Chapter Ten: On Prayer and Conclusion

Come, let us lift our hands from the heart in prayer, for tomorrow, from the grave, we cannot raise them. In autumn you will not see a single tree left barren by the biting cold forever. When it lifts up its empty, needy branches, mercy never sends it away empty-handed. Never imagine that door, which has never shut, would turn away a hand raised up in hope. Fate hands it a robe of honor, and destiny tucks fresh fruit into its sleeve. Everyone brings obedience; the poor bring only need. Come, let us go to the door of the One who cherishes the poor. Like a bare branch we raise our hands, for stripped of leaves, we can sit here no longer. My Lord, look on us with generosity, for sin is what comes forth from your servants. Wrongdoing rises from a lowly servant, in the hope of the Lord's forgiveness. Generous One, we were raised on your provision, we grew accustomed to your gifts and grace. When a beggar sees kindness, grace, and favor, he never walks away from the giver's door. Since in this world you have made us dear, we hope for the same in the world to come. Honor and disgrace, you alone bestow; the one you honor sees no scorn from anyone. My God, by your own glory, do not disgrace me, do not shame me with the humiliation of sin. Do not set someone like me in power over me; better that any punishment come from your hand. In this world there is no evil worse than suffering cruelty at the hands of your own kind. My shame before your face is enough for me; do not shame me before anyone else. If even a shadow of yours falls upon my head, the heavens would be the least of my supports. If you grant a crown, it lifts my head high; you uphold me, so that no one casts me down. My body trembles when I remember the prayer of a distraught soul in the sanctuary, that broken-hearted, restless one who cried: My God, forgive, and do not leave me in disgrace. He kept pleading with God in bitter tears: Do not cast me off, for no one will take my hand. Call me in with kindness, do not drive me from your door; I have no other threshold to bow my head upon. You know we are wretched and helpless, trapped by a soul that commands us to evil. This rebellious self does not charge so fast that reason can seize hold of its reins. Who can overcome the self and Satan by force? An ant cannot go into battle with leopards. By the true men of your path, grant me a way, and give me shelter from these enemies. My God, by your own divine essence, by your attributes that have no like or equal, by the pilgrims' cry at the Sacred House, by the one buried at Medina, peace be upon him, by the war cry of the sword-wielding men, next to whom a warrior would seem a mere woman, by the worship of elders adorned with devotion, by the sincerity of youths just come of age, in that single-breath abyss, come to my aid, save me from the shame of confessing anything but you. The hope is that those who worship faithfully will intercede for those who did not worship. By the pure ones, keep me far from all defilement, and if I slip, count me as excused. By the elders bent double from their prayers, their eyes cast down at their feet in shame for sin, do not close my eyes to the face of blessedness, do not tie my tongue when I bear witness at the end. Hold the lamp of certainty before my path, and hold my hand back from doing wrong. Turn my eyes away from what should not be seen, and let me not lay hands on what is shameful. I am that speck of dust in love with you; in my smallness, being and non-being are the same. A single ray from the sun of your grace is enough for me, for without your light no one even sees me. Look at the worst of us: he is still someone; for a beggar, a single glance from the king is enough. If you seize me with strict justice, I will cry out that your forgiveness promised otherwise. My God, do not drive me from your door in disgrace, for I can picture no other door for me. And if in ignorance I vanished for a few days, now that I have come, do not shut the door in my face. What excuse can I offer for the shame of my sin? Only to bring my helplessness and say: O Rich One, I am poor; do not hold my sin and guilt against me; the rich show mercy to the poor. Why should I weep over the weakness of my state? If I am weak, my refuge is strong. My God, in heedlessness we broke our vow; what power can the hand of effort wield against fate? What can our scheming hands accomplish? This one point alone excuses all our failings. Whatever I did, you undid it all; what strength can contend with your divine will? It is not that I raise my head against your wisdom; it is that your wisdom decrees this over my head.

Someone called a dark-skinned man ugly, and got a reply that left him stunned: I did not shape my own face, so why blame me as if I did wrong? What does my ugly face have to do with you? After all, I am not the one who paints beauty and ugliness. I am exactly what you wrote for me from the start; I added nothing, took away nothing, O nurturer of your servants. You know well that I have no power; you are the absolute Almighty, and who am I? If you show me the way, I reach safety; if you let me lose it, I am stranded from the journey. If the Creator of the world does not help, how can a servant ever live in piety? How well the poor, empty-handed man put it: he repented at night and broke the vow by dawn. If He grants the repentance, it will hold firm, for our own promise is unsteady and weak. By your truth, seal my eyes against falsehood; by your light, do not burn me in the fire tomorrow. In my wretchedness my face fell to the dust, while the dust of my sin rose to the heavens. O cloud of mercy, rain down just once, for before the rain no dust can last. My sin leaves me no standing in this kingdom, yet there is no road to any other realm. You know the secrets of the tongue-tied; you lay the balm on wounded hearts.

A fire priest had shut the world's door in his own face, and bound himself in service to an idol. After many years, that man of a shameful faith was struck by fate with a terrible ordeal. Hoping for relief, the wretch rolled at the idol's feet on the temple floor. Crying, 'I am helpless, take my hand, O idol! I'm at the end of my rope; have mercy on my body.' He wailed and begged in its service again and again, but none of his affairs came right. How can an idol answer anyone's needs, when it can't even brush a fly away from itself? He raged, 'You anchor of error, for years I worshipped you in vain. Solve the trouble I now face, or else I will turn and ask my Lord.' His face was still soiled with dust before the idol when the pure God granted his wish. A knower of truths was baffled by this, and the clarity of his own inner state turned dark. How could a lost man who worships something less than God, his head still drunk on the wine of the idol temple, who never washed his heart of unbelief nor his hand of treachery, have God grant the wish he sought? His mind sank deep into this puzzle, until a message reached the ear of his heart: 'Before an idol, that feeble old man of dull wit said much, and his plea was never answered. If he were turned away from our door too, what difference would remain between an idol and the Eternal One?' You must fix your heart on the Eternal One, my friend, for all others are more helpless than any idol. It is impossible, if you lay your head at this door, that your hand of need should come back empty. My God, we come as sinners, empty-handed and full of hope we come.

I heard that a drunkard, dizzy from wine, ran into the sanctuary of a mosque. He cried out at the threshold of grace: 'Lord, carry me to the highest paradise.' The muezzin seized his collar: 'Watch it, a dog in a mosque! You, stripped of sense and faith. What good have you ever done that you demand heaven? Such airs don't suit so ugly a face.' The old man said his piece, and the drunkard wept: 'I'm drunk, sir, take your hand off me. Does it amaze you, given the kindness of the Creator, that even a sinner may keep hoping? I'm not asking you to accept my excuse; the door of repentance is open and God is my helper. I feel shame before the Generous One's kindness to call my sin great in the face of His pardon. When old age knocks a man off his feet, unless you take his hand he can't get up. I am that old man, fallen and unable to rise; my God, by Your grace take my hand. I don't ask you to forgive my greatness or rank; forgive my helplessness and my sin. If a friend notices my small slip, he brands me famous for foolishness. You see all, and we fear one another, for You draw the veil while we tear it. People raise their outcry from outside, while You stay with Your servant behind the veil, covering it. If servants rebel out of ignorance, their masters draw a line through the offense. If You forgave sins in proportion to Your generosity, not one sinner would be left in existence. And if You grew angry in proportion to sin, send me to hell and call for no scales. If You take my hand, I'll get somewhere; if You cast me down, no one else will lift me. Who can overpower me when You give aid? Who can seize me when You grant salvation? On the Day of Judgment there will be two groups; I don't know which one they'll set me among. It would be a wonder if my road lay to the right, for nothing but crookedness ever came from me. Now and then my heart gives me this hope: that God feels shame before my white hair. I'd be amazed if He felt shame for my sake, when I feel no shame before myself. Consider Joseph, who saw so much suffering and chains, until his command prevailed and his standing rose high. Did he not pardon the guilt of Jacob's family? For a beautiful face carries beautiful meaning. He did not hold them to their evil deeds, nor turn away their meager offerings. From Your kindness we hope for the same; be generous to this empty-handed one, O Precious One. No one has seen a blacker record than mine, for I have no praiseworthy deed at all. Except this: that my trust is in Your help, my hope in Your forgiveness. I brought no goods but hope; my God, do not leave me hopeless of Your pardon.