Dazed and ashamed, the shepherd apologized repeatedly and promised to pray as decent people did. Moses taught him several prayers that afternoon. Then he went on his way, utterly pleased with himself.
But that night Moses heard a voice. It was God’s.
“Oh, Moses, what have you done? You scolded that poor shepherd and failed to realize how dear he was to Me. He might not be saying the right things in the right way, but he was sincere. His heart was pure and his intentions good. I was pleased with him. His words might have been blasphemy to your ears, but to Me they were sweet blasphemy.”
Moses immediately understood his mistake. The next day, early in the morning, he went back to the mountains to see the shepherd. He found him praying again, except this time he was praying in the way he had been instructed. In his determination to get the prayer right, he was stammering, bereft of the excitement and passion of his earlier prayer. Regretting what he had done to him, Moses patted the shepherd’s back and said: “My friend, I was wrong. Please forgive me. Keep praying in your own way. That is more precious in God’s eyes.”
The shepherd was astonished to hear this, but even deeper was his relief. Nevertheless, he did not want to go back to his old prayers. Neither did he abide by the formal prayers that Moses had taught him. He had now found a new way of communicating with God. Though satisfied and blessed in his naïve devotion, he was now past that stage—beyond his sweet blasphemy.
“So you see, don’t judge the way other people connect to God,” concluded Shams. “To each his own way and his own prayer. God does not take us at our word. He looks deep into our hearts. It is not the ceremonies or rituals that make a difference, but whether our hearts are sufficiently pure or not.”
I checked the judge’s face. I could see beneath his mask of absolute confidence and composure that he was clearly annoyed. Yet at the same time, being the astute man that he was, he had detected a tricky situation. If he reacted to Shams’s story, he would have to take the next step and punish him for his insolence, in which case things would get serious and everybody would hear that a simple dervish had dared to confront the high judge. It was therefore better for him to pretend there was nothing to be upset about and leave it there.
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky a dozen shades of crimson, punctuated now and again by dark gray clouds. In a little while, the judge rose to his feet, saying he had some important business to attend to. After giving me a slight nod and Shams of Tabriz a cold stare, he strode off. His men followed wordlessly.
“I am afraid the judge didn’t like you much,” I said when everyone had left.
Shams of Tabriz brushed his hair from his face, smiling. “Oh, that is quite all right. I am used to people not liking me much.”
I couldn’t help feeling excited. I had been the master of this lodge long enough to know that it was not often such a visitor came.
“Tell me, dervish,” I said, “what brings someone like you to Baghdad?”
I was eager to hear his answer but also strangely fearful of it.
Ella
NORTHAMPTON, MAY 20, 2008
Belly dancers and dervishes spun in Ella’s dream on the night her husband didn’t come home. Her head resting on the manuscript, she watched as rough-looking warriors dined at a roadside inn, their plates piled high with delicious pies and desserts.
Then she saw herself. She was searching for someone in a bustling bazaar in a citadel in a foreign country. All around her, people moved slowly, as if dancing to a tune she couldn’t hear. She stopped a fat man with a drooping mustache to ask something, only she couldn’t remember the question. The man looked at her blankly and hobbled away. She tried to talk to several vendors and then shoppers, but no one responded to her. At first she thought it was because she couldn’t speak their language. Then she put her hand to her mouth and realized with horror that her tongue had been cut off. With increasing panic she looked around for a mirror to see her reflection and figure out if she was still the same person, but there was none in the bazaar. She started to cry and woke up to a disturbing sound, not knowing whether she still had a tongue.
When Ella opened her eyes, she found Spirit frantically scratching at the back door. An animal had probably gotten onto the porch, driving the dog crazy. Skunks made him particularly nervous. The memory of his inopportune encounter with one last winter was still fresh. It had taken Ella weeks to remove that nasty odor from the dog, and even after she’d washed him in tubs of tomato juice, the smell lingered, reminiscent of burning rubber.
Ella glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to three in the morning. David was still not back, and perhaps he never would be. Jeannette had not returned her call, and in her pessimistic state Ella doubted she ever would. Seized by the terror of being abandoned by her husband and daughter, she opened the fridge and looked through it for a few minutes. The desire to scoop out some cherry vanilla ice cream warred with the fear of gaining weight. With no small effort, she took a step away from the fridge and slammed the door, a bit more harshly than necessary.