Story 11

In the great mosque of Baalbek, I was preaching, speaking to a crowd that was cold and dead at heart, people who had never crossed from the world of appearances into the world of meaning. I saw that my breath caught no spark in them; my fire had no effect on such damp wood. It grieved me to train cattle and hold up a mirror in a town of the blind. Yet the door of meaning stood open, and the thread of my words ran long. Explaining the meaning of the verse, 'And We are closer to him than his own jugular vein,' I carried the speech to the point where I said: The Friend is nearer to me than I am to myself; yet how strange, that I am still far from him. What can I do? Who is there to tell? That he is right beside me, and still I am exiled. I was drunk on the wine of these words, the dregs still in my cup, when a traveler passing by the edge of the gathering felt that final round take hold of him. He cried out, and the others joined him in an uproar, while the unripe hearts in the crowd began to stir. I said: God be praised! The distant ones, who understand, are truly present, while those nearby, who cannot see, are truly far. When the listener does not grasp the words, do not look for eloquence from the speaker. Give me the open field of a willing heart, and then watch the speaker score his goal.