In the prayer Nabi we find the moving words, ‘comforter of the broken hearted, support of those in need, friend of the lovers of truth…’ Without doubt we have all suffered the pain of a broken heart, and if we are not in need at this moment in one way or another, we have been so in the past, and surely will be so in the future. Therefore we can easily feel an immediate connection with this level of guidance that Pir-o-Murshid Inayat Khan calls ‘the prophet of God.’
Although our faith may be a bit vague and uncertain, and we may doubt that we have met a genuine prophet or that we ever will do so, yet it gives us courage to feel that there are such great and inspiring souls.
But what about the words, ‘the lovers of truth’? Can we also identify with this group?
We may certainly think so — it seems that everyone prefers the truth to a lie. Hazrat Inayat Khan points out that even one who spends all day lying and cheating in the market place would be very unhappy if their wife or husband were to lie to them when they return home. But if the love of truth is universal, why is there so much falsehood in the world?
Could it be that we are lying to ourselves when we say we love truth? Or do we think that ‘truth’ is mutable, that we can tailor it to our own wishes? If that is so, then our affection is for our very limited selves and not for borderless, infinite truth. But perhaps the difficulty is more basic — that we have not yet realised the profound, life-altering meaning of love.
If we wish to gain some insight into the meaning of love, we could do well to consider the Sufi story of Shirin and Farhad. When Farhad, a common labourer, saw the exquisitely beautiful Shirin, he stood before her and simply said, ‘Shirin, I love you.’
At that moment Shirin longed to be freed from a difficult situation, but she could not simply accept Farhad’s word; instead she insisted that this suitor must undergo a test. ‘If you love me,’ she told him, ‘then break a way through these mountains that surround me.’ Whereupon Farhad went straight to the mountains and began to strike at the rock, calling her name aloud with every blow. And so great was the power of his love that the rock parted before him like water.
Later, enemies of Farhad lied to him, telling him that Shirin was dead, so that his life left him. But when Shirin went to see the path Farhad had made to freedom, she found that the air and the rocks and hills all around were still echoing her name, so great was his love for her.
Students of the Sufi path often repeat sacred words, names of God, as part of their spiritual practice. These may refer to certain qualities, such as generosity or holiness or benevolence, but they are nevertheless names of truth, and to have any effect the repetitions must be not merely mechanical; they must come from the heart.
The example of Farhad sets a standard we could aspire to: do we say these words with so much love that they continue to echo from the walls when we have left our prayer room?
The Sufis declare that love means, ‘Thou art, and I am not.’ That is the sense behind the verse of Rumi which says ‘the beloved is all in all; the lover only a dead thing.’
And if love has truly ripened in our hearts, then we will certainly be in the company of the lovers of truth, and in our prayers and practices we will make a reality of this saying from Gayan, Suras:
This essay by Pir Nawab first appeared in The Inner Call, the reflections of the International Sufi Movement.