept in too easily, where adversity and dire poverty seemed
connatural to the land, de Beaurecueil relied on signs to continue his
journey. These signs were lampposts on the road, or the “monk’s lamp”
with its glimmer that made the heart of a solitary traveler beat with gladness
at the thought that through the unfathomable desert night, the fragile light
was like the joyful sign of fraternal presence. His “children,” Ghaffar,
Mirdad, Ehhsan, Zaher, Wahéd, Sultan, and so forth, were such
lampposts.””
His community in Kabul was put under the patronage of Abraham. De
Beaurecueil paralleled his call to Abraham’s. As God summoned the
patriarch to journey to the promised land (Gn. 12, 1), the Dominican friar
believed he was as well led by God to the mountains of Afghanistan. Like
Abraham, he did not know where the promised land was and when he
would arrive. Like Abraham, he left his country, friends, and religious
community to live elsewhere, and for him it meant to commune with a
number of orphans and street children, sick and handicapped little ones in
Kabul’s hospitals. As with Abraham, only God knew why and how the
journey would unfold. He did not have a blueprint or a road map for
Kabul’s adventure. Just as Ur and Harran were just stages on the way to the
promised land for Abraham, so were Paris and Cairo on the way to Kabul in
his case. He notes:
All in all, I chose Abraham as the patron saint of our humble
abode in Shar-é-Naw. Thirty years ago, I joined the Order of St.
Dominic, and later heard father Chenu’s talk about Egypt, and
landed in the country in 1946. How would I have ever imagined
that my Promised Land was farther away in the mountains of
Central Asia? God led me step by step, and I now see clearly the
itinerary. The meaning of my adventure, however, escapes me
totally. Like Ur and Harran, Paris and Cairo were just stages on
the way, but filled with dear memories. !°°
For a Dominican friar, his life experience in Kabul was not a given. He
knew the preaching of the Gospel 1s irreducible to an institutional religious
life or church organization. Many of the residents of the Maison d’Abraham
were crippled by birth defects, malnutrition, neglect, abuse, and
maltreatment. Many were abandoned and orphaned boys who slept in the
public parks in warm weather or sought out doorways and boxes in winter.
By strange coincidence and unusual circumstances, they arrived at the
Maison d’Abraham, and a fictive kinship was formed between a friar and
Muslim children.
His community was made of Pashtun, Tajik, Hazara, Nuristani, and
Baloch; some were Sunni, others Shi‘I or Isma’ili. What had become of his
years of erudite scientific research on Islamic mysticism? He earned two
doctorates and was appointed professor at the University of Kabul in 1962
to teach the history of Islamic mysticism and techniques of editing ancient
manuscripts.!°' He left research to teach at the University faculty,
abandoned his position to teach in the secondary and primary schools, and
later became an advisor and infirmarian to the little ones. No wonder
unrelenting questions and doubts continued to plague his adventure. The
following questions refused to go away: did he make the right decision;
should he continue to care for orphans and handicapped and street children
or return to his scholarly work on the Pir of Herat? Was he doing the right
thing to gather Muslim boys from different religious and _ ethnic
backgrounds in his compound? After ten years in Kabul, he offered this
grueling and honest examination of conscience:
I have always abhorred examination of conscience and one’s life
assessment. It is difficult to evaluate oneself truthfully. Often, we
confess only that which is convenient, leaving in the shadow
things that are too humiliating to admit. After all, to examine
one’s life presupposes that we control it and can dispose of it at
will. Experience tells a different story. We are conditioned by
many things out of our control. Nonetheless, after ten years with
these children—visiting hospitals, giving up my _ scholarly
endeavors, and letting my religious life go by the wayside—I
question myself at times. I can easily rationalize things away—
love for the poor (“let children come to me,” said the Gospel),
open heart, the demands of life which force us to abandon what is
secondary to attend to what matters, and the revolt of faith against
institutional religion etc. ... It was equally easy even though less
glorious to imagine the dark side—selfish satisfaction in helping
others, making up for the paternity that I gave up, sublimation of
a clumsy sadism, salvaging a failed vocation, negligence and
unfaithfulness to prayer and sacramental practices, and the list
goes on.!°?
These heartwrenching questions are moments of examination of
conscience but also of grace, places where the abode of Islam “evangelizes”
his paternalism, orientalism, and Eurocentrisim. What are the deep reasons
that motived his obsession with Ansari and Afghanistan? His honesty is
genuine, and one can only wish that many in similar circumstances will
remain humble and not fall into a misguided savior complex. In the face of
these seminal questions on which his entire life hung, two signs pointed the
way. First, Ghaffar’s invitation to share bread and salt, and second, Ansari
would provide the ultimate sign. This latter answer was reminiscent of
Elijah’s experience in | Kings 19:12. Similar to Elijah, de Beaurecueil did
not receive a boisterous and triumphant answer, but a whisper, a fleeting
sign pointing to the right direction. Indeed, the last sign arrived in 1976. By
that time, de Beaurecueil had since 1965 abandoned his erudite work on the
master’s corpus of teachings and devoted himself solely to the education
and health care of Kabul street children. The nagging question was: should
he continue to care for the well-being of his “children” or return to
academia? The answer came on the commemoration of the millennium of
the birth of Ansari. On that occasion, Beaurecueil had a chance to travel to
the shrine of the master in Herat. Duprée files this account:
In the early evening, which so often bathes Herat in an unearthly
light, Serge sat before the tomb of Ansari and closed his eyes to
meditate. As reported later, he asked the questions which plagued
him and demanded of Ansari: “O Pir of Herat, you brought me to
Afghanistan. But what should I do now?” As he meditated, Serge
became aware that all sounds of man and nature had died away.
Silence! Then he opened his eyes. Sitting before him were two
little boys, huddled together, contemplating this strange khareji
(foreigner) who sat so respectfully in front of the tomb of Ansari.
One of the boys, it turned out, claimed to be a direct descendant
of the Khwaja ‘Abdullah ‘Ansari, Pir-i-Herat.!°
De Beaurecueil believed in signs and saw in these little boys’ answer
an indication that the master of Herat was in agreement with his life. Once
again, no one can empirically observe and describe the veracity of his
religious experience. According to him, his care for Kabul’s abandoned and
poor children did not distance him from mysticism or betray his master. His
daily work at Lycée Isteqlal, visits to hospitals, sharing bread and salt, and
the tedious routine of living with children were all signs of faithfulness to
the essentials. The Dominican friar turned padar could then write at the end
of his book:
These children that you heard about are a few among many others
in Kabul. They were sent my way by Providence to share my
journey. You saw them arrive after many trials and misery. You
watched them join the household and become part of the family
where they grow together and experience joy in spite of the
vicissitudes of life, revolution and civil war. “The glory of God is
the human being fully alive,” said St. Ireneus. I told you the story
of these children which is also mine as well.!4
Ironically, it was in the land of Islam that the word padar, father or
pere, made complete sense. In the Muslim world, the attribution of the title
of father to a celibate man was an oddity. But it was in Kabul that everyone
called de Beaurecueil padar. Muslims as well as his French friends and
other foreigners use the same word; for the former, he was the padar of the
Maison d’Abraham, and for the latter he was a priest and a friar. One of his
“children,” Mirdad, who joined the compound at a very young age and
never knew any other father figure than the Dominican priest, took Pedari
as his last name. For his colleagues at school, his neighbors, the physicians
at the hospital such as Dr. Rahimi and Gaush, and the Little Sisters of Jesus,
de Beaurecueil was the padar in both the human and spiritual senses.
People recognized in him the role of a father—a spiritual father but also a
father who provided for his adoptive children. In a society where it was
unacceptable to call God a father, the people of Kabul saw in him a man of
God and a sign of God’s mercy on these children. Each year many children
came, some stayed as they needed to, some longer, some for a brief visit.
Many went to school for the first time in their lives. They learned to walk
again, were cured of debilitating disease, and many went on to have careers.
He did not perform miracles, but thanks to an enduring work, what Jules
Monchanin called “une patience géologique” (a monumental patience), and
God’s providence a number of Kabul orphans and street children made a
life for themselves.
At any rate, when he met a distraught child on a street or in a hospital,
he was moved to act.!°> Hence, at the Maison d’Abraham children arrived
unannounced. He would be the first to recognize that children are not easy
but nothing could impede his enthusiasm. On the contrary, these children
were his icons, divine signs who always arrived on a symbolic day: the
feast of St. Dominic, the anniversaries of his solemn profession, his
ordination, and so forth. There were enough anniversary dates to welcome
them any day of the week and enough room and food to accommodate
them. In Rahimi’s documentary, he said, “[C]hildren must be loved and
respected, they are the very face of God, Christ promised the reign of God
to them, they are my icons, and each one of them is a mystery, a history and
a poem.”!6
2. These Little Ones Are My Icons
In his documentary, Rahimi tracks the journey of a few former residents of
the Maison d’Abraham who now live in France or between Kabul and Paris.
The movie portrays well their unique adventures and fate but underlines
their common struggles. The lot of a dire life and the misery of a childhood
are transformed through time into a meaningful human life. Their stories
mingle with the Dominican friar’s religious journey and give birth to deeply
moving biographies. In My Children of Kabul, he recounts the biographies
of children whose lives went unnoticed. Different and unique, they were all
called to share a destiny and a journey that they could not imagine. The
reasons were beyond all of them, but to the best of their know-how, and out
of their enthusiasm and hospitality, they wrote redemptive stories about the
House of Abraham.
Among his children, de Beaurecueil liked to start with Ghaffar, who
never lived in the house but initiated the movement and provided a
theological raison d’étre for his adventure. The second one was Del-Agha,
then Rassul, “marvelous and yet unbearable,”!°’ arrived to keep Del-Agha
company. Del-Agha was Tajik and Sunni, but Rassul was Hazara and
Shi’ah. The cook Baba Golab, a Sunni Pashtun, could not see himself
attending to a Shi’ah Hazara, who was considered as being an inferior class.
These ethnic and sectarian conflicts and their subsequent resolution point to
the possibility of a peaceful coexistence among religions and ethnic groups.
Mirdad was perhaps the dearest child who stayed with the padar.!°8 When
he was sent to school and was asked his father’s name, he replied: “de
Beaurecueil.” Because of his closeness to de Beaurecueil, he was
imprisoned and tortured by Afghan secret service agents during the Russian
invasion. The authorities sought to use him as a means to incriminate de
Beaurecueil. His story is the most emotional, and he is the living example
of the Dominican friar’s success story in Kabul.!° The list goes on with
Ibrahim, Cher-Agha, Besmellah, Mohad Ali, Akbar Saoz, Reza, and many
others. They came from Herat, Bamian, Panjchir, Ghazni, Jalalabad,
Nuristan, and so forth. There were many stories of tragedy and misfortune,
particularly during the civil wars, but also enduring stories of children
whose lives turned out better because of the Maison d’Abraham. It was just
a handful of Kabul children. One might argue that it was a drop in the ocean
of poverty and neglect, of course, but for these children, the padar made all
the difference in their lives.
De Beaurecueil’s life in Kabul was not only about his hospitality
toward the Afghan but also the Afghan generosity to a Christian who lived
as one of them. He tried with the help of his Muslim neighbors to live the
Gospel. Thousands of miles away from his country, in a forsaken land
where people are poor and the landscape is austere and yet breathtaking, a
unique love affair blossomed between them and the Dominican friar. He
was a fool for God among Muslims, and his children gave him a sense of
human and spiritual paternity that he could have never dreamt of. In calling
him padar, the Afghan recognized in him shared human and religious
values. They welcomed him and taught him to see with new eyes, and he
recognized them as members of the reign of God, to use a Christian term.
His life echoed Christian Duquoc’s insightful reading of Jesus of Nazareth’s
life and ministry:
The dominion of Christ points to Jesus of Nazareth, who chose in
his life to relinquish hegemonic imagination and to assume the
risk of fragile justice and discrete love. He deemed this
withdrawal from power more beneficial to people. The
Resurrected, through the gift of the Spirit, invites the Church and
Christians to walk a similar path, which scorns deceptive
optimism, and opens to a lucid and solid hope. Such a hope builds
on faith which overcomes doubts engendered by a dimmed vision
of the reign of God.!!°
De Beaurecueil’s was a journey characterized not by a systematic
speculation on religious life or the elaboration of a theoretical framework
within which all elements of a Dominican life can be explained and situated
in relationship to each other and to the whole. His pastoral mysticism
assigned priority to experience rather than allowing theological conjecture
to prescribe and limit his ministry, because experience enjoys a real priority
over theory in relation to life. The adventure at Maison d’Abraham was not
governed by logical necessity but by contingency, and at times it seemed
chaotic and meaningless. He acknowledged the historical character of his
religious life and therefore the real limitations of human freedom. As S.
Schneiders, a scholar and religious women herself, sees it, “it is a sure
instinct for the real nature of religious life which is not a static essence to be
described and analyzed but first and foremost a life to be lived, an historical
reality which is ever-changing and unpredictable.”!!!
His religious life did not start with definitions, laws, propositions, or
his erudition in Islamic mysticism. He tended to examine his lived
experience and tried to express its significance through his daily encounter
with Afghans. He abandoned exclusive and triumphant theologies for an
articulation of religious life in dynamic, evangelical terms. He tested the
validity of theories about religious life by their adequacy to his experience
among Muslims. His praxis mystica itself was tested against the Gospel
criterion: “By their fruits you shall know them.” (Mt. 7:20)
In Kabul from 1963 to 1983, and despite the ups and downs, de
Beaurecueil’s experience embodied a Christian solidarity with Muslims, a
fidelity to the Gospel’s ideals of equality and simplicity, a repudiation of
elitism and the privileges of pseudo-clericalism. Among Muslims, he
experienced the sacred not so much in high Christology (Eucharistic
celebration, silent meditations, and a daily horarium) but in simple and
mundane human gestures. He shared bread and salt, attended and nursed a
child to health, listened to, taught and admonished another one, laughed and
cried with their families. It was the realization of the unfathomable presence
of God in the terribleness of daily life. In Kabul, he understood what it
really meant to rely on God’s providence, tawakkul, and to surrender the
future to God’s will.!!?
This chapter concludes de Beaurecueil’s spiritual path and presents the
result of a lifelong journey from Aristocratic Catholic France to
Afghanistan. The Dominican friar’s life and work testifies to the
transformative power of hospitality given to and received from the Muslim
other. He managed to live a Christian religious life among Muslims and was
open to the signs of the times. His radical belief in the power of the Spirit to
guide and lead his actions sustained him. He befriended people of goodwill
regardless of religion and culture. Many in the French community of Kabul
were atheists and agnostics. They were, however, closer to him than many
of his own Dominicans brothers.'!* Ultimately, this was an attempt to
appreciate the gifts of the Muslim Other religiously and culturally. He left
his birthplace to go to share bread and salt, to meet God in the Afghans, to
intercede and substitute for them, to find and build a family.
Conclusion
Initial
Out of infinite longings rise
finite deeds like weak fountains
falling back just in time and trembling.
And yet, what otherwise remains silent,
our happy energies—show themselves
in these dancing tears.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Images (1902)
(trans. Cliff Crego)!
In Doing the Truth in Love, Michael Himes confesses, “theology: that of
which we cannot speak.”” As Himes understands it, theologians and mystics
stand between two poles. The first pole is expressed in Ludwig
Wittgenstein’s conclusion in Tractatus Logico-philosophicus, “Of that about
which we can say nothing, let us keep silent,”> and the second one is
described by T. S. Eliot, “There are some things about which nothing can be
said and before which we dare not keep silence.”* Between these two poles
lies theological and mystical endeavor. In de Beaurecueil’s case, it was an
attempt to square this theological circle: to live an authentic Roman
Catholic religious life in the midst of Muslims. It seems that he stands
remarkably well between those two poles as a mystic and a prophet.
According to William Ernest Hocking:
The prophet is but a mystic in control of the forces of history,
declaring their necessary outcome: the mystic in action is the
prophet. In the prophet, the cognitive certainty becomes historic
and particular; and this is the necessary destiny of that certainty:
mystical experience must complete itself in prophetic
consciousness.°
The interplay of mystical and prophetic elements is found in the lives of
several outstanding Dominican friars, and de Beaurecueil belongs to this
lineage.’ In the examples of these friars, the essential unknowability of God
embraces the imperative of a loving ministry. The life and religious praxis
of de Beaurecueil is congruent with the Dominican tradition and spirituality,
which necessarily includes prayer and study, material and spiritual poverty,
the primacy of Truth, and contemplation expressed in active service to
others. This latter aspect, known as Contemplata aliis tradere (to hand on to
others what has been contemplated), is the praxis mystica of the Dominican
friar Richard Woods. Woods explains:
Drawn from the teachings of Thomas Aquinas, the gnomic phrase
[Contemplata aliis tradere] is meant not to distinguish the
mystical, contemplative dimension of Dominican spirituality from
its active expression, but to unite them. Nor are they related as a
means to an end: they form one goal.®
The burden of this book was to try to fill a lacuna in the literature
devoted to the mystical approaches to Christian-Muslim relations. De
Beaureueil’s scholarship was a meditation on a master-teacher relation like
that of Massignon and al-Hallaj and on the hidden and abiding presence of
God in the midst of incommensurable differences. His life journey points to
the transformative role of Islam and Muslims for Christian discipleship. In
the abode of Islam, this Christian life given to the study of the mystical
dimensions of Islam experienced a conversion of his orthopraxy and
worldview. He learned to allow the religious other to speak as other without
assimilating him or her to the category of sameness. The context of
otherness in Kabul ushered in a different way of living an authentic praxis
mystica, and the children at the House of Abraham opened an unexpected
widow, a ministry of hospitality to and from the Muslim other.
The four chapters of this book have examined the spiritual and
intellectual encounter of two mystics who lived almost a millennium apart
in totally different cultures, religious traditions, and continents. The
scholarship of a contemporary Dominican friar about the life and works of a
Hanbali Suft of the eleventh century Herat is the thrust of this book. This
study shows the invaluable (yet neglected) contribution of de Beaurecueil to
the Dominican tradition of Islamic studies and offers a meditation on a
mystical approach to the religious other. On the one hand, de Beaurecueil’s
life is a faith journey lived from the location of weakness, otherness, and a
constant effort to understand his faith in light of the religious other. On the
other hand, his life was the locus of Christian-Muslim theological
conundrums. He lived every aspect of the challenges, differences, and
incompatibilities of the two faith traditions.” Above all, Islam and Muslims
serve as the crucible of his scholarship and the ground on which his
Christian discipleship drew nourishment and bore fruit. In the abode of
Islam, he discovered the sacred meaning of hospitality given and received.
Massignon calls it “a holy hospitality.”
According to Christian Duquoc (d. 2008), there are four major
challenges of Islam for Christianity:
1) The advent of Islam as a post-Christian religion justifies its
claim to be the last historically revealed religion;
2) The radical monotheism of Islam rejects the incarnation of the
biblical God in history;
3) The dogmatic and moral simplicity of Islam breaks with the
complexity of Christian doctrines;
4) Modernity: individual versus community: a controversial
challenge. !°
Duquoc suggests that these challenges are not assaults on Christianity and
Western modernity, but rather deeply disturbing questions to wrestle with.
In an odd way, these challenges are the gifts of the Muslim other to
Christian theological and mystical imagination. This study offers an
example of how a Dominican mystic and an erudite orientalist appropriated
this gift of the religious other, the gift of dar al Islam to Christian praxis
mystic. De Beaurecueil offers an approach that could energize a timid
Roman Catholic theology of religions that also seems out of stamina and
rekindle “Christian-Muslim dialogue in a world gone religiously awry,” as
David Burrell puts it.!!
The narratives of both Ansari’s and de Beaurecueil’s lives in the first
two chapters shed light on the complex reasons and circumstantial events at
the roots of the friar’s scholarship: his journey from aristocratic Catholic
France to Cairo and to the mountains of Afghanistan, where he lived his
Christian discipleship and Dominican life. In addition, these biographies
present the eventful life of a Sift master and paint the pictures of two
deeply religious men whose lives transcend time and defy incommensurable
differences. These first two chapters also till the soil for the spiritual
affinities and master-disciple relationships. Chapters 3 and 4 focus on de
Beaurecueil’s own intellectual and mystical growth. Furthermore, these two
men of God offer a glimpse into the mystical legacy of their respective faith
traditions.!* Their lives call to mind Rabindranath Tagore’s poem “Little
Flute”:
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with
fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its
limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of
mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is
room to fill.!°
The two mystics teach us that what is most universal is at the same time
most particular. Hegel called this phenomenon “the concrete universal.”!4
The concrete universal is a principle that necessarily has universal import
and at the same time is concrete by virtue of its historical situation.
Mysticism is of this nature because it belongs to all religious traditions, and
every mystical path (tariqa) is tied to a particular moment, an age, and even
a person. There are what one might call moments of mystical paths in
history. One could also borrow the title of Fakhr al-din ‘Iraqi’s book and
call these moments “divine flashes”!> or, to use T. S. Eliot’s luminous
phrase, “a raid on the inarticulate.”'© These phrases characterize accurately
the lives of Ansari and de Beaurecueil. It is not far-fetched to think of them
as moments of mystical encounters. Both mystics were expressions of the
universal human search for union with God and also of complete obedience
to the divine path in their particular religious traditions. They were among
those who took seriously their religious traditions and fully understood the
status of humanity as standing before God. “Be still and know that I am
God,” we read in Psalm 46:10.!”
The Dominican friar refused to buy into the dichotomies of knowledge
and experience/practice. Reza Sha-Kazemi believes that Islamic spirituality
(or the mystical dimensions of Islam) could prevent Islamic tradition from
becoming mere ideology and turning to violence. Reza Shah-Kazemi goes
further and identifies in Islamic spirituality or mysticism the dimension that
prevents religion from becoming mere ideology and turning into violence.
He argues that the vital state of religious life and discourse is proportional
to the profound spiritual consciousness within its fold. He writes:
It is spirituality, we believe, that reveals, more effectively than
any other aspect of the Islamic tradition, the reductionism
inherent in the attempt to ideologize and politicize the message of
the Qur’an. For it is precisely when the spiritual appreciation of
Revelation is weak, that its message becomes susceptible to
ideological distortion. There is a clear relationship between the
decline of spirituality and the rise of ideology, in Islam as in other
religions; and it would not be going too far to say that, deprived
of a living spirituality at its core, Islam will inevitably be reduced
to an empty shell, the vacuum within soon becoming filled with
worldliness in all its guises: its revealed text becomes an
ideological pretext; morally reforming oneself gives way to
violently rectifying the other; spiritual contemplation is scorned
in favour of political machination; the subtleties of revelation
become submerged by exigencies of revolution. !®
Despite their human failures, one could argue that these two mystics at
the center of this study are like parables in Christian terms, or koans in Zen
Buddhism. Their lives are paths to truth because they lead our minds and
eyes to see the extraordinary in the ordinary and dreadfulness of everyday
life. They struggle, like Jacob against the angel of God in the Hebrew
Scriptures, to embody a genuine path to the divine and an authentic taste of
the unfathomable presence of God. De Beaurecueil’s mystical perspective is
a genuine investigation of the foundations of the philosophical and
theological ground of both Christianity and Islam at a particular time. Such
an endeavor avoids religious exclusion and alienation and fosters a deeper
appreciation of the gift of other religions.
Faithful to the motto of the Dominican Order, Veritas, de Beaurecueil’s
lifetime search for the Truth is the blueprint of this study. He remarks
correctly, “I do not believe that I possess the Truth that could hand down to
others from my superior position. I only wish to walk toward the Truth with
and often through others; step by step in order that She possesses me.”!?
Veritas, “Truth,” inscribed in the Dominican seal summarizes the goal and
ideal of the Order. Veritas is not a narrow philosophical, much less
semantic, notion of verbal accuracy, but it means the whole range of divine
and human Reality and the process of seeking illusive truth. For
Dominicans, the chief instance and perfect exemplar remains the Eternal
Truth, expressed substantially and historically in Jesus of Nazareth, the
Christ of faith.”°
Mystics often are good examples of what the search for the ultimate
Truth is all about. De Beaurecueil’s life witnesses to a possibility of two
faith traditions as well as two cultures and civilizations: Persian-Arabic and
western European, learning, enriching, and challenging each other without
distorting and denigrating the other. The Hanbali Sufi, Ansari, lured the
French Dominican priest to settle in Afghanistan for twenty years. De
Beaurecueil met Ansari on mystical ground. The Pir of Herat schooled the
Frenchman through the mystical experiences of the unfathomable. His
mystical path blossomed when he entered in conversation with the mystical
writings of Ansari. The quality of the relationship between the Dominican
friar and Ansari is strikingly similar to Massignon’s description of his
engagement with al-Hallaj. Massignon writes, “Not that the study of his life
[al-Hallaj], which was full and strong, upright and whole, rising and giving
has yielded to me the secret of his heart. It is rather he [al-Hallaj] who has
fathomed mine and who probes it still.”*! In this sense, al-Hallaj was for
Massignon what Ansari was for de Beaurecueil. Similar to Massignon and
many others, de Beaurecueil opened a door for many to pass through and to
find a real approach and technique of dialogue with the religious other. De
Beaurecueil transmitted Ansari’s thought and mystical wisdom. The
Dominican friar’s life was a doorway and a finger pointing beyond himself
and perhaps to what interfaith encounter really means.
De Beaurecueil enters into dialogue as a host or a guest without
presumptions of knowledge or aspirations to possess the right faith
tradition. Dialogue requires recognition of one’s own limitations and
sincere respect shown to others’ differences. De Beaurecueil did not live in
two worlds, Islam and Christianity; within himself there was not a wall
dividing the one from the other. Interfaith dialogue engages us beyond
ourselves and often includes the undertaking of apparently hopeless
journeys made to and with distant friends. Dialogue witnesses to alternative
human capacities such as compassion, moral integrity against brutality, and
indifference to suffering. The radical respect for the religious other shown
by de Beaurecueil and many others is one of the most precious fruits of
realized kindredness that began in dialogue. Genuine dialogue does not shy
away from moral rage. It may indeed be a necessary condition of the larger
dialogue for such souls: rage on the other’s behalf, rage for truth, rage for
justice, in the self-consuming spirit of compassion. These prophets of
dialogue went further than most in discovering and sharing a larger
worldview than their own.
Like the olive tree roots itself in the ground, Serge never left his
childhood. From this well, he drew nourishment and bore fruit. In addition,
he kept his childhood’s fantasy and freedom.”*? André Gouzes, one of de
Beaurecueil’s closest friends and confréres, sees in de Beaurecueil’s life the
freedom and the carefree characteristics of a child. As discussed in the
introduction, his unwavering determination to travel to a faraway land and
later abandon erudite scholarship for the welfare of Kabul’s street children
harkens back to his own childhood.”> In that case, Jacques Lacan’s famous
phrase “the child is the father of the man” (/’enfant est le pére de l’homme)
seems to explain some aspects of his religious adventure. Pérennes reminds
us that de Beaurecueil read closely Dostoevsky’s work, in which he paid a
keen attention to the “scandal of children’s suffering and pain.” In 1954, he
gave a Series of lectures at the Alliance francaise of Ismailia in Cairo, and
one of them was titled “Children in Dostoevsky’s work” (Présence des
enfants dans l’eouvre de Dostoevsky).74
In addition, from Crime and Punishment, de Beaurecueil took the
following lines seriously: “children are the very face of Christ. The reign of
God belongs to them. Jesus calls us to respect and love them. They are the
future of humanity.”?° His whole life was full of instances of extraordinary
care for children in pain. At Saint-Fargeau, he ministered to children with
poliomyelitis; in Cairo, he befriended Taissir Tatio, who was seriously
handicapped, and later took Alain-Ammanuel Tagher, a ten-year-old
Lebanese boy, to Lourdes to pray for healing. In Kabul, he dedicated most
of his ministry to children plagued by numerous ailments. Upon his return
from Afghanistan, he befriended Lawry, who suffered from a debilitating
pulmonary disease, and Francois, who was lonely and fatherless.*° He was
moved by children’s endurance of unbearable pain and at the same time
their capability to radiating inexplicable joy. In my view, here lies the
source of his own joy and enthusiasm for children’s welfare, and not only
his own childhood pain. In an article written on his seventieth birthday, he
betrayed the secret of his inner joy, which illuminates his care for the little
ones among us. He wrote:
Amazement! Indeed, the morning Star has never ceased to light
my way, even during the darkest hours of my life. Often, She
illumines my path through the radiant face of children, icons of
Jesus revealing His presence at once. I encounter God on the
corner, but He disguises himself in order to surprise and to leave
me bewildered before His radiant beauty. For example, God
glows in Jerome’s smile. God is shining in Lawry’s eyes. God is
afflicted and covered with pustules under Olivier’s body ... God
looks nothing like what we often think. God is playing at hide-
and-seek like a child for the sake of surprising us, and like the
morning Star, He appears suddenly at night.
Laughter! In the face of all the tricks He plays with me, and
sometimes He makes me walk blind sighted to be amused by my
surprises. I dreamt to go far away and I was heard beyond my
expectation: seventeen years in Cairo, twenty in Afghanistan,
without mentioning my catastrophic return back to square one
where other adventures awaited me. God of humor and
tenderness; God of laugher, you make us laugh when we are
tempted to cry; God of the good news, God of liberty.
The universe! What a magnificent circuit, which is illumined
by galaxies where God plays the clown for all the children of the
earth, including you and I, who are created out of love and in His
image and likeness. What a bundle of eternal joy!’
One could even suggest that the Dominican friar shares with his master
a similar childhood experience. Indeed, around the age of ten, Ansari’s
father left Herat to return to his previous ascetic life in Balkh. Likewise, at
the age of fourteen, de Beaurecueil’s parents divorced. Both Ansari and de
Beaurecueil shared a childhood experience of being abandoned, and that
might explain part of the friar’s connection to his master. Nevertheless, one
would be hard pressed to find an explicit reference in de Beaurecueil’s
writings to such a connection. In the end, one can do no more than
speculate about their childhood connection, and speculation is no ground
for judgment. Thus, the evidence seems simply circumstantial and too thin
to warrant further investigation. It is rather the mystical affinities that are
obvious through his entire life. Over half a century, de Beaurecueil’s
human, intellectual, and spiritual journeys were a long walk to a promised
land he could not imagine possible. However, the abrupt end of his Afghan
journey underlines the utter fragility of every human dream. As it is so
often the case, despite our intentions, none of us is the master of our own
life trajectory. The unfathomable divine freedom explains it all. The path he
trod remains unique, and even though no other friar has followed his
footsteps thus far, his example is very compelling, and his spiritual and
intellectual journeys can be summarized as follows:
Nevertheless, I have made the attempt. I have done so because
these persons captured my attention and fascinated me from the
first moment I encountered them. Reading their words, I have had
the strange experience of something at one and the same new and
strange, and yet familiar. I have looked into the face of a stranger,
and found a friend. I have encountered sayings that have forced
me to think afresh about my own faith, I have seen rays from a
source of light that I know well, though here refracted through a
new prism.7®
Notes
Introduction
1. Kenneth Cragg, “The Hinge and the Lock,” MW 47 (1957): 269.
2. The Dominican Order, also known as the Order of Preachers, is a Roman Catholic religious
community founded in 1216. Shortly after the establishment of the Order, many Dominican friars
were involved with Islam and the Muslim worlds for various reasons. The tradition continues to this
day.
3. See chapter 2 for a biography of Ansari.
4. IDEO (I’Institut Dominicain des Etudes Orientales) du Caire. See chapter 2 for a history of
the institute.
5. Kenneth Cragg, “The Hinge and the Lock,” MW 47 (1957): 269.
6. See chapter 2 for a complete biography of the master of Herat.
7. A parallel case is Louis Massignon (d. 1962) and Mansur al-Hallaj (d. 922). See also Phillip
C. Naylor’s “Bishop Pierre Claverie and the Risk of Religious Reconciliation,” The Catholic
Historical Review 96, no. 4 (2010): 720-42; Jean-Jacques Perénnés, Pierre Claverie: un Algérien par
alliance (Paris: Cerf, 2000); Maurice Borrmans, Propheétes du dialogue islamo-chrétien (Paris: Cerf,
2009). Also see Atiq Rahim’s documentary film “Nous avons partagé le pain et le sel” based on de
Beaurecueil’s life in Kabul and Xavier Beauvois’s “Des dieux et des hommes” concerning the tragic
death of the seven Trappist monks of Tibherine in 1996.
8. See Jean Jacques Perénnés, OP, Serge de Beaurecueil: Kaboul, 20 ans d’amour et de
Bonheur (Paris: Cerf, 2014).
9. Dominican spirituality is understood as “contemplata aliis tradere,’ meaning to hand over
the fruits of one’s contemplation.
10. Jean-Jacques Perénnés, Passion de Kaboul: le pére Serge de Beaurecueil (Paris: Cerf,
2014).
11. Christian Lives Given to the Study of Islam, ed. Christian Troll, SJ and C. T. R. Hewer
(New York: Fordham University Press, 2012).
See studies on the life and work of Louis Massignon, Henri Corbon, Charles de Foucauld,
Pierre Claverie, Jean Mohammed Abd el Jalil, and many more.
12. Jacque Dupuis, Toward a Christian Theology of Religious Pluralism (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis
Press, 2001), 158.
13. am referring to Christian Eurocentrism, Christocentrism, and ecclesiocentrism.
14. Massignon believes that Islam’s fundamental role is to call Christians back to radical
monotheism.
15. Massignon and his disciples and Henri Corbin are a few dissenting voices. They took Islam
very seriously and often suffered harsh criticism from their fellow Christians.
16. Norman Daniel, Zslam and the West: The Making of an Image (1960; reprint, London:
Oneworld, 2009).) See also John V. Tolan, Saracens: Islam in the Medieval Europe Imagination
(New York: Columbia University Press, 2002); Sons of Ishamel: Muslims Through European Eyes in
the Middle Ages (Miami: University Press of Florida, 2008); and of course Edward Said, Orientalism
(New York: Vintage Books, 1994 [reprint]).
17. Jean-Jacques Pérennés, Georges Anawati (1905-1994): Un Chrétien Egyptien devant le
mystere de |’Islam (Paris: Cerf, 2009), 64.
18. Quoted in Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 9.
19. See David Barrell, Toward a Jewish, Christian and Muslim Theology (Oxford: Wiley-
Blackwell, 2011).
20. See books by Maurice Borrmans, Herbert Mason, and Youakim Mourak on L. Massignon;
René Voillaume on Charles de Foucauld; Jean Jacques Pérennés on Pierre Claverie; the literature on
the tragic death of the Trappist monks in Algeria, and so forth. Many of these books are a tribute to
Christianity where Islam and Muslims serve as a means to martyrdom and sainthood. See studies on
the life and work of Louis Massignon, Henri Corbin, Charles de Foucauld, Pierre Claverie, Jean
Mohammed Abd el Jalil, and many more.
21. Robert Caspar, “Muslim Mysticism: Tendencies in Recent Research,” in Studies on Islam,
ed. Merlin L. Swartz (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 178.
22. See Louis Massignon: Opera Minora. 4 vols. Collected texts presented by Youakim
Moubarac (Beirut: Dar al-Maaref, 1963); Youakim Moubarac, L’oeuvre de Louis Massignon
(Beyrouth: Edition du Cénacle Libanais, 1972); Herbert Mason, Memoir of a Friend: Louis
Massignon (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1988); Massignon: chronique d’une amitié
(Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1990); and Testimonies and Reflections: Essays of Louis Massignon
(Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1989); Tom Cheetham, The World Turned Inside Out:
Henry Corbin and Islamic Mysticism (Woodstock, CT: Spring Journal Books, 2003); Partick Laude,
Pathways to an Inner Islam: Massignon, Corbin, Guénon and Schuon (Albany: State University of
New York Press, 2010); Maurice Borrmann, Prophétes du dialogue Islamo-Chrétien: Louis
Massignon, Jean-Mohammed Abd el-Jalil, Louis Gardet, Georges C. Anawati (Paris: Cerf, 2009).
23. This study is not interested in the threefold typology of exclusivism, inclusivism, or
pluralism, nor in trying to solve the quarrels of Catholic theologies of religions. The thought of Karl
Rahner, Jacques Dupuis, Claude Geffré, John Hick, Paul Knitter, Gavin D’Costa, and Michael
Barnes, to name but a few, will be equally useful.
24. The Gospel narratives have very little to nothing to say about Jesus’s life in Nazareth prior
to his public ministry. Apart from the infancy narrative in Matthew’s and Luke’s gospels, Christians
have no record of the life of Jesus after the temple incident at the age of twelve. Charles de Foucauld
calls this missing narrative “the hidden life of Jesus.” De Foucauld believed that his life among
Muslims in Algeria emulated the hidden life of Jesus in Nazareth before his public ministry.
25. A question I borrow from Michael Barnes.
26. Martin Jay, Adorno (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984), 14.
27. Martin Jay, Adorno. 15.
28. Richard Bernstein, The New Constellation: Ethical-Political Horizons of
Modernity/Postmodernity (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991), 8.
29. See Marianne Moyaert, Fragile Identities: Towards a Theology of Interreligious Hospitality
(Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2011).
30. Richard Bernstein, The New Constellation, 8.
31. Barnes, Theology and Dialogue of Religions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2002), 21 and 22.
32. Barnes, Theology, 54.
33. Barnes, Theology, 22.
34. Barnes, Theology, 16.
35. Rowan Williams, On Christian Theology (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002), 132.
36. Timothy Winter, “Islam and the Threat of Europe,” World Faiths Encounter 29 (2001): 7.
37. Khaled Abou el-Fadl, The Place of Tolerance in Islam, ed. Joshua Cohen (Boston: Beacon
Press, 2002), 93.
38. The Religious Other, ed. Muhammad Suheyl Umar (Lahore: Iqbal Academy Pakistan,
2008), iv.
39. Rahner, “Thoughts on the Possibility of Belief Today,” in Theological Investigations 5
(1966): 3-22. In this article, Rahner uses the controversial term “Anonymous Christians” for the first
time, and he asks “what reason should I have for not being a Christian, if Christianity means taking
possession of the mystery of man with absolute optimism?” See an excellent defense of Rahner’s
idea by Gavin D’Costa, “Karl Rahner’s Anonymous Christian—A Reappraisal,” Modern Theology
1/2 (1985): 131-48.
40. See Marianne Moyaert, Fragile Identities: Towards a Theology of Interreligious Hospitality
(Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2011).
41. Barnes, Theology, 12.
42. Bernstein, The New Constellation, 4.
43. Gerard Loughlin, Telling God’s Story: Bible, Church and Narrative Theology (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1996), 21. Loughlin is commenting on Millbank’s use of Augustine’s
musical metaphors to explain the singularity of Christian community. However, the question of how
such a harmony may be achieved is left open. See Millbank, “Postmodern Critical Augustinianism,”
Modern Theology 7, no. 3 (1991): 223-37.
44. Bernstein, The New Constellation, 4.
45. David Tracy, Dialogue with the Other (Louvain: Peeters Press, 1991), 98.
46. Barnes, Theology, 28.
47. Derrida, A Dieu, 79 (emphasis added by Derrida himself).
48. Claude Greffré, “Le pluralisme religieux comme un paradigme théologique,” Croire et
interpréter, le tournant herméneutique de la théologie (Paris: Cerf, 2001), 90-109.
49. Rainer Maria Rilke, Letter to a Young Poet (Boston: Shambhala, 1993), 25.
50. Mahmoud Ayoub, A Muslim's View of Christianity (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2007), 3.
51. Mohammad Hassan Khalil, Jslam and the Faith of Others: The Salvation Question (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2012), 145.
52. Margaret Smith, Readings from the Mystics of Islam (Westport, CT: Pir Publications, 1994),
I,
53. T. S. Eliot, “East Coker,” in The Four Quartets (London: Mariner Books, 1968), 16.
54. T. S. Eliot, The Four Quartets (London: Mariner Books, 1968), 16.
55. The Perennialist School believes that all faith traditions share a single and universal truth
on which the foundation of all religious knowledge and doctrines are based.
56. For a study of these two lineages, see Patrick Laude, Pathways to an Inner Islam (Albany:
State University of New York Press, 2010).
57. Munajat: Cris du coeur, trans. Serge de Beaurecueil (Paris: Sindbad, 1988).
58. Judith Butler, Parting Ways: Jewishness and the Critique of Zionism (New York: Columbia
University Press, 2014), 27.
Chapter 1
1. This epigraph summarizes the foundational ethos of the IDEO, quoted in Regis Morelon,
“L?IDEO et ses institutions fondatrices sur la relation a l’Islam,” Mémoire Dominicaine 15 (2001):
137-216; and “In Memoriam: le Pére M. D. Chenu,” MZDEO 20 (1991): 521-27 (Texte de Marie
Dominique Chenu au conseil provincial de la province de France, Octobre 1945). Also see “Le Pére
Georges Anawati, o.p.,” Arab Press Center (1996): 19-40.
2. The IDEO was officially established on March 7, 1953, and the MIDEO (Meélanges de
l’IDEO) was first published in 1954. Informally, the IDEO started in 1944-45, but since 1938, Chenu
and Cardinal E. Tisserant have written the charter of the institution. See Morelon, “L’IDEO du
Caire,” Mémoire Dominicaine 15 (2001): 52-27.
3. Dominique Avon, Les fréres précheurs en Orient (Paris: Cerf, 205), 722.
4. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 12.
5. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 13.
6. Pérennés, “Colloque Abbey de Sylvaneés, October, 2009,” 1.
7. The last chapter deals with his life in Kabul.
8. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 13.
9. Pérennés, Serge de Beaurecueil, 7.
10. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 129.
11. See Jean Jacques Pérennés, Dominique Avon, Jean Velter, and many articles published after
his death. His experience in Kabul seems to overshadow the rest of his life. Likewise, Envoyé
Special, the French counterpart of American CBS’s 60 Minutes, documented his return to Kabul
under the title “the priest of Kabul.” A. Rahim’s movie We Share Bread and Salt falls under the same
impression.
12. See Bruno Cadoré’s preface in Passion de Kaboul.
13. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 14.
14. In 1955, on his way to Kabul, he arrived in India, his childhood dream. He could not help
but see in this childlike dream a sign of God’s hand leading and guiding him to his promised land,
Afghanistan.
15. De Beaurecueil, “La vie comme aventure,” |.
16. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 128.
17. De Beaurecueil, “La vie comme aventure,” 2.
18. See The Collected Works of Saint John of the Cross, trans. K. Kavanaugh and O. Rodriguez
(Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 1991).
19. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 14.
20. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 14-15.
21. De Beaurecueil, “La vie come aventure,” 2.
22. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 15.
23. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 15. (In various faith traditions around the world, the habit is a
particular garb worn by members of religious Orders or monastic communities as their regular attire
and/or for liturgical reasons.)
24. Velter, “La disparition de Serge,” accessed October 13, 2010,
http://www.Poezibaotypepad.com/poezibao/2005/la disparition.html.
25. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 14.
26. The best book on Le Saulchoir is Marie Dominique Chenu, Une école de Théologie: Le
Saulchoir (Paris: Cerf, 1985). See also Avon, Les fréres, 184-86.
27. Emile Combes was prime minister of France from 1902 to 1905. The famous Law of 1905
that organized the relationship between the Church and the State was voted into law by his
government.
28. Jean-Baptiste Henry Lacordaire (d. 1861) reestablished the Dominican Order in France in
1837 after the Revolution of 1789. The Dominican Province of Paris established its first priory in
1865 in Flavigny (C6te-d’Or). But in 1884, the Dominicans moved the priory to Corbara (Corsica)
and returned to Flavigny ten years later in 1894, where they remained until their expulsion. In 1903,
the history of Le Saulchoir started. At the studium generale of Le Saulchoir, the French Dominicans
established the departments of philosophy and theology, and by 1937 there were 22 professors and
125 students. See Chenu, Une école, 7.
29. See a remarkable book on the major figures of Le Saulchoir. Thomas F. O’Meara and Paul
Philibert, Scanning the Signs of the Times (Aldelaide, South Australia: ATF Ltd., 2013). The book is
a tribute to major French Dominicans who have deeply influenced Catholic theological and pastoral
imagination in the twentieth century.
30. See H. D. Gardeil, L’oeuvre theologique du Pére Ambroise Gardeil (Le Saulchoir: Etiolles
par Soisy-sur Seine, 1956); also Ambroise Gardeil, Le donné révéleé et la théologie (Paris: Librairie
Victor Lecoffre, 1910); Pierre Mandonnet, “Des écrits authentiques de St. Thomas d’Aquin,”
Bibliothéque de l’école des chartes 72, no. 1 (1911): 133-35; and “Saint Dominique: |’idée, l>homme
et l’oeuvre,” Revue d’Histoire de l’Eglise de France 25, no. 106 (1939): 50-53; also Pierre
Mandonnet and Jean Destrez, Bibliographie thomiste (Paris: J. Vrin, 1960).
31. Jean-Pierre Josua, Le pére Congar: la théologie au service du people de Dieu (Paris: Cerf,
1967), 17. See also Henri-Dominique Gardeil, L’Oeuvre théologique du pére Ambroise Gardeil
(Etoilles: Le Saulchoir, 1956).
32. Chenu, Une école, 40. See also M. Quinsinky, “Echos Allemands a Une école de théologie:
Le Saulchoir de M. D. Chenu,” in Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques (janvier—mars
2010): 121-32.
33. Olivier de la Brosse, Le pére Chenu: la liberté dans la foi (Paris: Cerf, 1969), 24.
34. De la Brosse, Le pére Chenu, 23.
35. O’Meara and Philibert, Scanning the Signs of the Times, xvii.
36. See the following books by Chenu: /ntroduction a l'étude de St. Thomas d’Aquin (Paris: J.
Vrin, 1950); St. Thomas d’Aquin et la théologie (Paris: Seuil, 1959); La théologie au 12e siécle
(Paris: J. Vrin, 1957); La théologie comme science au 13e siécle (Paris: J. Vrin, 1943); La théologie
est-elle une science? (Paris: Fayard, 1957).
37. O’Meara and Philibert, Scanning the Sings of the Times, xvii.
38. O’Meara and Philibert, Scanning the Sings of the Times, 1-16. See also Francoise Jacquin,
Jules Monchanin Prétre 1895-1957 (Paris: Cerf, 1996), 27.
39. O’Meara and Philibert, Scanning the Signs of the Times, 22.
40. The Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques is a quarterly review published with
the assistance of the CNRS and Le Centre National du Livre and edited by the Librairie
Philosophique J. Vrin. The French Dominicans still run this century-old review. Today, many
institutions continue the work of Le Saulchoir, such as the ecumenical center /stina, the Leonine
Commission, the Provincial Archives, the Library of Le Saulchoir, and the Revue des sciences
Philosophiques et théologiques and the Editions du Cerf.
41. Chenu, Une école, 36; Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 56.
42. Yves Congar was already deeply involved with ecumenical studies.
43. Christopher F. Potworowski, Contemplation and Incarnation: The Theology of Marie
Dominique Chenu (Montreal: McGill Queen University Press, 2001), xi.
44. Chenu, L’hommage différé au Pére Chenu (Paris: Cerf, 1990), 1.
45. O’Meara and Philibert, Scanning the Signs of the Times, 23.
46. Chenu, Une école, 7.
47. Chenu, Une école, 8.
48. After the publication of Une école de théologie: Le Saulchoir, Chenu was forbidden to
teach and publish any book or article. One could even say that Chenu, unlike Yves Congar, who was
finally rehabilitated and made cardinal at the end of his life, was never officially recognized as one of
the most influential French Catholic theologians of our century. The ecclesial hierarchy never forgave
his prophetic and daring theological intuitions. The title L’hommage différé au Pere Chenu
summarizes perfectly the legacy of Chenu’s work.
It is important to remark that if many French Dominicans spearheaded the ressourcement and
nouvelle théologie, their approach would soon be scrutinized by the Roman Curia and the
headquarters of the Dominican order (Santa Sabina) in Rome. Opponents to the theological and
pastoral positions of Chenu and his colleagues (Y. Congar, M. Féret, and L. Charlier) at Le Saulchoir
staged a forceful opposition. In France, it was the Dominicans from the Toulouse Province at Saint-
Maximin’s priory who formulated a response under the title “Sagesse.” The document was a direct
rebuttal of Chenu’s book Une école de théologie: Le Saulchoir. Three Dominicans led the movement
in Rome: Michael Browne, at the time rector of the Angelicum (the university of the Order in Rome)
and later master-general and cardinal; R. Garrigou-Lagrange, professor at the Angelicum and
Chenu’s monograph director in 1920; and Mariano Cordovani, theologian of the Holy Office. These
three Roman Dominicans prepared the way for the condemnation of the nouvelle théologie and Le
Saulchoir’s approach in 1950 with the encyclical “Humani Generis.” The Second Vatican Council
reversed the devastating judgment of Garrigou Lagrange and his comrades-in-arms and ended the
Pius epoch (Pius IX to Pius XII) from 1846 to 1952 of the modernist crisis. The Council’s texts,
Nuntius ad Universo homines (The Message to Humanity) and Gaudium et Spes (Pastoral
Constitution), show clearly that Chenu’s call for the Church’s engagement with the modern world
was taken seriously. See Ulrich Engel, “The Question of Modernity,” trans. Bonifatius Hicks, OP, St.
Dominic’ Priory; Brussels, 14/01/2004, 1-9. Antonio Franco, Marie-Dominique Chenu (Brescia:
Morcelliana, 2003); de la Brosse, Le pére Chenu.
49. O’Meara and Philibert, Scanning the Signs of the Times, 23.
50. The Index was a list of books and other publications banned by the Vatican because they
were regarded as heretical, anticlerical, and contrary to Catholic teachings. The final edition appeared
in 1948, and the index was abolished officially in 1966.
51. See Jomier’s, Anawati’s, and de Beaurecueil’s articles in Hommage, 58-83. Chenu’s
famous line “/slam comme vocation” became the driving force within and among these friars in
Cairo. See “Vocation en ‘terre d’Islam,’” Avon, Les fréres, 311-20.
52. Jean Pierre Jossua, OP, “La mort du Pére M. D. Chenu,” Le Monde, Feb. 13, 1990.
53. Chenu, L’ Hommage différé, 59.
54. Morelon, “L’IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 19.
55. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 18.
56. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 18.
57. De Beaurecueil would eventually find his own expression and understanding of “Je mystére
de I’Islam dans la providence divine.” Massignon’s love affair with Islam through al-Hallaj raised
concerns among some Christian orientalists. Even Anawati had some serious reservations about his
approach. Massignon’s theology of intercession (badaliyya), his understanding of the prophethood of
Muhammad, “/e prophéte négatif,’ and his view of Islam as the fulfillment of God’s promise to
Ishmaél were not accepted in all Catholic circles. His disciple Youakim Moubarac will be a major
support to his ideas. See Avon, Les fréres, 855-63.
58. See chapter 3 of this book.
59. Avon, Les fréres, 728. He cites from a letter that de Beaurecueil wrote in Paris in May
2003. Jean Mohammed Abd-el-Jalil’s voiced a similar criticism of Gardet and Anawati’s books on
Islamic mysticism and theology. He felt that both authors were imposing neo-Thomistic categories on
Islamic theology and mysticism.
60. First, de Beaurecueil wrote a thesis titled “L’homme, image de Dieu, selon Saint Thomas
d’Aquin (June 1944) for a Licentiate in theology. Two years later, he completed his theological
studies with an expanded version titled “L’homme, image de Dieu, selon Saint Thomas d’Aquin.
Etudes sur l’élaboration et la portée d’une doctrine théologique (Le Saulchoir, 1946). In Catholic
pontifical seminaries of the time, this latter degree was similar to a doctorate, and the holder could
teach theology in Catholic seminaries or pontifical schools.
61. “Founding members: Serge de Beaurecueil,” www.IDEO.org.
62. Jean Marie Mérigoux, “Mystique Dominicain: le frére Serge de Beaurecueil,” Sources
(November—December 2005): 288.
63. Avon, Les fréres, 446.
64. See Chenu, La parole de Dieu: La foi dans l’intelligence, vol. 1, and L’Evangile dans le
temps, vol. 2 (Paris: Cerf, 1964); de la Brosse, La liberté dans la foi; and Jacques Duquesne
interroge le pere Chenu: un théologien en liberté (Paris: Centurion, 1975).
65. See Bernard Montagnes, OP, The Story of Father Marie-Joseph Lagrange, trans. Benedict
Vivian (Mahwah, NJ: 2006). The author summarizes Lagrange’s life:
The story of father Lagrange, founder of the Ecole biblique in Jerusalem, is the story of the
struggle within the Catholic Church for responsible academic freedom in the tradition of St Thomas.
Steeped by faith and utterly devoted to the church, Father Lagrange strove to apply the latest
historical-critical method to his biblical studies, to demystify the scriptures, and to make them
available to the average Catholic. And yet, the church authorities blocked the publication of his
commentaries on the Book of Genesis (excerpt from the jacket). Lagrange was a partisan of the
encyclical Providentissimus Deus of Pope Leo XIII, inviting scholars to solve the difficulties created
by a rationalistic approach of the Bible through an exegesis that would be at the same time rooted in
tradition.
66. “History,” www.ebaf.info.
67. J. J. Pérennés, Antonin Jaussen.
68. “History,” www.ebaf.info.
69. See www.ifao.egnet.net.
70. Morelon, “L’IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 6.
71. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 117; Morelon, “L>IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 6; Avon, Les
Jreres, 51-53.
72. Morelon, “L’IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 4; Avon, Les fréres, 56.
73. Grace Glueck, “The Holy Land Through the Eyes of the Explorers,” New York Times,
August 10, 2001. The article reports on an exposition in New York of archival collections of
photographs by the Ecole biblique in Jerusalem sponsored by the American Biblical Society. Many
of the photographs were taken by A. R. Savignac and A. Jaussen during their study travels in
Palestine, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, the Sinai, the Negev, Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, and Turkey. See
http://mobia.org/exhibitions/the-holy-land-through-the-eyes-of-explorers#slideshow 1.
74. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 120; Morelon, “L’IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 10.
75. Morelon, “L’IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 11.
76. Morelon believes that a number of conflicting issues developed between M. D. Boulanger
and A. Jaussen, particularly in terms of the vision assigned to the priory. A. Jaussen insisted on the
scientific and academic role of the institution, while M. D. Boulanger opted for a pastoral one.
77. Avon, Les fréres, 40-45.
78. Years later, Anawati, Jomier, and de Beaurecueil would be the main lecturers of the Circle
Thomiste. Other eminent scholars, such as L. Massignon and many laymen and -women, also gave
lectures.
79. Morelon, “L’ IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 15. See Pérennés, Le Pére Jaussin, 48.
80. Morelon, “L’IDEO,” Mémoire Dominicaine, 17; also Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 155;
Avon, Les fréres, 251; and Historical Data, www.IDEO.org.
81. At this point, the Dominican formation house had returned to France and been renamed Le
Saulchoir d’Etiolles.
82. See www. iblatunis.org.
83. Chenu, “La coexistence culturelle de la civilisation arabe maghrébine et de la civilisation
occidentale du Moyen Age,” Confluent (1961): 6-12.
84. Chenu, “La coexistence culturelle de la civilisation ...,” Confluent (1961): 6-12.
85. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 123.
86. Avon, “Un homme du magistére catholique devant I’Islam. Le Cardinal Eugéne Tisserant
(1884-1972), in D. Pelletier et al., Mélanges Etienne Fouilloux, 13. Avon believes that Tisserant’s
main concern was the protection and survival of Christian minorities in predominantly Muslim lands.
“Tisserant veut protéger les Chrétiens d’Orient du ‘péril Musulman,” in Pérennés, Georges Anawati,
121.
87. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 124.
88. See the first draft of the charter of the IDEO in Moleron, “L’IDEO du Caire,” Mémoire
Dominicaine, 15, 2.
89. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 124.
90. Avon, Les fréres, 726.
91. Pérenneés, Georges Anawati, 127.
92. Mérigoux, “Un mystique dominicain,” 2. Also Pérenneés, Georges Anawati, 129. See also
IDEO, “Bibliographie de Serge de Beaurecueil, O.P.,” in Les Fondateurs de I’IDEO,
www.IDEO.org.
93. Pérennés describes Yahya’s relationship with the Dominican friars in Cairo in Georges
Anawati, 129 and 154-55. While a student at al-Azhar, and at the invitation of Anawati, Yahya used
to spend the last ten days of Ramadan at the Dominican priory in Cairo. On both parts, Yahya (guest)
and Anawati (host) gave a theological account of practices of welcome and hospitality toward the
religious other. See Morelon, “Osman Yahya (1919-1997),” MIDEO 24 (2000): 441-47.
94. Mérigoux, “Un mystique dominicain,”’ 2. Also Pérenneés, Georges Anawati, 129; de
Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 25.
95. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 12; see also Mérigoux, “Un mystique dominicain,” 3.
96. Paul Nwyia, [bn ‘Ata’ Allah al-Iskandarit (m. 709/1309) et la naissance de la confrerie
shadhilite (Beyrouth: Dar al-Machreq, 1972).
97. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 25; Avon, Les fréres, 726. According to Avon, Massignon’s
enthusiasm is partially based on an error. He is confusing Ansari and his father, A. Manstir, who was
a student of Sharif Hamza ‘Aqili in Balkh, where one of the last disciples of al-Hallaj lived. Avon
cites de Beaurecueil: “c’ était tentant d’établir inconsciemment une filiation entre Ansari et Hallaj”
(Lettre de Serge de Beaurecueil, Paris, Mai 2003).
98. Anthony O’ Mohony, “Cyprian Rice,” Mémoire Dominicaine 15 (2001): 217-25.
99. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 129-30. For more on Cyprian Rice, see Anthony O’Mahony,
“Cyprian Rice, o.p., L’Islam chi’ite et la mission dominicaine en Perse-Iran, 1933-1934,” trans. Guy
Bedouelle, in Mémoire Dominicaine: Les Dominicains et les mondes musulmans (Paris: Cerf, 2001),
217-25. Here are a few articles written by Cyprian Rice: “Persia,” Blackfriars 2, no. 16 (1921): 73-
81; “Dominicans in Persia,” Blackfriars 12, no. 121 (1931): 73-81; and his book The Persian Sufi
(London: George Allen and Unwind, 1964). See G. Anawati’s review of the book in DEO 8 (1964):
584.
100. Pierre Nautin (d. 1997) was director of the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes and well
known for his erudite scholarship in patristic literature, particularly on Origen. Nautin stayed at the
IDEO while working on the manuscripts of Didymus the Blind (d. c. 398), the great Alexandrian
theologian of the early church.
101. Avon, Les fréres, 727.
102. Pérennés, “Le Cercle thomiste et l’Association des fréres sincéres (khwan al-Safa),” in
Georges Anawati, 155—60; “Mary Kahil et la badaliyya,” 161—66; and finally “Les Mardis de dar es-
Salam, des années bénies,” 166-71. Also, Avon, Les fréres, “Ikhwan es-Safa,” 555-59, “Dar es-
Salam,” 559-68; and a comprehensive study of “La badaliyya,’ Massignon, L’Hospitalité sacrée,
371-469.
103. Mary Kahil was a remarkable and influential woman. She was born into a rich Greek
Catholic family, was a close friend of Massignon, and befriended the friars. Avon speaks tenderly of
the tandem Kahil and Massignon as “l’amazone et I’érudit,” Les fréres, 124. Pérennés writes,
“C’éetait une grande dame, assez représentative de ces familles grecques-catholiques, qui, tout en
étant pétries de culture arabe, savaient rester ouvertes a l’Occident. Georges Anawati et les
dominicains d’Abbassiah lui devront beaucoup.” Mary Kahil et la badaliyya. Also, Pérennés,
Georges Anawati, 161. Jacques Keryell writes an abridged biography of the aristocratic woman in
Massignon, L ’Hospitalité sacrée, 77-132.
104. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 149.
105. Avon, Les fréres, 728.
106. Avon, Les fréres, 728. Lettre de Serge de Beaurecueil au Pére Avril, 20 juin 1950, K (012),
APF.
107. Congruent with the priest-worker movement.
108. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 129.
Chapter 2
1. Massignon attributed his return to Catholicism to the event of May 1908 in Baghdad when
he experienced a “holy hospitality” from the Allusi family and the “visit of the stranger.” He believed
that he survived because of the prayers of C. de Foucauld, Hussmann, and M. al-Hallaj.
2. De Beaurecueil would particularly distinguish himself in this matter. See chapter 3.
3. Avon, Les fréres, 728-29. Avon buys into the dominant and incorrect belief that Hanbalism
and Sufism are incompatible.
4. Louis Gardet and Georges Anawati, /ntroduction a la théologie Musulmane (Paris: Librairie
Philosophique J. Vrin, 1948), 91-93.
5. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 24.
6. Avon, Les fréres, 446-45 and 625-30; Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 125-37.
7. Boilot and even Anawati did not oppose de Beaurecueil’s choice to leave the IDEO. No
doubt there is an aura surrounding the life and scholarship of Anawati, but little is said about his
overbearing personality in the community. It is unfortunate that Perénnés’s biography of Anawati
hardly ventures into such aspects and reads like a case for canonization. Even the tandem Jomier and
Anawati did not always function harmoniously (my conversations with J. J. Pérennés).
8. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 30.
9. Evariste Lévi-Provencal and Anawati met in Algiers in 1941 and remained friends
thereafter. Lévi-Provencal was one of the foremost scholars of Islamic Spain and a member of the
CNRS. See a few books by Evariste Lévi-Provencal: Histoire de l’Espagne musulmane au Xe siécle.
Institutions et vie sociale (Paris: Maisonneuve—Larose, 2002 (reprint); Histoire de l’Espagne
musulmane. Le califat Umaiyad de Cordou (Paris: Maisonneuve—Larose 1999 (reprint); Séville
musulmane au debut du XTle siécle (Paris: Maisonneuve—Larose, 2001).
10. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 31.
11. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 31.
12. Farhadt had a successful career. He was professor at the University of Kabul and later
ambassador to the UN. He wrote a short English introduction to Ansari’s life and translated de
Beaurecueil seminal biography of the master into Persian under the title Sarguzasht-i Pir-i Hirdt:
Khvaja ‘Abdullah Ansari (Kabul: Beyhaqi, 1355/1976).
13. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 30-31.
14. Avon, Les fréres, 730.
15. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 33.
16. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 34.
17. Avon, Les fréres, 730. A son retour, il [de Beaurecueil] donne une liste succincte de
manuscrits arabes dans le numéro 2 de la Revue de I’Institut des manuscrits arabes (novembre
1955). Il réserve au MIDEO la premiére ébauche de ses fiches descriptives pour plus de 550
manuscrits en arabe, persan, pashto, ourdou et turc (cote de manuscrits, titre et auteur, dimensions,
nombre de folios et nombre de lignes par page, date et nom du scribe, papier et écriture,
ornementation, état, reliure, et dans le cas des manuscrits arabes, référence éventuelle a
Brockelmann).
18. De Beaurecueil published the fruit of this systematic and demanding work on his return in
1956, first as “Manuscrits d’Afghanistan,”’ MIJDEO 3 (1956): 75-206, and as a monograph,
Manuscrits d’Afghanistan (Cairo: IFAO, 1964). See Avon, Les fréres, 730.
19. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 37.
20. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 38.
21. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 39.
22. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 39.
23. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 39.
24. Ibn Taymiyya was buried in a Sufi cemetery in Damascus, and his grave became a place of
pilgrimage for many.
25. Maria Eva Subtelney, “The Cult of ‘Abdullah Ansart under the Timurids,” in God Is
Beautiful and Loves Beauty. Festschrift in Honour of Annemarie Schimmel, ed. Alma Giese and J. C.
Burgel (Berlin: Peter Lang, 1992), 387.
26. Subtelney, “The Cult of ‘Abdullah Ansari under the Timurids,” in God Is Beautiful and
Loves Beauty, 381.
27. Lisa Golombeck, The Timurid Shrine at Gazur Gah (Toronto: Royal Ontario Museum,
1969).
28. See Denis Gril, “Espace sacre et spiritualite, trios approaches: Massignon, Corbin,
Guenon,” in D’Un Orient a l’autre, vol. 2—Identifications (Paris: CNRS, 1999).
29. Patrick Laude, Louis Massignon. The Vow and the Oath, trans. Edin Q. Lohja (London: The
Matheson Trust, 2011), 3.
30. Laude, Louis Massignon, 2.
31. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 40.
32. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 40.
33. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 44.
34. See Dominique-Jacques Boilot’s letter to the French Provincial on behalf of de Beaurecueil,
“Des conditions trés exceptionelles se trouvent realisées qui permettent un témoignage d’une rare
qualité dans un pays ou le christianisme n’est représenté que par quelques étrangers non implatés”
(Lettre du 27 octobre, 1962, AIDEO).
35. De Beaurecueil recalls his joy: “Le troisiéme dimanche de Il’Avent, je signais un
contrat. ... moi j avais envie de danser,” in Mes enfants, 44.
36. De Beaurecueil, Mes enfants, 44.
37. Mérigoux, “Un mystique Dominicain,” 287. Ultimately, de Beaurecueil returned to Kabul
in 1963 and lived there for twenty years.
38. Victor Danner and Wheeler Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ Illah: The Book of Wisdom; Abdullah
Ansari: Initmate Conversations (New York: Paulist Press, 1978), 168. See also de Beaurecueil,
Khwadja, 24.
39. The Poems of Gerard M. Hopkins, ed. W. H. Garner and N. H. MacKenzie (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1970), 67.
40. al-Dhahabt (d. 1348), Sivar a’lam al-nubala’ (The Biographies of the Great and Prominent
People); Ibn Rajab al-Baghdadt’s (d. 1393), Dhayl ‘ala Tabaqat al-Handbila (Appendices to the
Generations of Hanbalites); and ‘Abd al-Rahman Jami (d. 1492), Nafahat al-Uns (The Breezes of
Intimacy). Subtelbny adds ‘Abdullah al-Husaint Asil al- Din Vaiz, Magqsad al iqgbal-i sultaniyyah, to
the list of sources. Maria Eva Subtelney, “The Cult of ‘Abdullah Ansari under the Timurids,” in God
Is Beautiful and He Loves Beauty: Frestschrit Fiir Annemarie Schimmel (Bern: Peter Lang, 1994),
377-405.
41. Jawid A Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism: The Tabaqat Genre from Sulami
to Jami (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 200), 69; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 15.
42. The Pir of Herat’s most famous Persian book is the Mundjat, and the Manazil al-sda’irin is
his revered Arabic book.
43. The two full-scale books devoted to the Ghaznavids are Edmund Bosworth, The
Ghaznavids: Their Empire in Afghanistan and Eastern Iran (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
1963), and The Later Ghaznavids: Splendor and Decay (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
1984). See also his articles “Early Sources,” The JO, 3-22, where he catalogs the major literary and
historical sources for the reigns of Sebiiktigin, Mahmid, Muhammad, and Mas‘iid (977-1041). Also,
Spuler, EJ, 2nd ed., 1050-53. The Ghaznavids conquered and ruled Khurasan from 999 to 1040 and
Afghanistan until 1187. The Saljtiqs defeated the Ghaznavids by 1041 and became the new rulers of
Khurasan.
44. Qasim Ghani, translated by Dabashi, “Persian Sufism during the Saljiq Period,” in The
Heritage of Stifism: Classical Persian Siifism from Its Origins to Rumi, vol. 1, ed. Leonard Lewisohn
(Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 141.
45. Dabashi, “Persian Sifism during the Saljtiq Period,” in Lewisohn, The Heritage, 143.
46. Frietz Meier, “Abt Sa‘1d-i Abia’! Khayr,” EJ, 2nd ed., 377-80; Terry Graham, “Abt Sa‘id-i
Abu’! Khayr,” in Lewisohn, The Heritage, 83-136.
47. See the translation of his seminal book Principles of Sufism, trans. B. R. von Schlegell
(Berkeley: Mizan Press, 1992); Al-Oushayri’s Epistle, trans. Alexander Knysh (Reading: Garnet
Publishing, 2007); see Qushayri in Richard Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1972), 150-53; Kristin Zahra Sands, Saft Commentaries on the Qur’ dan in
Classical Islam (London: Routledge, 2006), 71-72; Knysh, £.Q., no. 5, 143-46.
48. Kashf al mahjiib, trans. Reynold A. Nicholson (Accord, NY: Pir Publications, 1999);
Bowering, EJ, 2nd ed., 429-30.
49. The Persian treatises are Kashf al- mahjiib by Hujwiri and Mundjat by Ansari.
50. Ahmet T. Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University
Press, 2007), 123.
51. Karamustafa, Sufism, 122-24.
52. Translation by de Beaurecueil, in Khwdadja, 23, from Hamdallah Mustawft Qazwini, Nuzhat
al-qulub, ed. Guy Le Strange (Leiden: Brill, 1915), 152.
53. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 6; de Beaurecueil, Cris, 11.
54. Alas, recent violence and bombings have marred its charm and archeological treasures.
55. Goharshad was the celebrated wife of the Timurid emperor Shahrukh Mirza (d. 1447).
56. Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 168.
57. See “Herat,” EY, 2nd ed., 177-78; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 19-20.
58. Jiirgen Paul, “The Histories of Herat,” Iranian Studies 33, nos. 1/2 (2000): 98-99.
59. Paul, “The Histories of Herat,” Jranian Studies, 104.
60. Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 168.
61. Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 170.
62. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 4.
63. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 19.
64. See appendix for Ansari’s shrine in Herat.
65. Angha, An Annotated, “Childhood,” 25—29; “Youth and Education,” 29-20; “Teachers,”
30-35; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 23; Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 4—S.
66. Schimmel, Mystical, 89; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 15; Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 4.
67. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 4.
68. Schimmel, Mystical, 89; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 26.
69. Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 168.
70. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 12.
71. See his biography in Ansart’s Persian Tabaqat al-Suftyya, trans. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 54.
72. Jami, Nafahat, 176-77; de Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 25-26. Neither Jami nor de Beaurecueil
indicates the date of the death of these Sufi masters, and I could not find them either.
73. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 35; Cris, 12.
74. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 6; Schimmel, Mystical, 89; Karamustafa, Sifism, 95.
75. De Beaurecueil, Ansari, Chemin de Dieu (Paris: Sindbad, 1988), 27.
76. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 27.
77. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 8; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 29.
78. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 29.
79. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 30.
80. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 31.
81. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 31.
82. dDe Beaurecueil, Chemin, 14.
83. Jami, Nafahat, 124; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 41.
84. De Beaurecueil, Khwdadja, 41.
85. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 38.
86. De Beaurecueil, Khwdadja, 40.
87. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 7.
88. Jami, Nafahdat, trans. Thackston, in Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata’ illah, 169.
89. Quoted in Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 6.
90. Makdisi, Religion, 120.
91. There four schools of jurisprudence (madhab) in Sunni Islam are Hanafi, Maliki, Shafi‘,
and Hanbali.
92. De Beaurecueil, Ahwadja, 43,
93. Sad maydan: The Hundred Fields, trans. Munir Ahmad Mughal (Lahore: Islamic Book
Foundation, 1983), 18.
94. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 16.
95. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 48; Chemin, 17.
96. The dates of death of traditionalist scholars who met Ansari during his first study travel are
recollected in Jami, Nafahat; Dhahabt, Sivar; Subki, Tabagqat; Ibn al-‘Imad, Shadharat. These were
de Beaurecueil’s sources in Khwddja, 46-51. Most of the sources failed to mention their dates of
death, and the author believes that the dates were likely unknown.
97. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 50.
98. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 46, 56, and 62.
99. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 58.
100. Schimmel, Mystical, 89; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 18-19; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 62.
101. In her translation of Kharagani’s utterances, Christiane Tortel remarks that Kharaqani was
under the spiritual tutelage of Abii’l-‘Abbas Qassab ‘Amuli; see Parole d’un Soufi: Abu’l -Hasan
Kharagqani (352—425/960—1033), trans. Christiane Tortel (Paris: Seuil, 1998), 8. See also “La notice
sur le Shaykh Abii’! -‘Abbas al-Qassab al-‘Amuli,” 232-36.
102. Nicholson, Studies, 42-44; Angha, An Annotated, 35-39.
103. Kharaqani, trans. Tortel, 7—13.
104. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 20; de Beaurecueil, Cris, 14. The meeting between Ansari and
Kharaqant is similar to the fateful encounter centuries later between Jalal al-din Rimi (d. 1273) and
Shams al-din Tabrizi.
105. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 20; Cris, 14.
106. Angha, An Annotated, 35.
107. Schimmel, Mystical, 90.
108. Karamustafa, Sifism, 94. Kharaqani’s counsel is reminiscent of al-Hallaj’s (and many other
Sufi masters’) concept of the spiritual hajj.
109. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 13.
110. Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata ‘illah, 172.
111. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 20.
112. Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata ‘illah, 172.
113. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 15.
114. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 125.
115. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 8; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 25.
116. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 25.
117. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 90.
118. Angha, An Annotated, 40. Verse 165 seemed to have been the kernel of his meditation.
Faithfulness to the book of God and the example of the Messenger of God guided his thought and
teaching.
119. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 27.
120. Angha, An Annotated, 41-43; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 27.
121. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 27.
122. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 94.
123. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 9; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 27. The Mund@jat is particularly loved by
ordinary people as well as poets and educated men and women alike.
124. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 29; Farhad, ‘Abdullah, 9.
125. Angha, An Annotated, 43; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 106-7; and Chemin, 29.
126. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 21.
127. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 10; Angha, An Annotated, 44.
128. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 134.
129. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 112.
130. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 10; de Beaurecueil, E7, 2nd ed., 515; and Khwadja, 120-23. He gives
short biographies of the master’s major disciples. Mughal also gives a list of twelve names who were
the pupils of the master. In Sad maydan, 18.
131. See his tomb and shrine, table 1.
132. De Beaurecueil, EJ, 2nd ed., 515.
133. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 146.
134. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 148.
135. See Karamustafa, Sifism, 94; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 28; Knowledge of God in Classical
Sufism, trans. John Renard (New York: Paulist Press, 2004), 294; Danner and Thackston, Jbn ‘Ata’
illah, 165.
136. See de Beaurecueil’s article “ ‘Abdullah Ansar” in E/r.
137. Farhad, Sarguzasht-i Pir-i Hirat: Khvaja ‘Abdullah Ansart.
138. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 144.
Chapter 3
1. De Beaurecueil, Chemin de Dieu and Cris du Coeur, are cases in point.
2. Marcel Bataillon, “Louis Massignon, professeur au Collége de France,” Lettres Frangaises,
no. Spécial, 15.
3. Claude Geffré, “Le Coran, une parole de Dieu différente,” Lumiére et Vie, no. 163, 21-32.
4. Manazil al-sa’irin was written in Arabic, while Sad maydan was in Persian.
5. See a good overview of Ansari’s corpus in Angha, An Annotated, 23-52; Farhadt,
‘Abdullah, 17-117; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 172-310.
6. Angha, An Annotated, 45.
7. De Beaurecueil, “Présentation d’ Ansari,” MIDEO 11 (1972): 291-300.
8. On two important occasions, first in 1963, the 900th lunar anniversary of the master’s
death, and second in 1977, on the lunar millennium of his birthday, de Beaurecueil did a review of
the scholarship on Ansari at each occasion with the names of scholars in Western, Arabic and Persian
worlds, and publications on the master’s life and spiritual thought. See de Beaurecueil, “Le neuviéme
centenaire lunaire de la mort de Khwaja ‘Abdullah Ansari Harawi,” MIDEO 7 (1963): 219-40; and
“Le millénaire lunaire de la naissance de Khwaja ‘Abdullah Ansari Harawi (396 H.),” MIDEO 13
(1977): 305-14.
9. Hujwitt’s Kashf al-mahjib, trans. Nicholson; Qushayrt’s Epistle, trans. Knysh.
10. Quoted in Angha, An Annotated, 53, from Nasr Allah Purjavadi, [salat-i Sad maydan, 142.
Angha notes that Purjavadi and Mulla‘i have written extensively on Ansari in Persian. Unfortunately,
the author does not read Persian and thereby did not have access to this rich literature.
11. A. G. Ravan Farhadi, “The Hundred Grounds of ‘Abdullah Ansari,” in The Heritage of
Sufism: Classical Persian Siifism from its Origin to Rumi, vol. 1, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (Oxford:
Oneworld, 1999), 381-99.
Lewisohn, The Heritage, 387.
12. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 47-55, also Munghal, Sad maydan, 13-14.
13. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 40.
14. See Ibn al-Qayyim’s Madarij al-salikin.
15. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 164. He lists al-Arba‘iin fi dala’ il al-tawhid; al-Arba ‘in fi I-
sunna; Dhamm al-Kalam wa ahlih; al-Fariq fi |-sifat; Tlal al-maqamat,; Kanz al-salikin ya zad
al- ‘arifin;* Kitab al-qadariyya; Kitab al-qawda ‘id; Managqib ahl al-athar; Mandaqib al-imam Ahmad;
Manazil al-sa@’irin; Mokhtasar fi Gdab al-Siifiyya wa I-salikin li-tarig al-haqq; Munajat; Nasthat-é
Khwaja nizam al-mulk;* Qastda niniyya; Sad maydan; Tabaqat al-Sufiyya; and Takfir al-jahmiyya.
Works marked with * are in Dari-Persian, the rest in Arabic.
16. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 21-23; de Beaurecueil’s articles “al-Ansari,” in EJ, 2nd ed., and
“ “Abdullah Ansari,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica.
17. The following authors are all in agreement: de Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 137; Angha, An
Annotated; Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata’ illah, 175; and Bo Utas, “The Munajat or Nahi-Namah
of ‘Abdullah Ansari,” Manuscripts of the Middle East 3 (1998): 83.
18. De Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 120.
19. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 19.
20. Utas, “The Munayjat,” 83.
21. Utas, “The Munajat,” 83; de Beaurecueil, Khwddja, 137. He notes, “L’ouvrage était
terminé en l’an 475/1082—1083, date d’un exemplaire portant authentification et signature de la
main méme d’Ansart.” \jaza is a permission or an authorization that indicates one is qualified to
transmit text or teach a subject in Islamic sciences.
22. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 137; Chemin, 39. Concerning the Manazil, de Beaurecueil
reports that after the last exile of the master in 1087, he sent a copy of the treatise to his young novice
Abii *|-Najm Misbah in Balkh. The problem is that the manuscript of Herat and that of Balkh are not
entirely identical. There are a number of discrepancies, and there is no consensus about which
manuscript is more authentic. See de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 142.
23. Farhad, ‘Abdullah, 19. He writes: “Most of his works that are available to us are based on
the notes of students and novices, notes which he rarely checked or edited (including the Manazil al-
sa@’irin).”
24. De Beaurecueil, Khwdadja, 15-17.
25. See Helmut Ritter, “Philologica III,” Der Islam 22, 89-100.
26. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 20.
27. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 20; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 4.
28. Angha, An Annotated, 45. Karamustafa in Sifism.
29. Edited and translated by de Beaurecueil, “Un opuscule de Kwaja ‘Abdullah Ansari
concernant les bienseances des Soufis,” BIFAO 49 (Paris: 1960): 203-40. Also de Beaurecueil,
Khwadja, 310-15.
30. Fritz Meier, Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism, trans. John O’Kane (Leiden: Brill,
1999), 55. According to Angha, Purjavadi follows Meier’s leads in this issue. She cites Nasrollah
Purjavadi, [salat-i Sad maydan. See Angha, An Annotated, 45.
31. Gerhard Béwering, “The Adab Literature of Classical Sufism: Ansari’s Code of Conduct,”
in Moral Conduct and Authority, ed. Barbara Daly Metcalf, 70. Karamustafa remarks that Mukhtasar
fi Adab al-Siifiyya or Adab al-muridin is probably the work of a disciple of Ansari, but falsely
attributed to Najm al-Din Kubra, Sifism, 86. De Beaurecueil has always attributed Mukhtasar fi Adab
al-Siifivya to the master. Nowhere does it express any doubt. Also see Adab al-muridin (A Sift Rule
for Novices), trans. Menahem Milson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975); Mirijan
Molé, “Les Kubrawiya entre sunnisme et shiisme aux huitiéme et neuviéme siécle de |’Hégire,” RET
(1961): 61-142.
32. Keeler follows ‘Ali Asghar Hikmat’s study in Kashf al-asrar, known as tafstr of khvaja
‘Abdu’llah Ansari, which found that Kashf al-asrar was Maybudi’s commentary based on Ansari’s
work. Keeler writes, “Kashf al-asrar is based upon and embodies the only surviving text of the
mystical commentary on the Qur’an by the well known Hanballt Sufi, “ ‘Abd Allah Ansari of Herat,”
in Suft Hermeneutics: The Qur’an Commentary of Rashid al-Din Maybudi (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2005), 20. This book is from Persian Sufism and Exegesis: Maybudi’s Commentary
on the Qur’an The Kashf al-asrar (PhD diss., Cambridge University, Faculty of Oriental Studies,
2001). Also see Keeler’s articles: “Exegesis iii. In Persian,” and “Maybudi, Abi’l-Fazl Rashid-al-
Din,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica.
33. Utas, “The Mundjat,” 84; also see Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 27.
34. De Beaurecueil, “Le millénaire lunaire de la naissance de Khwaja ‘Abdollah Ansari
Harawi,” MIDEO 13 (1977): 314.
35. According to Farhadi, Kashf al-asrar was dictated in Dari-Persian, but Angha differs with
Farhadt. She offers a perceptive remark on the language issue about Persian dialects. She notes: “Sad
maydan is written in the Heri dialect [herati] that sprang from the Pahlavi language, itself an
offspring of Old Persian. The present Persian language is one of the dialects of Old Persian, the
language spoken over two thousand years ago in the Persian Empire that extended from east of the
present-day Iraq to Punjab and west India. The Pahlavi language had two different dialects: the
northern Pahlavi (common to Khurasan and Azerbaijan), and the southern Pahlavi (common in Farsi,
central Persia). The southern dialect became a common language in Persia during the Sasanian
Empire. There were (still are) other dialects in Persia, such as Farsi, Dari, Kurdi, and Heri. Heri was
mainly spoken in Herat and is the dialect used in Sad maydan, and Dari originated from Pahlavi
language and was common during the Sasanian period, especially in the Khurasan. Her footnote on
the development of the Persian language and its dialects is based on Muhammad Taqi Bahar’s
Sabkshinasi (Tehran: Intisharat-i Amir Kabir, 1380/2001), vol. 2, i-iv). See also Angha, An
Annotated, 53—54.
36. Vladimir Ivanov, “Tabaqat of Ansari in the Old Language of Herat,” JRAS (1923): 1-34;
337-82; and Mojaddedi, The Biographical, 70.
37. The writer follows Farhadi’s transliteration and translation. See his article in Lewisohn, The
Heritage, 387.
38. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 59; Angha, An Annotated, 55-56; and de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 37.
39. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 37-38.
40. De Beaurecueil, “Une ¢ébauche persane des Manazil as-sa@’irin: le “Kitab-e-Sad Maydan,”
Meélanges Islamologiques 2 (1954): 3-4.
41. MFAO: Mélanges de |’Institut Francais d’Archeologie.
42. “Ansariyyat: ‘Abdullah Ansari al-Harawi (396-481/1006—1089). Les étapes des itinérants
vers Dieu,” BIFAO, 1-181. The introduction of this translation deals with the following: Relevé et
description des manuscrits; Les chaines de transmission; La tradition manuscrite et les
commentaires; Manuscrits composites; Prototypes et familles de manuscrits; Essai d’une histoire de
la tradition textuelle. It is an erudite work that is the fruit of seventeen years of research at the IDEO
in Cairo.
43. Pérennés, Georges Anawati, 125; Avon, Les fréres, 446.
44. De Beaurecueil, Khwdadja, 172-315 (part II).
45. Ritter compiled a bibliography of the master in “Philologika VIII/1: Ansart Herewi-Sena’1
Gaznewl,” Der Islam 22/2, 89-100. See also de Beaurecueil, Presentation d’Ansari, MIDEO 11
(1972): 291-300.
46. De Beaurecueil, Manuscrits d’Afghanistan (Cairo: IFAO, 1964). See also MIDEO 3 (1956):
75-206.
47. De Beaurecueil, Manuscrits, vii—xili.
48. Karamustafa, Sufism, 84-87. The author offers a list of major Sufi manuals and
bibliographical compilations from the fourth and fifth/tenth and eleventh centuries. To name but a
few: Abu Nasr al-Sarraj’s (d. 988) Kitab alluma ‘ fi’l-tasawwuf (The Book of the Light Flashes), Abi
Bakr al-Kalabadhi’s (d. 990s) al-Ta ‘arruf li-madhhab ahl al-tasawwuf (Introduction to the Way of the
People of Sifism), and Abt Nu‘aym al-Isfahant’s (d. 1038) Hilyat al-awliya’ wa tabaqat al-asfiya’
(The Ornament of God’s Friends and Generations of the Pure Ones). This list is relevant to our study
because these treatises are contemporary to Ansari. In addition to Karamustafa’s list, Risalat nahj al-
khdss (Path of the Elects) by Abt Mansur al-Isfahant (d. 1107) directly influenced the Pir of Herat. A
century later, Adab al-muridin (The Etiquettes of Disciples) by Ahmad al-Ghazali (d. 1126) is also a
seminal work in this area.
49. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 53; de Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 53; see also de Beaurecueil’s edition of
Risala nahj al-khdss, in de Beaurecueil, “La voie du privilégié; petit traité d’Abu Mansi al-
Isfahant,” Mélanges Taha Hussein, Cairo, 1962, 46-76.
50. Farhadt, “The Hundred Grounds,” in Lewisohn, The Heritage, 391-92; and Farhadi,
‘Abdullah, 53; de Beaurecueil, “La voie du privilégi¢é; petit traité d’Abi Mansi al-Isfahant,” in
Meélanges Taha Hussein, 46-76.
51. Also included in his Persian Tabagat al-Sufiyya, de Beaurecueil, Khwdadja, 264-65.
52. See the preface of Sad maydan and Manazil, de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 83-85 and 153-58.
53. According to Angha, Muruwwa literary means “manliness” but may also be rendered as
“being just and fair, having compassion, being benevolent.” For Ansari, muruwwa is living and
standing for oneself and one’s convictions. Like the Q.3:18 commands: “... and those with
knowledge to stand firm for justice ...” An Annotated, 68. See also Seyyed Hossein Nasr, “The Rise
and Development of Persian Sifism,” in Lewisohn, The Heritage, 1-18. In this article, Nasr reviews
major aspects of early Persian Sufism and gives succinct explanations of concepts such as shath
(theophanic locutions or ecstatic sayings), ethics, divine love, chivalry, and so forth. See, in the same
collection, Muhammad Ja‘far Mahjib, “Chivalry and Early Persian Sufism,” in Lewisohn, The
Heritage, 549-82. Chivalry (futuwwa) according to Nasr “is best translated as ‘spiritual chivalry,’ ” in
Lewisohn, The Heritage, 9. According to Nurbakhsh, futwwwa means “putting others before oneself
in this world and the hereafter,” in Suft Symbolism, vol. X, 90. In his introduction to The Heritage, he
writes, spiritual chivalry means “the performance of altruistic service to others while remaining free
of any self-consciousness with respect to the value of the service,” xxx11.
54. Sad maydan, trans. Mughal, 18. On that note, Farhadt seems unimpressed by Mughal’s
translation and raises major objections regarding its “accuracy and fidelity to the Persian original.”
Farhadi, in Lewisohn, The Heritage, 387, footnote 13.
55. De Beaurecueil, “Les Références bibliques de l’itinéraire spirituel chez ‘Abdullah Ansari
(Ve/XIe siécle), MIDEO 1 (1954): 9-38.
56. De Beaurecueil’s translation in Chemin, 156—57.
57. Angha, An Annotated, 45.
58. De Beaurecueil, “Présentation d’Ansari” MIDEO 11 (1972): 295. On this note, Laoust,
Makdisi, Massignon, Bell, and Hurvitz are in agreement with Angha and de Beaurecueil concerning
Hanbali spirituality.
59. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 41.
60. Keeler, Sufi Hermeneutics, 10.
61. In his article “La structure du Livre des Etapes,” MIDEO 11 (1972): 80-91; and Chemin,
47-55, de Beaurecueil scrutinizes the work of twelve commentators of the Mandazil. We comment on
the commentators later, but suffice it to say for the moment that Afif al-Din al-Tilimsani and ‘Abd al-
Razzaq al-Qashani, on one hand, and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, on the other, are good examples of
each school. Even though Ibn Qayyim does not agree with the structure and organization of the
stations, his voluminous work Madarij al-sdalikin is a rearrangement of and commentary on the
master’s Mandazil. De Beaurecueil’s comment on Ibn Qayyim’s interpretation is worth mentioning:
“Seul Ibn Qayyim critique, 4 tort ou a raison mais en tout cas avec courage. Comme il le dit lui-
méme quelque part dans son gros commentaire, s’il aime beaucoup Ansari, il aime davantage encore
la vérité.” See also Joseph N. Bell, Love Theory (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1979),
93-98. De Beaurecueil writes about Mandazil, “La réussite de l’oeuvre se manifeste par l’abondance
des commentateurs qui s’attachérent par la suite a en mettre en lumiére les moindres details.
Ittihddiyya et Shuhidiyya se la disputérent et se réclamérent du maitre qui l’avait écrite. Dans I’état
actuel des connaissances bibliographiques, on connait dix-huit commentaires du Manazil, dont deux
seulement, de tendances opposées, ont été publiés jusqu’ici, ceux de Kashani et d’Ibn Qayyim al-
Jawziyya. See de Beaurecueil, “Une ébauche persane, 1—27.
62. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 40; Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 60; Angha, An Annotated, 146. Nubadhan
is located near Herat and is now called Nawbadam.
63. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, “Les journées de Nobdadhan,’ 7\—76. The experience of
Nubadhan is reported in Jamt1’s Nafahat al-uns, 218-19 and the master’s Tabaqat al-Sifiyya, 205-6.
In his biography, de Beaurecueil narrates this incident. In the middle of the winter of 1034, Ansari
was invited to a Sift gathering in Nubadhan, where a good number of Sufi Shaykh, well advanced in
spiritual exercises, convened for sama‘. Ansari mesmerized his peers and the audience by his
rhetorical genius and spiritual insights. The participants engaged in sama‘, and the master followed
along with the crowd. He got carried out, lost control, and fell into a trance. After this episode, the
master was so distraught that he left the vicinity immediately, abandoned all the gifts he had received,
and headed to Herat with his old prayer mat. Following the incident, he abandoned sama‘ and
discouraged his disciples to take part. After this experience of intoxication, he opted for the sober
path.
64. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 100; and Chemin, 40-41.
65. As de Beaurecueil notes, “Ansari parlera de chapitres, montrant qu’il s’agit bien
simplement d’un ordo expositioni.” Chemin, 47.
66. Nurbakhsh, Safi, vol. 8, 90.
67. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 41.
68. Angha, An Annotated, 64.
69. De Beaurecueil’s translation, in Chemin, 84. Angha’s translation is found on 147. Most Sufi
manuals describe the major stations (maqamdat), dwellings (mandzil), and states (ahwal or Haldt).
Hujwitl’s Kashf al-mahjib, trans. Nicholson, 18; Qushayri’s Risdla, trans. Knysh, 77—78; Ritter notes
that “the states of the soul which come over mystics when they are seeking God are manifold, and the
halting-stations they must traverse are great in number.” The Ocean, trans. O’Kane, 341. See also Ian
Netton, “The Breath of Felicity: Adab, ahwal, Maqamat and Abi Najib al-Suhrawardi,” in Lewisohn,
The Heritage, 457-83.
70. De Beaurecueil, “Une ébauche persane,” 1-27; Chemin, 37-39; Angha, An Annotated, 67—
72 and 99-145.
71. Angha, An Annotated, 68. In chapter 4, “Key Concepts in Sad maydan, A Comparative
Study,” she delves into a comparison of Sad maydan, the Munajat; Kashf al-asrar, 95-145.
72. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 45-46.
73. Angha, An Annotated, 78.
74. Angha, An Annotated, 78; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 47.
75. Angha An Annotated, 78; sama‘ means audition and listening. Javad Nurbakhsh in Safi
Symbolism, vol. 2 (London: Khanigah-i Nimatullahi Publications, 1984), 189. Nurbakhsh describes
sama‘ as “the realization and discovery of mystical states which is necessarily accompanied by the
loss of the faculties of retention and judgment in one’s internal consciousness.” Da ‘wa literally
means pretense or false claim. In Sufism, the term refers to all forms of heedless spiritual pretense
and self-delusion. Ahl-i da‘wa refers to those who claim falsely to possess any spiritual insights.
Also, EI, 2nd ed. Sama ‘, Da‘wa, and tahqiq; de Beaurecueil, Chemin (three types of wayfarers), 41.
76. Angha, An Annotated, 79.
77. Angha, An Annotated, 80.
78. Quoted by de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 46.
79. Quoted by de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 47.
80. Quoted by Angha, An Annotated, 46 (from Mulla’1, Majmu ‘a, 128).
81. Angha, An Annotated, 9. Ansari himself wrote in the tradition of saj‘, a literary style used
by poets before and after him. Muslihu al-din Sa‘di’s (d. 1295) masterpiece, Gulistan is the example
that Farhad? points out as the reference text in the saj‘ style. See The Gulistan (Rose Garden) of
Sa‘di: Bilingual English and Persian Edition with Vocabulary, trans. Wheeler M. Thackston
(Bethesda, MD: IBEX Publishers, 2008).
82. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 38.
83. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 38.
84. Utas, “The Munajat,” 83. Also, de Beaurecueil, “Une ébauche persane,” 10.
85. Angha, An Annotated, “Inconsistencies in the classification,” 89.
86. Angha, An Annotated, 89.
87. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 45.
88. Angha, An Annotated, 89.
89. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 75.
90. Angha, An Annotated, 68—72. She presents a parallel between Sad maydan and Manazil.
91. Angha, An Annotated, 68-72, and chapter 4, “Key Concepts in Sad maydan, A
Comparative Study,” 95.
92. Farhad, ‘Abdullah, 81; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 283-86.
93. Quoted by de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 154.
94. See for example, ittihadiyya, shuhidiyya, and wujiidiyya in John A. Subhan, Sifism: Its
Saints and Shrines (Toronto: Indigo Books, 2002), 52; Reza Pirbhai, Reconsidering Islam in a South
Asia Context (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 59-62; and R. W. J. Austin, /bn ‘Arabi: The Bezels of Wisdom
(Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1980).
95. Caspar, “Muslim Mysticism,” Studies, ed. M. L. Swartz, 179.
96. De Beaurecueil, “La structure du livre des étapes,” MIDEO 11 (1972): 90-91. Farhadi
makes a similar remark: “The spelling out of each subject in three items, as well as the exposition of
the entire matter in 10 x 10 chapters, is meant only as aide-mémoire, and not intended to be
mathematically concretized.” “The Hundred Grounds of Abdullah Ansari,” in Lewisohn, The
Heritage, 388.
97. De Beaurecueil, Chemin, 154.
98. Angha, An Annotated, 58. According to the author, the Saljuk vizier Nizam al-Mulk’s
endowment of schools and scholarships to teachers produced a profusion of spiritual writings, such
as Nar al-‘uliim by Abt Hasan Kharaqani; Kashf al-mahjiib by Hujwiri; Asrar al-tawhid by
Muhammad ibn Munawwar; Qushayri’s Risdla; and Ansati’s Sad maydan.
99. See the masterful paper of Devin J Stewart, “Saj‘ in the ‘Quran’: Prosody and Structure,”
Journal of the Arabic Literature 21, no. 2 (Sep. 1990): 101-39.
100. Angha, An Annotated, 61.
101. Angha, An Annotated, 59. Also, parts of the Qur’an and Hadith are also written in saj‘
style.
102. Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 176.
103. Devin Steward, Saj’ in the Qur’an: Prosody and Structure,” Journal of Arabic Literature 21
(1990): 101-39.
104. Farhadt, “The Hundred Grounds,” in Lewisohn, The Heritage, 387.
105. Farhadt, ““The Hundred Grounds,” 387.
106. Farhadi, “The Hundred Grounds,” 389. The author goes further and adds that the first
technique is the master’s preferred style, found also in Dhamm al-Kalam, Tabaqat al-Sifiyya, Kashf
al-asrar. In this regard, Ansari followed a style found in the sayings of Abu Sa‘id ibn Abi |’ Khayr
(d. 1049). Ibn Munawwar’s asrar al-tawhid and parts of Hujwiti’s Kashf al-mahjib follow a similar
technique. A later treatise composed after Ansari, Ahmad Ghazali’s (d. 1126) Sawanih, falls under
this category. Farhadi asserts that the second technique is especially the popular mathnawi’s metric
form. He cites Sana’1’s Hadiga, Farid al-Din ‘Attar’s (d. 1221) I/lahi-nama, and Mantigq al tayr, and
of course Jalal al-Din Rtmi’s encyclopedic Matnawzi. They all exemplify this genre. Finally, in Sad
maydan and Manazil, the ternary system is fully utilized. The master’s ideas and teachings are
arranged in ternate form, or in sets of three. The author points to earlier didactic works to show that
this tripartite division of subjects for mnemonic purpose has many precedents. He cites Hakim
Maysari’s Danish-nama. On this note, Farhadi and de Beaurecueil believe that the most influential
work on Ansari’s thought was Abt Mansur Isfahani’s (d. 1027) Ris@la-yi nahj al-khass.
107. Angha, An Annotated, 149; Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 63; Sad Maidan, Hundred Fields between
Man and God, trans. Munir Ahmad Mughal (Lahore: Islamic Book Foundation, 1983).
108. Farhad1, ‘Abdullah, 69. See also Angha, An Annotated, 149; Sad Maidan, trans. Mughal,
150; de Beaurecueil, Chemin, 147.
109. Angha, An Annotated, 145. On this front, it is important to add that if de Beaurecueil did
not go as far as to declare Persian languages the most suitable locus for divine revelation like
Massignon had done for Semitic languages, he was fond of the intelligence of Ansari and his ability
to render deep and seminal thought in vernacular with such beauty.
110. See The Gulistan of Shaykh Muslihu’d. din Sa ‘di of Shiraz, ed. John Platts (London: W. H.
Allan and Co., 1871). See footnote 475 for Thackston’s translation.
111. See Gavin Pecken, Spiritual Purification in Islam: The Life and Work of al-Muhdasibi
(London: Routledge, 2010); Al-Oushayris Epistle on Sufism, trans. Alexander Knysh; Gerhard
Bowering, The Mystical Vision of Existence in Classical Islam: The Qur’anic Hermeneutics of the
Sufi Sahl at-Tustart (d. 283/896) (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1980).
112. De Beaurecueil named his house of hospitality for Afghan street children, La maison
d’Abraham. See Massignon’s marvelous Les trois priéres d’Abraham (Paris: Cerf, 1997) and
L’hospitalité sacrée (Paris: Nouvelle Cite, 1987).
113. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 161.
114. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 115.
115. Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata’ illah, 175.
116. Keeler, Sufi, 249.
117. Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata’ illah, 175.
118. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 28.
119. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 161. With regret, he recalls that the main radio station in Kabul used
to broadcast excerpts of the Mundjat daily a few years ago.
120. Danner and Thackston, Jbn ‘Ata’ illah, xiv.
121. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 120.
122. Danner and Thackston, Jbn ‘Ata’ illah, 165.
123. Danner and Thackston, Jbn ‘Ata’ illah, xiii.
124. Danner and Thackston, Jbn ‘Ata’ illah, xiv.
125. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 26.
126. Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 178. In addition to de Beaurecueil’s French
translation, Cris du Coeur, there are the following English ones: Sardar Sir Jogendra Singh, The
Invocations of Sheikh ‘Abdullah Ansari of Herat, A.D. 1005-1090; Arthur Arberry, “Ansari’s Prayers
and Councels,” Islamic Culture, no. 10, 369-89; Munajat: The Intimate Prayers of Khwaja ‘Abd
Allah Ansari, trans. Lawrence Morris and Rustam Sarfeh (New York: Khanegha and Maktab of
Maleknia Naseralishah, 1975).
127. Utas, “The Munajat,” 87.
128. Danner and Thackston, Jbn ‘Ata’ illah, 175.
129. Edward FitzGerald’s ruba ‘tyat of Omar Khayyam (London: Bernard Quaritch, 1899) and J.
T. P. de Bruijn’s Of Piety and Poetry: The Interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and
Works of Hakim Sana’i of Ghazna (Leiden: Brill, 1983), 113-118. Many classical mystical writings
attributed to seminal Sift masters share a similar problem of authenticity.
130. Danner and Thackston, /bn ‘Ata’ illah, 175; de Beaurecueil, Khwdadja, 288.
131. Utas, “The Munajat,” 84-85. Bo Utas, Thackston, and de Beaurecueil agree that the
Mundajat have been printed and edited many times and under different titles.
132. De Beaurecueil, Khwadja, 287; Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata’ illah, 175.
133. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 116.
134. Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata’ illah, 178.
135. Farhadt, ‘Abdullah, 115.
136. Danner and Thackston, [bn ‘Ata’ illah, 176.
137. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 29.
138. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 25-41.
139. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 41—42.
140. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 42.
141. De Beaurecueil, Cris, 43-63.
142. De Beaurecueil, “La souffrance, mére de la joie?,” Vie Spirituelle, no. 697 (décembre
1991): 485-97.
143. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 120-21; de Beaurecueil, Cris 72, no. 13. In our view, the master is
echoing the Qur’anic line that speaks of God being closer to human than their jugular vein.
144. Farhadi, ‘Abdullah, 125. The French translation is found in de Beaurecueil, Cris, no. 28,
78.
145. Danner and Thackston, Jbn ‘Ata’ illah, 182.
146. Caspar, “Muslim Mysticism,” Studies, ed. M. L. Swartz, 179.
Chapter 4
1. The very priory where he fell in love with the Dominican life at the age of fourteen (see
chapter 1).
2. Michel de Certeau uses the same phrase with a different meaning. The Practice of Everyday
Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988).
3. De Beaurecueil, “A propos d’une stéle brisée,” in L’Herne: Louis Massignon, ed. J. F. Six,
419.
4. De Beaurecueil, “Etre fidéle a quoi?,” in Je crois, 35-37.
5. De Beaurecueil, L’Herne, ed. J. F. Six, 419.
6. De Foucauld was very influential on Massignon, and for a long time, Foucauld hoped to see
Massignon join him in Tamanrasset. See also Annie de Jésus, Charles de Foucauld: sur les pas de
Jésus de Nazareth (Paris: Karthala, 2002); René Voillaume, Seeds of the Desert, trans. Willard Hill
(Notre Dame, IN: Fides Publishers, 1964); Marguerite Catillon du Perron, Charles de Foucauld
(Paris: Grasset, 1982).
7. Ansari’s corpus does not deal with the concept of prophethood (nubuwwa) as understood in
Islamic theology. Prophethood and prophetic action in this chapter are best described by the
following Christian and Jewish scholars: Abraham J. Heschel, The Prophets (New York:
HarperCollins Books, 2001); Walter Brueggemann’s The Prophetic Imagination (Philadelphia:
Fortress Press, 1978); John Dear’s Jesus the Rebel (Blue Ridge Summit, PA: Sheed & Ward, 2000)
and Daniel Berrigan: Essential Writings (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2009); Gustavo Gutierrez’s
The Power of the Poor in History (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1983); Michael H. Crosby, Can
Religious Be Prophetic? (New York: Crossroad Publications, 2005). As Crosby writes, “Authentic
prophecy flows from the mystical experience; the mystical experience is empty without its
proclamation in prophecy” (15). De Beaurecueil’s life journey and writings are congruent with these
Christian writers’ understanding of prophetology, and differ from the concept of nubuwwa in Islamic
tradition. To be certain, prophethood in this chapter signifies servanthood in the sense of caring for
the most vulnerable in a given community: Kabul street children.
8. De Beaurecueil, Un Chrétien, 91.
9. Homily, Feast of St. Bartholomew. Quoted by Pascaline Coff, OSB. “Man, Monk, Mysti
The Sufi And The Friar A Mystical Encounter Of Two Men Of God In The Abode Of Islam
Mahmud Ansari