Copper Rule 1: My conscientious self, consider your responsibility sacred

Each Copper Rule begins with the reader addressing himself or herself, because the Rule is not coming from an outside authority figure. It is coming from your own conscience, speaking to itself and recommitting itself to the principles that you know to be your own purpose.

So we say, “My conscientious self, consider your responsibility sacred.” There are two key words here: responsibility and sacred. Responsibility comes from a root in Latin which means to promise again. Re is again and spondere is to promise. So responsibility comes from respond, and to respond is to promise again. When we think about promising again, it is a reminder of an esoteric teaching which is found in the Qur’an Sharif, which indicates that there was a Primordial Day, before the advent of our earthly lives, when the soul of every human being was summoned into the Divine Presence, called forth, it says, from the loins of Adam, even before existentiation. And a question was posed. And that question was alastu bi rabbikum, “Am I not your rabb?”

The way we most often translate rabb is “Lord,” and there is something to that. However, most often when we think of Lord we think of a feudal dictator, whereas rabb has many other connotations. It is connected with tarbiya, which is to say cultivation of herbs, fruits, and vegetables; also education and care-giving of children. So it means bringing up, protecting, caring for, and enabling someone or something to reach its fullest potential. That is the meaning of tarbiya. So rabb is the one who, we can say, using the verse from the prayer Saum, is “the Creator, Sustainer, Judge and Forgiver.”

At the very moment that we were created or our creation was envisioned, the source of creation summoned us and posed this challenging question: “Am I not your rabb?” Rabb here means protector and teacher, but also has one other meaning, equally important: rabb also means archetype.

The relationship between an exemplar and an archetype is a relationship to a rabb. So, for example, Shahabuddin Suhrawardi speaks of certain types of angels as rabb an-nau‘, and that means “lord of the species” or “archetype of the species.” In other words, for the species of horse, there is an angel that is the summation of the whole species. There is one being that is “horsehood,” you might say, the cosmic horse, that is the archetype of all horses, and all horses live and move within that being. There is also an archetype for humanity. But the ultimate archetype, the archetype of archetypes, for humanity and for all species, is the Divine Being. This is the eternal being whom our temporal existence exemplifies.

So we are asked at the very moment that we have any autonomous, individual being whatsoever, at the moment when selfhood becomes a possibility, “For whom do you exist? As part of whom? Who is your matrix?” And the souls are overcome by the power of that question. It’s a shattering question. It’s a primordial moment of intense power: the raw, naked confrontation between Creator and creature, and the determination of the relationship between the two. Nothing could be more basic or simple than that.

It’s a simple question put forward, and the answer is equally simple. The answer is bala, “yes.” And that “yes” is the motive force, the power that catapults the creature, the soul into manifestation. Until now the soul was a possibility. And by affirming that “yes,” the soul is thrust forth through the kingdoms of nature: the mineral, vegetable, animal, the human condition, and venturing through the vicissitudes of history, ultimately the soul’s life culminates in this present incarnation.

This is what has brought us here, and the challenge now is to remember and reaffirm this “yes,” the original guiding motive behind all of our acts. Everything is determined by this determinative “yes.” Every step forward is to be taken in the awareness of this primal “yes.”

Responsibility, then, respondere, re-pledging, re-committing, is remembrance and reaffirmation of this primal “yes.” So when we say to ourselves, “Consider your responsibility sacred,” first and foremost, it means, consider this reaffirmation of the original ”yes” as your ultimate purpose, your sacred and most necessary task.

And then, there’s a second consideration to be mentioned about responsibility. And that is that responsibility, in Latin, is to promise again. In Sanskrit, responsibility is dharma. Dharma is responsibility and dharma is our niche. For example, if you consider the human body, each cell contains the DNA of the whole body, but the DNA is translated, via the RNA, into action in a manner that is specific to the function of that particular cell. Every cell’s action is differentiated according to its specific purpose. You can say that the affirmation of the Divine Being as our archetype has to do with recognizing the totality of our genetic composition in each cell.

But the other side of it is recognizing that we have one part to play in a web of life, and that because of our situation, by virtue of our specific place in that web of life, we have a particular responsibility that no one else can uphold. It’s different from that of everyone else, and it means that we do not have to be all things to all people. We have one very particular duty. And it’s in doing that particular duty, faithfully and with sincerity, that our fulfillment lies. Yet all too often we feel that someone else’s duty is more prestigious or apparently more meaningful, and so we are distracted from the work that is given into our own hands, because it seems to us unimportant.

But the principle that is taught by Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita is that one’s own duty is sacred, not someone else’s duty. And in fact, Lord Krishna says that to do one’s own duty imperfectly is better than to do the duty of another perfectly. What is called for, then, is responsibility, knowing for what is one accountable: what are one’s duties in life, what demand does life make upon one? It’s going to be different than the demand that life makes on anyone else. Understand that sphere of responsibility, and within that sphere, recognize that nothing is more sacred than responding sincerely, authentically, and in the spirit of accountability to that sphere, however small the sphere might be, however seemingly menial the task. That is where your response to the divine question resides.

Copper Rule 2: My conscientious self, be polite to all

Our Copper Rule for today is very simple, and that is, “My conscientious self, be polite to all.” I’m reminded of a saying by a very early Sufi, probably of the 9th century, Abu Hafs al-Haddad of Nishapur, who is quoted by Hujwiri in his Kashf al-Mahjub. He says, “At-tasawwuf kullahu adab.” Sufism, at-tasawwuf, is entirely adab, is entirely beautiful manner.

And he goes on and says, “Sufism consists entirely of a beautiful manner. Every time, place, and circumstance have their own propriety. He that observes the proprieties of each occasion attains to the rank of the holy ones.”

This is an extremely interesting statement because it uproots a lot of our notions about what a spiritual path ultimately means. The emphasis here is not on occult attainments or even on piety, precision in ritual, or doctrine. The emphasis is on manner, the manner in relationship, the relationship to others, the ability to harmonize with a situation.

And so, for Abu Hafs Haddad, the way of spiritual attainment is nothing more or less than politeness. And politeness, he says, is situational. It means that one has to be attentive and attuned to the context, to the individuals who are involved, to the propriety of the moment. And, of course, it is not a manner that is formalistic. It is not an etiquette that can be learned in a formal way. It is an etiquette that flows out of a quality of refined attention.

All of us strive, consciously or unconsciously, for this refinement of manner. But we find, that, although we hold for ourself the ideal of politeness, there are times when we are less polite than we would like to be. And on those occasions, it is usually as a result of feeling overextended. Either we are overburdened with responsibility, with work, and some demand is imposed upon us, and we feel that we are beyond our means. And that is the time when we become most irritable. Or when we don’t have time, when we’re in a hurry, we’re in a rush. That is when politeness lapses. And also when one is overtired, when one is exhausted. These are times when it is almost inevitable that one’s quality of etiquette will be compromised.

The saying “be polite to all” is not only an imperative that we should act politely. What is required here is to establish the conditions in our life whereby politeness can manifest naturally. So if we are perpetually rushed, if we perpetually are anxious about time, about feeling inherently tense over a situation, we are going to be predisposed to a lack of etiquette.

It’s not just a matter of, let’s say, having the training, knowing the difference between what is a refined manner and what is not refined. But it’s also being capable of living up to one’s ideal because one has established a rhythm of life that allows for it, which isn’t to say that there will not be surprises and unexpected challenges and emergencies.

But if one has been able to establish a life rhythm that is natural and pervaded by equanimity, then, even in unusual situations, that equanimity carries over. Whereas, if one’s rhythm of life is disturbed, then even in moments of outer repose and release of responsibility, still the inner anxiety persists. So the essence of politeness really comes from a state of equanimity, of peace within oneself.

And so, one can notice when one is out of that balanced, centered state, and then one knows, that at any moment, one is very likely to act without discretion, to act in a way that is not harmonious with the context.

Copper Rule 3: My conscientious self, do nothing which will make your conscience feel guilty.

The conscience is a silent voice, heard only by the inner ear. There are times when, unbeknownst to all, we are incapacitated by our own self-recrimination. Outwardly one enjoys a spotless reputation, and yet inwardly, one is eaten away by a sense of gnawing regret, shame, and guilt. Even though no one points a finger, the conscience knows what we have said or done, and refuses to let it go.

Conversely, all of the world may turn against you, accuse you, blame you, and censure you, but if the conscience is clear, one is at peace. Ultimately, other peoples’ opinions of you are not so important. What is important is your own peace within yourself. When that peace is disturbed, one’s confidence is lost. There is always the anxiety that another will learn one’s dark secret. One is hiding a terrible secret, and that undermines one’s confidence absolutely. For that reason, we look down, don’t raise our head in the world, and just try to go unnoticed. One is paralyzed, rendered timid and sheepish by the presence of a bad conscience within.

But when our conscience is clear, when we know we have done what is in accord with our ideal, no one can intimidate us. We have nothing to hide. We stand before the world transparent: what is on the inside is what is on the outside. One stands forth with the certain moral authority that comes from integrity. We all want to be in that place of inner peace from which we can manifest our life purpose fearlessly. We wish to be free of the anxiety and fear that come with having fallen beneath our ideal, and the fear that someone will come to know our secret, divulge it, and leave us exposed to the mockery of the world. Now, it so happens that there is not a single human being who has always acted in accordance with his or her own ideal. We all have mistakes on our conscience.

The way of the Sufis is to accept and disclose one’s limitation rather than hiding it, by not making a secret of our missteps and transgressions. Being authentic in one’s own station one has nothing to fear. One is no longer in hiding. No one can manipulate you because there is no secret to be found out. The process is to clarify the conscience by occupying one’s reality with honesty, freely admitting one’s errors: coming clean.

But then, looking deeper, we see that there are different kinds of guilt. The conscience has two aspects. One is made up of acquired knowledge, and the other comes from direct knowledge. Acquired knowledge reaches us through the influence of our parents, our education, our acculturation, etc. The sum of this knowledge is a hodgepodge of value judgments, conscious and unconscious, rational and irrational.

Though these judgments ostensibly exist in the service of a well-ordered society, in practice these attitudes often fail to do justice to the nuance and complexity of real life, and become hardened absolutes that conceal more than they reveal of the nature of reality. If one is awake and alert, sooner or later the implications of one’s life experience compel one to transcend the narrow confines of one’s inherited categories. But when a deeper and fuller understanding of a situation prompts us to deviate from the artificial norm, the aspect of our conscience which bears the imprint of received ideas will experience the deviation as an inner conflict because, though we follow true intuition, it contravenes what we have been taught. And so we are inwardly conflicted, and that inward conflict subsists as a sense of guilt and shame.

Thus, until one illuminates and clears the conscience by means of muhasaba, or self-examination, there is in all of us a residue of guilt and shame. It persists as a nagging feeling within. To investigate, according to Inayat Khan, one has to interview one’s nafs al lawwama. That is the part of one’s self that is self-critical. One asks one’s self, “What is the nature of my infraction? ” And you might find that the argument that the self-critical self makes is based on an external, received opinion that has imprinted itself, become internalized within one’s conscience. It is not a direct perception of the situation. It’s just an abstract notion, one that has invaded one’s consciousness from outside.

Then one has to ask, “If this is the expectation, why is it an expectation? What is the purpose of this principle? What is the benefit of following the principle? What is the harm of not following it? ” Inayat Khan advises us to interrogate our conscience in this way, so that if one is negatively judging oneself, as we often do, one is able to clearly understand the reasoning behind it.

Sometimes an introspective process of this kind completely dissolves the negative judgment. One realizes that one’s guilt was based on a received notion that really wasn’t directly relevant to the situation; it was just an artificial overlay.

The prophet Abraham rose up against the tradition of the fathers. He had been indoctrinated into a tradition of idolatry, and at a certain point, he had to renounce it and find his own way. At a certain point in our heart’s maturation, we have to reexamine all of the assumptions we have been given and apply the light of our own experiential understanding. In this process, a lot of negative self-judgments are revealed to be irrelevant, external impositions, and accordingly evaporate.

However, there are also judgments that come out of the true sense of one’s inner guidance, one’s intuitive sense of propriety, of rightness, of either serving the wholeness of being in a given situation or else of inordinately prioritizing the imperatives of one margin of one’s self, or one margin of the whole of being at the expense of the whole. And the sense of wholeness, the sense of integrity is lost. A little part of one’s self, a little impulse has triumphed at the expense of the deeper currents of meaning and fulfillment.

When one comes to this level of realization, another level of the conscience has begun to operate. It’s no longer the conscience that harps shrilly against every thought and act that it does not understand, but it is the guidance of the soul, which provides encouragement when one’s actions are on the mark and provides warning when one is out of balance. When one learns to listen to that inner voice of guidance one realizes, at a certain point, that no external validation is needed.

There is a stage in human development where one’s behavior is commensurate with one’s company. In the presence of the person one most respects, one is on one’s best behavior. At other times, one just lets oneself go. But then, as one develops on the path, one comes to the point where the one that one respects is one’s deepest self. And that self is always present. The essence of one’s self, the divine light of the soul, is always there. And one feels that one is accountable to that presence. In feeling that accountability, in resisting the compulsion of destructive habits, more and more one is able to clear away the dross of mistakes of the past.

Of course, mistakes will continue to happen. Refusing to recognize them, which is our habit, is of course, the greatest mistake of all. The worst mistake is not the misdirected impulse. That’s the least of our problems. The misguided impulse is just the beginning. The worst of it comes in trying to deny and conceal the mistake, as Sir Walter Scott said, “Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. ” The whole of life can become a heap of lies. Though we seem to be lying to other people, essentially we’re lying to ourselves.

And so the greatest virtue is not to be infallible, but having committed mistakes, to see them, accept them, take responsibility, make amends, receive forgiveness, and move on with clear conscience. By doing this internal housekeeping one develops an amazing courage and fearlessness.

So again, there are two aspects of conscience. There is the acquired knowledge of the conscience, which needs to be questioned and put in context. And then there is the direct knowledge of the conscience, which is a deeper intuitive soul-sense. At first, it might be difficult to recognize the difference between the two. The reason it is difficult is that we don’t try. But as soon as one does try—as soon as, on feeling a pang of conscience, one turns inward and looks at it—one will be able to sort out the differences. In working this way, one develops a knack for differentiating. Pretty soon, the voice of the pure conscience will be immediately recognized, and will become a good friend.

Let’s put this into practice for a moment by closing our eyes. Breathe into and out of the heart. Remember Inayat Khan’s saying: “A pure conscience gives one the strength of lions, and by a guilty conscience even lions are turned into rabbits. ” Can you feel the rabbit-like quality, the sense of meekness, trepidation, and fear; the shivering sensation one experiences when one stands beneath the ideal? Delve into this and see that it is the mental imprint of misaligned actions. For the moment, bring into awareness one such “missing of the mark. ” Let yourself directly experience the sense of regret and shame that attends it.

Now ask yourself, “Why was it wrong? Is there a canon of opinion that stands against what I have done, and if so, what is the true basis of that moral code? Is it merely an unexamined prejudice of my family or my society? Is the shame that I feel just the consequence of nonconformity to a collective idea that bears little genuine relation to the circumstances of my life experience? Or did my action truly cause harm? And if there was harm, to whom was there harm? Was there harm to me? What kind of harm? Was there harm to other people? What kind of harm? Could that harm have been avoided? And if it was a harmful action, what was the predisposition that inclined me to act in such a way? Was there a positive intention behind my action that was ill served by the course I took? Did I attempt to do right but end in doing wrong? ”

If one discovers the positive original impulse that was misdirected, one learns an important lesson regarding how to implement and how not to implement a good intention. But I carry with me now two things. I carry the lesson learned, and I also carry the shame of the mistake. The lesson learned benefits as I go forward. The shame does not benefit me, nor does it benefit anyone. Perhaps I imagine that the only way I can perpetuate the lesson learned is by perpetuating the shame—but is this really true? By perpetuating the shame, I am in some sense repeating the error. Can I overcome the error by allowing myself to experience the divine forgiveness that has already been granted, and forswear reiterating the error in my secret shame? Can I accept my mistake, accept my limitation, letting it be lifted up into the divine mercy and compassion, while I retain the abiding essence of this transformative experience, which is a living moral that illuminates my path into the future?

If we can bring this crystalline clarity to each of the sources of nagging guilt in our psyche, then we will provide a proper burial to the many skeletons in our closet, and we will proceed in life fearlessly and shamelessly. We will follow Christ’s instructions and uncover the light of the soul from under the bushel of guilt.

Again, the words of the Copper Rule for the day:

My conscientious self, do nothing which will make your conscience feel guilty.

Copper Rule 4: My conscientious self, extend your help willingly to those in need.

It is an important point in spiritual chivalry to look out for those needing help and to be of service without strings attached. Serving the needy—gharib meaning the poor, the outcast, the needy—is fundamental to the Sufi path. Nawaz means to support, nourish, care for. Gharib Nawaz is the friend of the friendless, the friend of the outcast. There is no greater title. Nothing is more important.

At the khanqah of Shaykh Nizam al-Din Awliya in Delhi, any gifts that were received were distributed to people in need, usually by the end of the same day. One night the Shaykh tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Going down to the kitchen and opening the cupboard he found a bag of rice. He instructed that it be distributed forthwith so that he could sleep with peace of mind.

A farmer came to the khanqah, traveling a very long way after his crops had failed in a drought, hoping that the Shaykh might help him. When he arrived, he was told that nothing had come in that day and so there was nothing to give to him. Shaykh Nizam al-Din expressed his love and sympathy but had nothing to give him but the sandals from his own feet, which been given to him by his murshid, Shaykh Farid al-Din Ganj-i Shakar, who had in turn received them from his murshid, Shaykh Qutb al-Din Mas‘ud Bakhtiyar Kaki. Disappointed, the farmer took the sandals and began to make the long journey back home. On the way he found himself in a caravanserai watching as another caravan came along from the opposite direction. One of those traveling in that caravan was Amir Khusraw, whom Shaykh Nizam al-Din fondly called “Turk Allah” because of his Turkish background. When he saw the farmer he said that he noticed he was coming from Delhi and asked if he had seen the great Shaykh Nizam al-Din. The farmer told him that he had implored for help but that all that was given to him was a pair of used sandals. Khusraw’s eyes lit up when he saw them. He said, “Give me those sandals and take this,” thrusting into the hands of the astonished farmer the large personal fortune he happened to be carrying with him. Then Khusraw triumphantly put the sandals on his head and walked to Delhi. When Shaykh Nizam al-Din saw him approaching, he asked “How much did you pay for those sandals, Turk Allah?” Khusraw answered, “Everything I own.” The Shaykh replied, “You got a good bargain!”

One aspect of a pledge is that it can overcome hesitations that otherwise prevent us from getting involved. For instance, we might feel that we have to keep our distance from the needy for fear of falling into need ourselves. We can easily sympathize from afar, but we fear the “contamination” of misfortune. The pledge to extend help willingly reminds us to recognize the fragility of a human condition. Fortunes rise and fall, and no one is immune to the vicissitudes of fate. We are all in this together, sharing in the life of an indivisibly single world. The notion that we have a greater right to comfort and security than others is a questionable proposition. Ultimately, our personal happiness is contingent on the happiness of the whole. By serving others, we serve ourselves. Psychological studies have shown that those who dedicate time to social service are the happiest people in the world. True happiness is synonymous with sympathy and service.

In sharing these teachings we give voice to an ideal that we all know and share, and in undertaking a pledge of this kind together we make the ideal more living. To hear and respond to a need is to humbly seek to uplift the one who is in need toward a new hope. It requires balance and wisdom not to succumb to hopelessness and despair when we open our ears to the cry of humanity. We can each only do our own little part, and leave the results to the One.

Copper Rule 5: My conscientious self, do not look down upon the one who looks up to you.

This is, of course, a very timely reminder for us as we are advancing on our path and as we do so we face a certain danger, and that danger is the pride of attainment. It happens when, as we advance on the path, in our concentrations, in our contemplations, in our meditations, we are opening up vestigial faculties, actualizing potentialities, opening the conduits for the free flow of the energetic essence of the body, awakening divine attributes.

There is a transformative process that occurs, sometimes invisibly and sometimes visibly. The result is that one’s whole being begins to vibrate at a higher frequency, and more resoundingly. And the result is that one becomes, to some extent, conspicuous, at least for the one with eyes to see. The one whose eyes are beginning to open recognizes this divine glow, which has nothing to do with the trappings of a spiritual tradition, but has to do with the intense quality of livingness that one begins to embody as one proceeds.

And the result is a resonance. One creates a field of attraction, and those who are, themselves, beginning to awaken, perhaps lack what we enjoy, the incredible privilege of the structured support of an esoteric school. But naturally, as part of the intrinsic evolution of the soul, all beings are moving in the same direction consciously or unconsciously, even those who ideologically are absolutely opposed to any metaphysics.

Nonetheless, it is the birthright, it is the destiny of each soul to evolve toward a fuller understanding of life. And so as this awakening happens, it is stimulated and it is quickened by the presence of those in whom this maturation of the heart has more fully revealed itself. As one develops, as Christ said, one becomes a fisher of souls.

One exerts a kind of magnetic attraction, a field of resonance. Like attracts like. And as you vibrate in accordance with pure thoughts, pure feelings, benevolent intentions, then the one who is awakening to that quality of being gravitates toward you.

In this way, the message has been promulgated wordlessly from heart to heart over the generations by the law of attraction and resonance. So when one dwells upon these deeper, fuller, truer thoughts and emotions, then one attracts the same temperament in one’s life. And contrarily, when one is fixated upon peripheral, narrowly conceived, exclusivistic and destructive impulses, one finds oneself in a world of that kind.

So as one’s heart expands, one attracts those whose hearts are, themselves, expanding. There is a field of resonance. And the one who is drawn to you will recognize in you perfection that he or she is striving to attain in himself or herself, and you will see yourself in the gaze of another who sees his or her true self in you.

And therein lies the great danger. In that moment there is the temptation to see all of the beauty and power that comes to you through the glance of the one who looks to you in admiration, to claim it possessively as your own, to take pride in it, to exult in it, to feel a kind of egoism that is even greater than the egoism of the worldly self, the narcissism of spiritual perfection. An assumed spiritual perfection is the greatest hubris.

And the means of avoiding this temptation is to recognize with clear discernment that the beauty and power that the one who looks up to you sees in you is purely the perfection of his or her own soul, that he or she can only see in the mirror of you at this time. But you are simply a mirror. Whatever anyone sees of greatness, it is recognizable to them only because it is of the essence of their own being. We see such perfection as exists in our awakening consciousness. But the self is unable to see it in itself.

My father used to say, “You see yourself in another yourself who is more able to manifest yourself than you.”

So when this is clearly recognized, then all adulation, admiration, praise is recognized clearly for what it is, a mirror play of lights in the palace of mirrors. And ultimately, wa li’lahi-l-hamd, “All praise is of God and for God.” Praise is divine. And that means that every act of praise is an act that is performed by God and every act of praise is an act that has as its object nothing more or less than God. Praise is from and to God, period.

So in this way, we must recall when we do find ourselves in this field of resonance, attracting the gaze of a sincere one who is seeking to actualize qualities that he or she perceives as evident in oneself, to avoid the temptation to attribute those qualities to oneself, to see that praise is from God to God, and to have gratitude for one’s participation in the process of the expression of praise and the revelation of the divine qualities but to release, dispossess any inkling of private possession.

And see in the projection of praise that is directed in one’s own direction, the imprint of the beauty of the one who looks to you. And that imprint is nothing less than an effigy of the divine qualities. So this is our rule of the day. I’ll say it once and then we’ll say it together:

My conscientious self, do not look down upon the one who looks up to you.

Copper Rule 6: My conscientious self, judge not another by your own law.

This rule is a reminder of a teaching that Inayat Khan gives in the context of kinship. You know that Kinship is one of the five activities inaugurated by Pir-o-Murshid Inayat Khan. In addition to the Esoteric School, there is Kinship, the Universal Worship, Ziraat, and Healing. And, just as the Esoteric School has its course of study, there is a study in the cultivation of kinship, the primary focus of which is the horizontal dimension of becoming, becoming in relationship. And Inayat Khan describes here five stages in this unfoldment, five stages you might say of deep dialogue, of progressive profundity in the encounter with another soul.

The first of the five stages is respect. We begin by exercising a manner that is respectful, conscientious, and aware—which takes some effort. When we are not mindful, of course, we have a tendency to be disrespectful, which means, in our language and our body language, disregarding the feelings of another person. So the height of respect is an intense awareness and a demonstration of that awareness of the feelings of another person. Boorish manners demonstrate the opposite, thinking only of oneself.

So, we learn this on the path by practicing adab. And adab is a value that sometimes has been disregarded in our modern culture, from the perspective that there is something artificial and even presumptuous about holding oneself to a code of etiquette. Particularly in the 1960s there was a movement for change, liberation, freedom from perceived ideas and modes of formal behavior, the freedom just to do as one wished and follow one’s heart. Of course, when manners lose their grounding in sincerity and become an empty lifeless code, the need arises, from time to time, to break down the old structure, so that something new can be born.

But the consequence of that revolution can be that, in breaking away from the old, one misses something. Something has been lost, and that is the quality of attention that is required in fine manner, because liberation might involve negligence of the needs and feelings of one’s fellows. So there is a need to be free, but there is also a need to be responsible.

Manner is something that we as a culture are still, I think, in the modern West, trying to resolve appropriately. There is, on the one extreme, hollow insincere formalism, and on the other hand, shoddy antinomianism. There must be a way to express our love in a manner that is beautiful, in a sincere and elegant etiquette that is relevant to our times. That is what we are seeking.

So the first stage is manner. For the seeker, every word is an opportunity for self-examination. In every mode of expression, one wants to seek beauty of expression, the affirmation of the other person in every possible way, and to see how even subtle turns of language sometimes are off-putting and demonstrate a preoccupation with one’s own ego and disregard of the other. So one begins to really scrutinize one’s self, one’s verbal language, one’s body language, and look for every opportunity for refinement. One can feel it in the presence of someone who has so perfectly refined this respectful manner. It doesn’t have to be in the form of flattery, or a kind of ostentatious humility and self-abasement. There can be dignity in this refinement. But it is such a quality of manner that makes the other person feel totally recognized and accepted and affirmed. And that’s what generates tremendous magnetism and charisma.

It’s a regal personality with whom you feel taken up in his or her being and totally validated in your own being. Murshid was known to have such a high degree of this quality that everyone he met, all those who spoke with him came away feeling that they were the dearest to his heart, they were his most beloved friend. And only later when they compared notes did they realize that they all enjoyed this same status!

The first stage is respect and the second is sympathy. It begins with demonstrating a quality of awareness. If one does not create an accommodation in one’s speech and manner, sympathy is impossible. But as soon as one begins to respect people at the level of form, a channel is opened which makes it possible for sympathy to deepen at the level of meaning. And so the second stage of this process is to really care, to see another as in some sense another oneself, to overcome indifference.

And then the third stage: if one has established a relationship of sympathy, then one can begin to understand the person with whom one sympathizes. If one is not sympathetic in the first place, there is no motivation to understand. One will listen to what is being said, but one will not hear, because there is no resonance of hearts. As soon as one listens with the heart, then there is a readiness to understand. And readiness to understand, of course, means that one interprets what the other says in the best possible light and makes every effort to see the merits of that person’s point of view.

Much of our education teaches us to be competitive and to hone in on the weaknesses of others. But what if we learned to do just the opposite of that; in other words, to restate what the other person has said even better than they could, and articulate, in our own mind, a formulation of what the other person is trying to put across that is more true to their intention than even their own words have succeeded in doing?

That is the next stage: understanding, really getting inside the other. First you have to open a channel of the heart and once the heart channel is open, the mind can mesh more easily. Biologists speak of limbic resonance, an understanding that is established beyond rationality that has to do with the interface in the glance, and where the limbic cortex in the brain of each is warmed and mutually melded in such a way that there is a wordless understanding. From that pre-conceptual foundation, a conceptual mutual understanding can be then constructed. So that’s the third stage, first respect, then sympathy, then understanding.

And then, fourthly, comes tolerance and forgiveness. So long as there is no sympathy and understanding, it’s very easy to judge and to judge negatively. But as soon as there is sympathy and understanding, even the worst mistakes, from one’s own point of view, committed by another person, become totally explicable and understandable. It’s not that you would want to aid and abet the person in continuing to do something that, from the vantage point that you enjoy, seems totally wrong. But, at least, you see perfectly clearly that, from that person’s point of view, there really was no other choice. They acted perfectly and truly according to their understanding, their conditioning.

And remember that conditioning is deep, very deep. It even precedes our incarnation. There is conditioning right from the moment the divine ray shines out from the essence and descends through the planes. At each plane, there is a structuring, from the subtle spheres right out to the grossest spheres; at each level of the way, proclivities, inclinations, and received concepts aggregate.

And so, by the time a person incarnates, the planets have already had their say, the stars have had their say. The history of humanity as well as the biological saga has had its input, and a person is already deeply conditioned.

But then, of course, in childhood, in education, in acculturation, the experiences of a person impel him or her to think in certain ways, and the brain becomes wired so that thought flows in those channels. And so you realize that your resentment toward a person, your sense of disappointment, is really rather ridiculous. Everything in nature has conspired to set the person on that particular path, that course of action, that course of thinking. And when you see this, to blame the person, to resent the person, is impossible.

So, at that point, one recognizes that, while one may from one’s own vantage point completely disagree, one has to acknowledge the decision that the other person has come to as the consequence of his or her own life. That is why Murshid always reminds us the Sufi always has two points of view, her own point of view and the point of view of another. And sometimes it’s said, three points of view, the third being the divine point of view, which reconciles, paradoxically, all points of view.

Now, sometimes the reason that we are not able to do this is because we are afraid that, if we saw clearly another point of view, we would lose our own point of view, and we would no longer be able to safeguard our own interests, because our own point of view has a validity just as that person has a validity. And if I become so sympathetic to their point of view, who is going to represent my point of view? And so one wants to retain it. But, really, the danger is an imagined one, because your own point of view is easily recoverable.

To be able to step outside of one’s own point of view doesn’t mean that you’ve lost it. You might still, having looked at the situation from the other vantage point, come right back to your point of view and to your course of action. Your opposition to the other person will remain as staunch as ever before, outwardly. Inwardly, however, you have attained a completely different moral and spiritual posture, because there is no resentment. You don’t take the conflict personally. You see you’ve been impelled in the world to take a certain position, and that person is impelled to take another position, but in your heart of hearts there is no animosity whatsoever.

And ultimately, then, you come to the fifth stage of the process which is unity, which is again the third point of view: first seeing your point of view, then seeing the other person’s point of view, and then seeing that there is a divine point of view. The divine perspective defies literal, concrete interpretation, because it is so paradoxical. Vast and tremendous, it integrates and transcends all angles of vision.

Copper Rule 7: My conscientious self, bear no malice against your worst enemy.

This rule reminds us of the teachings given in Moral Culture, a very significant compilation of Inayat Khan’s teaching on the “horizontal” dimension of spiritual development. These teachings are given in three sections, the titles of which are Reciprocity, Benevolence, and Renunciation—three distinct stages of moral evolution.

Here, as in other places in Inayat Khan’s teaching, the course of spiritual development is described as a threefold process. But if one looks further in Inayat Khan’s teaching, one will find reference to a fourth stage. And so eventually one learns to “read between the lines.” When Inayat Khan speaks of three stages, one senses the invisible presence of a fourth stage.

The three stages of Moral Evolution, plus the “invisible” fourth stage, correspond to four renunciations (tark) described by the great Persian Sufi poet Farid al-Din ‘Attar, the famous author of The Conference of the Birds.

The first renunciation is called the renunciation of the world (tark-i dunya). This does not imply a rejection of the earth plane as such (jahan). Rather, it is the renunciation of the world of false appearances (dunya), the prison of illusion that the Buddhists call maya. It means giving up the misguided pursuit of fulfillment through possession, consumption, self-aggrandizement, and domination.

This renunciation corresponds to Inayat Khan’s teaching on reciprocity. To learn reciprocity is to move beyond the presumption of one’s own superior prerogative; to live in balance, in harmony, on an equitable basis; consuming but also providing, receiving but also giving.

Having outgrown crude forms of satisfaction, one’s sensibilities become refined. Instead of demanding immediate gratification, one sees there are deeper, larger issues at stake. Rather than ephemeral ersatz pleasure, one prefers abiding peace. And one sees the possibility of not merely accommodating the world, but actually contributing positively. There is greater attraction in extending kindness to others than in advancing one’s own private interests.

There is joy in service. And the reward is not an earthly reward. It is a heavenly reward, a reward that will prove its enduring value in the hereafter. The foretaste of it already exists, however, in the savor of moral victory. This is the beginning of the second stage, the stage of beneficence.

But then, at a certain moment, one realizes that there is a cryptic selfishness hidden under one’s generosity. Beneath one’s moral excellence is an expectation of recompense, albeit recompense in heaven rather than on earth. Then comes a breakthrough. One realizes that, irrespective of the outcome, love is its own reward. One realizes that, as Inayt Khan says, “You are love. You come from love. You are made by love. You cannot cease to love.”

This realization marks the renunciation of heaven (tark-i akhira). One turns away from the prospect of heavenly reward in favor of the experiencing the presence of the Divine Beloved directly. Whether that presence is healing or wounding, luminous or fiery, makes no difference. All that matters is the proximity of the One, the Real.

In this stage the seeker approaches the Divine Presence through the intermediacy of revolving apparitions of the Divine Face, intimations of the ineffable presence of the One in the form of the Qualities of Power and Beauty. Each countenance, upon attainment, dissolves, and the horizon recedes to reveal a new splendor. The seeker advances until the last boundary, where every trace of difference, every wisp of the substance of manifestation, dissolves. And with that dissolution comes the dissolution of self and other, an experience which ‘Attar calls the renunciation of the Lord (tark-i mawla), a state of complete annihilation and subsistence in eternity. This is what Inayat Khan has indicated by “renunciation”, the heading of the final section of Moral Culture—beyond reciprocity, and beyond beneficence, absorption in the One.

But there is a further stage, invisible in Moral Culture, but visible elsewhere in Pir-o-Murshid Inayat Khan’s teaching, and present in ‘Attar’s series of renunciations. The fourth is the renunciation of renunciation itself (tark-i tark). The renunciate now returns to the outer plane, re-entering the limitations of personal life and the delicate nexus of relationships that it engenders. The world, however, is no longer experienced as a place of confinement, for the renunciate of renunciation sees that through the narrow birth canal of this world, a new life is straining to be born, a life that is glorious beyond words.

This is the overview from which we may now consider the Copper Rule, Bear no malice toward your worst enemy. To illuminate the rule we turn to the chapters on “Dealing with Our Enemies” in the sections on “Reciprocity” and “Beneficence” in Moral Culture.

Our Dealings with our Enemies 

Our dealing with our enemy should be more delicately considered than our dealings with a friend. This fact is generally overlooked by man, and he deals in any way with an enemy, while he is considerate to a friend. Sometimes one insults one’s enemy, spoiling, thereby, one’s own habit, and making the enemy still more insulting. Sometimes, by constantly dwelling on the faults of the enemy, one impresses one’s own soul with the same faults, and focuses them upon the soul of the enemy. If he lacks these faults, they may, by reflection, develop in him and cause him to become a still more bitter enemy. 

It is as unwise to underestimate the enemy’s bitterness and power to do harm, as it is to overestimate them. Very often a man, blinded by his ego, fails to estimate the power of the enemy and he says, ‘Oh, what can he do? What do I fear?’ giving way to an impulse, when driven to it by the enemy. This is a defeat. Keeping steadfast and calm under such circumstances is a victory. Complaining about the harm caused by the enemy is a weakness. Avoiding it by taking precautions, facing it with strength, and checking it with power are the things worth doing. It is wise to take advantage of the criticism made by an enemy for it can help to correct us. And it is foolish when one laughs it off, considering oneself to be too good to be like that. 

In the case of revenge, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth is right when one is sure that kindness and forgiveness will have no power whatever upon the hard heart of the enemy, but on the contrary, will make him worse. But so long as there is a chance of meeting the enemy’s revenge by kindness, the above law must not be practiced. It is better to suppress the enemy before he can rise against us, and it is right to throw him down when he has risen against us.

It is wise to be watchful of the movements of the enemy, and to safeguard oneself against them, and it is foolish to allow oneself to be watched, and to let the enemy safeguard himself against us. It is right to decrease the power of the enemy in every way possible, and to increase one’s own power, and make it much greater than the enemy’s. It is right to know the secret of the enemy, and it is more than right to keep our secret from him.

Precautions must be taken that nobody should become our enemy, and special care must be taken to keep a friend from turning into an enemy. It is right, by every means, to forgive the enemy, and to forget his enmity if he earnestly wishes it, and to take the first step in establishing friendship, instead of withdrawing from it and still holding in the mind the poison of the past, which is as bad a retaining an old disease in the system.

When dealing with enemies, one must bear in mind that there is a possibility of exaggerated imagination. For the least little wrong done by the enemy seems to be a mountain of wrong, while the least little right done by the friend seems to be a mountain of right. It is timid to estimate the enemy above what he is, and it is stupid to estimate him at less than his real power. 

Allowing the enemy to insult or harm, according to the law of reciprocity, is a fault. Paying back insult for insult and harm for harm is the only thing that balances. In dealing with the enemy, one must first compare him with one’s own self in intelligence and power, and consider whether it is possible to stand against him and his enmity or not. In the case where this is possible, with strength and courage and with intelligence, we should bend him down before he does so to us. For in enmity, the first blow is to the advantage of the giver. 

Where we find ourselves weaker or less than the enemy, the best thing would be not to show enmity until we have developed the power of withstanding him; to wait with patience and trust until that time comes and until then to keep peace and harmony. This is not deceit in the sense of reciprocity. 

It is against wisdom to allow anybody to become our enemy if we can possibly help it. We should always refrain from this and be cautious in all affairs of life, lest we cause anybody to become our enemy, for the enemies we have in life are enough. But weakness should never be shown to the enemy. Always show him your strong side. Never give him a chance to prepare a blow. And we should see that he gets it from us before he prepares. 

But equally there must not be a moment’s delay on our part in the effort to harmonize and to be friendly should the enemy desire it. Nor must we lose one moment in becoming friends with him, if it is in our power. A man must always be ready to become a friend to the enemy, and to try his best to do it, unless, by doing so, he adds to the vanity of the enmity. 

It is most undesirable to be the first to an enmity. The one who does so is the more blameworthy, and from his side the effort of harmonizing should come. Sometimes, by thinking bitterly of someone, we produce enmity in his heart that may not have been there before. It only sprang from our imagination. The same rule applies to friendship. If we think strongly with love of someone, even of an enemy, our power of mind will turn the enemy into a friend.

These are Inayat Khan’s words on dealing with enemies from the perspective of reciprocity. His teaching is multivalent; it operates on many levels. In any situation, the course of action that is appropriate is relative to one’s level of realization. If one’s moral location is the stage of reciprocity—that is to say, if one’s concern is to maintain a balance of give and take in life—one must act accordingly, engaging in conflict when conflict is necessary and persistently protecting one’s interests albeit with discretion and restraint.

Thus he speaks here about avoiding failure in confrontations, learning from the genuine insights in the criticism that is made of us, not underestimating or overestimating the strength of the enemy, and holding out the possibility of reconciliation while refusing to accept manipulation and mistreatment.

Now Inayat Khan speaks from the perspective of beneficence.

Our Dealings with Enemies

The difference between the law of reciprocity and the law of beneficence is that, in the former, a person is justified in giving measure and measure, and in the latter one is supposed to tolerate and forgive and show kindness, so that the enemy may grow to be a friend. There are cases where one cannot show kindness, and yet one can be tolerant. There are cases where one cannot forgive, and yet revenge, for a humane person, is an unnatural thing. One can overlook the faults of another, and by that one will give less occasion for disagreement, and still less occasion for enmity. 

Then a person thinks, ’By being kind to our enemy we encourage him in his tyranny.’ But so long as we have kindness in our heart, instead of hardening the nature of the enemy, we will soften it, since we receive all that we give out. A kind word in return for a harsh word, a kind action in return for a cruel one, a kind thought in return for an evil thought make a much greater impression than measure for measure. 

The iron which cannot be broken by hammers can be melted by fire. Love is fire. Kindness is its chief expression. And if a person has sufficiently developed this in his heart, he can sooner or later change an enemy into a friend. It is unkindness, mostly, on one’s own part, that causes enmity all around, and one blames enemies and becomes horrified at their number, then blames the world and its nature and its life. And when the creation has been proved blameworthy in a person’s mind, then how can the Creator be kept free from blame? Then that man feels that he alone is blameless, and all else is blameworthy and life becomes a torture to him. He thinks it is not worth living. He becomes self righteous and everybody seems to be against him. 

It is always wise to avoid every possibility of causing enmity, and to make every effort to turn any enemy, even a person in the least degree offended, even a person who has slightly misunderstood you, or perhaps has felt vexed with you into a friend again, not for the sake of your own happiness or even of his, but for the sake of the good principle, for material benefit. For however slight an enemy he may be, he can cause you very great pain or suffering, and however little friendship you have with a person, he may become most useful someday. And apart from all material benefits, to feel, ’That person is pleased with me. He is well-disposed towards me. He is no longer my enemy,’ is in itself such a great benefit.

So, as Inayat Khan says, it is not always possible to bring our enemies over to our own side. Sometimes we are confronted, assaulted and there is the effort to subdue us, victimize us, and we need to stand up for ourselves, for our community. And yet, how can one engage in conflict? How can one oppose a domineering force without a sense of vengeance, of bitterness, of enmity, of hostility, which, as Inayat Khan says, is poison in the system?

There is story that is told of Hazrat ‘Ali. Hazrat ‘Ali was a great defender of the community of the Prophet Muhammad at a time when enemies were amassing on all sides with the intention of destroying the new faith once and for all. In a decisive battle, Hazrat ‘Ali squared off against a ferocious warrior and managed to gain the upper hand. Knocking his opponent down, Hazrat ‘Ali raised his sword to deliver the final blow. Just then spat in his face. Suddenly the blood rose to Hazrat ‘Ali’s face. He grew angry and tightened his grip on his sword. But then a change came over him; he sheathed his sword and walked away.

The warrior, who had expected a swift death, was stupefied. If there had been any hope of mercy, he thought, his last act of defiance should have squandered it. But instead, somehow, his crude insult had saved him. Perplexed by the irony, he pursued Hazrat ‘Ali and entreated him for an explanation.

Hazrat ‘Ali replied, “I had intended to kill you, but you aroused my anger, and I am duty bound never to act violently in anger. I had to use force, but it was motivated by love. As soon as my personal pride intervened, the matter was finished: I could not act.”

Hazrat ‘Ali is a paragon for us. We are called to exercise our will in the world. But when the will is enflamed by an egoic resentment, the enlightened conscience pauses and reflects and declines to act on such a motive.

Now let us bring this principle right down into the nitty-gritty of our lives, turning within.

Bring into the sphere of your awareness the presence of your worst enemy, whether it is a person who thwarted you in the past or is doing so in the present—whoever comes to your mind as the most oppositional figure in your life.

Welcome this person into the sphere of your awareness, though the welcome may be a wary and guarded one. And looking upon this person’s face, sense the effect on your state, the experience of aversion, the closing or faltering of the open radiance of the heart, the sense of frustration, disappointment, humiliation—whatever sensations arise instantaneously in the encounter. Notice your state. This person’s presence is not an emotionally neutral one. The influence is immediate.

Now internally review your side of the story. Make space for your personal vantage point vantage point. You have been wounded, and you have suffered. Acknowledge the validity of your experience. The damage that has been done is, in its own sphere, real and worthy of consideration. It has affected you, and has been a shaping influence in your life’s course. Recognize the pain that has been caused. Allow yourself to feel prick of the pain, and the sense of disappointment that surrounds it. If one has experienced a betrayal, one has watched a hope live and die. Something very different was possible, but because of this person, it could not come into being.

As you inhale, you are kindling the heat and light that illuminates these wounds. As you exhale you bear witness to your heart’s trammeled feelings, communicating them clearly, as you would to this person, if only he or she would listen. In the silence of your contemplation there is no countervailing reactivity and confusion. Buried sentiments are brought to the surface with crystal clarity, and clearing begins.

Now switch positions in your contemplation, so that you look out from the eyes of the enemy. Recognize that this person has a very different understanding of the situation: different interpretations and different intentions. This person’s mind is a product of patterns of conditioning that are foreign to you, to the point of being nearly incomprehensible. Though fate has interjected this person into your life story, he or she by no means shares your worldview. Moreover, you do not see this person as this person sees him/herself, and this person does not see you as you see yourself.

If you suspend your own judgment and look through this person’s eyes you will see that, from that vantage point, his/her actions are perfectly natural—it is now your attitude and actions that appear suspect. You will also recognize that the hostility and bitterness that this person manifests are really distorted permutations of pure impulses. As Ibn al-‘Arabi says, the origin of every impulse is a movement of love.

This person’s heart is moved by the same deep currents of love that move your heart, but these currents have become misaligned and misdirected. The result is deep, unconscious frustration. And the consequence of this frustration is the tendency to lash out. You are not really the object. The person’s pain is essentially self-referential. You have just found yourself caught up in the sphere of another’s pain.

And you have your own pain. At that level you can sympathize, because you know what it means to feel pain. You can see now that the person is coming from a place of pain, and you can unite in the solidarity of brokenness. But you can also resonate in the joy that is seeking expression in the person’s heart. Perhaps, more than he or she, you have been blessed by the abundance of that joy, whereas in his or her state, it remains un-manifest, and hence he or she acts so maliciously.

And, finally, you come to the sense that you share with this person not only wounded-ness and a deeper joy, but something even more basic. In essence, you are this person. You, minus your experiences (on all planes), plus the experiences of this person (on all planes), equal this person, your “enemy.” And your enemy minus his/her experiences, plus yours, equals you. So where, then, is the basis for resentment?

Now, for a moment in silence, look into the eyes of your “enemy”.

Copper Rule 8: My conscientious self, influence no one to do wrong.

If you have spent time with children you will have noticed that children are fascinating. Part of the fascination is that the various attitudes and behaviors that form the deep structure of our adult personalities are revealed in their simple purity in children.

One sees among children, for instance, the tendency to delight in vicarious mischief. A child would like to cause a bit of trouble but doesn’t want to take the blame. So the child suggests the mischief to another child and then stands back to watch the drama unfold from the sidelines, as innocent as ever.

But, of course, we adults never do anything like that, do we?

Consider the tragedy of war. It is not the troops on the frontline that are responsible, so much as the chains of command, the governments, and ultimately the societies that sanction war. If people saw the devastation of war first-hand, more often than not attitudes would be different, and military policy would be different. Mischief is easier from a distance.

The Prophet Zarathustra taught that it is not enough to refrain from causing harm at the level of action. There are three levels. There is action, but prior to action is speech, and prior to speech is thought. A thought descends into words and then words descend into acts.

There are stages in the incarnation of one’s intentions. Sometimes we refrain from the outermost expression of an act, but we have prepared all the conditions for the act inwardly. All that remains is to carry it out, and if we do not carry it out, it will be communicated to another, either consciously or unconsciously. Thus we are responsible, even when outwardly restrained.

We often forget the degree to which our influence exerts itself. The universe is a palace of mirrors. How then can it make sense to harbor within our own thoughts and words that which we would not wish to meet in the world?

The law of resonance is real. We often feel insignificant in the face of the enormous forces at work in the world and conclude that our choices don’t matter. But this kind of apathy only perpetuates the world’s inertia and despair.

We have a choice. Zarathustra himself made this crystal clear. Each moment offers a choice. Your choice fills you, flows out from you, reaches others making choices, and weaves its way into the very fabric of manifest reality. A brilliant thought, word, or act can radically alter the course of human history. It has happened, and will happen, again and again.

Let us be cognizant of our influence, recognizing that our thought, speech, and action will have an effect of the whole flow of human destiny.

Copper Rule 9: My conscientious self, be prejudiced against no one

Copper Rule 10: My conscientious self, prove trustworthy in all your dealings.

Both of these rules are illustrated by a story from our own lineage, the story of Fuza’il bin ‘Ayaz. Fuza’il bin ‘Ayaz began his life as a bandit, a highway robber. In those days merchants stood to reap great profits by importing goods from across the desert. But they also faced great risk, because the desert was the haunt of bands of outlaws who thrived on pillaging travelers. One of these bands was led by Fuza’il bin ‘Ayaz.

One day, following the usual practice, Fuza’il sent his band out to ambush a group of merchants on camelback. Since he was chief he did not directly take part in the attack, but orchestrated it from behind the scenes, remaining at the bandits’ camp.

When the merchants saw the marauders rushing toward them their blood ran cold. One of them seized a chest containing his most valuable possessions, a cache of jewels, and fled in terror.

In his flight the merchant happened to come across the robbers’ encampment, where Fuza’il bin ‘Ayaz was comfortably seated before a fire. Greatly relieved to discover this stranger, the merchant implored, “My caravan is under siege. If you would be so kind, take this box and keep it safe until the coast is clear. ” Fuza’il gave his assent.

Returning to the scene of the attack, the merchant found that the bandits had departed with the booty and his fellow travelers were preparing to move on, aggrieved by the loss of their goods but thankful to be alive.

Deciding that it was now safe to retrieve his chest, the merchant retraced his path. Imagine his surprise and horror when, arriving at the camp, he saw Fuza’il bin Ayaz surrounded by the perpetrators of the attack, who clearly looked to him as their leader!

“What have I done?” he thought. “I have placed my entire livelihood directly into the hands of the chief bandit.’ Crestfallen, he turned to go.

But Fuza’il called to him, “You there! Why have you come? ”

The merchant answered, “Fool that I am, I was going to ask for my treasure back. An absurd notion, I know. ”

Fuza’il reflected for a moment and then spoke solemnly, “You entrusted the chest to me. You trusted me and I trust God. Take it. ” So saying he returned the treasure chest, which the merchant received with astonishment and unspeakable gratitude.

Not only was the merchant happy. Fuza’il bin ‘Ayaz discovered a happiness he had never known before. In living up to the merchant’s trust he became conscious of a value greater than all the wealth of the world: the value of trustworthiness.

The way forward was now absolutely clear. Crime was no longer an option. Fuza’il left his band and adopted the life of a dervish. Eventually he became the disciple of Shaykh Abd al-Wahid bin Zaid, and ultimately his successor. His own successor was Ibrahim Adham al-Balkhi. Whereas Fuza’il had once been a robber, Ibrahim Adham had once been the King of Balkh! The spirit bloweth where it listeth.

What does this story tell us? The lesson for the merchant was: “be prejudiced against no one.” The lesson for Fuza’il was: “prove trustworthy in all your dealings.”