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Citation Zaleski, John. 2019. Christianity, Islam, and the Religious Culture of Late Antiquity: A Study of Asceticism in Iraq and Northern Mesopotamia. Doctoral dissertation, Harvard University, Graduate School of Arts & Sciences.

Citable link http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUL.InstRepos:42106922

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Christianity, Islam, and the Religious Culture of Late Antiquity: A Study of Asceticism in Iraq

and Northern Mesopotamia

A dissertation presented by

John Zaleski

to

The Committee on the Study of

in partial fulfillment of the requirements

for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

in the subject of

The Study of Religion

Harvard University

Cambridge, Massachusetts

April 2019

© 2019 John Zaleski

All rights reserved.

Dissertation Advisor: Professor Charles M. Stang John Zaleski

Christianity, Islam, and the Religious Culture of Late Antiquity: A Study of Asceticism in Iraq

and Northern Mesopotamia

Abstract

This dissertation examines the development of Christian and Islamic writing on asceticism, especially and , in Iraq and northern Mesopotamia during the formative period of Islam. I show that both Christians and Muslims created ascetic traditions specific to their communities, by reinterpreting the significance of disciplines they held in common and by responding to the practices and ideals of rival confessions. As I argue, Muslims transformed Late Antique models of asceticism and in so doing led Christians to reshape their own ever-evolving monastic traditions.

The first part of the dissertation examines ascetic texts written by members of the East

Syrian church, the largest Christian community in Iraq at the time of the Islamic conquest. I demonstrate that East Syrians appropriated Late Antique monastic thought by commenting upon, adapting, and reinterpreting Greek monastic texts. These commentators thus developed a self- consciously East Syrian tradition of interpreting ascetic practice, directed against rival Christian confessions and monastic movements. Central to this tradition was an emphasis on fasting and celibacy as mutually reinforcing disciplines, necessary throughout a ’s life in order to reorient the ’s desire toward .

In the second part of the dissertation, I show how early Muslim authors re-envisioned the value and meaning of ascetic disciplines that were central to eastern and often associated by Muslims with Christian . In particular, I argue that Muslims

iii reinterpreted the purpose of fasting and sexual abstinence in light of Qur’anic and Prophetic models of piety. Far from imitating Christian asceticism (as has been suggested by scholars in the past), Muslims thus created self-consciously Islamic traditions of ascetic practice.

The final part of the dissertation argues that this Islamic ascetic discourse, which I call the “language of zuhd,” became a koiné, in which members of multiple religious confessions in

Iraq took part. This section thus shows how East Syrian Christians confronted Islamic ascetic ideals — ideals formed by Muslims partly in response to Christian monasticism. Through these mutual responses, Christians and Muslims alike formed new traditions of asceticism, which have perdured among Muslim and Christian communities in the .

iv

Table of Contents

1. Title Page………………………………………………………………………………………. i

2. Copyright……………………………………………………………………………………… ii

3. Abstract……………………………………………………………………………………….. iii

4. Table of Contents…………………………………………………………………………….... v

5. List of Tables…………………………………………………………………………………. vi

6. Acknowledgements…………………………………………………………………………... vii

7. Introduction……………………………………………………………………………………. 1

Part I

8. One: Babai the Great and East Syrian Monastic Commentary……………………... 17

9. Chapter Two: The East Syrian Monastic Commentary Tradition After Babai……………… 77

Part II

10. Chapter Three: Asceticism in the Kutub al-Zuhd and ……………………………... 135

11. Chapter Four: Asceticism and in Third/Ninth-Century Baghdad…………………. 195

Part III

12. Chapter Five: The Language of Zuhd and the Rise of an Ascetic Koiné…………………. 255

13. Conclusion………………………………………………………………………………… 310

14. Bibliography………………………………………………………………………………. 317

v

List of Tables

1. Table 1: Zuhd and the Woolen Cloak………………………………………………………. 276

2. Table 2: Zuhd and Seclusion………………………………………………………………... 277

3. Table 3: Zuhd and the Remembrance of Death…………………………………………….. 279

vi

Acknowledgements

In the course of writing this dissertation, I have benefited from the support of many

people, and it is a great pleasure to thank them now.

My first debt of thanks is to my advisor, Charles Stang, for his careful guidance and his

unceasing encouragement and support throughout my studies. His advice and his close reading of

drafts and related talks and articles have been essential to the development of the dissertation.

I also owe thanks to my other readers, Khaled El-Rouayheb, Luis Girón-Negrón, and

Nancy Khalek. Professor El-Rouayheb fostered my study of classical texts, and his close reading of chapters of this dissertation has saved me from several errors. Professor Girón-Negrón has offered kind guidance throughout my studies, and I am grateful that, in addition to turning his careful attention to my drafts, he has introduced me to the wonderful field of Judeo-Arabic.

Finally, I am especially grateful to Professor Khalek for joining my dissertation committee as an

outside reader, and for her sharp eye and feedback on my prospectus and chapters. It goes

without saying that any remaining errors of fact or interpretation in the dissertation are solely my own.

I would also like to thank Kevin Madigan, who was the first to encourage this dissertation topic, and who graciously passed me on to other readers as the project moved my studies earlier

and eastward. I remain indebted to his kindness and historical acumen.

This project was made possible by the support, both material and otherwise, of

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, which funded the initial years of research and

writing, including archival work, as well as the Fordham University Orthodox Christian Studies

Center, which has supported my final year of dissertation work. I am deeply grateful to these two

wonderful institutions. In another way, this dissertation has been made possible by the hard work

vii of the library staff at Harvard Widener Library, Dumbarton Oaks, and the , as well as the staff at the Süleymaniye Kütüphanesi, the British Library, and the University of

Birmingham Cadbury Research Library.

I would also like to thank the departmental administrators of the Committee on the Study of Religion, Elise Ciregna and Barbara Boles. Their constant helpfulness and kindness have contributed much to my and success at Harvard.

Finally, I would like to thank my family, my Andy, and especially my parents for their endless support, encouragement, and help throughout my years of study, and for imparting to me the gift that is the love of learning. Above all, my gratitude goes to Teresa, who has surrounded my work with an ever-growing joy.

viii

Introduction

This dissertation examines the development of Christian and Islamic writing on asceticism in Iraq and northern Mesopotamia during the formative period of Islam.1 I show that

both Christians and Muslims created ascetic traditions specific to their communities, by

reinterpreting the significance of disciplines they held in common and by responding to the

practices and ideals of rival confessions. As I argue, Muslims transformed Late Antique models of asceticism, and in so doing, they led Christians to reshape their own ever-evolving monastic traditions.

The relation between Christian and early Islamic asceticism has been a subject of longstanding scholarly interest, albeit primarily as a corollary to a broader question about the relationship between Christian and Sufism.2 In spite of the interest in this subject, however, a vast number of relevant texts remain to be examined. Each chapter of the dissertation analyzes texts whose ascetic content is either completely unstudied or only partially examined.

As such, a primary contribution of this dissertation is to uncover new sources and reappraise

1 The dissertation thus focuses on the region of modern-day southern and central Iraq (the ‘irāq of Arab geographers), as well as on the area of known to Arab geographers as al-jazīrah, the “island” between the Tigris and . This region included modern-day northern Iraq, as well as portions of Mesopotamia now lying in northeastern and southeastern .

2 For classic studies of the relationship of and Sufism, see Louis Massignon, Essai sur les origines du lexique technique de la mystique musulmane (Paris: P. Geuthner, 1922); and Tor Andrae, I myrtenträdgården: Studier i tidig islamisk mystic (Lund: Albert Bonniers Forlag, 1947); translated into English as In the Garden of Myrtles: Studies in Early Islamic Mysticism, trans. Birgitta Sharpe (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1987). More recently, Serafim Seppälä, In Speechless Ecstasy: Expression and Interpretation of Mystical Experience in Classical Syriac and Sufi Literature (Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2003); and Georg Günter Blum, Die Geschichte der Begegnung christlich-orientalischer Mystik mit der Mystik des (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009). 1

understudied texts relating to the development of Christian and Muslim writing on ascetic

practice.

At the same time, the dissertation builds upon recent scholarship on Islam and Late

Antiquity in order to offer a new approach to Christian and Islamic ascetic literature.

Comparative studies of Christian and Islamic asceticism have typically either argued that Islamic

asceticism derived from the practice of Christian monks3 or identified parallels between monastic

and Islamic practice without asserting influence.4 In response, several studies have dismissed

Christian influence on Islamic asceticism as being marginal, unproveable, or irrelevant and have

focused, instead, upon the development of Islamic ascetic ideals from the piety of the Qur’an and

the early Muslim community.5 This dissertation offers a third approach, viewing Christian and

Islamic ascetic literature neither through the lens of influence and borrowing, nor solely through

3 See especially Tor Andrae, “Zuhd und Mönchtum: zur Frage von den Beziehungen zwischen Christentum und Islam,” Le Monde Oriental 25 (1931): 296–327, and Andrae, Garden of Myrtles, 7–54. More recently, some scholars have argued for the influence of monastic texts (the apophthegmata patrum) on Islamic asceticism. For a cautious proposal, see Ute Pietruschka. “Apophthegmata Patrum in muslimischem Gewand: Das Beispiel Mālik ibn Dīnār,” in Partnerschaft, Freundschaft, Dialog: Beiträge zum internationalen Symposium am Lehrstuhl für Ökumenische Theologie und Orientalische Kirchen- und Missionsgeschichte der Georg-August- Universität Göttingen vom 20. bis 22. Juni 2015, ed. Martin Tamcke (Berlin: Lit, 2016), 160–71. For a bolder argument, based upon parallels between apophthegmata and Muslim texts, see Sabino Chialà, “Les mystiques musulmans, lecteurs des écrits chrétiens: Quelques échos d’apophthegmes,” Proche-Orient Chrétien 60 (2010): 352–67.

4 See especially the useful study, collecting a range of ascetic behaviors and attitudes, by Ofer Livne-Kafri, “Early Muslim Ascetics and the of Christian Monasticism,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 20 (1996): 105–29.

5 A critical appraisal of studies (including Livne-Kafri’s) that have seen Christian and Islamic asceticism as analogous or Islamic asceticism as deriving from Christianity, is given in Feryal Salem, The Emergence of Early Sufi Piety and Sunni Scholasticism: ‘Abdallāh b. al-Mubārak and the Formation of Sunni Identity in the Second Islamic Century (Leiden: Brill, 2016), esp. 105–38. For a critique of past scholarship on this subject, see also Ahmet Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), ix–x. 2

the lens of internal development, but instead examining how Christians and Muslims adapted ascetic ideals and practices widespread in the Late Antique Middle East in order to create new traditions of asceticism specific to their confession.

This line of approach was already suggested by Louis Massignon, in a footnote in his

magisterial study of the Sufi lexicon. Here, he wrote, “we can see Muslim ascetics trying, not to

imitate Christian monks, but to rival them in the matter of rahbānīyah [monasticism], following

an Islamic method, inspired by the Qur’an.”6 Massignon’s suggestion — that Muslim ascetics sought not to copy, but to excel and Islamize the practices of Christian monks — fits more broadly with recent emphases in the study of Islam and Late Antiquity. As several scholars have argued, Muslims did not borrow passively or unreflectively from older models, and no Christian or Late Antique antecedent can be understood as a sufficient explanation of a Muslim or practice. One way to put this is that Muslims did not simply emerge from the culture of Late

Antiquity; they emerged into it and actively intervened in its ideas and practices.7

6 Massignon, Essai, 53 n. 1. The emphasis on imitate is Massignon’s. In the original French: “[o]n voit les ascètes musulmans essayer, non pas d’imiter les moines chrétiens, — mais de rivaliser avec eux, en fait de rahbâniyah, suivant une méthode musulmane, inspirée par le Qor’ân.”

7 This point has been emphasized by a number of studies that have focused on processes of social and cultural transformation and identity formation following the Islamic conquests. See, for example, Jack Tannous, The Making of the Medieval Middle East: Religion, Society, and Simple Believers (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018), esp. chs. 9–13; Nancy Khalek, After the Muslim Conquest: Text and Image in Early Islam (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), esp. 7–8 on this point; Elizabeth Fowden, The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between and (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), esp. ch. 6; Michael Morony, Iraq after the Muslim Conquest (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 431–526. On Qur’anic and early Islamic piety as an area of divergence from Late Antiquity, see Fred Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins: The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writing (Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1998), 64–97. On the sphere of asceticism, see also the sources below. 3

Scholars have thus increasingly turned to investigating the ways in which Muslims and

Christians participated in and contended over ideals and traditions of piety inherited from the

Late Antique world. Nancy Khalek has examined the formation of early Islamic hagiography,

showing the ways in which Muslims re-worked tropes found in Byzantine hagiography.8

Sizgorich has shown how early Muslim sources (including an important text examined in this

dissertation) drew upon and reinterpreted Late Antique understandings of the relation between

asceticism and militant piety (jihād).9 More recently, Christopher Melchert, in The Cambridge

Companion to Sufism, has suggested that early Islamic asceticism may be viewed through the lens of Fred Donner’s model of “differentiation”;10 that is to say, Islamic asceticism developed as

Muslims distinguished their own practices from those of non-Muslims. Yet comparative

examinations of Christian and Islamic asceticism have tended to overlook the analogous ways in

which Christians themselves differentiated their ascetic traditions from those of rival

confessions.

8 Nancy Khalek, “‘He Was Tall and Slender, and His Virtues Were Numerous’: Byzantine Hagiographical Topoi and the Companions of Muḥammad in al-Azdī’s Futūḥ al-Shām,” in Writing ‘True Stories’: Historians and Hagiographers in the Late Antique and Medieval , ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou, Muriel Debié and Hugh Kennedy (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 105–23.

9 Thomas Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity: Militant Devotion in Christianity and Islam (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). Sizgorich provides a persuasive study of the works of ‘Abdullāh ibn al-Mubārak, one of the first compilers of Islamic ascetic traditions, showing the connection between his understanding of ascetic practice and militant piety, and contextualizing both in relation to Late Antique ideals of militant piety; see especially Sizgorich, Violence and Belief, 180–87.

10 Christopher Melchert, “Origins and Early Sufism,” in The Cambridge Companion to Sufism, ed. Lloyd Ridgeon (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 11, citing Fred Donner, and the Believers: At the Origins of Islam (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010). 4

This dissertation traces three stages of differentiation in the development of Christian and

Islamic ascetic literature in Iraq and northern Mesopotamia. I first focus on East Syrian

Christians, that is, Christians belonging to the , the largest Christian community in Iraq at the time of the Islamic conquest. Beginning in the seventh and eighth centuries, East Syrian authors adapted Late Antique texts on asceticism, so claiming the Greek monastic heritage for the Church of the East, over against rival Christian confessions. In turn, over the course of the eighth and ninth centuries, Muslims created self-consciously Islamic ascetic traditions, partly in reaction to Christian monasticism. Finally, in the ninth and tenth centuries, East Syrian authors engaged with and responded to the Islamic ascetic discourse, so reshaping the Christian ascetic tradition to which Muslims themselves had responded. East

Syrian and Islamic texts on asceticism thus represent parallel instantiations of a broader process whereby authors in Iraq adapted Late Antique religious ideals in order to define the values and practices of their communities. Yet Muslims and Christians were not simply co-participants in a broader process; they also responded directly to each other’s ascetic traditions. As I argue,

Muslims reshaped the significance of disciplines they understood as shared with Christian monks, while Christians later confronted Islamic language and attitudes in shaping their own traditions of asceticism.

I examine this process of adaptation, differentiation, and mutual response with regard to several different types of ascetic practice, but with a special focus on fasting and celibacy, or, more broadly, the intentional restriction of eating and sexual intercourse. As Peter Brown has observed, abstinence from food and abstinence from sex were consistently linked in Late

5

Antique understandings of asceticism.11 And as we will see, Muslim traditions associated both fasting and celibacy with Christian monks. Nevertheless, Muslims were acutely aware of the

Christian, and specifically monastic, connotations of celibacy and strove to articulate the

meaning and purpose of celibacy within an explicitly Islamic framework. Although the two practices were often intertwined, fasting was a ubiquitous discipline for which Muslims and

Christians offered divergent interpretations, while celibacy was a far more controversial

discipline, closely associated with Christian monasticism.12 Tracing the interpretation of these

practices and their interrelation through East Syrian and Islamic sources, I conclude the dissertation by arguing that Muslim writing on asceticism reshaped a continually evolving

Christian understanding of celibacy and fasting. To examine this process is to discover an important facet of the story of the development of pre-modern Islamic and Christian religious ideals. This story has enduring significance at any time, but perhaps especially in our own, as

Muslims and Christians come increasingly face-to-face and seek to understand their shared past and the relations among their traditions, beliefs, and practices.

The dissertation is divided into three parts, following the three stages of Christian and

Islamic ascetic writing outlined above. The remainder of this introduction discusses the nature of the sources examined in each of these parts, as well as the contribution of each section to the

11 Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1988), 223.

12 It should also be noted that, especially in the case of celibacy, we are dealing with a male- centered discourse. The authors and compilers examined in this dissertation are men, typically writing for a male audience, and concerned with the male ascetic experience. Nevertheless, the ascetic traditions examined in this dissertation are not exclusively focused on men, and I will also indicate the influence of women as authorities in the nascent Islamic ascetic tradition. 6

overarching argument of the dissertation. Further indication of how each chapter organizes the

treatment of these sources is provided in the chapter outline at the end of the introduction.

Part I

The first part of the dissertation (chapters one and two) examines the corpus of monastic

commentarial literature composed by Christians belonging to the Church of the East. The Church

of the East was the most populous and intellectually prolific Christian community in Iraq at the

time of the Islamic conquest.13 Due to the work of its , who established an

ecclesiastical network stretching along the Silk Road to China, the Church of the East was also, perhaps, the largest Christian community in the world.14 Christians belonging to the Church of the East are typically called “East Syrians” (or, in older texts and in pejorative contexts,

“Nestorians”). They wrote in the Syriac language, a dialect of Aramaic, and so belonged to the broader cultural sphere of .

Syriac Christian asceticism has often appeared extravagant in comparison with the tamer regimens of Greek- and Latin-speaking Christians.15 Men like Symeon the Stylite lived atop

13 Tannous, Making of the Medieval Middle East, 13; Morony, Iraq after the Muslim Conquest, 372.

14 Tannous, Making of the Medieval Middle East, 179.

15 For a classic study of Syriac Christian asceticism, see the multi-volume work of Arthur Vööbus, History of Asceticism in the Syrian Orient: A Contribution to the History of Culture in the Near East, 3 vols (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1958–1988); as well as the foundational article of Peter Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity,” The Journal of Roman Studies 61 (1971): 80–101. Vööbus’s research — begun amid the Nazi and Soviet occupations of his native — is responsible for making Syriac asceticism broadly accessible to scholars. In turn, Brown’s work, as is well known, revolutionized scholarly understanding of the period following the fall of Rome, establishing the significance of Christian asceticism in the time of Late Antiquity. It should, nevertheless, be noted that recent scholarship has argued that the apparent extravagance of Syriac asceticism, as it has emerged from these 7

pillars, taking heaven by force, while their earth-bound brethren, the “grazers” (boskoi), fed upon

the grass like sheep. Nevertheless, by the fifth century, the more sedate ascetic life established by

the monks of had come to flourish within Syria and Mesopotamia, supplanting less

regimented forms of asceticism. The East Syrian monks examined in this dissertation chose

neither pillar nor field for their earthly abode. Instead, they lived in communal foundations, often organized on a lavra model, with separate cells for individual monks surrounding a common area

that housed novices and a church for communal . While some monks embraced an

eremitic life, they did so within the broader context of a monastic organization that promoted the

interdependence of communal and solitary asceticism.

Despite being politically and confessionally separated from Greek-speaking Christians,

East Syrian monks embraced the corpus of Greek monastic texts, which were translated into

Syriac over the course of the fifth through seventh centuries. Although East Syrian monks often

echo Greek ascetic texts in their letters and treatises, they do not typically cite or quote their sources, and this hampers our ability to determine precisely how they received Late Antique

traditions of asceticism.16 This dissertation, therefore, turns to monastic commentaries, a

studies, is partly a mirage, deriving from the view of outsiders to the Syriac ascetic tradition, namely, Greek hagiographers. Susan Ashbrook Harvey, “The Sense of a Stylite: Perspectives on Simeon the Elder,” Vigiliae Christianae 42.4 (1988): 376–94; Sidney Griffith, “Asceticism in the Church of Syria: The Hermeneutics of Early Syrian Monasticism,” in Asceticism, ed. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1995), 221.

16 Nevertheless, recent scholars have shown various ways in which East Syrian monks drew upon Greek textual traditions, particularly in the area of mysticism. This research has revealed substantial connections between East Syrian and earlier Greek monastic literature. See, for example, Jason Scully, ’s Ascetical (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), esp. ch. 5; Brouria Bitton-Asheklony, “Pure Prayer and Ignorance: ‘ Qatraya and the Greek Ascetic Legacy,” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 78 (2012): 200–226; and Brouria Bitton-Asheklony, “The Limit of the (ΝΟΥΣ): Pure Prayer according to and Isaac of Nineveh,” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 15 (2011): 291–321. 8

neglected body of literature in which East Syrian monks explicitly comment upon Greek

monastic texts. As in the case of many cultures of the premodern world, this commentarial literature is far more revealing than a modern reader might suspect, not simply reiterating, but advancing and reshaping intellectual traditions. As the first part of the dissertation (chapters one and two) shows, the East Syrian monastic commentaries formed a coherent exegetical tradition, one that allowed East Syrian interpreters to continue adapting Late Antique understandings of asceticism throughout the early Islamic period.

These commentaries reveal the importance of confessional rivalry in the East Syrian interpretation of Greek monastic texts. East Syrian identity, doctrine, and practices were defined in opposition to those of rival Christian communities, especially the Miaphysite church, whose presence in Iraq and northern Mesopotamia grew from the late sixth century onward. By providing an explicitly East Syrian version of Greek monastic authorities, monks like Babai the

Great and Dadisho‘ Qatraya sought to claim their authority for the Church of the East and thereby use their writings to form ideal East Syrian monks. In turn, this process provides important context for the development of Islamic ascetic ideals, revealing the attitudes toward asceticism, especially fasting and celibacy, that Muslims would reshape as they, like East

Syrians, developed ascetic traditions specific to their community.

Part II

The second part of the dissertation (chapters three and four) examines Islamic texts on asceticism, beginning with the earliest compilations of Muslim ascetic traditions, produced over the course of the late-second/eighth and third/ninth centuries. Early Islamic asceticism was typically an urban phenomenon, with networks of teachers and students, but without institutional

9

structures of organization. In addition, Muslims also sometimes took up residence in the

predominantly non-Muslim countryside or engaged in military conflict along the Byzantine-

Islamic frontier lands.17 The relatively informal structure of Islamic asceticism encouraged

experimentation, and forms of ascetic practice varied widely, from wandering the city barefoot to

the pursuit of solitude, and incessant prayer, as well as practices of fasting and sexual

abstinence.18

The earliest extant sources for Islamic asceticism are compilations called kutub al-zuhd.

These collections transmitted stories and sayings concerning the pious behavior of the first generations of Muslims, who lived in the first/seventh century, as well as traditions about the asceticism of the Prophet Muḥammad and the prophets, from Adam to , who preceded him.

While these texts undoubtedly preserve some historically accurate material, it is important to stress that they cannot be treated uncritically, as documents revealing the ascetic habits of seventh-century Muslims. Rather, these texts reveal how Muslims in the eighth and ninth centuries remembered the pious heroes of past generations, and how they retold their stories in order to portray, promote, or define ascetic ideals for contemporary Muslims. Read in this way, the kutub al-zuhd reveal a great deal about the transmission and transformation of cultural values in the early Islamic Middle East. As chapter three shows, the kutub al-zuhd bear witness to a tension between two competing ways of Islamizing ascetic practice, whether to moderate and

17 On this, see especially Sizgorich, Violence and Belief, 168–95; Michael Bonner, Aristocratic Violence and Holy War: Studies in the Jihad and the Arab-Byzantine Frontier (New Haven, CT: American Oriental Society, 1996), esp. 119–34.

18 For the most comprehensive study of ascetics and their practices in early Islam (combining early and later biographical sources), see Richard Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995); and Richard Gramlich, Weltverzicht: Grundlagen und Weisen islamischer Askese (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1997). 10

restrain asceticism in accord with the sunnah of the Prophet or whether to embrace severe practices of askesis, while reinterpreting their meaning in Islamic terms.

The fourth chapter of the dissertation then examines the emergence of Sufi understandings of asceticism from out of this tension between competing Islamic approaches to ascetic practice. This chapter focuses on texts produced by three key figures in the religious landscape of third/ninth-century Baghdad: Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal (d. 241/855), al-Ḥārith al-

Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857), and al-Junayd al-Baghdādī (d. 835/910). These figures were closely connected: Ibn Ḥanbal, the scholar of Hadith and driving force in early Sunni theology and piety; al-Muḥāsibī, a foundational figure for Islamic pious and ascetic literature, chased out of Baghdad by Ibn Ḥanbal and his followers for his embrace of rational theology (kalām); and Junayd, a student (and, by some accounts, nephew) of al-Muḥāsibī, who incorporated al-Muḥāsibī’s system of self-examination into formative works of early Sufism. Scholars have long held that Sufism in

Baghdad developed out of early Islamic ascetic traditions.19 This chapter argues that the ascetic attitudes of Baghdadi Sufis developed through an ongoing process whereby Muslim authors, partly in response to Christian monasticism, reinterpreted the significance of contested ascetic practices.

The second part of the dissertation (chapters three and four) thus shows how Muslims intervened in continually evolving attitudes toward asceticism, which they transformed in order to establish ascetic traditions specific to their community. As with the East Syrian monastic commentary tradition, confessional competition played a significant role in this process, as

19 See Christopher Melchert, “The Transition from Asceticism to Mysticism at the Middle of the Ninth Century C.E,” Studia Islamica 83 (1996), esp. p. 51, which traces this scholarly view, itself drawn from Islamic hagiographic and biographical traditions, to Massignon’s Essai on the development of the Sufi lexicon. 11

Muslim authors developed a self-consciously Islamic understanding of asceticism in response to

the practices and ideals of rival communities. In so doing, Muslims reshaped Christian

understandings of fasting, celibacy, and their interrelation.

Part III

The final section of the dissertation (chapter five) returns to East Syrian Christian

sources, focusing primarily on the ninth and tenth centuries, as East Syrian authors in Iraq and

northern Mesopotamia began to write in Arabic. In addition, this chapter examines Jewish

ascetic texts in Arabic and the work of Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, a Miaphysite Christian author from

Baghdad. These texts have been chosen because they show how non-Muslim authors participated

in the ascetic discourse developed by Muslims. I show that these authors adopted the Islamic

language of asceticism, employing technical terms, phrases, common themes, and even discrete

traditions that circulated in Islamic ascetic texts. By the tenth century, this ascetic discourse,

which I call “the language of zuhd,” became a koiné in which multiple religious confessions of

the ‘Abbasid world took part. As I argue, far from homogenizing views of asceticism, this koiné facilitated contention over ascetic practice among Christians and Muslims. The final part of the dissertation thus brings together the contributions of the first two parts, showing how Iraqi

Christians (especially East Syrians), in continually adapting the monastic and ascetic heritage of

Late Antiquity, at last responded to the traditions of asceticism formed by Muslims. The intervention of Muslim authors into Late Antique ascetic ideals thus not only created a new

Islamic ascetic tradition, but also reshaped Christian writing on and understanding of asceticism.

12

Chapter Outline

Chapter One, “Babai the Great’s Commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika,” provides a detailed study of the earliest text in the East Syrian monastic commentary tradition, composed by

Babai the Great (d. 628), on the eve of the Islamic conquest of Sasanian Mesopotamia. The chapter argues that Babai transformed the Kephalaia Gnostika of Evagrius of Pontus (d. 399) into a text centered upon ascetic practice, conformed to East Syrian , and so suited to the formation of East Syrian monks.

Chapter Two, “The East Syrian Monastic Commentary Tradition after Babai,” examines the five East Syrian monastic commentaries written after Babai’s exposition of the Kephalaia

Gnostika. This chapter argues that these six commentaries (written over the course of the seventh and eighth centuries) constituted a coherent and sophisticated commentarial tradition.

The first two chapters are thus complementary, with chapter one providing a “zoomed- in” examination of the foundational East Syrian monastic commentary, and chapter two providing a “zoomed-out” examination of this exegetical tradition as a whole. Together, the two chapters show how East Syrian monks understood ascetic practices as healing the tripartite soul, with fasting and celibacy serving as mutually reinforcing disciplines that reoriented the concupiscible aspect of the soul. Nevertheless, debates remained among East Syrian monks concerning particular practices, such as abstinence from wine.

Chapter Three, “Asceticism in the Kutub al-Zuhd and Hadith,” examines the earliest collections of Muslim traditions pertaining to ascetic piety, compiled in the late eighth and early ninth centuries. As the chapter argues, these collections reveal a tension between mild ideals of asceticism, often grounded in the sunnah of the Prophet and opposed to Christian monasticism, and more severe ideals of asceticism, which embraced celibacy and extreme acts of fasting.

13

Chapter Four, “Asceticism and Sufism in Third/Ninth Century Baghdad,” argues that the

tensions between ascetic ideals, revealed in the kutub al-zuhd and Hadith collections, developed

into ongoing debates concerning asceticism in ninth-century Baghdad, debates that ultimately

shaped early Sufi attitudes toward ascetic practice. The chapter focuses on the practices of fasting and sexual abstinence as means of disciplining the and shows how such practices

came into conflict with ideals of moderation in asceticism and with a concern for the ascetic’s

religious and social obligations.

The third and fourth chapters thus also form a unit, showing how early Islamic ascetic

ideals embraced a tension between moderate and severe practice, which was addressed by Sufis

and other authors during the formative period of ninth-century Baghdad. In confronting these

opposing ideals of asceticism, Muslim authors, in various ways, differentiated their ascetic

regimens and ideals from those of Christian monks.

Chapter Five, “The Language of Zuhd and the Rise of an Ascetic Koiné,” shows how

East Syrian Christian authors participated in the ascetic discourse developed by Muslims. I argue

that this ascetic discourse, “the language of zuhd,” became a koiné in which not only Muslims,

but also Christians and took part. This koiné reshaped Christian monastic literature, as

illustrated by an Arabic translation of Isaac of Nineveh produced by Ḥanūn ibn Yūḥannā ibn al-

Ṣalt. The language of zuhd also shaped Christian polemical and controversial literature,

facilitating contention over asceticism among Christians and Muslims, especially regarding the

practice of celibacy. The fifth chapter thus demonstrates the convergence of the Christian and

Islamic ascetic traditions examined in this dissertation, showing how East Syrian authors adapted

the Christian ascetic tradition by responding to Islamic texts and understandings of asceticism.

14

Note on Translation and Transliteration

All translations in this dissertation are my own. For translations of edited texts, I have

generally not reproduced the original Greek, Syriac, or Arabic in the footnotes, whereas for translations of unedited texts, I have included the original language following citation of the manuscript. In all cases, however, key terms and phrases have been noted in transliteration.

I have adopted standard scholarly methods of transliteration, following the guidelines of the American Library Association - Library of Congress. For Syriac, I have used sh rather than š to indicate the letter shín (in accordance with the transliteration of the equivalent consonant in

Arabic). I have not noted the spirantization of the begadkephat letters, and I have given words that are common and recognizable in English (e.g. Hadith) in roman font and without diacritics.

15

Part I

Chapter One: Babai the Great and East Syrian Monastic Commentary

Sometime in the late sixth century, after many years of study at the ,

Babai the Great (d. 628) went to the desert. His “wilderness,” as he called it, was the long and narrow ridge of Mount Izla in northern Mesopotamia, just a few from the Byzantine border.1 There, he entered the “Great ,” founded by in 571.

Abraham had constructed the monastery along the plan of the Pachomian foundations he had visited in Egypt, combining a walled cenobium with external cells for solitaries. The design was meant to reform the monastic life of the region, providing monks with the opportunity to cultivate silent and study.2 At the same time, the monks of the Great Monastery sought to embody a coalescing East Syrian and anti-Miaphysite identity. They tonsured their hair to distinguish themselves from their Miaphysite confrères, whose heads were shaved clean;3 they studied the texts and commentaries of ; and they preached their

Christology at the court of the Shahanshah.

Elected the third of the Great Monastery in 604, Babai became a leader of the monastic reform movement begun by Abraham. He wrote new rules for the monks on Mount

1 Adam Becker, Fear of God and the Beginning of Wisdom: The School of Nisibis and Christian Scholastic Culture in Late Antique Mesopotamia (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 179.

2 Philip Wood, The Chronicle of Seert: Christian Historical Imagination in Late Antique Iraq (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 146.

3 Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, ed. E.A. Wallis Budge (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trübner & co., ltd., 1893), 23/40–41. Cf. Florence Jullien, “The Great Monastery at Mount Izla and the Defence of the East-Syrian Identity,” in The Christian Heritage of Iraq: Collected Papers from the Christianity of Iraq I-V Seminar Days, ed. Erica C. D. Hunter (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2009), 59–61. 17

Izla, and he conducted visitations of throughout Sasanian Mesopotamia.4 Babai was

also the most prolific writer of his generation in the Church of the East. He defined a hardline,

anti-Miaphysite Christology — two natures (kyāne) with two hypostases (qnome), united in one

person (parṣopā d-ḥadyútā)5 — and he memorialized East Syrian martyrs.6 One of Babai’s

longest works, and his principal surviving text on the monastic life, was a commentary on the

Kephalaia Gnostika of Evagrius of Pontus (d. 399).7 This commentary, the subject of our

chapter, is the earliest surviving text in the East Syrian monastic commentary tradition. As such,

Babai’s commentary is an important source for the East Syrian reception of Greek monastic

literature and the development of East Syrian ascetic theology on the eve of the Islamic conquest.

The Kephalaia Gnostika is the most abstruse of Evagrius’s texts. Composed of gnomic

utterances called “chapters,” it is written in a coded language that would have been understood by Evagrius’s disciples, but which is mostly unintelligible to those untrained in Evagrian terminology. It is a text that requires a commentary. Babai’s commentary, however, has been viewed disparagingly by scholarship as a bowdlerization of Evagrius’s theology. The prevailing view of the commentary was established by Antoine Guillaumont in his study of the Syriac

4 See below, pp. 29–30.

5 Babai’s principal Christological work is the Liber de Unione; ed. A. Vaschalde (Rome: K. de Luigi, 1915).

6 In addition to the Life of George, discussed below (p. 29), Babai wrote a Life of Gregory of Kashkar, which is no longer extant. See Wood, Chronicle of Seert, 204, n. 85.

7 Edited with German translation in W. Frankenberg, Euagrius Ponticus, Abhandlungen der königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen; Philologisch-historische Klasse, Neue Folge 13.2 (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1912), 8–470. The commentary survives fully in one manuscript, Vatican Syr. MS 178, with a partial copy in Birmingham, Cadbury Research Library Mingana Syriac MS 569. 18

reception of the Kephalaia Gnostika.8 As he demonstrated, Babai systematically attempted to remove from the Kephalaia aspects of Evagrius’s thought that were associated with the theology of Origen of , such as the rationality of stars, or the preexistence of .9 Babai’s commentary was, as Guillaumont described it, the work of a “violently anti-Origenist theologian,” a work that had “deep ties with the anti-Origenist polemic” found across Babai’s writings.10 As Guillaumont argued, Babai sought to complete the de-Origenization project begun by the Syriac translator of the Kephalaia, expurgating the vestiges of Origenism that the translator had allowed to slip through.11

There is no question that Babai departed — at times, radically — from Evagrius’s

original meaning in his effort to remove “Origenist” implications from the text. Nevertheless, as

Till Engelmann has argued, Guillaumont’s reading of Babai’s commentary has obscured the positive dimensions of his thought.12 To remedy this, Engelmann has provided an extended summary of principal features of Babai’s theology as articulated in the commentary — his conception of God, his view of creation, his demonology and angelology, his anthropology, and his understanding of contemplation.13

8 Antoine Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’ d’Évagre le Pontique, et l’Histoire de l’Origénisme chez les Grecs et chez les Syriens (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1962).

9 Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 280–88.

10 Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 259.

11 Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 280; on the Syriac recensions of the Kephalaia Gnostika (hereafter KG), see below, p. 23.

12 Till Engelmann, Annahme Christi und Gottesschau: Die Theologie Babais des Großen (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 35.

13 Engelmann, Annahme Christi, 34–107. 19

Engelmann’s study provides a helpful starting point for further reappraisal of Babai’s commentary. This chapter contributes to this reappraisal by bringing to light three central and

interrelated aspects of the commentary that have either been unnoticed or underappreciated by

scholars: 1) Babai’s effort to clear the Kephalaia Gnostika of heretical interpretations, Origenist

or otherwise, was an attempt to provide a specifically East Syrian reading of Evagrius — that is,

an interpretation of Evagrius grounded in the language and theology of Theodore of Mopsuestia

and of the other authoritative teachers of the Church of the East. 2) This East Syrian reading of

the Kephalaia Gnostika shaped the way in which Babai discussed the purpose of ascetic practice

and its role within monastic life. Babai stressed the importance of persistence in ascetic practice

throughout the life of the monk, and he grounded his understanding of the purpose of asceticism

in an anthropology that he adapted from Evagrius but assimilated to the teachings of Theodore of

Mopsuestia and Gregory of Nazianzus. 3) Babai’s re-reading of Evagrian askesis was an integral

part of his reform efforts and contributed to his broader project of creating an orthodox and self-

consciously East Syrian monastic tradition.

All three of these points are necessary in order to situate Babai’s commentary on the

Kephalaia Gnostika in its historical context and to understand Babai’s aim in writing the

commentary. The perception of the commentary as motivated first and foremost by the effort to

de-Origenize Evagrius has distracted scholarly attention from the fact that Babai’s audience was

monks, and that he wrote the commentary within the broader context of a monastic reform

movement.14 This reform effort, especially in its early stages under Abraham of Kashkar, has

14 In his preface to the commentary, Babai describes the Kephalaia Gnostika as a text that instructs us in the monastic path and in the fight against passions and demons. Kephalaia Gnostika Commentary (hereafter KGCOM), prefatory discourse (mamllā), p. 18. Throughout, Babai speaks in ways that indicates his audience is monks; e.g., “in this desert way of life”; KGCOM 4.64, p. 302. 20

been studied by Florence Jullien in an important monograph and article on monasticism and East

Syrian identity. As Jullien demonstrates, the reform movement initiated by Abraham responded to a moment of political and ecclesiastical crisis, in which the Church of the East competed with the rival Miaphysite community to control churches and monasteries and to gain imperial patronage.15 Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika responded to these pressures. By

highlighting the ascetic dimensions of the Kephalaia and by conforming the text to the theology of Theodore of Mopsuestia, Babai sought to create an East Syrian ascetic theology that would revitalize East Syrian monasticism.

This chapter thus offers a “zoomed-in” examination of the foundational commentary in the East Syrian monastic tradition, showing how Babai created a reading of Evagrius suited to

East Syrian monks, and revealing the role of confessional identity and rivalry in his exegetical project. In the following chapter, I will “zoom out,” in order to examine the monastic exegetical tradition as it developed after — and, to a large extent, out of — Babai’s commentary, tracing the evolution of this tradition across the extant commentaries of the early Islamic period (seventh and eighth century). Taken together, the sources examined in these two chapters suggest that

Christian ascetic theology in Late Antique and Islamic Mesopotamia was given its distinctive character through the conscious adaptation of Greek monastic traditions, in response to cross- confessional competition.

The Kephalaia Gnostika in Syriac

In commenting upon the Kephalaia Gnostika, Babai intervened into an ongoing process of contesting and adapting both the content and the meaning of the text. This process was part of

15 Florence Jullien, Le Monachisme en Perse: la réforme d’Abraham le Grand, père des moines de l’Orient (Leuven: Peeters, 2008), esp. 14–36; Jullien, “The Great Monastery,” 54–63. 21

a broader debate concerning how to interpret Evagrius’s thought and writings. David Michelson

has shown the conflicting ways in which Syriac Christians read Evagrius during the fifth and

sixth centuries. At stake, in particular, was how great of an emphasis to give to the protological

and eschatological aspects of Evagrius’s thought. Some readers, such as Stephen bar Sudayli, wished to use Evagrius’s writings as a source of knowledge about the fall of rational creatures from God and their return to God in the apokatastasis.16 In contrast, Philoxenos of Mabbug sought to turn readers of Evagrius toward the practical and ascetic dimensions of his corpus.

Thus, as Michelson argues, Philoxenos stressed the importance of ascetic practice throughout monastic life and assimilated Evagrius’s writings to the broader literature of ascetic apophthegmata.17

Such debates over the meaning of Evagrius’s writings were muted within the Byzantine

empire by the Second Council of , which in 553 condemned Evagrius’s writings and ordered them to be burned. As a result, the original Greek text of the Kephalaia Gnostika survives only in fragments. Yet the council’s condemnation had no effect on Christians in the

Sasanian empire. Free of Byzantine interference, Sasanian Christians continued to contest and adapt their readings of Evagrius.

16 David Michelson, “Philoxenos of Mabbug and the of Evagrian Gnosis: Competing Uses of Evagrius in the Early Sixth Century,” in Evagrius and his Legacy, ed. Joel Kalvesmaki and Robin Darling Young (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2016) 183–86; Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 302–332.

17 Michelson, “Philoxenos of Mabbug and the Simplicity of Evagrian Gnosis,” 175–205; see also Robin Darling Young, “The Influence of Evagrius of Pontus,” in To Train his Soul in Books: Syriac Asceticism in Early Christianity, ed. Robin Darling Young and Monica J. Blanchard (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 157–75. 22

The different approaches to reading Evagrius yielded two different Syriac translations of the Kephalaia Gnostika.18 One version — referred to by Guillaumont as the “S2” translation — provided in general a more faithful and literal rendering of the Greek. In contrast, the “S1

translation” was more periphrastic and sought to separate the text from its foundation in the

speculative theology of Origen, by editing out the text’s more controversial statements about the

nature of created beings and the origin and end of humanity.19 Babai’s commentary came at a

crossing point in the transmission of the Syriac Kephalaia. He used the “expurgated” S1

translation, and it was this recension that would eventually become the dominant version of the

text. It has survived in eight manuscripts, while S2 survives in only one.20 It was S1 which was cited by all Syriac writers after Babai, and which provided the basis for the Armenian translation of the Kephalaia.21 Yet Babai also knew about the S2 translation and regarded it as a heretical

perversion of both the words and the meaning of Evagrius.22

Babai, in short, was all too aware of competing “Evagrianisms.” The way in which he

sought to define the meaning of Evagrius’s writings was determined by the historical pressures affecting the Church of the East in the early seventh century. Scholarship has not yet situated

Babai’s commentary within this historical context. Thus to understand both why and how Babai

18 Cf. David Michelson, The Practical Christology of Philoxenos of Mabbug (Oxford, 2014), 94.

19 A detailed examination and comparison of the two versions is given in Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 200–258.

20 The S2 unicum dates from the sixth or seventh century. Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 201.

21 Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 201. The only person other than Babai even to mention the S2 translation is Joseph Hazzaya, whose opinion of it follows that of Babai. Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 217.

22 Babai, KGCOM, prefatory discourse, p. 23. 23

intervened into the contested interpretation of Evagrius we must first examine the context of

confessional competition and monastic reform that shaped his commentary.

Confessional Competition and Monastic Reform

Babai wrote his commentary on the Kephalaia at a high point of competition between

East Syrian and Miaphysite communities in Sasanian Mesopotamia. This competition reached a true level of crisis in 609 when the Sasanian emperor Khusraw Parviz refused to allow the

Church of the East to appoint a new patriarch following the death of the Catholicos Gregory. Yet the story begins earlier, with the East Syrian response to the growing presence of Miaphysite

Christians in the .

By the early seventh century, the Church of the East had developed several aspects of a

coherent self-identity. At its center was the confession of two natures in Christ and, in support of

this Christology, the acceptance of the authority of Theodore of Mopsuestia, whose writings

were translated into Syriac in the fifth century.23 As such, East Syrian identity was defined in

opposition to the rival Miaphysite church, which affirmed one nature in Christ.24 Nevertheless,

neither the social nor the doctrinal borders between the East Syrian and the Miaphysite

23 The translation of Theodore’s writings into Syriac was part of a Christological “arms race” among the rival confessions of Syriac Christianity in the fifth century. Becker, Fear of God, 116; Simon Gerber, Theodor von Mopsuestia und Das Nicänum: Studien zu den katechetischen Homilien (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 20.

24 Both communities held that Christ is fully human and fully divine. The question was whether to conceive of Christ as having one nature that was simultaneously fully human and fully divine, or whether to view Christ’s humanity and divinity as two distinct, albeit interconnected natures. 24

communities were fixed,25 and East Syrian patriarchs and monastic leaders feared that the

growing influence of Miaphysites would undermine the identity of their church.

As Gerrit Reinink has shown,26 these concerns coalesced around the person of Hnana of

Adiabene, director of the East Syrian School of Nisibis from circa 571 to 610. Hnana was at the center of a controversy concerning the place of Theodore of Mopsuestia in the school’s program of study. Theodore’s exegetical and homiletic writings had become central to the curriculum at the School of Nisibis by the sixth century.27 Yet Hnana apparently wished to integrate a more robust study of exegetical authorities beyond Theodore into the curriculum. At the same time, he seems to have leaned toward a Christology of two natures in one hypostasis, rather than the strongly anti-Miaphysite Christology of two natures in two hypostases. To Hnana’s opponents, his exegetical and Christological leanings were a deadly compromise, bordering on crypto-

Miaphysitism. Babai thus attacked Hnana and his followers at several points for being

“Theopaschites,” an East Syrian slur for Miaphysites.28

25 Jack Tannous, “You Are What You Read: Qenneshre and the Miaphysite Church in the Seventh Century,” in History and Identity in the Late Antique Near East (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 91.

26 The presentation of the Hnana controversy in this paragraph follows the conclusions of Reinink’s persuasive study. Gerrit Reinink, “Tradition and the Formation of ‘Nestorian’ Identity in Sixth- to Seventh-Century Iraq,” Church History and Religious Culture 89 (2009): 217–250.

27 Becker, Fear of God, 113–25; Gerrit Reinink, “‘ Grew Dim and Nisibis Shone Forth’: The School of Nisibis at the Transition of the Sixth-Seventh Century,” in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-Modern and the Near East, ed. Jan Willem Drijvers and A.A. MacDonald (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 78; R. Macina, “L’homme à l’école de Dieu: D’Antioche à Nisibe: Profil herméneutique, théologique et kérgymatique du movement scoliaste nestorien. II. – Antioche et les Nestoriens,” Proche-Orient chrétien 32 (1982): 263–77; Arthur Vööbus, History of the School of Nisibis (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1965), 14, 105–107.

28 Reinink, “Tradition and the Formation of ‘Nestorian Identity,’” 226. Babai refers to followers of Hnana as Ḥnanaye, or “Hnanists.” 25

In response to such internal threats, East Syrian patriarchs and monks sought to reaffirm the authority of Theodore of Mopsuestia as central to an East Syrian, anti-Miaphysite theological tradition. In 605 the Synod of Gregory I anathematized all those who had introduced “the innovations of schismatic ideas” into the church’s thought. As the synod proclaimed, “we determine that every single one of us [must] accept and assent to all the commentaries and writings composed by the Blessed Mar Theodore the Commentator, bishop of Mopsuestia.”29

East Syrian monks, especially those at the Great Monastery, sought to embody this “Theodoran” identity.30 They remembered Abraham of Kashkar as urging them to read the biblical commentaries written by Theodore.31 The ideal of East Syrian monastic learning was embodied

by the saintly Bar ‘Idta, who was said to have memorized all of Theodore’s commentaries.32 Yet

a general allegiance to Theodore was demanded of all monks at the Great Monastery, and the

rules composed by Dadisho‘ and Babai anathematized those who did not accept Theodore’s

authority.33

29 Synodicon Orientale, ou, Recueil de synodes nestoriens, ed. J.B. Chabot (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1902), 210/474–75.

30 Alberto Camplani, “The Revival of Persian Monasticism (Sixth to Seventh Centuries): Church Structures, Theological Academy, and Reformed Monks,” in Foundations of Power and Conflicts of Authority in Late-Antique Monasticism, Proceedings of the International Seminar Turin, December 2–4, 2004, ed. A. Camplani and G. Filoramo (Leuven: Peeters, 2007) 282–83.

31 The Histories of Rabban Hôrmîzd the Persian and Rabban Bar-‘Idtâ, ed. E.A. Wallis Budge (London: Luzac and co., 1902), 126/185.

32 The Histories of Rabban Hôrmîzd the Persian and Rabban Bar-‘Idtâ, 119/174; see Tannous, “You Are What You Read,” 97–98.

33 Dadisho‘’s rule condemns all monks who do not accept the teachings of Theodore, , or Diodore of Tarsus; Arthur Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents regarding Legislation relative to Syrian Asceticism (Stockholm: Etse, 1960), 168. The relevant sentence in the extant version of Babai’s rule, which survives only in Arabic translation, is incomplete, being the first sentence in the surviving folios. The sentence extols the madhhab of Mar Theodore over the 26

The ideology articulated in East Syrian synodal and monastic literature should be understood as centered upon Theodore, but without being exclusively Theodoran. As we will see, other Greek writers, especially Gregory of Nazianzus, were also central figures in the coalescing tradition of East Syrian orthodoxy. Yet it was the focus on Theodore that defined this orthodoxy by distinguishing it from Miaphysite traditions of authority and from compromise positions, such as those associated with Hnana. Accordingly, while Babai cited a wide range of

Greek authorities throughout his writings, he gave special praise to Theodore of Mopsuestia, the

“Blessed Commentator.” At the same time, he attacked Hnana across his writings for departing from Theodore’s teachings. Significantly, as we shall see, Babai also associated Hnana with

Origenist interpretations of human and divine nature.

The East Syrian church’s need for communal self-definition stemmed in part from its precarious political position. The Church of the East competed with the growing Miaphysite community to gain imperial favor and to win the emperor’s support for the construction of churches and monasteries.34 In the early seventh century, however, Miaphysites gained a powerful presence at the imperial court in the persons of Shirin, Khusraw’s wife, and Gabriel of

Sinjar, his personal physician. Together, Shirin and Gabriel worked to secure imperial patronage and control of ecclesiastical foundations for Miaphysite Christians. Under their influence, the emperor established a Miaphysite monastery in the imperial capital of Seleucia-Ctesiphon and

madhhab of the “allegorists” (aṣḥāb al-ramz). Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents,178. Babai’s rule may also have included reference to Nestorius and Diodore.

34 Morony, Iraq after the Muslim Conquest, 332–335. Jeanne-Nicole Mellon Saint-Laurent, Stories and the Formation of the Syriac Churches (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2015), 118, 125. 27

began to foster close relations with the Miaphysite metropolitan.35 Shirin and Gabriel may also

have been involved in Khusraw’s decision to refuse the appointment of a new East Syrian

Catholicos.

Under the auspices of imperial favor, Miaphysite monasticism flourished — and at the

expense of East Syrian foundations. Direct competition between Miaphysite and East Syrian

monks had been ongoing for several decades. Monks of both communities sought to establish

their in regions associated with the rival confession. In some cases, monks could seize

entire monasteries from other confessions. Accordingly, when Khusraw rendered the Church of

the East acephalous, Miaphysite communities took advantage of the shifting political landscape

to gain several churches and monastic foundations from East Syrians.36

Babai was intimately involved in the competition between the East Syrian and

Miaphysite communities, both in its political and in its monastic dimensions. Prompted by

Khusraw’s refusal to allow the appointment of a new Catholicos, Babai and another monk from the Great Monastery led a delegation to the imperial court in an attempt to plead their church’s case and prove the orthodoxy of East Syrian Christology. Babai’s fellow-monk, named George, was a high-profile convert from the Persian Zoroastrian aristocracy, the minority rulers of

Mesopotamia.37 His involvement in the delegation to the court was an attempt to leverage elite

35 See Denha, Life of Marutha: F. Nau (ed. and trans.). Histoire de Marouta: Métropolitain de Tagrit et de tout l’orient (VIe-VIIe siècle), écrite par son successeur Denḥa. Patrologia Orientalis III: 75–77.

36 Jullien, “The Great Monastery,” 59–61; Wood, Chronicle of Seert, 197; Tannous, “You Are What You Read,” 91–92.

37 George’s birth name was Mihramgushnasp. Babai states that he was trained in the knowledge of the Magi, including knowledge of the Avesta. Babai, Life of George: Paul Bedjan (ed.), Histoire de Mar-Jabalaha: de trois autre patriarches, d’un prêtre et de deux laïques, nestoriens, (Paris: Harrassowitz, 1895), 436–38. 28

connections in order to gain imperial favor for the Church of the East. In the event, the plan

backfired. As a convert from , George was subject to Sasanian laws for the

punishment of apostates.38 Possibly through the influence of Gabriel of Sinjar, these seldom- applied laws were enforced against George, and he was imprisoned for a year in the imperial

“Fortress of Oblivion.” On January 14, 614, he was hauled before the hay market of Veh-

Ardashir, shot with arrows and hung upon a cross.39 Babai commemorated George’s life in a vita. He presented him as a defender of East Syrian orthodoxy against the “Theopaschite heresy” and against the followers of Hnana, among them Gabriel of Sinjar.40

Meanwhile, Babai began to take on an increasingly powerful role within the Church of the East. According to the Chronicle of Seert, he governed church affairs in conjunction with

Aba, the Archdeacon of Seleucia-Ctesiphon.41 His primary role, however, was as a monastic

visitor. According to the ninth-century monastic historian, Thomas of Marga, the metropolitans

of Nisibis, , and Karkh d-Beth Slok appointed Babai with authority to impose

orthodoxy upon the monasteries in their jurisdiction. Thomas specifies that Babai was asked to

38 Gerrit Reinink, “Babai the Great’s Life of George and the Propagation of Doctrine in the Late Sasanian Empire,” in Portraits of Spiritual Authority: Religious Power in Early Christianity, Byzantium, and the Christian Orient, ed. Jan Willem Drijvers and John W. Watt (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 175.

39 Joel Walker, “A Saint and his Biographer in Late Antique Iraq: The History of St George of Izla (†614) by Babai the Great,” in Writing ‘True Stories’: Historians and Hagiographers in the Late Antique and Medieval Near East, ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou, Muriel Debié and Hugh Kennedy (Turnhout: Brepols 2010), 31.

40 Reinink, “Babai the Great’s Life of George,” 177, 182–84.

41 Histoire Nestorienne inédite: Chronique de Seert, Seconde partie, fasc. 2, ed. Addai Scher; PO 13.4 (1919): 511.

29

root out the presence of “Messalians” and “heretics,”42 and so went about questioning monks

“concerning the orthodoxy of [their] .”43 “Heretics” probably implies Miaphysites in this

context, or those with Miaphysite sympathies. “Messalian,” in turn, was an abuse term that could

be used to discredit monks whose behavior or beliefs were considered to be heretical, excessive,

or otherwise threatening; or, alternatively, it was a term used to underline the urgency of

controlling and reforming monastic practice.44 There was never a coherent, let alone organized

Messalian movement. Nevertheless, heresiological and synodal literature defined a stock set of beliefs and practices associated with “Messalianism.” Central to these was the Messalians’ supposed rejection of the efficacy of Baptism and their claim that, through prayer, they could attain the Holy Spirit and gain invincibility to sin. At the same time, Messalians were accused of various sinful and indulgent practices, as well as a wide range of heretical beliefs concerning

God, humanity, and demons.45 The East Syrian synod of Ezekiel I in 575 attacked Messalians for falsely wearing the “habit of ascetics,” corrupting the mind of the faithful, rejecting fasting,

prayer, and the , and seducing women into “unseemly deeds, as if there were no sin in

them.”46 As we will see, Babai picked up on this latter charge, in particular. Thus, while

42 Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, 51/91.

43 Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, 54/97.

44 The term is of native Syriac origin: Mṣallyāne, meaning “those who pray.” Note that Thomas of Marga records several cases in which monks were falsely accused of being Messalians. Book of Governors, 53/95, 68–69/122. Clearly Messalianism was not an obvious characteristic or affiliation of a monk.

45 Stewart, ‘Working the Earth of the Heart’: The Messelian Controversy in History, Texts, and Language to AD 431 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), esp. pp. 12–69, 244–79; Klaus Fitchen, Messalianismus und Antimessalianismus: Ein Beispiel ostkirchlicher Ketzergeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 286–310.

46 Synodicon Orientale, 115/374–75. 30

Messalianism as a fifth column in the Church of the East was a construct of East Syrian writers,

the “Messalian imaginaire” was an important force behind East Syrian reform efforts.47

Babai viewed the beliefs of the Messalians and those of Hnana as a joint threat to East

Syrian monasticism, as well as to the Church of the East as a whole. In the Book on the Union,

his Christological magnum opus, Babai described their teachings as the two “heresies of our

time” (heresis… da-b-zabnan).48 The corrosive influence of these heresies on monastic life was made especially troubling by the dilapidated state of East Syrian monasticism stemming from the imperial patronage of Miaphysites. Babai felt that the eradication of “Miaphysite,” “Hnanist,” and “Messalian,” beliefs was central to the reform of East Syrian monasticism. In response to these threats, he marshaled the Kephalaia Gnostika — re-read through Theodore of Mopsuestia

— in order to define an orthodox monastic and ascetic theology for the Church of the East. Babai signals this intent at several points in the commentary. In the prefatory discourse, he describes

Theodore, Evagrius, and John of Apamea as a trinity of saints who instruct the church. Theodore has the special role of correcting heresy, while Evagrius and John of Apamea teach virtuous

conduct and the discernment of the thoughts.49 At other points in the commentary, Babai pairs

Evagrius and Theodore as the two embodiments of East Syrian orthodoxy. “Everyone who

slanders or rejects these holy men,” he writes, “is an evil heretic, a Theopaschite, and a wicked

Messalian.”50

47 On the “Messalian imaginaire” as a force in East Syrian ecclesiastical history, see Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony, “Neither Beginning nor End: the Messalian Imaginaire and Syriac Asceticism,” Adamantius 19 (2013): 222–39, esp. 226.

48 Babai, Liber de Unione, 82/67.

49 Babail, KGCOM, Prefatory discourse, pp. 16–18.

50 Babai, KGCOM 6.79, p. 413. 31

An Ascetic Kephalaia Gnostika? Apatheia and Asceticism

The Kephalaia Gnostika is not an ascetic text. Only around five percent of its chapters address ascetic practice explicitly, although other chapters contain implicit references to

asceticism.51 This is not because Evagrius was un-interested in ascetic practice — far from it. He wrote the Kephalaia Gnostika as the third and longest part of a trilogy, consisting of the

Praktikos, the Gnostikos, and the Kephalaia. According to his own description of these texts, the

Praktikos focuses on ascetic matters (ta praktika), while the Gnostikos and the Kephalaia deal

with matters related to spiritual knowledge (ta gnostika).52 As I will argue in this section, Babai’s commentary made the Kephalaia Gnostika into an ascetic text.

In numerous cases, Babai inserted asceticism into the Kephalaia, highlighting the necessity of ascetic labor (‘amlā), practice (pulḥānā) or askesis (‘anwāyútā), where no mention of these terms or ideas is made by Evagrius, or where the ascetic dimension of the chapter is only

implicit.53 For example, in KG 5.75, Evagrius states: “The more the mind is stripped of passions, the more greatly it is polished in intellections. The more its diligence presses, the more its knowledge increases.”54 Babai’s commentary on the chapter is unusually succinct: “The idea is

clear,” he writes. “Willing ascetic toil (‘amle) is necessary, as well as diligence in spiritual

51 Twenty-six out of the 540 chapters in the Kephalaia mention ascetic practice (praktikē), renunciation, or particular ascetic virtues: KG 1.18, 1.67, 1.78–1.80, 1.84, 2.6, 3.28, 3.35, 3.50, 4.49 (S1 only), 4.63, 4.72, 4.82, 5.5, 5.35, 5.38, 5.41, 5.65, 6.6, 6.38, 6.41,6.46, 6.49, 6.86.

52 Evagrius describes the relation among the three texts in Praktikos, Preface 9. Traité pratique, ou, Le moine, ed. Antoine Guillaumont and Claire Guillaumont, 2 vols. (Paris, Éditions du Cerf, 1971), 2:492.

53 See examples from the KGCOM at: 1.15, 1.25, 1.28, 1.34, 1.51, 1.71, 1.89, 2.9, 2.14, 2.31, 2.56, 2.57, 2.72, 3.8, 3.17, 3.24, 3.65, 3.74, 3.82, 3.88, 3.90, 4.12, 4.36, 4.60, 4.85, 4.86, 5.44, 5.66, 5.71, 5.75, 5.77, 5.79, 5.83, 6.1, 6.3, 6.48, 6.64, 6.66, 6.67, 6.74, 6.90.

54 All quotations of the Kephalaia Gnostika are from the S1 version used by Babai (and edited by Frankenberg) unless otherwise noted. 32

instruction. Without these, neither purity nor enlightenment will arise in the heart.”55 Babai’s

interpretation of Evagrius is valid: Evagrius does think that ascetic practice is necessary to strip

the mind of passions. But this idea is only implicit in the chapter and may be missed by a reader

who has not been trained in Evagrius’s thought. Babai’s commentary makes the ascetic

dimension of the text explicit.

In this sense, Babai read Evagrius somewhat like Philoxenos did in the early sixth

century, with a focus on the ascetic dimensions of Evagrius’s thought. Like Philoxenos, Babai

sought to turn the reader of Evagrius back toward the beginning of the Evagrian monastic

program. Asceticism (praktikē) occupied the initial stage of this program. As Evagrius taught,

the goal of ascetic practice was to attain apatheia — the freedom from harmful passions, a state

in which the monk’s emotions and energies would be directed toward the love of God. In turn,

apatheia allowed the monk to cultivate knowledge and contemplation of the created world

(theoria physikē). Finally, the monk could attain the contemplation and knowledge of God

(theologia; theoria theologikē), the ultimate aspiration of monastic life. This progression from

praktikē to theoria physikē to theologia was one of the fundamental concepts that structured

Evagrius’s thought across his writings.56

One of the key questions for Syriac readers of Evagrius was the relation between these

aspects of the Evagrian program. Could one pass fully from the praktikē stage to contemplation of God? To what extent does ascetic practice remain necessary as one advances in spiritual development? These were the sorts of questions confronted by Philoxenos and his contemporary

55 Babai, KGCOM 5.75, p. 352.

56 For example, the first three chapters of the Praktikos are organized by the progression from ascetic practice (praktikē), to knowledge of beings (gnōsis tōn ontōn), to knowledge of the Trinity (gnōsis tēs hagias Triados). Traité pratique, 2:498–500. 33

readers of Evagrius.57 Such questions centered in part upon the nature of apatheia. Evagrius spoke of a “perfect apatheia” (teleia apatheia) that had triumphed over all demonic opposition.58

If the aim of ascetic practice, for Evagrius, was to overcome the harmful passions and to

harmonize the ascetic’s emotions and energies, would not perfect apatheia render asceticism no

longer necessary?59

The Syriac recensions of Evagrius’s writings demonstrate anxiety over precisely this

question. In the Greek text of Praktikos 68, Evagrius states: “The perfect person (teleios) does

not practice self-control, and the apathetic person (apathēs) does not practice endurance, since

endurance belongs to one subject to passions (tou paschontos) and self-control to one subject to

troubles.”60 Remarkably, of all the chapters in the Greek text of the Praktikos it is this one alone that is absent from the extant Syriac recension.61 One must assume that either the translator or possibly a later copyist found the claim that a perfectly apathetic person is beyond the need for self-control too problematic to transmit. In other cases, the Syriac translator seems to have edited

57 Michelson, “Philoxenos of Mabbug and the Simplicity of Evagrian Gnosis,” 187–88.

58 Evagrius, Praktikos 60; Traité pratique, 2:640. As Columba Stewart has argued, Evagrius viewed the soul as always, potentially, subject to the passions. Columba Stewart, “Evagrius Ponticus and the Eastern Monastic Tradition on the Intellect and the Passions,” Modern Theology 27:2 (2011), 270. See, for example, Praktikos 67; Traité pratique, 2:652. Nevertheless, what is most important for our purpose is not Evagrius’s actual view, but rather the range of possible interpretations of his writings, and the possible readings within this range that troubled Babai.

59 On apatheia as the goal of asceticism for Evagrius, and for an interpretation of Evagrius’s understanding of perfect versus imperfect apatheia, see David Linge, “Leading the Life of the Angels: Ascetic Practice and Reflection in the Writings of Evagrius of Pontus,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 68.3 (2000): 537–68.

60 Evagrius, Praktikos 68; Traité pratique, 2:652.

61 I am grateful to Joel Kalvesmaki for sharing with me a transcription of the Syriac version of Evagrius’s Praktikos, as contained in London, British Library Add. MS 14,758, as well as a collated and searchable version of extant Greek and Syriac recensions of the Gnostic Trilogy. 34

Evagrius’s language to avoid the suggestion of perfect apatheia. In Praktikos 60, for example, the translator changed the Greek term “perfect apatheia” (teleia apatheia) to the Syriac “virtuous perfection” (gmírútā myattrtā).62

Babai, too, was anxious about the interpretation of apatheia. In what follows, I will argue that in order to emphasize the ascetic dimension of Evagrius’s thought and the importance of asceticism throughout the life of the monk, Babai felt that he had to resist an anti-ascetic

“Messalian” misinterpretation of the concept of apatheia. To do so, he provided an interpretation of apatheia guided by key concepts from Theodore of Mopsuestia’s commentarial and homiletic writings.

In Babai’s view, the principal error of the Messalians lay in believing that they can attain in this life the freedom from the passions that is accessible only in the life of the world to come.

This understanding of Messalianism derived from the stock charges of heresiological literature.

In his anti-Messalian list, Timothy of Constantinople stated that “[Messalians] say that after the so-called apatheia there is no guilt or danger in giving oneself to indulgence and licentiousness, for one is no longer subject to any passion but has the freedom to indulge the forbidden passions.”63

Babai presented the Messalian misinterpretation of apatheia as relying upon an immanent eschatology. He addresses this in his commentary on Skemmata 3.64 As he writes (here, the commentary both precedes and follows the chapter):

62 Cf. Michelson, The Practical Christology of Philoxenos of Mabbug, 95.

63 J.P. Migne (ed.), Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeca (Paris: 1857–1866), vol. 86, col. 52; cf. Stewart, ‘Working the Earth of the Heart,’ 257.

64 This dissertation draws upon Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika and on the Skemmata without distinction. Babai considered the Skemmata to be a supplement to the KG 35

Chapter 3: Evagrius indicates what apatheia is, and that it is not like the impiety of the filthy Messalians, who perform all vile deeds and say that they do them apathetically (b- lā-ḥashshe), on the grounds that they are apathetic as if in the New World (lā-ḥāshoshe ayk d-‘almā ḥadtā) — or as if there were no judgment.

Evagrius rejects their impiety when he says: Apatheia is the quiet state of the rational soul, which is established through humility and . K.N.65 It is not in the following way, you wicked troublemakers! You sons of demons! Wanderers in the city streets and performers of all types of vile deeds — in their satanic pride, they preach about themselves “We are perfect (gmíre ḥnan).”66

The Messalians claim that they are “apathetic as if in the New World.” This type of language had

roots in formative Syriac monastic texts that were known and highly regarded by Babai, such as

the writings of John of Apamea, which frequently referred to Christian or monastic life as the life

of the “New World.”67 Babai’s Messalians represent an extreme abuse of this concept. They

seem to think that the perfection they have achieved makes them invulnerable to the passions.

They can commit sinful actions “apathetically” (b-lā-ḥashshe) because they have realized here and now the invincible freedom from the passions, which is, in fact, only attainable in the New

World.

(completing the number of six hundred chapters), and his commentary on the two is one integral work as preserved in Codex Vaticanus Syrus 178.

65 These are sigla placed by Babai in between the chapter and commentary in order to indicate the of each chapter. Babai provided the code for the sigla in the commentary’s introduction: ālap indicates that the chapter is about God (alāhā), mím that it is about angels (malāke), nún that it is about the soul (napshā) or intellect (madd‘ā), gāmal that it is about bodies (gúshme), kāp that it is about the scriptures (ktābe), and shín that it is about demons (shede). Babai, KGCOM, pp. 46–48. Babai reminds the reader of these sigla in KGCOM 3.13, p. 196. In addition, several chapters are marked with a bet siglum, e.g., KG 3.36, 3.45, 4.31, 4.81, 4.87, 5.50, 5.87. All of these chapters address the created world in one way or another and several of them oppose a notion of multiple ; one may suppose that bét stands for baryútā (“creation”) or a cognate word. In general, Babai’s use of the sigla is haphazard, and it is difficult to imagine that any readers of the commentary found them helpful.

66 Babai, KGCOM, Skemmata 3, p. 426.

67 Jason Scully, Isaac of Nineveh’s Contribution to Syriac Theology: An Eschatological Reworking of Greek Anthropology (Ph.D. diss., Marquette University, 2013), 145–49. 36

For Babai, the “Messalian” claim of perfect apatheia is dangerous to monasticism

because it erodes the motivation for asceticism. Messalians “reject reading the scriptures and

virtuous conduct; they live in idleness and pleasure; they preach prayer without works; and they

claim to have apatheia.”68 Despite their claim to apatheia, Messalians are really just failed

monks. True monks, as Babai says — “those who keep guard over this desert way of solitude”

— are a “new Israel,” undertaking a new exodus; but Messalians cannot endure the life of the

desert. They start, but do not continue the monastic path. Instead, Babai writes, “in the unclean

desires of their hearts, they return to the tumult of the world and creep about from house to

house69. They become cool to spiritual fervor, and they ensnare themselves to the point of the

death of sin. In the end, they will even welcome worldly and foul thoughts into their hearts.”70

In order to counter this anti-ascetic claim to “New World” apatheia, Babai offered a more moderate form of immanent eschatology. As he continued in his commentary on Skemmata

3:

Now, listen: in every moment of the quiet state of the rational soul, which is obtained by tranquility and by abstinence from all visible things, without the humility that considers itself dust and ashes and without the chastity, which is resplendent, holy, and pure — not only [freedom] from intercourse with or looking at lewd women, but also freedom from all whispers of the movements of all sorts of vile deeds, above which the intellect is exalted — [without such humility and chastity] one cannot obtain this apatheia, as in a pledge in this life (la-ḥashoshútā ayk da-b-rahbonā b-halén ḥayye).71

68 Babai, KGCOM 6.60, p. 398.

69 The idiom bayt batte comes from the Pshitta version of 1 Timothy 5:13. Babai’s use of it reflects the language of synodal decrees, which presented itinerant forms of asceticism as aberrant monasticism; see, e.g., the synod of Gregory I in 605; Synodicon Orientale, 212. Cf. Jullien, “The Great Monastery,” 58.

70 Babai, KGCOM 4.64, p. 302. The language of the exodus and the “new Israel” is derived from KG 4.64.

71 Babai, KGCOM, Skemmata 3, p. 426. 37

Over against the Messalian claim of “New World” apatheia, Babai states that the chaste and humble ascetic can attain “apatheia, as in a pledge in this life.” The word for “pledge” is rahbonā, a loan word from the Greek arrabōn. This term entered the Christian lexicon through its use in Paul, who speaks of the “pledge of the Spirit” (2 Cor. 1:22, 5:5) and “the pledge of our inheritance” (Eph. 1:14).

Babai’s anti-Messalian use of rahbonā drew upon the term’s use in the Catechetical

Homilies and Pauline commentaries of Theodore of Mopsuestia. Babai first encountered these texts during his years at the School of Nisibis and deepened his study of them while at the Great

Monastery. We know this both because Theodore’s writings were part of the curriculum of the school,72 and because Babai occasionally cites texts of Theodore explicitly in his writings.73 In

his homiletic and his commentarial literature, Theodore employed a distinctive sense of the term

rahbonā, using it to refer to the grace bestowed at baptism as a “pledge” of the goods to be received in the world to come.74 This use of rahbonā was in marked contrast to the patristic use

72 In addition, Isho‘dnah of Basrah states that Babai spent fifteen years at the School of Nisibis, where he “labored in instruction and in the commentaries.”; Le Livre de la Chasteté composé par Jésusdenah éveque de Baçrah, ed. and trans. J.B. Chabot, Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire 16 (1896): 25/246. These commentaries (púshāqe) would have been principally those of Theodore of Mopsuestia. Concerning Babai’s study of Theodore at the Great Monastery, see above (p. 26) the discussion of the rules of Dadisho‘ and Babai, and of the reported saying of Abraham of Kashkar, all exhorting monks to study Theodore.

73 For example, in the Life of George, Babai explicitly cited Theodore’s anti-Apollinarian work On the Incarnation. Babai attributed to this text his own elaboration of Theodore’s Christology: two natures, with two hypostases, in one person. Life of George, 498–500. For a discussion of Babai’s citation of Theodore in the Life of George, see Reinink, “Tradition and the Formation of ‘Nestorian’ Identity,” 227–28. Compare the quotations of Theodore, not attributed to a particular text, in Babai, Liber de Unione, 246.

74 See the comprehensive citations in Gerber, Theodor von Mopsuestia, 218, n. 449; see also Peter Bruns, Den Menschen mit dem Himmel verbinden: eine Studie zu den katechetischen Homilien des Theodor von Mopsuestia (Leuven: Peeters, 1995), 332, 372. 38

of the term, which rarely connected it to baptism,75 and in contrast to the language of Evagrius, who rarely employed the term arrabōn/rahbonā and who seldom discussed baptism.76 In spite of the fact that the term rahbonā occurs only once in the Kephalaia Gnostika,77 Babai employs the

term at least twenty-three times in his commentary.78 More importantly, his use of rahbonā demonstrates several lexical and conceptual features that are particular to Theodore’s use of the

term. For both Theodore and Babai, humans receive in baptism the grace of the Holy Spirit

(ṭaybútā d-rúḥā d-qúdshā) in pledge (rahbonā); as such, baptism imparts to humans a part

(mentā) of the grace that Christ possessed in its entirety (kulah) in his human nature (nāshútā)

and that all humans will receive, in fullness, in the resurrected life to come.79

75 Exceptions to this can be found in sayings of Pseudo-Macarius, but they are not as numerous or detailed as the use of rahbonā in Theodore. See Gerber, Theodor von Mopsuestia, 218, n. 449; Marcus Plested, The Macarian Legacy: The Place of Macarius-Symeon in the Eastern Christian Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 87–88.

76 Kallistos Ware, “The of Baptism and the Ascetic Life in the Teaching of Mark the Monk,” 10 (1970): 441; Plested, Macarian Legacy, 81.

77 KG 4.14 is the only occurrence of the term in the Gnostic Trilogy, and Evagrius’s use of the term there (as also reflected by Babai’s commentary on it) is entirely different from that of Theodore.

78 Babai, KGCOM, Prefatory discourse, p. 26 (bis); Prefatory discourse, p. 28; Prefatory discourse, p. 34; KGCOM 1.44, p. 44; KGCOM 1.70, p. 110; KGCOM 2.25, p. 146; KGCOM 3.7, p. 192; KGCOM 3.17, p. 198; KGCOM 3.67, p. 234; KGCOM 3.85, p. 252; KGCOM 4.14, p. 268 (bis); KGCOM 4.26, p. 280; KGCOM 4.29, p. 288; KGCOM 4.49, p. 2.92; KGCOM 5.1, p. 318; KGCOM 5.19, p. 326; KGCOM 5.23, p. 328; KGCOM 5.83, p. 356; KGCOM 6.34, p. 382 (rahbona’it); KGCOM, Skemmata 3, p. 426; KGCOM, Skemmata 35, p. 456.

79 Babai connects rahbonā to Baptism as a pledge of the goods of the world to come in KGCOM, Prefatory discourse, p. 28; KGCOM 1.70, p. 110; KGCOM 3.7, p. 192; KGCOM 3.85, p. 252; KGCOM 4.26, p. 280; KGCOM 4.29, p. 288. Compare, for example, Babai’s statement in KGCOM 5.1 (p. 318) with key passages from Theodore’s discussion of baptism in his Commentary on the Gospel of John and in the Catechetical homilies: Babai: “Christ in his humanity (b-nāshúteh) received the entirety of the grace of the Spirit (kulah ṭaybútā d-rúḥ). But to us a part of it (mentā menah) [i.e. the grace of the Holy Spirit] is given, as in pledge (ayk b- rahbonā), in baptism.” Theodore: “The type of these things is baptism… we receive the grace of 39

Babai marshaled this sense of the term rahbonā explicitly against the Messalians’ false claims of perfection. In addition to the commentary on Skemmata 3 already discussed, compare the following characteristic passage from Theodore’s Catechetical Homilies with Babai’s anti- heretical use of rahbonā:

Theodore, Catechetical Homilies 15.3: Now, through baptism… we receive the beginnings of the grace of the Holy Spirit (reshítā d-ṭaybútā d-rúḥā d-qúdshā), that which will in the future be ours, in the degree of a pledge (b-ṭaksā d-rahbonā), while in the world to come (‘almā d-‘attíd), through the Resurrection, we expect to receive the entirety of it (kulah). From it, we hope to be given and immutability.80

KG 4.39: If in the world to come (‘almā d-‘attíd), God shows his wealth to the rational creatures, it is known that in this world they take a part of it.

Babai, KGCOM 4.39: This chapter is against the Eunomians, who wickedly assert that they are perfect (gmírín) in the knowledge of God in this life; and against the Messalians — whose very name is deceitful — who foolishly claim perfection in this passible world (gmírútā b-‘almā hānā ḥashúshā)… through Holy Baptism, we receive as in the beginnings and as in a pledge (ayk da-b-reshítā wa-b-rahbonā) all the things that you (Eunomians and Messalians) claim.81

the Holy Spirit (ṭaybútā d-rúḥ qúdshā) as a pledge of these good things that are to come (rahbonā d-halén ṭabātā d-‘attídan).” Catechetical Homilies 14.6 (Homily 3 on Baptism); the Syriac text is Birmingham Cadbury Research Library MS Mingana Syriac 561, folio 104v; reprinted with French translation in Les Homélies Catéchétiques de Théodore de Mopsuestie, trans. Raymond Tonneau, O.P. and Robert Devreesse (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1949), 415. Theodore: “The grace of the Spirit (ṭaybútā d-rúḥ) that we receive… the entirety of the grace (kulah ṭaybútā) was in Christ’s humanity (nāshúteh)… of the grace of the Spirit (ṭaybútā d-rúḥ) that is in him, we receive a part (mentā).” Theodori Mopsuesteni Commentarius in Evangelium Iohannis Apostoli, ed. J.-M. Vosté (Paris: E Typographeo Reipublicae, 1940), 37–38. Other relevant passages in Theodore are cited in Gerber, Theodor von Mopsuestia, p. 218, fn. 449.

80 Theodore, Les Homélies Catéchétiques, f. 117v, p. 467.

81 Babai, KGCOM 4.39, p. 288.

40

In this case, Babai connects the Messalian pretension of full apatheia to a claim of perfect knowledge of God, which he attributes to the followers of Eunomius (d. ca. 393).82 The two

claims are united by a false belief that one can gain perfectly in this life what is only available in

the next. Babai’s response to this belief is not only lexically, but conceptually parallel to

Theodore’s discussions of baptism in the catechetical homilies. Theodore presents the baptismal

rahbonā as a pledge of the goods and the immutability that are only available in the world to

come. Babai applies this idea specifically to the goods claimed by Eunomians and Messalians; of

such things, the baptismal rahbonā is a pledge, until the life of the world to come.

There is, then, significant evidence to suggest that Babai’s anti-Messalian (and anti-

Eunomian) use of the term and concept of rahbonā derived from his reading of Theodore. Babai,

however, presents his anti-Messalian polemic as grounded in two monastic authors: Mark the

Monk (fl. 5th c.) and Evagrius himself. In his commentary on KG 3.85, Babai glosses the phrase

“All those who are baptized in water partake in the scent of the Holy Spirit (ríḥā d-rúḥ

qúdshā)”83 as follows:

Here [Evagrius] rejects and uncovers the wicked heresy of the Messalians, whose very name is deceitful, who deny and reject Holy Baptism and who [claim that] spiritual prayer gives us the grace of the Holy Spirit, and that they are perfect in this world and baptism would profit us nothing. Blessed Mark [the Monk] uncovered this wicked heresy in his memrā on baptism. Concerning this, also, Blessed Evagrius says that all those who are baptized in the water of baptism receive the pledge of the grace of the Holy Spirit.84

In order to stress the anti-Messalian nature of KG 3.85, Babai glosses Evagrius’s statement with the assertion that baptism provides “the pledge of the grace of the Holy Spirit” (rahbonā d-

82 The reason behind this attribution is Eunomius’s teaching, attacked by the Cappadocian theologians, that God’s essence can be known.

83 This is the only chapter in the Gnostic Trilogy to mention baptism.

84 Babai, KGCOM 3.85, p. 252. 41

ṭaybútā d-rúḥ qúdshā). In addition, he cites the work On Baptism by Mark the Monk. This text

does, in fact, include the word arrabōnes (the plural of arrabōn) in one place.85 Furthermore, the text explicitly rejects those who deny the necessity of baptism, a claim that, as Marcus Plested argues, Mark likely intended to direct against Messalians.86 Nevertheless, Mark’s use of arrabōnes does not connect the term directly either to baptism or to the grace of the Holy Spirit; rather, Mark explains that the heavenly Jerusalem can be contained within the heart since

believers possess the “pledges and first-fruits” (hoi arrabōnes kai hai aparchai) of future goods in their hearts.87 The specific concept of baptism as “the pledge of the grace of the Holy Spirit,” with which Babai glosses the saying of Evagrius, does not appear to be present in any of Mark’s or Evagrius’s writings. We must conclude that both the concept and the exact phrase come from

Babai’s reading of Theodore.88

Of course, the question of whether Babai’s language derived more from Mark the Monk or from Theodore of Mopsuestia would have missed the point from his own perspective. Both

Mark the Monk and Theodore were, along with Evagrius, important figures in an emergent tradition of East Syrian monastic and theological authorities. The soundest way of understanding

85 It is possible, of course, that a Syriac version of the text used by Babai included the term rahbonā more frequently; but such a translation could itself stem from the influence of Theodore’s use of the term.

86 The exact relation between this text and the Messalian controversy is a subject of debate, but most scholars agree that Mark’s polemics are directed against Messalians — or rather, against the construct of Messalians as those who reject the necessity of Baptism. What is less certain is what motivated Mark’s work and whether or not Mark was attempting to clear himself of the charge of Messalianism. Plested, Macarian Legacy, 81–89.

87 Mark the Monk, On Baptism: Georges-Matthieu de Durand (ed.), Marc le Moine. Traités, 2 vols. (Paris: Cerf, 1999–2000), 1:352. See Plested, Macarian Legacy, 109.

88 In the following section, we will consider the question of why Babai does not cite Theodore explicitly on this point. See below, pp. 55–56. 42

Babai’s response to Messalianism is to say that he interpreted Evagrius, Mark the Monk, and

Theodore of Mopsuestia each in light of the other. To put it another way, Babai’s understanding

of the monastic life as a partial experience of the perfection of the world to come stemmed from

his synthesis of the Evagrian concept of apatheia, Mark’s anti-heretical discussion of baptism,

and Theodore’s theology of rahbonā.

Babai’s restrained view of the possibility of perfection in this life undergirded his

emphasis on the practical and ascetic dimension of Evagrian thought. Just as the Messalians’

claim of perfect apatheia leads them to indulge in sexual lust, a moderate understanding of

apatheia should encourage monks to persist in humility (makkíkútā) and chastity (nakpútā).89

Babai explicitly stressed diligence in ascetic practice over against false claims to perfection in this life. In KG 3.9, Evagrius speaks of ignorance being overcome in the “world to come” (‘almā d-‘attíd). Babai comments as follows:

[Evagrius] lays low two impious heresies, that of the followers of Eunomius, who foolishly claim to be perfect in divine knowledge, and that of the filthy Messalians, who preach apatheia, and that they can become perfect in this life, since they imagine [that they perform] spiritual prayer. Not so, you wicked men! … In the house of judgment, all rational creatures will receive perfect knowledge: Demons and wicked men [will receive perfect knowledge] of their suffering, and they will testify to the righteousness of God. The holy angels and blessed men [will receive perfect knowledge] of their delight, and they will rejoice in the kingdom that the ages never make to pass, on account of their diligence here (ḥpíṭútā hārkā), which is in the love of toil (reḥmat ‘amle = philoponia) and love toward their Lord.”90

In this passage, Babai stresses the importance of diligence in ascetic toil in response to the

Messalian claim of perfect apatheia. Since, in this life, one can approach but never attain

perfection, those who desire holiness must never relax their ascetic practice. This emphasis on

persistence in ascetic practice is reflected in Babai’s language throughout the commentary. Not

89 See the passage from KGCOM, Skemmata 3 discussed above, p. 37.

90 Babai, KGCOM 3.9, p. 194. 43

only toils, but “long toils” (‘amle naggíre);91 not only fasting, but “long fasting” (ṣāwmā

naggírā) must define the life of the monk.92

In this way, Babai shifted the reader of Evagrius toward the initial stage of the Evagrian program. In KG 3.15, Evagrius states: “If the perfection of the nous (shúmlíh d-hawnā) is spiritual knowledge, as the fathers say, then its crown is the knowledge of the Holy Trinity; it is known that whoever is lacking these things is far from perfection.” The phrase “knowledge of

the Holy Trinity” is a synonym for the final stage of Evagrius’s monastic program, theoria theologikē, or contemplation of God.93 In commenting on this chapter, Babai locates perfect contemplation in the future life. “This consummation of perfection,” he writes, “is given in the world to come to the diligent (kshíre), who undertake ascetic practice in this life (d-hārkā plaḥw).”94 The term for ascetic “practice” here — plaḥw — is the verbal form of the word

pulḥānā, which is the Syriac translation of praktikē, the “practice” that forms the beginning stage of the Evagrian monastic program. Babai’s point is that this life must be characterized by persistence in praktikē. Since perfection lies only in the future, asceticism can never cease.

Babai thus demonstrates the continued vitality in seventh-century Mesopotamia of an

ascetic Evagrianism. He directed this emphasis on persistence in ascetic practice against the contemporary threat to monastic life represented by the Messalians. In place of an anti-ascetic,

“Messalian” interpretation of apatheia, he employed the Theodoran concept of rahbonā to

91 Babai, KGCOM 4.27, p. 328; KGCOM 5.35, p. 352; KGCOM 5.82, p. 354; KGCOM 5.83, p. 358.

92 Babai, KGCOM 2.72, p. 178. Cf. KGCOM 2.31, p. 150; KGCOM 3.8, pp. 192–94; and KGCOM 4.60, p. 298.

93 See Evagrius, Praktikos 3; Traité pratique, 2:500.

94 Babai, KGCOM 3.15, p. 198. 44

provide a moderate reading of apatheia — one that would undergird the importance of

asceticism throughout the life of the monk.

The Soul, the Nous, and the Meaning of Asceticism

To say that Babai emphasized the ascetic dimensions of Evagrius’s writings is only to tell

half the story. For the same set of ascetic practices can be understood in different ways.

Religious communities in Late Antiquity sought to differentiate their asceticism from that of

other groups not only by the type or intensity of the practices they undertook, but by how they

understood the purpose of those practices.95 As I will argue in this section, Babai’s explanation of the meaning and purpose of asceticism was deeply Evagrian but also marked by a significant departure from Evagrius. This departure stemmed from Babai adapting Evagrius’s anthropology in view of his reading of Gregory of Nazianzus and Theodore of Mopsuestia and in order to counter misinterpretations of Evagrius that Babai associated with both Origen and Hnana of

Adiabene.

Evagrius’s understanding of the purpose of ascetic practice depended upon his anthropology. He saw the human person as subject to demonic passions that plague both the soul and the mind.96 In turn, he described ascetic practice as bringing health and harmony to the soul97

95 To take an example from across the Mediterranean, Augustine defended Christian fasting practices as motivated by a positive desire to cultivate the soul, over against a Manichee-minded hatred of the body.

96 On passions and demons affecting the nous, see Evagrius, Praktikos 11, 21, 23, 24, 43; Traité pratique, 2:516–18, 550, 554–56, 598–600.

97 E.g. Evagrius, Praktikos 78: “Ascetic practice (praktikē) is a spiritual method that purifies the passible part of the soul.” Traité pratique, 2:666. 45

and clarity and purification to the mind.98 To speak about the mind, Evagrius employed the

Greek term nous. This is a word that is best left untranslated, for in Evagrius’s usage it conveyed a host of protological and eschatological ideas that are absent from any English equivalent.

Following Origen, Evagrius held that all rational creatures were originally created as incorporeal

noes (the plural of nous), which existed in a state of union with God. When the noes fell from their divine source, they gained bodies and souls. Eventually, however, body and soul (at least in their present form) will pass away, and the noes will return to union with God.99

Babai was aware that contemporary readers of Evagrius attributed Origenist ideas about

the nous to him.100 In the prefatory discourse to the commentary, he writes:

[Evagrius] says that “the soul consists of three parts, as our teacher said” [Praktikos 89]. And if his teacher taught this, and he learned it and affirmed it, how can you so unjustly treat the light [of Evagrius] as equivalent to the darkness of Origen the heretic, O you friends [of Evagrius] who do him harm, and associates who only do him evil! For [Origen], in all of these evil and perverse teachings of his, heretically asserted that the

98 E.g. Evagrius, Praktikos 64: “The proof of apatheia is that the nous begins to see its own light; that it remains tranquil in the face of the phantasms that come in sleep; and that it looks at things in a smooth fashion.” Traité pratique, 2:648.

99 These ideas are mostly clearly presented in Evagrius’s Letter to Melania: Frankenberg (ed. and trans.), Euagrius Ponticus, 616–18.

100 An example of the influence of the Origenist-Evagrian understanding of the nous on Syriac literature can be seen in the Book of the Holy Hierotheos, likely written by Stephen Bar Sudayli. See Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 323–25; and Gerrit Reinink, “‘Origenism’ in Thirteenth-Century Northern Iraq,” in After : Studies in Continuity and Change in Syriac Christianity in honor of Professor Han J.W. Drijvers, ed. Gerrit Reinink and A.C. Klugkist (Leuven: Peeters, 1999), 240–41. Both Guillaumont and Reinink call attention to the eschatological claim of the Book of the Holy Hieortheos that “the nature of every thing will be intermixed in the Father.” See The Book of the Holy Hierotheos, ed. F.S. Marsh (London: Pub. for the Text and Translation Society by Williams and Norgate, 1927), 120. 46

noes (hawne) that had thoughts101 fell from heaven, and instead of noes they became souls (napshātā) and were imprisoned in bodies.102

In this passage, Babai attributes the idea that body and soul originated from the fall of the nous

solely to Origen and attacks readers of the Kephalaia who — correctly! — ascribe such notions

to Evagrius. Yet, as this same passage shows, Babai knew that Evagrius’s writings offered

multiple ways of thinking about the intellectual aspect of the human. In the chapter from the

Praktikos that Babai cites, Evagrius explains that the soul is composed of three parts (tlāt

menwan = trimerous): a rational part (mentā d-ḥashúbtānútā = to logistikon meros), a

concupiscible part (mentā d-regtā = to epithumetikon [meros]), and an irascible part (mentā d-

ḥemtā = to thumikon [meros]). Evagrius states that he learned this conception of the soul from

his “wise teacher,” that is, Gregory of Nazianzus; and Babai highlights this connection in order

to demonstrate that Evagrius’s teaching about the tripartite soul represents his authentic view.103

Babai’s basic adaptation of Evagrian anthropology was to elide the concept of the nous

with the concept of the tripartite soul by equating the nous with the soul’s rational faculty. To put

this another way, Babai sought to collapse the Origenist and the Gregorian aspects of Evagrius’s

anthropology. Evagrius himself sometimes spoke as if the nous were equivalent to the rational

part of the soul. KG 1.84 and KG 3.35 both describe the three faculties of the soul, but substitute

the term nous for the rational faculty. Yet other chapters in the Kephalaia Gnostika appear

explicitly to present the nous as distinct from or in opposition to the soul. For example, KG 1.81

101 In Evagrian and monastic literature, ḥúshābe (=logismoi) carries the connotation of sinful or passionate thoughts.

102 Babai, KGCOM, Prefatory discourse, pp. 20–22. The idea of the preexistence of souls as incorporeal was one of the teachings that was anathematized at the Second Council of Constantinople. Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 144.

103 Babai, in fact, stressed the connection between Evagrius and Gregory in order to demonstrate Evagrius’s orthodoxy; see his brief biography of Evagrius in the prefatory discourse, p. 21. 47

states: “The glory and the light of the nous (hawnā) is the knowledge of the spirit, but the glory and the light of the soul (napshā) is its apatheia.” Babai dealt with such passages by cross- referencing them with chapters that suggested the identity of the soul and the nous. On KG 1.81,

he wrote:

[Evagrius] does not say this as if the nature of the soul (napshā) is different from that of the nous (hawnā), as the fools madly believe, but it is as he says in another section, that the “nous is the head of the soul” [KG 5.45]. Now, the head is not different in nature from the members, but rather [the “head” is so called] because it is the director of the members. And thus, too, the rational part is [the director] of the soul.104

Babai’s exegetical method is based upon an assumption of the internal consistency of the

Kephalaia. Evagrius cannot mean that the nous is different in nature (kyānā) from the soul, since

elsewhere he suggests that the nous is the rational faculty of the soul.105

A central reason that Babai wished to clear the Kephalaia Gnostika of Origenist errors about the nature of the nous was that he connected such errors to beliefs about the union of the

human mind with God — beliefs which he saw as undermining monastic orthodoxy and which

he associated with the contemporary heretic, Hnana of Adiabene. The most worrisome passage

for Babai in this regard was KG 4.51. Here, Evagrius speaks of a “Unity” (íḥídāyútā) in which

104 Babai, KGCOM 1.81, p. 118.

105 Of course, Babai imposes this suggestion upon Evagrius. His interpretation of the saying “the nous is the head of the soul” is not really in line with how Evagrius understood the idea. Cf. Letter to Melania, 616, in which Evagrius invokes the idea of the nous as the head of the soul in the course of making an analogy between body, soul, and nous, on the one hand, and the three members of the Trinity, on the other. In contrast, a reader of Evagrius, who, prompted by Babai, turned to KG 5.45 would find the following commentary from Babai on the phrase “the nous is the head of the soul”: “The wise divide the soul into three parts — not actual divisions, but faculties (law b-sadoqyā ellā b-ḥaylā) — irascibility (ḥemtā), concupiscence (regtā), and thought (ḥúshābā). Just as the head is exalted in honor above the whole body in that it is in it that understanding begins in the brain and the rest of the senses that direct the body, so too the nous, that is, the intellectual faculty of the soul (ḥaylā mestakklānítā), directs the whole human being.” Babai KGCOM 5.45, p. 336. Here, too, the purpose of Babai’s commentary is to elide the concept of the nous with that of the tripartite soul. 48

“all will be ” (kulhon alāhe nahwún). Babai’s commentary focuses on the meaning of this

striking phrase:

They will all be gods — not in nature (ba-kyānā), as in the heretical assertion of Origen and Hnana, who claim that we are created as one nature (kyānā) with God. For he says gods and not one nature connatural with God (kyānā ‘am alāhā ḥad kyānā), as in their heretical assertion. Rather, [he calls] gods those who are perfect in the knowledge that does not go astray and is not ensnared in heresy to the point of death.106

Babai attributes to both Origen and Hnana the belief that humans can become gods in nature (ba- kyānā), and he presents this view as deriving from their understanding of human beings as

created in the same nature as God. Babai attacks both Origen and Hnana for such views at

multiple points in the commentary.107 His concern seems to be that the Origenist understanding

of the creation of the human — namely, that human were created as noes united with God —

encourages a belief that humans can attain a natural union with God. Such a belief not only

threatens the proper boundaries of human and divine nature, it misconstrues what Babai sees as

the ultimate end of monastic life: to gain knowledge of God, not to be transformed into divine

nature.

Babai’s fears had roots in Evagrius’s own understanding of the nous. For Evagrius, the

noes that fell from unity with God would eventually return to union with the divine nature. As

Evagrius wrote in the Great Letter, “Do not be amazed that I said that in the union of rational

beings with God the Father, they shall be one nature in three hypostases, without any addition

106 Babai, KGCOM 4.51, p. 294.

107 Hnana and his followers, he writes, hold that we can attain vision of the divine nature. In truth, we see only God’s image. This is because God created us, as God himself said (Genesis 1:26), in his image (b-ṣalman), not in his nature (ba-kyānan). Babai, KGCOM 5.81, p. 354. Likewise, Babai claims that Hnana and Origen falsely think that we can attain a natural mixture (ḥúlṭānā kyānāyā) with Christ. Babai, KGCOM, Skemmata 43; pp. 460–61. 49

and without change.”108 Precisely how Evagrius himself understood this unity of nature is not

relevant to our purposes here. Evagrius’s difficult and complex writings offer multiple

possibilities for interpretation; the salient point is that Babai was concerned that contemporary

readers might interpret Evagrius as supporting an Origenist or “Hnanist” view on the union of

human nature with God.

To counter these ideas, Babai turned again to the concept of the nous as the rational

faculty of the soul. In commenting upon KG 6.51,109 he wrote:

This sentence, too, is in opposition to those who say that the rational principle within us (meltā d-ban) is a particle of divinity (beṣṣrā d-alāhútā), as well as against those who deny that there is an intellectual nature (kyānā yado‘tānā) within us, by which we may be distinguished from the rest of living creatures, who do not have reason… Rather, thanks to the intellectual part of the soul (mentā yado‘tānítā dílāh d-napshā), that is, the nous (hawnā), we may be distinguished by the honor of the rationality of our soul, which is a nature that subsists and is alive in its hypostasis, although it cannot enact its characteristic without the body; but it is not like animals whose life is in their blood (Leviticus 17:14).

On account of this capacity for intellectual knowledge (ída‘tā), [the soul] partakes of the wisdom of God — [it does] not [partake of] his nature (law l-kyāneh), as in the heretical assertion of Origen and Hnana, but it is a gift of the spirit, in accordance with the saying of the fathers: they call it ‘the Spirit that makes sons’ — the rational creatures do not become sons of the inheritance of God, as in the heretical opinion of Origen and Hnana, but it is by grace that he gives them the power to become sons of God (John 1:12) — the power, not the nature (kyānā).110

Here, Babai connects the error of Origen and Hnana to an exaggeration about the intellectual nature of the human. Origen and Hnana think that the intellectual element of the human shares in the divine nature. In contrast, Babai emphasizes that our intellectual aspect is simply a part of the soul. Babai’s basic maneuver of collapsing the concept of the nous with

108 Evagrius, Letter to Melania, 618.

109 “If the rational part is more honorable than all the other faculties of the soul, this is because it partakes in the wisdom of God…” Frankenberg (ed.), Euagrius Ponticus, 392.

110 Babai, KGCOM 6.51, p. 392. 50

that of the rational faculty of the soul thus serves to correct what he sees as contemporary errors about the possibility of union with God.

To this point, I have argued that Babai adapted Evagrius’s anthropology in order to isolate the “Gregorian” concept of the tripartite soul from the Origenist concept of the nous;

I have argued, further, that Babai’s efforts to do so were motivated in part by a desire to correct what he saw as contemporary errors about the possibility of union with God. In what follows, I will argue that in order to accomplish this adaptation of Evagrian anthropology,

Babai drew upon the writings of Theodore of Mopsuestia. Babai’s reliance on Theodore in this regard has not been noticed by scholars. Yet it sheds considerable light on the unanswered scholarly question of why Babai accused Hnana of Origenist errors concerning the creation of human nature and its union with God.111 More importantly, it suggests that

we should understand Babai’s anti-Origenist reading of Evagrius as part of his broader project of creating a specifically East Syrian monastic orthodoxy.

Theodore of Mopsuestia’s On the Incarnation explicitly rejected the idea that the intellect (madd‘ā) was a third nature (kyānā), additional to the body and soul.112 This work

111 Addai Scher regarded Babai’s attacks as “pure calumny” with no basis in Hnana’s extant writings. Guillaumont was less sure: Hnana’s writings are mostly lost; could he not have expressed Origenist views in other works, such as would justify the vehemence of Babai’s attacks? Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia Gnostica’, 195–96. More recently, Adam Becker (who stresses the speculative nature of the suggestion) has suggested that Hnana may have sought to integrate Evagrian contemplation into the program of the School of Nisibis, and that Babai would have regarded this as an improper and, in fact, quite dangerous appropriation of contemplative union with God that belongs properly in a monastic context. Becker, Fear of God, 202.

112 Theodori Mopsuesteni Fragmenta Syriaca, ed. Eduard Sachau (Leipzig: Sumptibus Guilelmi Engelmann, 1869) fol. 4a, p. ܣ (60); cf. Frederick McLeod, Theodore of Mopsuestia (London: Routledge, 2009), 157. Sachau identified the fragments in this manuscript (British Library MS Add. 14,669) as belonging to On the Incarnation, since many of them correspond with extant Greek testimonies of this text. In the case of the fragment discussed here, although it does not 51

was translated into Syriac and read and cited by Babai.113 Since Babai understood the term intellect (madd‘ā) as equivalent to the term nous (hawnā),114 it is prima facie likely that

Babai’s resistance to the concept of the nous as a nature distinct from the soul stemmed in part from his reading of Theodore.

But we can be more specific. Babai’s description of the nous as part of the soul reflects ideas directed against Apollinaris in Memra 5 of Theodore’s Catechetical Homilies.

Compare the quotation from Babai given above with the key passage from Theodore:

Babai: Rather, thanks to the intellectual part of the soul (mentā yado‘tānítā dílah d- napshā), that is, the nous (hawnā), we may be distinguished by the honor of the rationality of our soul, which is a nature that subsists and is alive in its hypostasis (qnomā), although it cannot enact its characteristic properties without the body; but it is not like animals whose life is in their blood (ba-damhon íteh ḥayyúthon) (Leviticus 17:14).

correspond to any of the extant Greek quotations of the text, there are several indications that it does belong to On the Incarnation. Most importantly, as Luise Abramowski pointed out, the fragment bears in the manuscript margin a chapter number ( = 43), corresponding to the chapter numbers that accompany other verifiable fragments from On the Incarnation (see Luise Abramowski, “Die Reste der syrischen Übersetzung von Theodor von Mopsuestia, De Incarnatione, in Add. 14.669,” Aram 5 [1993]: 24); secondly, the contents of the passage match precisely the summary of On the Incarnation given by Gennadius (see E.C. Richardson [ed.], Hieronymus. Liber de viris inlustribus. Gennadius. Liber de viris inlustribus, [Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1896], ch. 12, pp. 65–66); and, finally, the passage is directed as much against Eunomius as against Apollinaris, both of whom were (along with Arius) the targets of On the Incarnation.

113 In the Life of George, Babai cites On the Incarnation explicitly. See above, footnote 73. In the KGCOM, moreover, Babai shows awareness specifically of Theodore’s discussion of Christ’s intellect (madd‘ā), directed against Apollinaris. In commenting on KG 6.79, in which Evagrius states that Christ’s soul is of the same nature (men kyānā) as our soul, Babai states that Evagrius is rejecting “Apollinaris, who heretically asserted that [Christ] did not assume an intellect (madd‘ā).” On account of his anti-heretical efforts, Babai writes, Evagrius was slandered by heretics “just like his fellow-servant, his brother in the same truth, Blessed Theodore.” KGCOM 6.79, p. 413. Babai, it seems, is interpreting Evagrius’s statement that Christ soul is connatural with our own in terms of Theodore’s attack on the Apollinarian notion that Christ did not assume the intellectual element (madd‘ā) of the human soul.

114 Babai wrote that the the fathers called the rational faculty of the soul either madd‘ā or hawnā; KGCOM, Skemmata 40, p. 459. 52

Theodore: Whoever says that [Christ] did not assume a human nous (madd‘ā) is a raving fool, for one who says this implies either that [Christ] did not assume a soul or that he did assume a soul, but instead of a human one, a non-intellectual one (lā yādo‘tānítā), such as gives life to animals and beasts. For by this alone does the human soul differ from that of animals: that [the animal soul] does not have a hypostasis of the soul (qnomā d-napshā). But, in the animal’s composition, [the soul] neither subsists on its own, nor is it believed to do so after the animal’s death. Because of this, when the blood of the animal, which is said to be the soul (Lev 17,11/14), is shed, even that which is called the soul perishes, although before the death of the animal it was considered to reside in the hypostasis and impulses of the animal.

… This is the whole difference between the soul of humans and that of animals, that the [soul of animals] is dumb and does not have its own hypostasis (qnomā), whereas that of humans is immortal, and is rightly believed also to be intellectual (yādo‘tānítā).115

Babai follows exactly Theodore’s description of the contrast between human and animal souls.

The human soul is distinguished in being intellectual (yado‘tānítā) and self-subsistent — “alive in its hypostasis.”116 This sets it apart from the souls of animals, which lack a proper hypostasis

(qnomā) and which consist solely in the animal’s blood (dam)117.

Babai employs the same set of ideas in order to equate the nous with the rational faculty

of the soul:

[Evagrius] names the soul nous and the nous soul — that [soul] which, as he says many times about it, has three separate faculties. Sometimes he calls the rational part of the

115 Theodore, Les Homélies Catéchétiques, 121–23.̣

116 Babai’s statement that the human soul is “alive in its hypostasis” (ḥyā ba-qnomah) echoes Theodore’s language in the Syriac fragment of On the Incarnation discussed above (p. 51), where Theodore attacks the view that the nous is distinct in nature from the soul. Here, Theodore states that the soul “is alive in its hypostasis (ḥyā ba-qnoma[h]) naturally, by the grace of God, and administers to the body life and subsistence.” Theodori Mopsuesteni Fragmenta, p. ܐ (61).

117 Here, Babai follows the language of Leviticus and states that the “life” (ḥayyút) of the animal is in its blood; elsewhere, however, he speaks of the “soul” (napshā) of the animal as in its blood. E.g., in KGCOM 2.11 (p. 136), Babai states that Evagrius refers to the soul as intellect (madd‘ā), “in order to distinguish it from the soul of animals, which is their blood, since their soul is only mixed in (mzíg) with their life.” Precisely because the animal soul is not self- subsistent (i.e. it does not have a proper qnomā), to speak of the animal’s life and to speak of its soul is equivalent. 53

soul (mentah mestakklānítā) nous, or [sometimes he calls] the entirety of the soul nous, in order to distinguish it from the soul of animals, which consists of their blood in place of a soul.118

This is a shorthand way of expressing the ideas contained in the passage quoted above.

According to Babai, when Evagrius uses the term nous, he is simply calling attention to the

rational aspect of the human soul. Babai’s view seems to be that while the nous refers properly to

the soul’s rational faculty, Evagrius also uses the term pars pro toto to refer to the human soul

inasmuch as it is distinct from animal souls, that is, inasmuch as it is rational and self-subsistent.

Babai thus uses Theodore’s conception of the distinction between human and animal souls in

order to interpret Evagrius’s language of the nous.

Here, too, we face an interpretative problem stemming from how Babai cites his

authorities. As in his use of rahbonā, Babai seems to be drawing upon Theodore without

explicitly citing him. Moreover, in one case, Babai attributes his understanding of the term nous

not to Theodore, but to Gregory of Nazianzus. The relevant part of this passage is as follows:

The human is not three natures [body, soul, and nous], as the folly of the blind would have it, but [Evagrius uses the term nous] so that the human may be distinguished from the rest of animals. Just as Gregory says to Cledonius, “The mind (hawnā) is that which perfects us, the ruler of the body and soul”; such is the opinion that Evagrius expresses here.119

The quotation provided by Babai comes from Gregory’s first letter to Cledonius.120 Earlier in the same letter, Gregory refers to the nous as that which distinguishes humans from animals.121

118 Babai, KGCOM 3.28, p. 204.

119 Babai, KGCOM 2.56, pp. 168–170.

120 Grégoire de Nazianze. Lettres théologiques, ed and trans. P. Gallay (Paris: Cerf, 1974), 101.43, p. 54.

54

Nevertheless, when we consider specific features of Babai’s anti-Origenist and anti-Hnanist

discussion of the soul — that the nous is part of the human soul, that the human soul has a hypostasis and is intellectual in opposition to the soul of animals, which lack a hypostasis and are bound with the animal’s blood — we find that these ideas occur most clearly in the writings of

Theodore of Mopsuestia, and not in Gregory’s letter to Cledonius. Again, the soundest conclusion is to say that Babai has synthesized these authorities. Not only does he read Evagrius in light of Gregory of Nazianzus; he interprets both Evagrius and Gregory through specific terminological and conceptual aspects of the Syriac texts of Theodore of Mopsuestia.

This argument must confront the question of why Babai does not cite Theodore in these cases, even though he proclaims Theodore’s authority in the preface to the commentary. Of course, to cite a source requires recognizing difference between one’s own ideas and the ideas one cites. It is possible that Babai’s language and thought were so embedded in that of Theodore that he could not disentangle the two precisely enough to provide a discrete reference. But other explanations, based upon the particular nature of the sources cited by Babai, may be more compelling. The figures he cites — Mark the Monk and Gregory of Nazianzus — were universally accepted authorities, who would appeal even to monks who had Miaphysite sympathies or who were simply not as staunchly Theodoran as Babai was. By citing these sources and synthesizing them with the thinking of Theodore, Babai could lead his readers, unknowingly, from Evagrius, Mark, and Gregory, to the teachings of Theodore. Moreover, precisely because these authorities were universally accepted, both East Syrians and Miaphysites sought to claim them as supporting the theology of their confession. By incorporating these

121 Grégoire de Nazianze. Lettres théologiques, 101.34–35, p. 50. Just as in Theodore’s Catechetical Homilies, this claim was anti-Apollinarian in nature, demonstrating that the Logos cannot have replaced Christ’s human nous, since the nous is integral to Christ’s humanity. 55

shared and contested authority figures into his commentary, Babai could claim them explicitly for East Syrian orthodoxy.

The specifically East Syrian and Theodoran nature of Babai’s revision of Evagrius’s

anthropology helps explain why Babai associated Hnana with a misapprehension of the nature of

the soul. Babai saw Hnana as systematically undermining the theology of Theodore and of the

East Syrian tradition more broadly. If Hnana was opposed to Theodore in exegesis and

Christology (as Babai saw it), was it so far-fetched that he would be opposed to Theodore in

anthropology, as well? Such seems to have been Babai’s heresiological logic.122 This has

important implications for how we understand the purpose of Babai’s commentary. His attack on

Origen and Hnana was part of a broader effort to provide an orthodox understanding of Evagrius

by reading Evagrius in light of the authoritative teachers of the Church of the East. To put this

another way, Babai’s fundamental adaptation of Evagrius was not simply to de-Origenize, but to

Theodorize him.

The adapted version of Evagrian anthropology was central to Babai’s explanation of the

significance of ascetic practice. This can be seen, for example, in his extended commentary on

KG 2.56. This chapter is one of many in the Kephalaia Gnostika that seem to set the nous and

the soul in opposition: “The nous (hawnā), then, teaches the soul, and the soul teaches the body,

122 This same logic explains other heretical opinions of which Babai accuses Hnana. For example, his charge that Hnana thinks of God as bounded is influenced by Theodore’s insistence in his anti-Apollinarian On the Incarnation that God is unlimited (and thus cannot dwell substantially in Christ); McLeod, Theodore of Mopsuestia, 129–31. For Babai, as for many a late ancient heresiologist, all heresies are connected. Babai presents Apollinaris as a student of Origen (KGCOM, Prefatory Discourse, p. 24). If Babai knew that Theodore’s writings on the soul were directed against Apollinaris, then this would have only strengthened the associations in his mind. If Theodore directed his discussion of the soul against an early follower of Origen, it would do just as well against Origen’s latter-day students. 56

and only the man of God is able to know the man of knowledge.” Babai comments on the chapter as follows:

[Evagrius] says that the nous teaches the soul, because [the nous] is called the eye of the soul. If, then, there is no eye, the soul would be in darkness. For [the nous] teaches [the soul] knowledge and forms of discernment, so that [the soul] not journey astray and become ensnared outside of its nature (kyānah) in the things of the body (halén d- pagrā), but rather that [the soul] be united with the love of God in its desire, and in its irascible faculty prevail over the passions and pursue the rebels,123 and that it [the body?] be exalted in union with it.124

Now, “the soul teaches the body,” for it teaches it how, through many forms of askesis (‘anwāyútā), it may raise [the body]125 from its wicked desires (rgígātā), join it to [the soul’s] virtuous desire (regtah), and unite [the body’s] irascibility (l-ḥemteh) to the irascibility belonging to [the soul] (l-dílah); and, together, the body and soul will fight against all the movements of evil.126

Thus in this union (maḥídútā) — body with soul and soul with intellect (madd‘ā) — they will be united as one spirit (rúḥ) in one body… nevertheless, as always, I will remind [the reader]: Do not be mistaken. The human is not three natures, as the folly of the blind would have it, but it is so that the human may be distinguished from the rest of animals. Just as Gregory says to Cledonius, “The mind (hawnā) is that which perfects us, the ruler of the body and soul”; such is the opinion that Evagrius expresses here.127

The term that Babai uses in this passage for ascetic practice is ‘anwāyútā, which I have translated as askesis. In the context of Evagrian literature it typically corresponded to the Greek

123 I.e. turn its irascibility against the demons, as enjoined by Evagrius.

124 Babai, KGCOM 2.56, p. 168.

125 Lit. “it may raise it”. Babai only uses the nouns “body” and “soul” at the beginning of this sentence. After this, he distinguishes the two by the use of feminine participles and enclitics referring to the soul (napshā is feminine) and masculine participles and enclitics referring to the body (pagrā is masculine). Ambiguous as the lack of nouns may appear in English, the gender markers in Syriac leave no ambiguity about the referents of the participles and pronominal enclitics.

126 Babai, KGCOM 2.56, p. 168.

127 Babai, KGCOM 2.56, pp. 168–170. 57

terms askēsis128 or enkrateia (self-control)129, but also occasionally to other terms, such as penia

().130 Here, Babai uses the term as a general reference to ascetic discipline (the “many forms” of ‘anwāyútā). He explains that the purpose of this asceticism is to bring unity and integrity to the human person. Specifically, asceticism transforms the desire and the anger of the body, uniting them to the healthy functioning of the soul.131 Ascetic practice thus transforms the

body from an obstacle to the soul to the soul’s collaborator in the fight against the passions.

But how should the reader understand this integrity of the self that is achieved through

asceticism? Both the beginning of the passage, which describes the nous as a part of the soul

128 Evagrius, Praktikos 7 (bis), 12; Traité pratique, 2:508–10, 526.

129 Evagrius, Praktikos 29, 35; Traité pratique, 2:568, 580.

130 Evagrius, Praktikos, preface 6; Traité pratique, 2:490.

131 The way in which this passage associates harmful anger and desire with the body and healthy or natural anger and desire with the soul seems to reflect a strand of thought among Syriac writers that attributed the origin of the harmful passions solely to the body. John of Apamea was the most committed exponent of this view. In his Dialogue on the Soul, his interlocutor (named Eusebius), asks John about certain “wise men” who have distinguished between passions of the body (ḥashshe… aylén ennon d-pagrā) and passions of the soul (aylén ennon d-napshā). John presses Eusebius on the matter: which passions do these men assign to the body and which to the soul? Eusebius answers that sleep, hunger, thirst, concupiscence (regtā), and prodigality belong to the body, whereas irascibility (ḥemtā), zeal, discrimination, jealousy, love of power, pride, boasting, and love belong to the soul. John responds to Eusebius by explaining that these so- called “passions of the soul” do not belong to the soul naturally (kyānā’ít), but arise in the soul due to its connection with the body, which either needs or desires various things and so places the passions related to these things within the soul. John the Solitary on the Soul, trans. Mary Hansbury (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2013), 90/91. This text reprints the edition of Sven Dedering, Johannes von Lykopolis: Ein Dialog über Die Seele und Die Affekte des Menschen (Leiden, 1936). Nevertheless, in general, Babai tends to follow Evagrius’s view that passions derive both from the body and the soul (e.g. Evagrius, Praktikos 35; Traité pratique, 2:580). Babai may have simply been inconsistent on this issue. As R.A. Morris has argued, Theodore of Mopsuestia was also inconsistent in his language about bodily and psychic passions. R.A. Norris, Manhood and Christ: A Study in the Christology of Theodore of Mopsuestia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963), 132–134. 58

(namely, its eye132), and the end of the passage underline that this united self is fundamentally

bipartite — a union of body and soul directed by the soul’s rational faculty, rather than a union

of three distinct natures.133 The meaning of asceticism, as Babai explains it, thus centers upon its role in the of the human’s bipartite nature and tripartite soul. This understanding of ascetic practice is in one sense deeply Evagrian. Like Evagrius, Babai understands asceticism as a method for healing the passionate aspect of the self and restoring integrity to the person as a whole. Yet through his rectification of Evagrius’s anthropology, Babai isolates this ascetic dimension of Evagrius’s thought and removes it from the equally Evagrian concepts of the creation, fall, and apokatastasis of the nous. He thus rejects an idea of ascetic practice as aimed at cultivating a union of human and divine nature and instead explains asceticism as aimed at freeing the soul to grow in knowledge of God.

Babai used his adapted version of Evagrian anthropology to organize a taxonomy of ascetic disciplines. In KG 1.28, Evagrius speaks of “three ways of ”: “Two of them,” he states, “have the means to liberate from the passions,” while the virtue of the third alone is that it is the cause of glory. In commenting on this passage, Babai connects the two ways of salvation that liberate from the passions to the healing of the two passible parts of the soul, the irascible and the concupiscible faculty. In turn, he relates the third “way of salvation” to the healing of the rational faculty:

132 Babai seems to be drawing upon Evagrius’s language of spiritual sensation when he describes the nous as the eye of the soul. See KG 2.28 (Frankenberg, Euagrius Ponticus, 146), which speaks of the “intellectual eye” (‘aynā metyad‘ānítā); and KG 2.35 (Frankenberg, Euagrius Ponticus, 154), which ascribes the action of seeing (ḥāze) to the nous. Note that in his commentary on this last chapter, Babai explicitly states that the nous (hawnā) refers to the soul (napshā); KGCOM 2.35, p. 154.

133 Babai does hold that the body and soul are different in nature (kyānā); KGCOM, Prefatory discourse, pp. 26–28. My description of Babai’s anthropology as bipartite follows his own language (men trén mḥayyad hānā barnāshā). 59

The rational soul is divisible into three parts; both its sickness and its health in this manner are divided in a threefold way:

The concupiscible part, which is sickened by harlotry and prodigality, obtains health by means of fasting, vigils, self-denial, chastity and the purity that comes from virginal holiness (qaddíshútā), in which the love of God is perfected.

The irascible part is healed by kindness, gentleness, humility, and fortitude against all evils; by these things, even pride is overcome, and the human obtains mercy in the likeness of his God.

The rational part is healed of error and the darkness of ignorance by continual reading of spiritual writings (ktābay rúḥā) with pure prayer, which is continually moved in hiddenness and is also worked in the open, and that people distance themselves from all vain listening and from all deceitful instructions and adhere to those people who are teachers of the truth and of the orthodox faith (haymānútā tríṣtā).134

The beginning of Babai’s commentary on this passage once again reinforces the anthropology of

the tripartite soul. In turn, Babai connects the healing of the three faculties of the soul to particular monastic disciplines. The part of the soul that desires is healed by the practices that restrict the monk’s attainment of what he desires — food, sleep, and sex. The part of the soul that grows angry is healed by the cultivation of virtuous dispositions. The part of the soul that thinks and knows is healed by gaining knowledge of the truth through prayer and reading.135

Of these three sets of disciplines described by Babai, it is the first — fasting, vigils,

chastity, etc. — that strikes us as the most obviously ascetic. Yet Babai seems to view all the disciplines that he lists here as forms of ascetic practice. This suggestion is supported by other

passages in the commentary. For one thing, Babai himself did not restrict asceticism to bodily practice. His most basic term for ascetic activity was ‘amlā (pl. ‘amle) — that is, “labor,” the

equivalent of the Greek term ponos, which was used by several Late Antique authors, including

134 Babai, KGCOM 1.28, pp. 72–74.

135 This organization of ascetic discipline parallels that presented by Evagrius himself in Praktikos 15; Traité pratique, 2:536. Here, then, we find another example of Babai reading the Kephalaia Gnostika in light of the more ascetic dimension of Evagrius’s corpus. 60

Evagrius, to describe ascetic practice.136 Babai speaks of ascetic labor that is bodily (‘amle

pagrānāye) and ascetic labor that belongs to the soul (‘amle napshānāye).137 He also speaks of

labor that is both bodily and psychic at once (‘amlā pagrānāyā w-napshānāyā). Such toils include, in his words, “poverty, self-denial, chastity, gentleness and humility.”138 The last two of

these labors — gentleness and humility — are listed by Babai among those disciplines that heal

the irascible faculty of the soul. Babai’s view seems to be that, just as fasting, vigils, and chastity are an askesis of the concupiscible faculty, so, too, the cultivation of virtuous dispositions is an ascetic labor that heals the irascible faculty.

In turn, we should think of the third set of disciplines described by Babai as a form of ascetic practice that heals the rational faculty of the soul. In several places, Babai groups both prayer and reading with other ascetic disciplines undertaken by monks.139 In fact, for Babai, what

distinguishes monastic learning from that of “worldly philosophers and those who apply their

mind only to reading” is that the monk’s learning is characterized by labor (‘amlā) and prayer.140

Prayer, learning, and conforming the mind to East Syrian orthodoxy are, so to speak, an askesis of the nous. To Babai’s monks, who have read Evagrius through the authorities of the Church of the East, it will be clear that the nous they heal through this labor is not the quasi-divine third

136 For Evagrius’s use of the term ponos, see Foundations of the Monastic Life, Migne (ed.), PG 40.1252–64.

137 Babai, KGCOM 6.66, p. 400.

138 Babai, KGCOM 6.66, p. 400.

139 E.g., Babai, KGCOM 4.60, p. 298: “divine office (teshmeshtā), reading (qeryānā), prostrations (gúrgḥe), bodily fasting (ṣāwmā d-pagrā), and other virtues”; KGCOM 4.80, p. 310: “hymns of praise, of thanksgiving, reading (qeryānā), vigil, fasting, prostrations, and the rest of ascetic practice (púlḥānā)”.

140 Babai, KGCOM 4.6, p. 262. This passage points toward the tension between monastic and scholastic learning explored by Becker, Fear of God, esp. ch. 9. 61

nature of Origen and Hnana, but the rational aspect of the soul, as taught by Gregory, Evagrius,

and Theodore of Mopsuestia.

Specific Ascetic Disciplines: Celibacy, Fasting and Learning

In his commentary on the Kephalaia, Babai tends to speak, in general, about asceticism,

rather than to discuss individual practices. The most frequent words in his ascetic lexicon are

“labor” (‘amlā), “self-denial/askesis” (‘anwāyútā), and “practice” (pulḥānā). The previous

sections of this chapter have considered Babai’s general understanding of asceticism. In this

section, I will consider in detail three of the disciplines mentioned in KGCOM 1.28 — the

intertwined practices of celibacy and fasting, and the rational askesis of monastic learning. Each of these disciplines had special significance in the contemporary context of reform monasticism and confessional competition. Accordingly, this section will ask two questions: What were the resonances of these practices in Babai’s historical context? And how did Babai explain their significance to his monastic audience? By addressing these questions, we can relate Babai’s understanding of asceticism more concretely to the historical pressures that prompted his reform efforts.

Celibacy was the primary marker of the monastic life, a symbol intelligible across confessional and cultural boundaries in Late Antiquity.141 Despite its symbolic importance, however, both clerical and monastic celibacy had a checkered history in the Church of the East.

The synod held in 484 under Bar Ṣauma, bishop of Nisibis, permitted priests, bishops, and even

141 Examples of celibacy as a metonym for monasticism can be found in both Miaphystie and East Syrian writings. The Miaphysite monastic founder John of Tella (d. 538) began his rule by describing the monastic life as a form of life “raised above .” The rule then bars women from entering monasteries. Canons 1–6; Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents, 57–58. Thomas of Marga, describing the appearance of monasticism in Mesopotamia, wrote, simply, “Virginity and holiness spread abroad.” Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, 20/26. 62

monks to marry, citing the Pauline concession that it is better to marry than to burn with lust. Bar

Ṣauma himself married shortly thereafter. 142 Two years later, the synod held by the Catholicos

Aqaq, turned the concession into a command, requiring all to marry, and encouraging

monks to abandon their profession for marital life if tempted to sin.143 The ban on celibacy may have represented a capitulation to the anti-ascetic ethos of the Zoroastrian rulers of

Mesopotamia.144 In 544 the synod held under Catholicos reinstated mandatory celibacy for priests and monks.145 Nevertheless, as Stephen Gero has shown, the sixty years of clerical

marriage lingered in the memory of both East Syrian and Miaphysite Christians as a source of

embarrassment and ridicule.146 Babai could have heard such ridicule from men like the

Miaphysite reformer Marutha of Tagrit, an influential figure at the Sasanian court.147 According

142 Stephen Gero, Barṣauma of Nisibis and Persian Christianity in the Fifth Century (Leuven: Peeters, 1981), 79–82.

143 Canon 3; Synodicon Orientale, 303–306; Gero, Barṣauma of Nisibis, 81.

144 A sixth-century Miaphysite biography of (and so a source hostile to Bar Ṣauma), claims that the granting of was a concession to the anti-celibate ethos of the Zoroastrian rulers of Persia. As Gero argues, such a claim is difficult to accept with regard to the synods of Bar Ṣauma or Aqaq, since these synods also passed legislation that banned marriage to one’s siblings, an act that was aimed specifically against Zoroastrian marital norms. Nevertheless, the synod of Babai of Nisibis in 497, which affirmed the rulings of Aqaq, stated explicitly that the Sasanian emperor Zamasp had ordered the synod to produce legislation pertaining to marriage and the procreation of children. This certainly suggests imperial pressure behind the banning of celibacy. Gero, Barṣauma of Nisibis, 85–88; for Babai of Nisibis’s synod, see Synodicon Orientale, 312.

145 Jullien, Le Monachisme en Perse, 12; for the synod held under Aba in 544, see Synodicon Orientale, 80–85/332–38 and 540–50/551–61, esp. canon 12, p. 547/557.

146 Gero, Barṣauma of Nisibis, 45–46, 82–83. In addition, the Chalcedonian apologist Leontius of Byzantium attacked Bar Ṣauma for permitting “illicit sex and polygamy” to both lay and clerics. Gero, Barṣauma of Nisibis, 83, n. 26.

147 See the discussion of Marutha below, pp. 73–75. 63

to Michael the Syrian, Marutha charged Bar Ṣauma with enacting impure laws in order to avoid being despised for keeping the company of a prostitute.148

The patriarchs of the Church of the East during Babai’s time sought to enforce the church’s discipline of celibacy and so to defend the church’s reputation against influential despisers like Marutha. Their reform efforts suggest that they considered abuses against monastic celibacy to be an enduring problem. Synods held by Ishoyahb I in 585 and Gregory I in 605 condemned monks who lived with women. Ishoyahb’s synod explicitly forbade joint-sex convents and shared cells.149 The synodal literature suggests that these condemnations were motivated in part by a concern for the public image of the church. As Ishoyahb’s canon stated, the sexual adventures of priests and monks scandalized the faithful and caused the unbelievers to mock (mbazzḥín).150

The richest account of East Syrian efforts to impose celibacy upon monks centers upon

Babai himself and suggests that even the Great Monastery at Mount Izla was not considered

immune to abuses of monastic celibacy. The incident is related by Thomas of Marga and took

place during Babai’s abbacy. According to Thomas, some elders of the Great Monastery discovered that monks living in cells on the outskirts of the monastic complex had taken wives and children. Despite being married, these monks were ostensibly part of the community: they lived on the edges of, but still within the monastery, wore the monastic habit, and kept their hair

148 Gero, Barṣauma of Nisibis, 45–46, n. 121; 82, n. 20.

149 Synod of Ishoyahb I: Synodicon Orientale, 144–45/406–407; Synod of Gregory I: Synodicon Orientale, 211–212/476. Some of the language used in these synodal decrees echoes that used by Ezekiel’s synod against Messalians.

150 Synodicon Orientale, 144–145/406. 64

in the distinctive instituted by Abraham of Kashkar.151 According to Thomas, Babai

immediately expelled the married monks from the monastery. In so doing, he earned the rebuke

of the elders, who favored a softer discipline and who blamed Babai for expelling the innocent

monk Jacob whose cell was nearby those of the offenders.152 Thomas relates the incident with some embarrassment over Babai’s actions: as he notes, even holy men suffer from shortcomings and defects.153 In fact, the narrative serves to explain the expulsion of Mar Jacob, who would go

on to found Thomas’s monastery of Beth ‘Abe.154 Thus while there is no reason to dismiss the occurrence of the scandal, there are grounds for being cautious in accepting Thomas’s version of the affair. Whatever one makes of its historicity, Thomas’s account provides further evidence that abuses against monastic celibacy were part of the “imaginaire” of East Syrian monks.

This imaginaire left its footprint in Babai’s commentary. As we have seen, he associated the threat of sexual indulgence with Messalianism. Over against the Messalians, he emphasized an all-embracing chastity (nakpútā) of body and soul: Monastic chastity must involve “not only

[freedom] from intercourse with or looking at lewd women, but also freedom from all whispers of the movements of all sorts of vile deeds, above which the intellect is exalted.” As read by

Babai, the Kephalaia Gnostika was a resource for reinforcing this mental and physical chastity.

151 Thomas of Marga, Book of Govenors, 32/58.

152 Thomas of Marga, Book of Govenors, 31/57–34/61.

153 Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, 34–35/62.

154 Wood, The Chronicle of Seert, 156–57. The expulsion of Mar Jacob was, according to Thomas’s account, the cause of the foundation of Beth ‘Abe. Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, 33/60. 65

Evagrius mentions chastity (nakpútā) three times in the Kephalaia.155 Two of these relate

chastity to the healing of the concupiscible faculty. As one might expect, Babai highlighted this

aspect:

As for the desire (regtā) that is outside the Law, which [i.e. the Law] is destroyed in fornication… chastity and vigilance provide it with healing, sanctify its initial pollution, and bring it near to its natural state (kyānāyútā), which is in the desire (regtā) for the commandments of Our Lord, to cleave to all things belonging to him.156

Babai’s most extensive discussion of chastity comes in KG 6.38, in which Evagrius states, “The

bed of the sleeper is the mortification of the body, which, with a good will, perfects in man the

chastity of Christ.” Babai interpreted the enigmatic phrase “the bed of the sleeper” as a reference

to the passage from Luke’s Gospel, “two will be in one bed; one will be taken, and the other left”

(Luke 17:34). He comments as follows:

[Evagrius] is expounding upon the theoria157 of the scriptures in two will be in one bed; one will be taken and the other left (Luke 17:34). Indeed, the symbol (rāzā) of this passage is in the phrase the bed of the sleeper. Two shall be in one bed [indicates] the mortification of the body, so that it not be moved to the vile passions of harlotry (ṣaḥnútā); mortify, then, your members upon earth — fornication and so on (Colossians 3:5).

As for that [which Evagrius says] with a good will: it is not from necessity or from someone else or from bodily coercion, but the human being mortifies the movements of its members when it is exalted in its understanding (b-re‘yāneh) above the bodily pleasures that come from the four elements of desire (regtā).

This mortification of the body perfects in us the chastity that is in Christ, in body and soul together, in that if one has chastity and virginity but they are not perfected in the intentions of virtue and Christian love, then such chastity and virginity, stripped of

155 KG 1.84, KG 3.35, KG 6.38 (Frankenberg, Euagrius Ponticus, 120, 212, 384).

156 Babai, KGCOM 3.35, p. 212.

157 A term from Antiochene and East Syrian exegetical traditions, which Babai assimilates to the Evagrian concept of contemplation (theoria).

66

intention, are a useless thing, and on account of this, one will be taken, and the other left.158

Babai presents sexual desire as deriving from the very materiality of the body — it is a desire for the bodily pleasures that are rooted in the “four elements” (arba‘ asṭokse) — the Greek stoicheia.159 Yet true chastity is chastity of body and soul, centered in the love of Christ and

characterized by intentionality (níshe) and will (ṣebyānā). This language reflects Babai’s

adaptation of Evagrian askesis, highlighting the bipartite nature of the human person — body

and soul, not body, soul, and nous — and reminding the reader that chastity is aimed ultimately

at the reorientation of the soul’s desire (regtā), the transformation of sexual lust into the love of

Christ.

Like celibacy, fasting was a central monastic discipline across confessions. Indeed, the

two disciplines were intimately connected by the anthropological assumptions of Late Antiquity.

As Peter Brown has described so evocatively, late ancient ascetics imagined their bodies as self-

sufficient systems. Over-stuffed with food, the body produced an overflow of seminal fluid and

sexual energy. Fasting reversed these processes and allowed the body to run as it ought.160

Hence, Evagrius describes fasting as a weapon against fornication and a tool for healing the concupiscible faculty of the soul.161

158 Babai, KGCOM 6.38, p. 384.

159 As Babai says in the prefatory discourse (p. 26), “the body acquires the fervency of bodily desires (rgígātā pagrānāyātā) from its material generation (yaldā d-húle).”

160 Brown, Body and Society, 223–24. This concept is expressed in some of the earliest monastic documents, such as the letters of St. Antony. See also Teresa Shaw, The Burden of the Flesh: Fasting and Sexuality in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 79–128.

161 On the Eight Thoughts: Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 76, 155. 67

While celibacy was a marker of the monastic life as a whole, fasting could serve as a display of the intensity of ascetic life. The monks of the Great Monastery were expected to fast regularly162 and only to ease their fast due to illness, the demands of hospitality, travel, or overly- taxing manual labor.163 In a visible and concrete sense, one cannot be more or less celibate; but both East Syrian and Miaphysite monks would sometimes undertake vows to increase the rigor of their fasting.164 This aspect of fasting made displays of fasting a point of pride and source of competition among Christian ascetic communities in Late Antique Mesopotamia. This is apparent in the case of Ahuhdemmeh, an East Syrian convert to Miaphysitism. Ahuhdemmeh was actively involved in the effort to gain converts and imperial patronage for the Miaphysite church.165 The anonymous Life of Ahuhdemmeh describes those whom he converted to

Miaphysite Christianity as “loving fasting and Nazirism more than all Christians,” even to the point that they commenced the Lenten fast a week early.166 As Jeanne-Nicole Saint-Laurent

162 Jullien, Le Monachisme en Perse, 155.

163 Rules of Abraham of Kashkar, canon 9; Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents, 161. Cf. Rules of Babai, canon 22; Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents, 183.

164 Babai alludes to such voluntary vows of fasting in KGCOM, Skemmata 32, p. 455. In turn, a canon written by John bar Qursos (d. 538) for monks at the Miaphysite monatery of Mar Zakkai near Kallinikos contains prescriptions for monastic “” who voluntarily abstain not only from wine, but from bread. Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents, 61.

165 At Rusafa, Ahuhdemmeh constructed a new shrine to St. Sergius, directly across the Euphrates from the popular cult center that was patronized by Khusraw II. Fowden, Barbarian Plain, 124. Ahuhdemmeh’s apparent effort to attract imperial attention at Rusafa does not, however, seem to have been successful, for Khusraw II donated two votive crosses to the rival, long-standing church of St. Sergius in Rusafa. See Paul Peeters, Les Ex-Voto de Khosrau Aparwēz à Saint-Serge de Roṣāpha (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1941).

166 Histoire de Mar Ahouhdemmeh, apotre des arabes de Mesopotamie (VIe siècle), ed. and trans. F. Nau, Patrologia Orientalis III:28. 68

argues, such displays were part of Ahuhdemmeh’s effort to revitalize Miaphysite Christianity and make it competitive with the Church of the East.167

In his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika, Babai stressed the importance of fasting

by reading the Kephalaia along with the more ascetic texts of the Evagrian corpus. Although fasting was an important ascetic discipline for Evagrius, the Kephalaia Gnostika does not mention fasting once. In spite of this, fasting is one of the most frequently mentioned individual ascetic practices in Babai’s commentary. The monastic life, he writes, consists of “long fasting and laborious self-denial.”168 In his commentary on KG 2.9, Babai highlighted the importance of

fasting by quoting from another text by Evagrius: “As for the intellect, prayer purifies it, and as

for concupiscence, fasting dries it up; and as for zeal,169 almsgiving heals it.”170 What is

remarkable is the way in which Babai interweaves this text into his commentary on KG 2.9. He

states that the quotation derives from “one of the chapters.”171 This is a phrase that Babai uses to refer to the chapters in the Kephalaia Gnostika (or the Skemmata). The quotation he gives, however, is not from these more abstruse texts, but rather from On Thoughts, a text centered upon the praktikē stage of Evagrius’s monastic program.172 By presenting this text simply as

“another chapter” from Evagrius, Babai elides the difference between the Kephalaia and the

167 Saint-Laurent, Missionary Stories, 122.

168 Babai, KGCOM 2.72, p. 178. Cf. Babai, KGCOM 2.31, p. 150; KGCOM 3.8, pp. 192–94; and KGCOM 4.60, p. 298.

169 The word for zeal is ṭnānā. Babai correctly understood this to be synonymous, in Evagrius’s usage, with the irascible faculty of the soul (ḥemtā).

170 Babai, KGCOM 2.9, p. 134.

171 Babai, KGCOM 2.9, p. 134.

172 Evagrius, On Thoughts 3: Paul Géhin, Claire Guillaumont, and Antonine Guillaumont (eds.), Sur les pensées (Paris: Cerf, 1998), 160–62. 69

more practical and ascetic texts in the Evagrian corpus. This contributes to his broader aim of creating an ascetic Kephalaia Gnostika.

The passage from On Thoughts that Babai quotes transmits the Late Antique assumptions about the relation between fasting and celibacy. Fasting “dries up” the soul’s desire — the language draws upon the association between lust and excessive liquidity, and, conversely, between fasting and the control of lust. These associations are reflected at several points in

Babai’s commentary. He, too, saw lust as the product of excessive liquid: “Concupiscence

(regtā),” he wrote, “is by fluid coming from the kidneys.”173 Likewise, he affirmed the role of

fasting in cultivating celibacy: “Chastity and virginal holiness,” as he wrote, “are perfected in

fasting and prayer.”174

The connections that Babai, following Evagrius, established between fasting and celibacy

indicate again the monastic context of the commentary. Babai assumes that his readers are trying to be celibate. He explains to them the meaning of an all-embracing chastity, and he seeks to

173 regtā b-sheqyā men kuliyātā. This is part of a fascinating passage in which Babai locates passions in bodily organs: “Concupiscence (regtā) is by fluid coming from the kidneys (kolyātā); gluttony (la‘bútā) is from the stomach (esṭúmkā); rage (rúgzā) from the heart (labbā); covetenousness (‘alúbútā) is from the liver (kabdā) when greatly affected with dropsy; and boasting (shúbhārā) is from the brain (múḥā).” Babai, KGCOM 5.72, p. 350. The passage has parallels in a treatise on the soul by the sixth-century East Syrian bishop Ahuhdemmeh (Ahuhdemmeh, Treatise on the Soul, ed. Nau; PO III:110) and in a passage in the writings of the East Syrian mystic and medical author Symeon of Taybuteh (Early Christian Mystics, ed. and trans. Alphonse Mingana, Woodbrooke Studies 7 [Cambridge: W. Heffer & sons, limited, 1934], f. 197a). These texts seem to reflect the influx of Galenic material into Syriac. This is significant because, according to the Chronicle of Seert, Babai studied medicine at the hospital (xenodocheion) attached to the School of Nisibis after completing his theological studies, and yet very little trace of medical thinking has been identified in his writing. Note that the Ahuhdemmeh who authored the Treatise on the Soul is not the same as the Miaphysite Ahuhdemmeh whose Life was discussed earlier; see Philippe Gignoux, “Anatomie et physiologie humaine chez un auteur syriaque, Ahuhdemmeh,” Compte rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 142.1 (1998): 231.

174 Babai, KGCOM 5.5, p. 320. 70

help them attain this chastity through their ascetic disciplines, especially through fasting. This

monastic context of Babai’s commentary, fairly apparent in itself, has been obscured by a focus

on the anti-Origenist nature of the commentary. Yet it needs to be stressed if we are to

understand Babai’s broader purpose in writing the commentary.

The most distinctive aspect of the life of the Great Monastery was its emphasis on learning and study. Both the design of the Great Monastery, with solitary cells encircling the cenobium, and its rules, with their emphasis on quiet, reading, and prayer, were specifically designed to promote opportunities for monastic learning.175 The monks’ reading was meant to form them in the mind of the East Syrian church, as understood by the monastery’s founders — that is, to imbed the monks in a tradition of the fathers, in which Theodore of Mopsuestia had

pride of place. As a center for self-consciously East Syrian learning, the Great Monastery was a

rival to Miaphysite monasteries. As Jack Tannous has shown, these foundations, especially the

monastery of Qenneshre, were also centers of Syriac scholarship and trained many of the

Miaphysite bishops, controversialists, apologists, and translators of the early seventh century.176

Like the study program at Qenneshre, monastic learning at the Great Monastery had a polemical orientation. The monks who learned their Theodore on Mount Izla were involved in establishing East Syrian theology and opposing Miaphysitism throughout the Sasanian empire.

Babai himself was an example of such activity. So, too, was his confrère George, martyred for his witness at the imperial court. In his commentary on the Kephalaia, however, Babai tended not to invoke these activities of monks outside the monastery. Rather, he related monastic

175 Wood, Chronicle of Seert, 146–47.

176 Tannous, “You Are What You Read,” 94–95. 71

reading, study, and orthodoxy to the purification of the rational soul. We have seen this already in his commentary on KG 1.28:

The rational part [of the soul] is healed of error and the darkness of ignorance by continual reading of spiritual writings (ktābay rúḥā) with pure prayer, which is continually moved in hiddenness and is also worked in the open, and that people distance themselves from all vain listening and from all deceitful instructions and adhere to those people who are teachers of the truth and of the orthodox faith (haymānútā tríṣtā).177

Here, Babai describes the internal purpose of the Great Monastery’s learning regimen. They read, learn, and form themselves in the orthodox faith not to convert Miaphysites, Messalians, or

Hnanists, but in order to heal their own souls.

Babai does intimate the polemical dimension of monastic learning. Monks study the

“holy scriptures and the teachings of the orthodox fathers (abāhātā artadokse) day and night” so that they can “do battle against the satanic error that arises from heresy.”178 But Babai describes this battle as one that takes place within the walls of the monastery. Monastic study protects monks themselves from heresy, for, as Babai writes, if a monk does not study the scriptures and teachings of the fathers, he will become a “font of the erroneous teachings of the heresies of the

Messalians and of the rest of heresy.”179 Babai was seeking to reform East Syrian monasticism from within, by transforming his monastic readers from potential heretics into orthodox students of the East Syrian fathers.

These fathers included Evagrius. In his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika, Babai sought to shape monastic orthodoxy by providing his monks a way of reading Evagrius in light of the other “orthodox fathers” of the East Syrian tradition — especially, as I have argued, in

177 Babai, KGCOM 1.28, pp. 72–74.

178 Babai, KGCOM 5.38, p. 332.

179 Babai, KGCOM 5.38, p. 332. 72

light of the teachings of Theodore of Mopsuestia. In so doing, Babai explained to his monastic

readers the importance of ascetic practice throughout their life, and he provided them with an

understanding of the self rooted in Theodore’s writings as the grounds of their askesis. Babai’s efforts to create an orthodox East Syrian ascetic theology had significant ramifications for the state of the Church of the East in Sasanian society. As the ascetic disciplines examined in this section suggest, the monastic life could be a source of public mockery, admiration, and rivalry.

Moreover, beyond shaping the public perception of the church, East Syrian monks actively participated in the defense of the church through competition and confrontation with Miaphysites

— in some cases, in the very presence of the Sasanian emperor. Babai’s commentary on the

Kephalaia thus contributed to his broader efforts to strengthen the position of the Church of the

East within Sasanian society, through reforming and revitalizing East Syrian monasticism.

Conclusion: Syriac Reformers and the Greek Fathers

Babai was one of several monastic reformers in Mesopotamia. In fact, we have met one of his rivals already: the Miaphysite Marutha of Tagrit (d. 649), who mocked Bar Ṣauma for living with a prostitute. Marutha was in many ways a Miaphysite mirror to Babai, deeply involved in the broader efforts of his church to enact monastic reform and to win influence at the

Sasanian court.180 His life, written by his student Denha, sheds considerable light on the

competitive nature of Babai’s efforts to create orthodox East Syrian monks.

180 Very little has been written on Marutha. has edited and translated the sole surviving text attributed to him: “The Homily by Marutha of Tagrit on the Blessing of the Waters at ,” Oriens Christianus 66 (1982): 51–74. According to Brock, Marutha’s interest in the of the blessing of the waters at Epiphany may have stemmed from the fact that it was practiced only by Miaphysites and not by East Syrians. 73

Marutha’s reforming career began at the monastery of Mar Mattai, near Mosul in

northern Iraq. There, he reorganized the monastic canons. In addition, as Denha states, Marutha

instructed the monks in “the mind of the teachers on the subject of the incarnation of the Word of

God” — that is to say, he taught the monks proper Miaphysite Christology.181 Following this,

Marutha came on a reforming mission to the Miaphysite monastery of Shirin at the imperial

court.182 His reforms were anti-Nestorian in nature.183 He discovered that priests at the churches

and monasteries in Khusraw’s court were distributing the Eucharist to Miaphysites and East

Syrians without distinction.184 He soon put a stop to this, and the Miaphysites at the court resolved no longer to associate with “heretics.” In addition, Denha writes, Marutha intensified the ascetic practice of the monks at the court, imposing extended divine offices, fasting, and continual reading of scripture.185 Marutha thus emerges from Denha’s life as a self-consciously

Miaphysite reformer with influence at the Sasanian capital.

Like Babai, Marutha was not only a reformer, but a student of the Greek fathers. Denha reports that Marutha crossed into Byzantine territory in order to study the works of Gregory of

Nazianzus at the monastery of Mar Zakkai, since the monastery’s abbot was a highly regarded interpreter of Gregory.186 Based upon such studies, Marutha produced catenae of the fathers

181 Denha, Life of Marutha, 74.

182 Denha, Life of Marutha, 75.

183 Denha uses the term nesṭúríne to denote East Syrian Christians; Life of Marutha, 76.

184 Denha, Life of Marutha, 76.

185 Denha, Life of Marutha, 77.

186 Denha, Life of Marutha, 70. The monastery of Mar Zakkai was situated near Kallinikos (modern day Raqqa, Syria). 74

(kúnāshe d-abāhātā). In addition, he wrote a work against the East Syrian Catholicos.187 The fact that Marutha studied the writings of Gregory is significant, because it provides further evidence that both East Syrian and Miaphysite reformers were actively trying to claim Gregory’s authority. When Babai cited Gregory of Nazianzus in his commentary, he was appealing to a figure who could undergird the orthodoxy of his interpretation of Evagrius, but he was also claiming for the East Syrian monastic tradition a shared and contested Greek father.

We should understand both Marutha and Babai as involved in a competitive effort to claim, interpret, and adapt Greek authorities in the process of reforming monastic practice and theology and, more broadly, promoting the welfare of their church in the turbulent society of late

Sasanian Mesopotamia. Such reform efforts came under the pressure of direct rivalry between

East Syrians and Miaphysites to gain control of churches and monasteries and to win imperial patronage. Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika was an integral part of the effort to recruit Greek authorities for monastic reform. Under pressure to ensure the orthodoxy of East

Syrian monasticism, he provided monks with an interpretation of Evagrius of Pontus read in light of the authoritative teachers of the Church of the East. In so doing, he created an ascetic

Kephalaia Gnostika and a Theodoran Evagrius.

The political dimensions of Babai’s reform efforts proved to be moot. Khusraw II died in the same year as Babai (628). Only ten years later, the Sasanian capital of Seleucia-Ctesiphon fell to Muslim armies, and in the course of two decades, the entire Sasanian regime collapsed. It

187 Denha, Life of Marutha, 192. None of these works are extant. 75

would be the work of later East Syrians to re-establish the place of the Church of the East within

the Islamic empires that followed.188

Yet Babai’s commentary laid the groundwork for the interpretation of Evagrius among

East Syrian monks in the early Islamic period. More broadly, his commentary launched a new exegetical tradition whereby East Syrian monks expounded, transmitted, and adapted the ascetic teachings of the Greek monastic corpus. The following chapter will examine the five surviving

East Syrian monastic commentaries that followed Babai’s exposition of the Kephalaia Gnostika.

As we shall see, these commentaries drew upon Babai’s interpretation of Evagrius, as well as upon other Greek and East Syrian sources. In so doing, they created for the Church of the East a coherent and flourishing tradition of reinterpreting ascetic texts from Late Antiquity.

188 Morony argues that East Syrians turned to the position of the Church of the East within the Sasanian empire as a model for how to establish relations with Muslim rulers. Morony, Iraq after the Muslim Conquest, 352–54. 76

Chapter Two: The East Syrian Monastic Commentary Tradition After Babai

In addition to Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika, five East Syrian

commentaries on monastic texts survive either in whole or in part: commentaries on Isaiah of

Scetis (fl. 5th c.) and on the Book of Paradise, written by Dadisho‘ Qatraya in the second half of

the seventh century; an anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis; an anonymous commentary

on The Spiritual Law of Mark the Monk (fl. 5th c.); and an anonymous commentary on

Evagrius’s Gnostic Trilogy (the Praktikos, Gnostikos, and Kephalaia Gnostika). These commentaries reveal the development of East Syrian ascetic thought within the early Islamic period, showing how Christians living under Islamic rule continued to engage with and adapt the

Late Antique monastic heritage. Yet despite their significance for our understanding of asceticism within the Islamic world, scholars have only begun to examine these texts. Only three of the six East Syrian commentaries are edited,1 and only two of these (Babai’s commentary on

1 In addition to Frankenberg’s edition of Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika, René Draguet has edited Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, as well as the anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis. Commentaire du livre d’abba Isaïe (logoi I–XV) par Dadišo Qaṭraya (VIIe s.), ed. and trans. René Draguet (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1972). Commentaire anonyme du livre d’Abba Isaïe (fragments), ed. and trans. René Draguet (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1973). The complete recension of Dadisho‘’s commentary on the Book of Paradise remains unedited, but a later Syriac epitome was published by Bedjan and translated by Budge. Acta Martyrum et Sanctorum. Tomus septimus vel Paradisus Patrum, ed. Paul Bedjan (Paris: Harrassowitz, 1897), 895–963; The Paradise […], trans. E.A. Wallis Budge, 2 vols. (London: Chatto & Windus, 1907), 2:283–327. An edition of the earlier, complete recension (a draft of which had already been completed in 2007) was announced by David Phillips in 2012 but has not yet been published. See David Phillips, The Syriac Commentary of Dadisho‘ Qatraya on the Paradise of the Fathers: Towards a Critical Edition, BABELAO 1 (2012):1–23. In addition, a Garshuni translation of Dadisho‘’s commentary on the Book of Paradise, which, though still partial, covers more of the original text than the Syriac epitome does, has recently been published. Dadisho‘ Qaṭraya’s Compendious Commentary on The Paradise of the Egyptian Fathers in Garshuni, ed. and trans. Mario Kozah, Abdulrahman Abu- Husayn, and Suleiman Mourad (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2016). Finally, although the anonymous commentary on Mark the Monk remains unedited, the contents of this commentary 77

the Kephalaia Gnostika and Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis) have received significant scholarly attention.2 Furthermore, no study has yet considered the East Syrian

monastic commentaries together, that is, as a distinct corpus of literature.

In contrast to the six East Syrian monastic commentaries, the five extant East Syrian

biblical commentaries have been a subject of longstanding scholarly interest.3 So, too, Sebastian

Brock has written on the “Syriac commentary tradition” that expounded the logical works of

have been described in an article by Paul Krüger. Paul Krüger, “Zum theologischen Menschenbild Babais d. Gr.: Nach seinim noch unveröffentlichten Kommentar zu den beiden Sermones des Mönches Markus über ‘das geistige Gesetz’,” Oriens Christianus 44 (1960): 46– 74.

2 For studies of Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, see Robert Macina, “L’homme à l'école de Dieu. D’Antioche à Nisibe: Profil herméneutique, théologique et kérygmatique du mouvement scoliaste nestorien. Monographie programmatique,” Proche-Orient chrétien 32 (1982): 86–124, 263–301, and 33 (1983): 39–103; Luise Abramowski, “Dadisho Qatraya and his Commentary on the Book of the Abbas Isaiah,” The Harp: A Review of Syriac and Oriental Studies 4 (1991): 67–83; Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony, “Pure Prayer and Ignorance: Dadisho‘ Qatraya and the Greek Ascetic Legacy,” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 78 (2012): 200–226; Jason Scully, “The Itinerant Mind in Dadisho Qatraya’s Commentary on Abba Isaiah: Perfection in the East-Syriac Tradition,” Studia Monastica 58:2 (2016): 219–41. Even in these studies, however, the relation of Dadisho‘’s commentary to other East Syrian monastic commentaries has not been addressed.

3 These are the commentaries of Theodore bar Koni (eighth century); Isho‘ bar (eighth century); the anonymous author of the Diyarbakır commentary; Isho‘dad of Merv, the ninth- century bishop of Hedatta; and the tenth-century exegetical collection Gannat Bussame. Several studies have examined the interrelation among these commentaries; for example: Ceslas Van den Eynde (ed. and trans.), Commentaire d’Išo‘dad de Merv sur l’Ancien Testament. IV. Isaïe et les Douze (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1969); Lucas Van Rompay, “Išo‘ bar Nun and Išo‘dad of Merv. New Data for the Study of the Interdependence of Their Exegetical Works,” Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 8 (1977): 229–49; Gerrit Reinink, Studien zur Quellen- und Traditionsgeschichte des Evangelienkommentars der Gannat Bussame (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1979); Cornelia Molenberg, The Interpreter Interpreted: Išo‘ Bar Nun’s Selected Questions on the (Ph.D. diss., Rijksuniversiteit Gronigen, 1990).

78

Aristotle.4 As this chapter argues, the six East Syrian monastic commentaries also belonged to a coherent commentarial tradition, one that was as sophisticated as the traditions of East Syrian biblical and Aristotelian commentary.5

Since this chapter represents one of the first studies of several of the East Syrian monastic commentaries and the only study to treat them together, it cannot provide a comprehensive discussion of the themes addressed by our commentators or an exhaustive analysis of the textual relations among these sources. There is much left to discover, especially among the unedited commentaries. Rather, the aim of this chapter is to demonstrate the interdependence of the East

Syrian monastic commentaries and their place within an evolving East Syrian reception of the

Late Antique monastic heritage.

To do so, this chapter proceeds through a series of case studies. The first part of the chapter shows how the commentaries of Dadisho‘ Qatraya not only engaged with Greek monastic literature, but also drew (both directly and indirectly) upon the writings of Babai the

Great and responded to contemporary problems in East Syrian monasticism. Here, I examine

three central and understudied aspects of Dadisho‘’s ascetic vision articulated in his

commentaries: 1) his effort to promote solitary, contemplative monasticism over against active

and communal forms of ascetic life; 2) his effort to ensure an ascetic reading of the Greek

fathers; and 3) his treatment of fasting and celibacy. As we shall see, in his commentary on these

4 Sebastian Brock, “The Syriac Commentary Tradition,” in Glosses and Commentaries on Aristotelian Logical Texts: The Syriac, Arabic, and Medieval Latin Traditions, ed. Charles Burnett (London: The Warburg Institute, University of London, 1993), 3–19.

5 This chapter will not address the commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika composed by the twelfth-century West Syrian (Miaphysite) scholar Dionysius bar Salibi. Dionysius bar Salibi, Púshōqō d-ma’wōtō d-qadíshō Mōr Awgrís Īḥídōyō, ed. Archbishop Mor Yulius Çiçek (Monastery of Mor Ephrem, Holland: Verlag, 1991). 79

topics, Dadisho‘ refers explicitly to Babai as an authoritative model and draws upon Babai’s own

understanding of the meaning of ascetic practice and the threats to East Syrian monasticism.

The second part of the chapter examines the three anonymous East Syrian monastic

commentaries, demonstrating their relation to the commentaries of Babai and Dadisho‘. I show that 1) the treatment of fasting in the anonymous commentary on the Spiritual Law of Mark the

Monk was textually interdependent with Dadisho‘’s treatment of fasting in his commentary on

Isaiah of Scetis, and that Dadisho‘’ likely used this anonymous commentary in expounding

Isaiah; 2) the anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis was not simply a collection of

quotations from Dadisho‘, as its editor René Draguet thought, but was instead a

supercommentary on Dadisho‘’s exposition, designed to adapt and even contradict Dadisho‘’s

reading of Isaiah; and 3) the anonymous commentary on Evagrius’s Gnostic Trilogy drew upon

Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika, echoing Babai’s concern with Messalian threats

to asceticism, and extending Babai’s pragmatic approach to develop an ascetic reading of the

Gnostic Trilogy as a whole.

As we shall see through these case studies, East Syrian commentators after Babai

continued to wrestle with anti-ascetic strands in the texts they expounded. So, too, East Syrian

commentators grappled with ideas concerning the material content and purpose of dietary

regimens, as well as the connections between fasting and celibacy. In so doing, they responded

not only to the views of Greek monastic authors on these subjects, but also to those of earlier

East Syrian interpreters. Far from being isolated works of idiosyncratic authors, these

commentaries thus belonged to a coherent tradition of interpreting Late Antique monastic

literature, a tradition that continued to reshape the East Syrian understanding of asceticism

throughout the early Islamic period.

80

The Commentaries of Dadisho‘ Qatraya

Dadisho‘ Qatraya’s commentary on the ascetic writings of Isaiah of Scetis, a fifth-century monk of Egypt, survives only in a late nineteenth-century manuscript copied at Alqosh, Iraq, as well as in four derivate manuscripts. A fourteenth-century copy of the text was consulted by

Addai Scher in Siirt, but this manuscript seems to have perished, along with Scher, in 1915.6

Portions of the text, however, also survive in two Sogdian manuscripts.7 Dadisho‘’s commentary

on the Book of Paradise is somewhat better attested. This is likely due to the popularity of the

Book of Paradise itself. This text was the Syriac recension of the Lausiac History, Historia

Monachorum, and other apophthegmata, compiled by the East Syrian author ‘Enanisho‘ a

generation or two before Dadisho‘. The Book of Paradise soon became standard fare for East

Syrian monks, who sought to model their lives on their ascetic forebears. Dadisho‘’s

commentary on the text survives in seven manuscripts, a later Syriac epitome of his commentary

in two manuscripts,8 and the Arabic (Garshuni) translation in at least six manuscripts.9 In

addition, a Ge’ez translation of the Arabic version was produced.10

The little that is known about Dadisho‘’s life comes largely from these texts. The name

Qaṭrāyā, given in two of the manuscripts, indicates Dadisho‘’s origins in the region of Bét

6 In the introduction to his edition, Draguet notes: “Toute trace en est perdue depuis le pillage de l’archevêché de Séert par les Turcs, en 1915.” Commentaire du livre d’Abba Isaïe par Dadišo Qaṭraya, 6*.

7 One of these manuscripts also contains portions of Dadisho‘’s commentary on the Book of Paradise. Nicolas Sims-Williams, “Dādišo‘ Qaṭraya’s Commentary on the Paradise of the Fathers,” Analecta Bollandiana 112 (1994): 34, 34 n. 7.

8 Phillips, “The Syriac Commentary of Dadisho‘ Qatraya on the Paradise,” 10–11.

9 In one of these, the text is in fact written in Arabic script. Kozah, Abu-Husayn, and Mourad, eds., Dadisho‘ Qaṭraya’s Compendious Commentary on The Paradise, 10–12.

10 Sims-Williams, “Dādišo‘ Qaṭraya’s Commentary,” 38–39. 81

Qaṭrāyā, on the eastern Arabian peninsula. In his commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, Dadisho‘

indicates that he had been a monk at the (‘úmrā) of Rabkennare and at the convent

(‘úmrā) of the monastery (dayrā) of the Blessed Apostles, but the location of these foundations is not known.11 In addition, scholars have generally assumed that Dadisho‘ spent time at the famous monastery of Rabban Shabur in Khuzestan (where Isaac of Nineveh was a monk), for he speaks of the customs of this monastery in a way that suggests personal familiarity.12

Though personal details are thus scarce, Dadisho‘ emerges from his two commentaries as

a product of the orthodox East Syrian monasticism that Babai had sought to establish. In his

commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, Dadisho‘ cites and quotes from Babai’s commentary on the

Kephalaia Gnostika. Babai’s words, he writes, are in accord with those of Evagrius, Isaiah of

Scetis, and — last but not least — the “Blessed Commentator,” Theodore of Mopsuestia.13

Dadisho‘ also rehearses the common slurs against Cyril of Alexandria and the Miaphysites, and in his commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, he goes through contortions to clear Isaiah’s Christology of Miaphysite interpretations.14 In addition, Dadisho‘ maintains Babai’s anti-Messalian polemic:

Messalianism, as he explains, is the corruption of religious practice — the practical complement

11 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 206–07. For a review of the evidence for Dadisho‘’s life, see Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire du livre d’Abba Isaïe par Dadišo Qaṭraya, 13*–14*.

12 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 183–84. Cf. Abramowski, “Dadisho Qatraya and his Commentary,” 71; and Scully, Isaac of Nineveh’s Contribution to Syriac Theology, 166.

13 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 262–63.

14 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 121–24. On Dadisho‘ as a “Nestorian,” see Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire du livre d’abba Isaïe par Dadišo Qaṭraya, 13*–14*. 82

to Miaphysite theology, which is the corruption of faith.15 The following sections of this chapter

show how Dadisho‘ drew upon Babai’s understanding of asceticism, so advancing the East

Syrian reshaping of the Greek monastic corpus.

Shelyā: Silence, Solitude, and the Organization of Ascetic Life

Abraham of Kashkar, the founder of the Great Monastery on Mount Izla, began his

monastic rule by instructing monks to live in shelyā.16 This term, which corresponds to the Greek hēsychia, connotes solitude and silence.17 The ideal of shelyā was built into the very structure of

the monastery on Mount Izla. Imitating the lavras of , the Great Monastery foundation

had at its center a cenobium that housed a shared living space, along with common areas,

including a and church. But surrounding or nearby the cenobium were separate,

isolated cells, where monks could undertake a life of solitary contemplation. As third abbot of

the Great Monastery, Babai played an important role in promoting this model of monastic

organization.18 He speaks frequently of shelyā in his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika,19

15 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 151. At one point in the commentary (p. 129), Dadisho‘ quotes from a lost epistle of Theodore of Mopsuestia to specify that that at Baptism, one receives the pledge (rahbonā) of the Holy Spirit. This provides important supporting evidence to the argument of the previous chapter that Babai’s anti-Messalian insistence that one receives the pledge of the Holy Spirit at Baptism was drawing upon Theodore.

16 Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents, 154.

17 Francisco del Río Sánchez (ed.), Los cinco tratados sobre la quietud (šelyā) de Dādīšō‘ Qaṭrāyā (Sabadell, Spain: Editorial Aula Orientalis — Supplementa, 2000), 30–32.

18 It is commonly thought that Abraham of Kashkar, founder of the Great Monastery on Mount Izla, was responsible for the spread of this model within the Church of the East. E.g. Wood, The Chronicle of Seert, 146. However, Nestor Kavvadas has pointed out that Abraham’s rules do not mention a cenobium and seem to assume that all monks will be living in individual cells. It is only with the rules of Abraham’s successor, Dadisho‘, the second abbot of Mount Izla, that we find references to a cenobium. One suspects that it may have been the influence of Babai that 83

and in his rule for monks he declares that after a three-year in the cenobium, every

monk should move into an empty cell or construct one from monastery funds. From that point

onward, the monk should not leave his cell save for emergency or communal prayer.20

By the time of Dadisho‘ Qatraya, the lavra-structure of monastery had spread throughout the Church of the East. Dadisho‘ clearly wrote for monks who were living in lavrite foundations.

He expected them to begin their monastic training within the cenobium, but exhorted them to advance toward solitary life.21 In his commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, he frequently used the term

shelyā to connote the life of solitude and tranquility undertaken by monks living in cells apart

from the cenobium.22 At the same time, he stressed that even monks living in the cenobium can

and should cultivate shelyā. For cenobites and solitaries alike, Dadisho‘ told his friend Abkosh, it

is impossible to eradicate the passions without adopting a life of silence.23 Fittingly, Dadisho‘

caused the proliferation of lavrite monasteries in the Church of the East. Nestor Kavvadas, Isaak von Ninive und seine Kephalaia Gnostika: Die Pneumatologie und ihr Kontext (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 32–33.

19 E.g., in KG 6.41, Evagrius states that “Perfect removal from the world will give rest to the concupiscible part of the soul, but as for its zeal, it makes it very sharp.” Babai explains that Evagrius is exhorting us to undertake solitude and quiet (shelyā). Babai, KGCOM 6.41, p. 386.

20 Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents, 179–181.

21 On the cenobium, see Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 19, 27, 69, 95. Compare especially discourse 10, which Dadisho‘ understands as focused on the communal formation of monks, and discourse 11, which he presents as directed toward solitary monks living in shelyā.

22 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 19, 22, 64, 69, 100, 131, 132, 143, 180, 188, 205, 225, 227, 244, 285.

23 Dadisho‘, Letter to Abkosh, 5–7: Edited in Antoine Guillaumont and Micheline Albert, “Lettre de Dadisho Qatraya a Abkosh, sur l’Hésychia,” in Mémorial André-Jean Festugière: Antiquité païenne et chrétienne, ed. E. Lucchesi and H.D. Saffrey (Geneva: Patrick Cramer, 1984), 235– 41; and, based on a separate manuscript, David Phillips, “Dadisho‘ Qatraya’s Letter to Abkosh: the text according to MS Baghdad Archbishopric of the East no 210 with critical notes and a translation,” BABELAO 4 (2015): 201–223. Phillips has noted in the apparatus the divergences 84

had to explain this to Abkosh in a letter of apology, after having refused to speak to Abkosh even

through the window of his cell.24 Indeed, Dadisho‘’s commentaries reveal a tension between solitary ascetics, who embraced shelyā, and monks who favored a more communal and active type of monasticism. As I show in this section, Dadisho‘ sought to rehabilitate the life of shelyā, promoting it over against competing forms of ascetic life. In order to do so, he turned to both

Greek and East Syrian sources, invoking the authority of Babai the Great.

The writings of Isaiah of Scetis survive in a number of discourses translated from Greek into Syriac over the course of the fifth to seventh centuries. In the third of these discourses,

Isaiah addresses the fraternal harmony of monks, declaring that “it is right for the brothers to have great love among each other.”25 In his commentary on Isaiah’s writings, Dadisho‘ used this

exhortation to address the conflicts between monks who observe shelyā and those who follow a

more active life. As he wrote:

All the conduct carried out in a community of brothers is divided into two kinds: continual shelyā inside of a cell, and bodily actions of service outside. Because of this, the evil demons impoverish [the monks] from the riches of love, by causing them to grumble against one another. While the brothers are engaged in other deeds that are practiced in the convent, [the demons] join battle with them and compel them to interact with and complain against their fathers and brothers who dwell in shelyā, calling them “lazy” and “lovers of relaxation,” and saying: “They should go out from shelyā and participate with us in the service of actions outside.”26

from the (West Syrian) manuscript used by Guillaumont and Albert. Since Phillips has maintained the section divisions used in the earlier edition, section numbers are the most convenient way to refer to the text.

24 Dadisho‘, Letter to Abkosh, 1.

25 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 67. This text is, in fact, a homily from the pseudo-Macarian literature that worked its way into the Isaian corpus; see below, p. 93.

26 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 64. 85

Dadisho‘ here addresses the tension between two forms of monastic life: on the one hand, silence

and solitude undertaken in an individual cell, and on the other hand, a more active and communal life, which consists in “bodily actions” and in “service outside.” The types of external, bodily service that Dadisho‘ has in mind can be inferred from other places in his writings. In his commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, he speaks of ministry to the elderly and sick, the reception of strangers,27 and providing alms to the needy through manual labor.28

Yet when Dadisho‘ speaks of “bodily actions of service outside,” he also seems to have in mind monks who leave the monastery in order to conduct business and see to the necessary

affairs of the monastic community. An important passage in Dadisho‘’s commentary on the Book

of Paradise sheds light on this and the conflicts it created. A shorter version of this

passage made its way into the Syriac epitome edited by Bedjan; however, the full passage

survives only in British Library MS Add. 17264.

Dadisho‘’s commentary on the Book of Paradise is structured in the question-and-answer

format (erotapokriseis) common in Late Antiquity. Dadisho‘ presents novice brothers as asking

him about confusing stories or sayings recorded in the Book of Paradise, which he then

elucidates. These idealized exchanges were meant to reflect actual conversations between monks

and their ascetic masters. In this case, the monks ask Dadisho‘ about a story in the Historia

Monachorum concerning a monastery in which almost all monks lived in solitude and shelyā.

How, the brothers ask, was this possible, when, in the present time, barely five in fifty-five

monks will adopt the life of shelyā?:

27 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 27.

28 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 100. 86

The Brothers say: Virtuous Jerome, in his History of the triumphs of Blessed Isidore the Abbot29 says that [Isidore] had in his convent one thousand monks, and all of them were cloistered inside the wall of the monastery, and no one went outside at all until the day of his death, save for two brothers alone, who would go out for their required needs.

Why is it, then, that with the first fathers, [in] a congregation in which there were one thousand brothers, two alone sufficed to minister to [the congregation], but in this generation of ours, [in] a congregation in which there are, say, fifty-five brothers, only five will live in shelyā and persevere in virtue, and fifty will go out and come in without ceasing (d-lā shalwā) and without rest, on account of their ministry?30

The numbers here are not meant to be precise. Even so, they suggest that it was a common state of affairs for many monks to leave the monastery on a regular basis, in order to carry out their

“ministry” and take care of the convent’s needs. The nostalgia for a time when the majority of monks remained cloistered and cultivated shelyā merely underscores the present reality that monks were all too active in the world outside the monastery walls.

Dadisho‘’s response confirms the view that most monks did not confine themselves to solitude within the monastery. He writes:

Concerning the love of labors 31 and the self-discipline of the first [monks], and concerning the love of pleasures and the laxity of the rest of us, it is preferable for us to tell the truth about the slackness and ignorance of the of the convents. For in the first times, many were the brothers who lived in shelyā and were cloistered lovers of shelyā, and few were the brothers who went out into the streets and entered the cities and practiced deeds outside.

But now, in our days, in a congregation in which there are fifty-five brothers, it is just as you have said: only five will live in shelyā inside, and fifty others will toil without ceasing (d-lā shalwā) in deeds outside, blaming and murmuring all the while against the

29 Isidore of Pelusium, a fifth-century monk of Egypt.

30 London British Library MS Add. 17264, f. 60v: ܘܘܗ ܐܕ .ܐܿ ܐܪ ܐܪܘܐ ܐܒܕ (ܝܗ)ܕ̈ ܐܒ ܐ ܐܪ ܐܿ ܐܐ̈ ܒ ܓ ܐܘܗ ܢܘ ܐܘ ܄ܗܕܕ ܐܪ ܓ ܘܘܗ ܒ ܢܘܘ ܂ܐܐܕ̈ ܐܐ ܂ܗܒ ܐܪܐ ܐ ܂ܢܘܕ ܐ ܢܘ ܘܘܗ ܕ ܕܒ ܐܐ̈ ܪ̈ܬ ܂ܕ ܐ ܐ ܐ ܕ ܐܒܘ .ܗ ܘܘܗ ܕܒ ܪ̈ܬ ܂ܐܐ̈ ܐ̈ ܒ ܘܘܗ ܐܕ ܐ ܐ̈ ܒܐ̈ ܐܘܿ ܘ̈ ܄ܐܬܘܪܒ ܐܘ ܕܒ ܐ̈ ܐܕ ܐ ܐܐ̈ ܐܘ̈ ̈ ܒ ܐܕ .ܢܘܗܬ ܐ ܕܘ ܐ ܕ

31 reḥmat ‘amle, corresponding to the Greek philo-ponia. 87

five inside, because they, too, do not go out, along with them, to minister outside. As a result, from the words [of complaint] of these headstrong simpletons all the virtues that are practiced in the convent may pass away and be destroyed.32

Dadisho‘’s suggestion that monks who do not embrace shelyā “[go] out into the streets, ente[r] the cities, and practic[e] deeds outside” indicates that he is concerned about monks leaving the

precincts of the monastery and interacting with non-monks. Similar anxieties are reflected in

other East Syrian monastic texts. For example, Joseph Hazzaya warns those who undertake

manual labor to avoid leaving their cells and developing familiarity with people from the nearby

towns.33 Such texts have significant implications when one considers the social context for the

interaction between monks and the non-cloistered population of the early Islamic world,

including Muslims. While scholarly discussion of interactions between monks and Muslims has

centered on reports of Muslims visiting monasteries, Dadisho‘ and Joseph suggest that

interaction between monks and non-monks was as likely to take place within cities as within the monastery grounds. I will return to this point in the fourth chapter. For now, the key point is that

Dadisho‘’s emphasis on shelyā should be understood as a response to the fact that many, perhaps

even the majority of monks eschewed solitary, contemplative life and were active in the world

outside the monastery.

Against this background, we can see Dadisho‘ turning not only to Greek sources, but also

to East Syrian monastic authorities — especially Babai the Great — in order to promote the life

32 London British Library MS Add. 17264, f. 60v–61v: ܩܕܙܿ ܕ ܢ ܂ܐܐ ܕܕ ܐܬܘ ܐ̈ ܪ ܘ ܂ܐܕ̈ ܐܬܪܘ ̈ ܪ ܐܿ ܐ ܐ̈ ܐܐ̈ ܘܘܗ ܐܓ̈ ܄ܐ̈ ܓ ܐܒܒ̈ ܄ܐܕ ܐܒܕ ܐ ܘ ܐܬܪ ܐ ܐܪ ܕ ܐܗ .ܒܕ ܐ ܘ̈ .ܐ̈ ܐ ܘ̈ ܐܪ̈ܘܐܒ ̈ ܐܐ̈ ܘܘܗ ܪܙܘ .ܐ ܪ̈ܘ ܐܒܘ̈ ܘ̈ ܂ܓ ܕܒ ܐ̈ ܄ܢܘܬܐܕ ܐܐ ܐܐ̈ ܐܘ̈ ̈ ܒ ܐܕ ܐ ܂ܕ ܢܒ̈ ܿ ܿ ܢܘ ܢܗܼ ܦܐ ܕ ܂ܓܕ ܐ̈ ܪܘ ܂ܒܕ ܐܒ ܬ ܐ ܕ ܐܐ ܐܒܕ ܐܬܪ̈ ܘ̈ ܢܒܐ̈ .ܐܘ ܐܕܗ̈ ܗܕ ܓ ܢܘ ̈ ܕ ܐ ܂ܒܕ ܐ .̈ ܂ 33 Joseph Hazzaya, Lettre sur les trois étapes de la vie monastique, ed. and trans. Paul Harb and François Graffin, Patrologia Orientalis t. 45, fasc. 2 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1992), 350–51. 88

of shelyā over against more active and communal forms of monasticism. In a letter to an

unnamed fellow monk, Dadisho‘ addresses the so-called shelyā of the seven weeks, a period of

solitary retreat undertaken by East Syrian monks. The letter begins as a response to the monk

asking Dadisho‘ why Babai and the other monastic fathers had not imposed this observance.

Citing Babai’s (now lost) rule for novices,34 Dadisho‘ explains that under Babai’s abbacy, even

novice monks were only allowed to leave their cells on Saturday evening and Sunday, when they

would convene for common prayers, Eucharist, and shared meal. During their weekly solitude, the monks would pray in their cells, read the Psalms, and study the works of Theodore of

Mopsuestia. Thus, according to Dadisho‘, Babai did not feel the need to impose a seven-week regimen of solitude upon his monks, precisely because monastic life under his leadership was characterized by shelyā.35

Dadisho‘ also invokes Babai as an advocate of shelyā in his commentary on Isaiah of

Scetis. In expounding Isaiah’s eleventh discourse, Dadisho‘ explains that shelyā is the reason for

the superiority of monastic life over that of scholars and clergymen:

This monastic way of life is distinct from and elevated above all the worldly ways of life — not only those of the believers [i.e. lay people], but also those of schoolmen (askolāye) and clergymen (qlíríqe). Its entire practice and the beauty of its work is consummated in shelyā.36

34 This work is distinct from Babai’s general rule for monks, which has survived in Arabic translation and is edited in Vööbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents. The catalogue of ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika indicates that Babai wrote both a book for novices (sharwāye) and a separate set of canons for monks (dayrāye); ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue: Giuseppe Simone Assemani (ed.), Biblioteca Orientalis Clementino-Vaticanæ, Tomus Tertius, Pars Prima (Rome, Typis Sacræ Congregationis de Propaganda Fide, 1719–1728), 97.

35 Dadisho‘, On the Silence of the Seven Weeks: Sánchez (ed.), Los cinco tratados, 50.

36 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 143. 89

Dadisho‘ thus connects the internal conflict between solitary, contemplative monasticism and communal, active forms of monastic life to a broader tension within the social structure of the

East Syrian church — the tension between monks and non-monastic authorities such as

clergymen and scholars.

According to Dadisho‘, this conflict between monks who love shelyā and more secular

forms of ecclesiastical life manifests itself in the recent proliferation of communal prayers

among East Syrian monks. As Dadisho‘ writes, in the current generation “there is a multitude of

hymns, responses, canons, and antiphonies, which [some] have introduced to the convents of the

brothers, in order to eliminate or impede upright conducts and reflection upon God.”37

Nevertheless, Dadisho‘ writes, the rules of Babai the Great indicate that monks should limit the use of communal hymns:

This [multitude of communal hymns] is the work of clergymen (qlíríqe) and schoolmen (askolāye), not of a monk (íḥídāyā). The art of our way of life is long, and the journey of our path is long-lasting, but our life is short,38 and it is improper for us to waste our life and set our mind wandering in things that hinder us from the sufferings of tears and from strenuous, valiant, and laborious labors of repentance…

For, lo, Blessed Mar Babai the Great, Abbot of the Convent of Izla, he who lived in the time of King Khusraw son of Hormizd,39 in the book that he wrote for the regulation of novices does not [impose] a response-hymn (‘onítā)40 on a brother in his cell in the

37 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 182.

38 Dadisho‘ here adapts the famous Hippocratic aphorism vita brevis, ars longa. Grigory Kessel has noticed the appearance of this aphorism in Isaac of Nineveh. Dadisho‘ provides another contemporary attestation. See Grigory Kessel, “Life is Short, the Art is Long: An Interpretation of the First Hippocratic Aphorism by an East Syriac Monk in 7th Century Iraq (Isaac of Nineveh, Kephalaia gnostica 3,62),” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 19.1 (2015): 137–48.

39 I.e. Khusraw Parviz, who died in 628, the same year as Babai.

40 On this type of communal hymn and the reference to it by Dadisho‘, see Anton Pritula, The Wardā: An East Syriac Hymnological Collection: Study and Critical Edition (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2015), 83–85. 90

office of compline, but says, “At compline perform ten marmín41 or more, a Doxology, and a Trisagion. But in the night [office], perform ten marmín or more, a response- hymn, a Doxology, and a Trisagion.” [Babai] thus speaks of one response-hymn and not many.42

Babai’s rule for novices represents for Dadisho‘ the more restrained use of communal hymns that will not distract the monk from his primary tasks of ascetic labor and reflection upon God.43 At

the same time, Dadisho‘’s lament also reveals an alternative vision for monastic life, in which

less emphasis is placed on shelyā and more on communal prayer.

It is intriguing that Dadisho‘ connects this conflict to a contrast between monks, clerics,

and scholars.44 A similar tension is suggested in a story related by Thomas of Marga. According to this account, the Catholicos Isho‘yahb III (ca. 649–59) wished to build a school at the

monastery of Beth ‘Abe, “so that school and monastery might become one.”45 The monks, however, object that this would disturb their shelyā.46 They protest: “It is not the work of an

ascetic that, while dwelling in our cells, we should be annoyed by the chants of the húlālā [a division of the Psalms], the Psalmody, and the response-hymns, the singing of boys and those

41 According to Payne-Smith, “A division of the Psalter containing from one to four Psalms.” J. Payne-Smith (Mrs. Margoliouth), A Compendious Syriac Dictionary: Founded Upon the Thesaurus Syriacus of R. Payne Smith, D.D (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1903), s.v. marmítā.

42 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 183.

43 Dadisho‘ also turns here to the example of Rabban Shabur (mid seventh-century). Under his abbacy, Dadisho‘ writes, monks were limited to the singing of one response-hymn (‘onítā), to be recited only during the second session of the night office — no matter how good of a singer the monk was! Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 183–84.

44 On tension between schools and monasteries, see Becker, Fear of God, 169–203.

45 Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, 74/132.

46 Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, 74/132. 91

who keep vigil.”47 Dadisho‘ maps this type of conflict onto an internal tension within the monastery, between monks who emphasize solitude and and those who emphasize communal prayer.

This does not mean that East Syrian monasteries were being taken over by an influx of secular clergy or men from the schools. The tensions described by Dadisho‘ were built in to the very structure of a lavrite foundation, where cenobium and isolated cells, communal and solitary

monasticism existed side-by-side. Yet Dadisho‘ does seem to have been responding to a growing

shift toward communal and active forms of ascetic life in the Church of the East. By

emphasizing that true monasticism meant solitude and silence, and that active or communal

monasticism was a quasi-secular life akin to that of clergy or scholars, Dadisho‘ sought to ensure the survival of a particular hierarchy of ascetic life, in which cenobitic monks were inferior to solitaries, and according to which the cenobium would be a training ground for the solitude and silence of the cell. This constituted an effort by Dadisho‘ to preserve a form of ascetic organization rooted in the reform monasticism of Mount Izla and spread by Babai the Great — an effort that Dadisho‘ carried out not only through his interpretation of Greek monastic texts,

such as the Historia Monachorum and the writings of Isaiah of Scetis, but also by invoking

Babai’s own writings and example.

An Ascetic Isaiah of Scetis

As we saw in the previous chapter, in his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika, Babai

sought to establish an ascetic reading of Evagrius by rejecting what he saw as “Messalian” and

anti-ascetic interpretations of the Kephalaia Gnostika. So, too, in his commentary on Isaiah of

47 Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, 75/148. 92

Scetis, Dadisho‘ sought to ensure an ascetic reading of Isaiah over against anti-ascetic interpretations. In so doing, Dadisho‘ was responding to concerns raised by Babai and East

Syrian synodal literature, which alerted him to an anti-ascetic potential latent in Isaiah’s writings.

While the previous section showed how Dadisho‘’s works explicitly invoked the writings and

authority of Babai, this section will thus demonstrate how East Syrian texts could operate below the surface of Dadisho‘’s commentaries, providing the framework for his interpretation of the

Greek monastic heritage.

Dadisho‘ treated the issue of anti-ascetic readings of Isaiah of Scetis in his commentary

on Isaiah’s first and third discourses. Both of these texts were, in fact, pseudo-Macarian homilies

that worked their way into the Syriac recension of the Isaian corpus. Remarkably, Dadisho‘ was

aware of the Macarian origin of the first discourse. He explained that the text had previously

figured in a book of , in which Macarius wrote down what he learned from his

teacher . In order to bring this discourse to greater light, Dadisho‘ explained,

Isaiah placed it at the beginning of his own writings. But Isaiah also edited the text, changing

certain words, clarifying Macarius’s ideas, and improving the writing style.48

Despite the claim that Isaiah had revised Macarius’s discourse for clarity, Dadisho‘

clearly felt a need to elucidate the text’s distinctively Macarian language. Particularly

troublesome to his mind was the concept of “indwelling sin.” The writings of pseudo-Macarius

speak of a “sin that dwells in the members of our body and soul,” a sin inherited from Adam that

remains rooted in the self even after Baptism.49 The pseudo-Macarian text that formed the first

48 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 15–16. Cf. Plested, Macarian Legacy, 181–82.

49 Pseudo-Macarius, Die 50 Geistlichen Homilien des Makarios, ed. Hermann Dörries, Erich Klostermann, and Matthias Kroeger (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1964), p. 16, ll. 4–5. On Pseudo- 93

discourse of Isaiah of Scetis intimates these themes in referring to a “sin that accompanies one”

(ḥṭítā d-lāwyā leh) and a “sin that dwells in one” (ḥṭítā d-‘āmrā beh).50 As Dadisho‘ himself

noted, such language is rooted in the Pauline notion of an unavoidable tendency to sin. Dadisho‘

pointed especially to Paul’s language in Romans 7:20, where the apostle states: “If I do

something that I do not want, it is not I who am the doer, but the sin that dwells in me (ḥṭítā d-

‘āmrā bí).”51

According to Dadisho‘, some people interpret this Macarian and Pauline language as meaning 1) that “sin lies in [human] nature,” 2) that “the force of Adam’s sin dwells in all of us and compels us to sin, though not by our will” or 3) that “Satan, by force, compels and induces us to complete the sin, although it is not our intention [to do so].”52 Common to these claims is

the view that evil has a compulsory force, whether because it is rooted in nature (kyānā), the inheritance of Adam, or the power of Satan. Nevertheless, the pseudo-Macarian writings lay

great stress upon the point that indwelling sin does not compel. Evil operates by persuasion, and while this persuasion can overwhelm the heart, it can also be rejected through the power of indwelling grace.53 Dadisho‘ was thus seeking to oppose a potential misreading of Macarius and

Isaiah — and so, too, of Paul — that would construe indwelling sin as irresistible.

Macarius’s views on the inheritance of indwelling sin and its persistence, see Plested, Macarian Legacy, 77–93; and Stewart, ‘Working the Earth of the Heart’, 203–08.

50 Isaiah of Scetis, Les cinq recensions de l'Ascéticon syriaque d'abba Isaïe, ed. René Draguet (Louvain, Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1968), p. 2, l. 11; p. 6, l. 12.

51 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 29.

52 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 29–30.

53 Plested, Macarian Legacy, 97 et passim. 94

This raises the question of why Dadisho‘ was concerned about this misinterpretation and

what his sources were for the three errors of understanding sin as embedded in human nature,

derived from Adam, or caused by Satan. In his commentary on Isaiah’s third discourse, Dadisho‘

returns to these three errors. Here, he cites Mark the Monk’s treatise On Baptism, arguing that it

was written in order to reject the view that sin lies in nature, derives from Adam, or is caused by

Satan. In this text, Mark does indeed attack those who disclaim responsibility for their sinful

thoughts by arguing that they derive either from the inheritance of Adam’s sin or from Satanic

assault.54 Nevertheless, the first error cited by Dadisho‘ — the claim that “sin lies in nature” (ba-

kyānā sāymā ḥṭítā) — is only implicit in this text.55 Dadisho‘’s concern about this claim appears

to derive not from Mark, but from East Syrian synodal literature and the writings of Babai. The

synod of Sabrisho‘ held in 596 condemned those who “say that sin lies in nature” (āmrín d-ba- kyānā sāymā ḥṭítā).56 Shortly after this synod, Babai used this phrase in his commentary on the

Kephalaia Gnostika. According to Babai, Evagrius wrote three separate chapters of this work to reject those who claim that “sin lies in nature” (ḥṭítā ba-kyānā sāymā).57 For Babai, a conception of sin as embedded within nature compromised humans’ essential freedom. As Babai insists, we

54 Mark the Monk, On Baptism, 1:358–80, esp. 364–66.

55 Mark does present those who assign responsibility for their sin to Adam or Satan as believing that sin is a “necessity of nature” (anankē physeōs; Mark the Monk, On Baptism, 1:362; cf. 372, 378). But he does not present this as a distinct type of error about sin or use the phrase “sin is/lies in nature,” as the sources discussed below do.

56 Synodicon Orientale, p. 196, ll. 24–25.

57 Babai, KGCOM 3.76, p. 242; KGCOM 5.5, p. 320; KGCOM 6.52, p. 392.

95

have a “free soul and nature” (napshā wa-kyānā ḥe’rāyā);58 it is not through compulsion, but through “our ” (ṣebyān ḥe’rútan)59 and “free power” (shúlṭānā ḥe’rāyā)60 that we sin.

It seems thus that both Mark the Monk and East Syrian sources, especially Babai, alerted

Dadisho‘ to a danger in the Isaian and Macarian notion of indwelling sin: namely, indwelling sin might be seen as having a compulsory force that would impinge upon free will and so undermine

the monk’s ascetic effort.61 Dadisho‘’s anxiety about this centered, in part, upon the theological ramifications of Paul’s discussion of sin in Romans 7:20 (“If I do something that I do not want, it is not I who am the doer, but the sin that dwells in me”), which hardly seems to leave much room for human autonomy. Yet it is important to underline the monastic and ascetic dimension of this problem, and of Dadisho‘’s response to it. The synod of Sabrisho‘ attributed the claim that “sin

58 Babai, KGCOM 3.76, p. 242.

59 Babai, KGCOM 5.5, p. 320.

60 Babai, KGCOM 6.52, p. 392.

61 It would be tempting to detect an anti-Messalian polemic lurking beneath Dadisho‘’s commentary. The pseudo-Macarian notion of indwelling sin likely underpinned the idea of an “indwelling demon” that is attacked in the Greek anti-Messalian lists. Furthermore, Babai states that Mark the Monk’s On Baptism, which is the source for two of the errors that Dadisho‘ attacks, was written against the Messalians (KGCOM 3.85, p. 252). Nevertheless, although Dadisho‘ attacks Messalians elsewhere in the commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, he does not seem to be addressing Messalians in this case. He never connects the three errors concerning the compulsory force of sin to Messalians; nor do the Synod of Sabrisho‘ or Babai ever connect the claim that sin lies in human nature to the Messalians. In fact, the conception of the “indwelling demon,” as central as it was to Greek anti-Messalian literature (Stewart, ‘Working the Earth of the Heart’, 59), did not play a significant role in East Syrian anti-Messalianism. Babai does not discuss it, nor does Isaac of Nineveh (see Patrik Hagman, “Saint Isaac of Nineveh and the Messalians,” in Mystik-Metapher-Bild, ed. Martin Tamcke [Göttingen: Universitätsverlag Göttingen, 2008], 62–63). In fact, the main charge brought by Babai (and Isaac) against the Messalians is exactly the opposite of the notion of compelling sin: they believe that they have attained perfect apatheia and so are no longer subject to the possibility of sin or its consequences. 96

lies in nature” to those who wear the monastic habit.62 In turn, Babai opposed the view that “sin

lies in nature” by emphasizing that monks can heal their souls from sin through fasting, celibacy,

prayer, and other ascetic disciplines.63

Dadisho‘ took a similar approach. He articulated his theology of sin within the context of

the monk’s struggle with the demons and with passionate thoughts, and he emphasized that the power of indwelling sin is never so overwhelming that it cannot be overcome by the monk’s ascetic practice. Here, too, he drew upon Mark the Monk’s writings. As Dadisho‘ explains:

The monk will only be freed from the enslavement of these two forces [Satan and sin] and will only see in himself the purity and holiness that is given by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, if the medicine of repentance is given him by the mercies of our Lord, and by his own laborious labors of the repentance that is pleasing to God. This is made known by Mark the Monk, when he says “Whoever remains for a long time in deeds of sin, can afterward put Satan to flight when he offers to God labors (Grk. ponoi; Syr. ‘amle) worthy of repentance” [Mark the Monk, On Baptism, 5]64.65

Dadisho‘ thus uses the writings of Mark the Monk to articulate an understanding of how sin may be overcome through ascetic practice. He does so in order to circumvent an anti-ascetic potential latent in the writings of Isaiah of Scetis, due to their transmission of Macarian and Pauline language. Yet Dadisho‘ was attuned to this potential not only by his reading of Mark the Monk, but also by his reading of East Syrian sources, including Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia

Gnostika. In turn, by drawing upon these sources, he ensured an ascetic interpretation of the writings of Isaiah of Scetis.

62 Synodicon Orientale, p. 196, ll. 21–22. The phrase is ‘ṭípín ’eskímā da-qyāmā, literally “the habit of the resurrection.” But the reference is to the monastic habit (cf. bnay qyāmā)

63 Babai, KGCOM 5.5, p. 321.

64 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 29. For the Greek source of this quotation, see Mark the Monk, On Baptism, 1:328.

65 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 74. 97

Fasting and Celibacy

As we turn to Dadisho‘’s understanding of the specific ascetic disciplines of fasting and celibacy, it will be helpful to recall Babai’s treatment of these practices. Babai transmitted

Evagrius’s view that fasting and celibacy were interrelated, since restricting one’s diet would weaken sexual desire and so facilitate celibacy. To put this another way, in order to redirect the

soul’s lusts toward God, the monk must first regulate the body’s materiality through fasting. As I

will show in this section, Dadisho‘’s commentaries expand upon these ideas and so develop

traditions rooted both in Evagrius and in Babai.

Like Babai, Dadisho‘ conceived of fasting and celibacy as twin disciplines that heal the

soul’s desire, or concupiscible faculty. In his commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, Dadisho‘ echoes

Babai’s understanding of the soul and its three faculties. As Dadisho‘ explains, it was the custom

of the Greeks and the monks of the Egyptian desert to refer to the soul by the name nous

(hawnā). Properly speaking, however, the nous is simply one of the three faculties (tlāt ḥayle) of

the soul — namely, the intellectual faculty — existing alongside of the concupiscible (regtā) and

irascible (ḥemtā) faculties.66 Although Dadisho‘ does not, in this case, cite Babai, he follows exactly the understanding of nous and soul that Babai had belabored in his exposition of

Evagrius.

Like Babai, Dadisho‘ holds that the goal of a monk’s asceticism is to restore the soul’s

faculties to the “natural health” with which God first endowed them.67 Dadisho‘ makes this point most clearly in his letter to Abkosh. As he tells his friend:

The concupiscible part of the soul, which was sickened by mixing with the concupiscence of the body, is healed, and so too, the concupiscence of the body [is

66 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 135.

67 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 136. 98

healed], and the two of them become one natural desire for God, through fasting (ṣawmā), the restriction of desires, and vigil, from which things chastity (nakpútā) is born.

Again, the irascible part of the soul, which, through sins, was mixed with the irascibility of the body, is healed, and so too, the irascibility of the body [is healed], and the two of them become one natural irascibility of the soul, which constantly prevails against the passions and demons, and which makes [one] firm in divine hope, through gentleness, humility, and mercy, from which things the love of neighbor is born.

And the nous (hawnā), which is the intellectual part of the soul, is healed through the reading of divine writings, the office of the Psalms, and constant prayers, from which things the love of God is born.68

Dadisho‘ thus echoes Babai’s taxonomy of monastic discipline, in which the different types of

askesis — bodily discipline, cultivation of virtuous dispositions, and reading and prayer — are

organized according to their curative effect on the three faculties of the soul (including the

nous).69 Within this ascetic taxonomy, fasting serves to heal the soul’s desire, a healing that is manifest in chastity.

So, too, the interrelated nature of fasting and celibacy is apparent at several points in

Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis. When Isaiah advises monks “not to be a friend of the belly,” Dadisho‘ explains that the material (mlú’ā) for sexual passion comes from food and

68 Dadisho‘, Letter to Abkosh, 8.

69 See above, ch. 1, pp. 59–61. Dadisho‘ attributes this understanding of the soul’s healing to “the holy fathers” (abāhātā qaddíshe). The roots of these ideas lie in Evagrius, but Dadisho‘’s elaboration of them follows closely Babai’s understanding of the healing of the tripartite soul as articulated in his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika. In particular, Dadisho‘’s treatment parallels the main themes of Babai’s commentary on the Evagrian “three ways of salvation” in KG 1.28: the concupiscible part of the soul is healed through the restriction of food, sleep, and other desires; the irascible part of the soul is healed through cultivating gentle and virtuous dispositions; and the rational part of the soul (identified with the hawnā) is healed through sacred reading and prayer. The other important aspect of Dadisho‘’s treatment — the idea of uniting the concupiscence and the irascibility of the body with those of the soul — is also well attested in Babai’s commentary; see, e.g., KGCOM 2.56, pp. 168–170. 99

drink.70 So, too, he warns that the Devil may trick a monk into thinking that the danger of sex has passed, so that the monk will feel free to indulge in food.71

Dadisho‘’s most vivid and extensive discussion of the relation between dietary regimens

and celibacy comes in his commentary on the Book of Paradise. Here, Dadisho‘ comments upon

a particularly abstruse saying of Evagrius recorded in the Historia Monachorum, in which

Evagrius tells his companions not to drink too much water, on the grounds that “demons

habitually go into places that have water.”72 Again, Dadisho‘’s discussion of this passage made its way, in abbreviated form, into the Syriac epitome that was edited by Bedjan, but it survives in full only in British Library MS Add. 17264.73 Dadisho‘’s commentary begins with the brothers

posing the following question:

70 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 100.

71 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 310.

72 Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, ed. A.-J. Festugiere, O.P. (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1961), p. 123, ch. 20, para. 16.

73 London British Library MS Add. 17264, 59r–60r: ܿ ̈ܐܐ ِܐ ِ ܐ (ܨܚ) ܒܐ ܐܘܓ. ܿܕ ܗܘܐ ̈ܐ ܕ ܕ ܼܒܢ ̈ܐ. ܼܐ ̈ ܠܙܐ .ܐܐܒ ܕ ܐ ܐ ܐܘܪܕ .ܢ ܐܕܼ ܐ .ܐ̈ ܒ ܒܕ ܐܘܒ̈ ܐܕ ܢܐ ܐܒ .ܐܿ ܐ ܗܕ . ܘ ܐ ܐܒܕܼ .ܢܘܒ ܐܕ̈ ܐܬܘܪ̈ܬܐܒ ܟ ܕ ܫ . ܐܓ ܪܒܘ ܄ܐܕ ܫܶ ܶ ܐ ܢܐܕ ܐܐܕ .ܐܿ ܢܕ ܝܗ̈ ܐ ܐܐ ܦܐ ܒܕ ܄ܐܐܒ ܘܗܿ ܐ ܕܿ ܐܒܕ ܐܕ ܘܗܿ ܐܕ ܐ ܣܘ ܐܐ ܄ܗܬܒܒ ܐ ܢܘܗܬܒ ܐܘܗ ܒܿ ܐܬܐܓ̈ ܐܒܙܕ̈ ܓ ܐܕ̈ ܦܐ ܫܓ ܐܗ ܄ܒ ܘܿ ܠܐܘܿ ܕ ܐܒ .ܒ̈ ܐܘ ܄̈ ܐ̈ ܕ ܐܒ̈ ܢܘ ܪ̈ ܄ܢܘܪ̈ܕ ܐܬܘܒ ܕ ܂ܐܐ ̈ ܟ ܠܙܐ ܐܕܕ .ܢ ܐܕܿ ܝܗܕ .ܐܘܿ ܕ ܐܒܘ ܕ ܐ ܐܘܪ ܓܘܐ ܒܕ ܐ ܐܬܙܕ ܐ ܐܕܕ . ܐܕܗ . ܘ ܐ ܐܒܕ .ܢܘܒ ܐܕ̈ ܐܬܘܪ̈ܬܐܒ ܿ ܶ ݃ ܐ ܐܘܗ ܘ ܐܗ ܐܒ ܐ ܐܙ ܐܕ̈ ܐ ܬܘܒܒ ܐ ܐܐܕ ܘܐܼ .ܐ ܐ̈ ܐܒ̈ ܐܘ .ܐܕ ܐܕ ܐܕ ܒܘܿ ܐ ܒܕ ܡ ܕ .ܐܗ ܐܕ ܒ ܐ ܐܘ .ܐܪ ܐܘܨ ܡ ܡܐܨܕܿ ܓ ܐ .ܐܗܒ ܐ ܨܐܕ ܝܗܿ ܐ .ܐܐܒ ܐ̈ ܦܐܘ ܬܘܒܘ ܘܨ ܪܿ ܡ .ܐ̈ ܐܿ ܓܕܿ ܘ .ܐܿ ܡ ܘܨ ܐܕܿ ܐܘ .ܿ ܐܬܒܕ̈ ܐܬܒܪ ܝܗ ܐ ܦܐ ܐܘ .ܐܕ ܐ̈ ܬܘܐܓܕܿ .ܐܓܪܕ ܐܒܕ ܐܒ ܗܐ ܐܘ .ܐܒ ܐܒ̈ ܗܬܘ ܐܐܒ ܐܒܒ̈ ܗܬܘ ܐ ܝܗ ܐ ܘ ܐܬܐܓ ܐܓܪ ܢܐܕ .ܐܿ ܓܘܐ ܝ ܪ ܐܬܐ ܐܘܒ ܢܓܒ .ܐܬܕܕ ܐܪܗ ܓ ܐܘܗܘ .ܐܒܕ ܗܬ ܕܬ ܗܘ ܨܐ ܐܕ̈ ܐܒ ܦܐܘ .ܐ ܪܘܒ .ܐܬ .ܟܬܒ ܐܬ ܐܒ ܐ ܩܒܕ 100

Brothers: Jerome says about Blessed Evagrius that he commanded the brothers who were with him not to satisfy themselves with water, (saying)74 The demons abide in the places where they seek water, as our Lord says: When the impure spirit went out from the man, he went roving about in the places in which there was no water, seeking rest, but he did not find [rest] [Matthew 12:43]. What is the meaning (manaw súkālā) of these things?75

This question, as framed by Dadisho‘, already connects Evagrius’s saying in the Historia

Monachorum to a Gospel passage about demons and water. According to Dadisho‘, Theodore of

Mopsuestia had provided a historical exegesis of this passage.76 In contrast, Evagrius’s gnomic

statement that “demons abide in the places where they seek water,” was a spiritual interpretation

(mpashsheq rúḥānā’it) of Matthew 12:43.77 Dadisho‘ unpacks Evagrius’s spiritual exegesis as

follows:

Blessed Evagrius interprets these [words of our Lord] spiritually, as befits our way of life, and he says that what78 our Lord said — that the demon went roving about in the places in which there was no water — This means (hāde msakklā): When the impure demon of fornication joins the monk in battle, if the monk constrains himself by restricting the drinking of water, then [the demon] will not conquer the monk by this passion [of fornication], and the demon will not attain its rest in the consummation of this passion. For there is nothing that desiccates the veins (sheryāne), restrains the flow of nocturnal emission (qeryā d-lilyā), and imparts chaste and peaceful thoughts during the day, as when a person constrains his stomach through thirst.

For one [type of monk] fasts every day the fast until the evening, and another passes the nights [in fasting], and when such a one breaks his fast, he eats a little something, but on account of having drunk a great amount of water, he does not profit at all from his fast

74 The direct quotation introduced by lam.

75 London BL MS Add. 17264, f. 59r.

76 London BL MS Add. 17264, ff. 59r–v.

77 London BL MS Add. 17264, f. 59v. The contrast between Theodore’s literal or historical exegesis and the spiritual exegesis of the monastic fathers is addressed by Dadisho‘ in his commentary on Isaiah of Scetis. Dadisho‘ holds that Theodore’s exegesis is valid, but that spiritual exegesis is more proper for monks. See esp. Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 155–56.

78 On this phrasing, see below, pp. 103–104. 101

and the restriction of food that he [undertakes] for the sake of the battle against desire. For the large quantity of water that he drinks floods his stomach and fills his veins with a great amount of moisture, and Satan finds against him a cause to excite him with thoughts during the day, and make him stumble with dreams during the night.

Therefore, in another place, Mar Evagrius makes this clear when he says “restrict your food, and also compel your stomach in the drinking of water, and then apatheia of the heart will arise for you, and in prayer you will see your mind shining like a star” [On Thoughts 43].79

Dadisho‘’s commentary presents us with a of dehydration. Excessive liquid in the

body makes the monk susceptible to the demon of fornication, causing sexual thoughts and

dreams. By the same token, drying out one’s veins protects celibacy. This is manifest not only in

chaste thoughts, but in the cessation of nocturnal emission, which functions as a bodily sign that the monk has withered his sexual energies.

Such ideas are reflected in a number of sources that grew out of the monastic traditions of the Egyptian desert.80 In one of his letters, Anthony the Great exhorts monks to purify the body from food, drink, and sleep. When they have achieved this self-purification, monks will free their bodies from the natural emission of semen.81 Dadisho‘’s commentary explains these ideas by

identifying their underlying physiological basis. According to Galenic medicine, blood flows through the veins to the testicles, and along this course, the blood turns into semen.82 Thus, as

79 London BL MS Add. 17264, ff. 59v–60r.

80 David Brakke, “The Problematization of Nocturnal Emission in Early Christian Syria, Egypt, and Gaul,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 3.4 (1995): 419–60.

81 Migne, ed., PG 40, col. 979. See Brakke, “The Problematization of Nocturnal Emission,” 436– 37.

82 The process of the blood’s transformation into semen takes place largely after the blood has reached the testicles but begins in the blood veins themselves. See Galen, On Semen, ed. and trans. Phillip de Lacy (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1992), 132–35. Cf. Gianna Pomata, “Blood Ties and Semen Ties: Consanguinity and Agnation in Roman Law,” in Gender, Kinship, Power: 102

Dadisho‘ suggests, by drying out the veins, a monk can eliminate the flow that produces semen and so reduce both sexual fantasies and nocturnal emission. This medically-grounded explanation of the effect of water on the monk’s body parallels that of Babai. As we saw in the last chapter, Babai describes lust as deriving from fluid emitted by the kidneys,83 and he quotes

Evagrius’s statement that fasting “dries up” desire.84

It is important to note that it is not initially clear in this passage where Evagrius’s voice

ends and where that of Dadisho‘ begins.85 The way the beginning of the passage is phrased

(“[Evagrius] says [or “is saying”] that what our Lord said… this means…) could imply that the commentary is providing a long and otherwise unattested saying of Evagrius (this phrasing may, however, be the result of a scribal error).86 Yet several other features of the text present Dadisho‘

A Comparative and Interdisciplinary History, ed. Mary Jo Maynes et al. (New York: Routledge, 1996), 55.

83 Babai, KGCOM 5.72, p. 350.

84 Babai, KGCOM 2.9, p. 134 (quoting On Thoughts 3).

85 In fact, both David Brakke and Elizabath Clark attributed this entire passage to Evagrius, without any indication that it derived from Dadisho‘’s commentary (Brakke, “The Problematization of Nocturnal Emission,” 439; Elizabeth Clark, The Origenist Controversy: The Cultural Construction of an Early Christian Debate [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992], 82). This was, however, simply a case of relying on incomplete information. Clark based her analysis on Budge’s translation of Bedjan’s edition of the shorter Syriac version of this text (see Clark, Origenist Controversy, 82 n. 292), and neither Bedjan, Budge, or Clark was aware that this text was in fact a Syriac epitome of Dadisho‘’s commentary, a point that was conclusively demonstrated by Sims-Williams two years after Clark’s study (See Sims-Williams, “Dādišo‘ Qaṭraya’s Commentary,” 35–38). In turn, Brakke based his analysis on that of Clark, without being aware of Sims-Williams’s article (see Brakke, “The Problematization of Nocturnal Emission,” 439, n. 71).

86 The Syriac epitome reads: “he says what our Lord says (ܢ ܐܕ ܝܗܿ ܐܘܿ ) — that the demon went roving about in the places in which there was no water. This means…”, where the full version in London BL MS Add. 17264 reads: “he says that what our Lord says ( ܐܕ ܝܗܕܿ ܐܘܿ ܢ) — that the demon went roving about in the places in which there was no water. This means…” The reading of the Syriac epitome thus more clearly presents Dadisho‘ as the source 103

as the source of the teaching about water’s effect on the monk’s body. The phrase “this means”

(hāde msakklā), which introduces the substantial discussion of Evagrius’s saying in the Historia

Monachorum, answers to the brothers’ question “what is the meaning (manaw súkālā) [of

Evagrius’s words],” and thus signals the beginning of Dadisho‘’s explanation of Evagrius.

Furthermore, Dadisho‘’s main point, in response to the brothers’ question, is that Evagrius’s strange saying “the demons abide in the places where they seek water” was a spiritual interpretation (mpashsheq rúḥānā’it) of Matthew 12:43. This implies that the longer, central discussion is not Evagrius’s spiritual interpretation, but rather Dadisho‘’s explanation of

Evagrius’s spiritual exegesis — that is, Dadisho‘ elucidating what Evagrius meant by expounding the Gospel passage with the phrase “the demons abide in the places where they seek water.”87 Yet if the authorial voice of this passage is ambiguous, this ambiguity has a function.

By blending together Dadisho‘’s own words with those of Evagrius, the commentary integrates

Evagrian words and ideas into a growing tradition of monastic thought.

Here, as elsewhere, Dadisho‘ developed his ascetic vision in dialogue not only with

Greek monastic sources, but also with earlier East Syrian texts. In this chapter, we have seen three types of relations between Dadisho‘’s and Babai’s writings: Dadisho‘ quoted Babai’s writings (his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika and his rule for novices) explicitly in his

of the central discussion. For the text of the Syriac epitome, see Bedjan (ed.), Acta Martyrum, Tomus Septimus, 946.

87 In addition to these points, the fact that Dadisho‘ quotes Evagrius’s On Thoughts at the end, in support of the central discussion, indicates that this central discussion comes from Dadisho‘ himself. This also seems to be the best way to understand Dadisho‘’s suggestion that Evagrius’s words in On Thoughts act as a clarification (mnahhar): the statement in On Thoughts is no clearer than the long discussion provided in Dadisho‘’s commentary, but it is substantially clearer than the gnomic utterance of Evagrius in the Historia Monachorum. Dadisho‘’s point seems to be that Evagrius, too, makes clear in another place (viz., On Thoughts) the strange saying recorded in the Historia Monachorum, which Dadisho‘ has just expounded for his brothers. 104

commentary on Isaiah of Scetis; he drew upon specific language attested in Babai’s commentary

on Evagrius (the attack on those who teach that “sin lies in nature”); and, more generally, he

developed ascetic themes articulated by Babai in his commentary, such as the interrelation between fasting and celibacy and their role in healing the tripartite soul. This suggests that

Dadisho‘’s commentaries were, in part, an effort to deepen and develop ascetic ideals advanced by Babai’s writings. More broadly, it means that Dadisho‘’s commentarial project cannot be viewed in isolation, but must be understood as belonging to a broader East Syrian engagement with Late Antique monastic traditions, an engagement that continued to mature into the

Umayyad period.

The Anonymous Commentaries

This part of the chapter examines the three anonymous monastic commentaries and demonstrates their interrelation with the commentaries of Babai and Dadisho‘. I will begin with the anonymous commentary on the Spiritual Law of Mark the Monk, which is likely the earliest of the three. This text was probably composed before Dadisho‘’s commentaries, and the likeliest candidate for its authorship is Babai himself. The commentary survives in a ninth-century88 manuscript, British Library MS Add. 17270, covering 42 fragmentary folios.89 The fragmentary

88 According to Paul Krüger, Überlieferung und Verfasser der beiden Memre über das ‘geistige Gesetz’ des Mönches Markus,” Ostkirchliche Studien 6 (1957): 297; and W. Wright, Catalogue of Syriac manuscripts in the British Museum acquired since the year 1838, 3 vols. (London: British Museum, Department of Oriental Printed Books and Manuscripts, 1870 –72), 2:482a (manuscript DCV).

89 London British Library MS Add. 17270, ff. 1r–42v. 105

nature of this text frustrates analysis. Some folios only survive as scraps containing a few words,

and others are so worn down as to be illegible in many places.90

According to the catalogue of ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, commentaries on Mark the Monk were composed both by Babai91 and by Abraham bar Dashandad (fl. 8th c.).92 Paul Krüger, the first scholar to examine this commentary closely, identified Babai as its author. He based this identification upon what he thought was Babai’s name written “ganz deutlich” on folio 40v, toward the end of the manuscript.93 However, both Otmar Hesse and Antoine Guillaumont have

correctly refuted Krüger’s reading of this folio and have, accordingly, cast doubt upon the text’s

attribution to Babai.94 Aside from his erroneous reading of folio 40v, the most convincing piece

90 A reconstruction and summary of the surviving contents was undertaken in 1960 by Paul Krüger (“Zum theologischen Menschenbild”), who attributed the commentary to Babai. Yet Krüger himself expressed a dim view of the manuscript: “Von den 42 Blättern ist kaum eines leserlich, eine ganze Reihe bieten nur verstümmelte Sätze” (Krüger, “Zum theologischen Menschenbild,” 47).

91 ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue, 95–96.

92 ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue, 194.

93 Krüger, “Überlieferung und Verfasser,” 298.

94 Antoine Guillaumont, “Le Témoignage de Babai le Grand sur les Messaliens,” in Symposium Syriacum 1976, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 205 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1978), 264, citing Otmar Hesse, “Markus Eremita in der Syrischen Literatur,” in XVII. Deutscher Orientalistentag, ed. W. Voight (Wiesbaden: 1969), 454 n. 17. Guillaumont also cast doubt on Babai’s authorship on the grounds that the commentary refers only once to the Messalians (f. 19r), and that, since Babai viewed Mark the Monk as an opponent of Messalians, he would presumably have discussed the Messalians at greater length in his commentary; Guillaumont, “Témoignage de Babai,” 265. This argument is not, however, convincing. Babai did indeed identify Mark the Monk’s On Baptism as an anti-Messalian work, but he nowhere says that Mark the Monk’s Spiritual Law or that Mark’s writings in general were anti-Messalian. Although Babai mentions the Messalians several times in his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika, one can find several spans of 42 pages or longer in the KG commentary, in which there are no references to Messalians, let alone one reference! (And the pages edited by Frankenberg contain significantly more text than the folios of the commentary on Mark the Monk). Thus the fact that Messalians are mentioned only once in the commentary on the Spiritual Law does not 106

of internal evidence discovered by Krüger was that the anonymous commentary, raising the example of Evagrius’s Kephalaia Gnostika, discusses the number of kephalaia in Mark’s

Spiritual Law in a manner similar to the way in which Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia

Gnostika discusses the number of kephalaia in that text.95 Yet all this really suggests is that the anonymous commentary on Mark the Monk was written either by Babai or by someone familiar with Babai’s commentary, which could include any number of East Syrian authors.

In the following, I will examine the anonymous commentary’s discussion of fasting on folio 17r, which is one of the more legible sections of the manuscript. Here, the commentary contains a clear textual parallel with a passage in Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis.

This parallel, which was not noticed by Krüger, Hesse, or Guillaumont, provides important evidence for situating the anonymous commentary on Mark the Monk within the East Syrian monastic commentary tradition.

At the top of folio 17r, the anonymous commentary addresses Spiritual Law 195, where

Mark the Monk distinguishes between practice of the commandments and virtue. The commentator states:

What is the practice of the commandments, when one does something commanded, what is virtue, when the thing is pleasing to the truth of the will of the Commander [Spiritual Law 195]… his sentence by an argument from nature, saying: Just as sensible wealth is one, but in its creation96 is many parts, so too one is virtue, although it has a multitude

provide any grounds for rejecting its attribution to Babai. More recently, Vittorio Berti, who does not cite Krüger’s articles, suggests that the commentary was composed by Abraham bar Dashandad, but does not provide any reason for this attribution. Vittorio Berti, Vita e studi di Timoteo I, 823, patriarca cristiano di Baghdad: ricerche sull’epistolario e sulle fonti contigue (Paris: Association pour l’avancement des études iraniennes, 2009), 124 n. 364.

95 Krüger, “Überlieferung und Verfasser,” 299; cf. Guillaumont, “Témoignage de Babai,” 264.

96 ba-bríteh is a hyper-literal translation of Mark’s kata ktisin. Although ktisin should here be taken in the sense of “acquisition,” it was translated as brítā due to the correspondence between brítā and ktisis in its alternative sense of “creation.” 107

of types of practice [Spiritual Law 196]. That is, there is [a multitude] of aims (níshe) to each one of the virtues of the commandments…97

As the anonymous commentary explains, every type of practice can be undertaken with different aims, or intentions. The commentary illustrates this point through the example of fasting:

For example, in the virtue of fasting: One [sort of person] fasts simply, another [fasts] on account of habit and nature, another [fasts] on account of human praise, another [fasts] on account of being fat98 , another [fasts] on account of fear, another [fasts] on account of , and another [fasts] on account of God…99

In expounding Spiritual Law 195, the anonymous commentator thus introduces a schema of

different motivations for fasting, which range from religious reasons to health to vanity.

In his commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, Dadisho‘ also addresses Mark the Monk’s

Spiritual Law 195, and in so doing, he also provides a schema of different motivations for

fasting. Dadisho‘’s starting point is the statement of Isaiah of Scetis, “Actions are by way of the

virtues, but bodily toils (‘amle pagrānāye) are by knowledge.”100 As Dadisho‘ explains, Isaiah is

calling attention to the intentions that underlie ascetic action. To explain this idea, Dadisho‘ brings in two other monastic authorities. First, as Dadisho‘ writes, citing Spiritual Law 195,

97 Italicized font directly corresponds to the Greek text of Mark the Monk; roman font indicates words unrepresented in the Greek text. For the Greek texts of Spiritual Law 195–96, see Mark the Monk, The Spiritual Law: Georges-Matthieu de Durand (ed.), Marc le Moine. Traités, 2 vols. (Paris: Cerf, 1999–2000), 1:124–26.

98 Or, possibly, “education” (tarbítā).

99 London BL MS Add. 17270, f. 17r: ܗ ... ܐܕܕ ܒܨ ܪ ܂ܐܬܘܪ ܕ ܘܗ ܐ .ܕ ܡ ܐ ܒ ܐ̈ ܕ ܿ ܝܗ ܐ ܐܗ ܄ܘܗ ܐ̈ ܓ ܗܒܒ ܄ܐܓܪ ܐܪܬ ܘܗ ܕ ܐܐ ܄ܐܿ ܐ ܐܒ ܐܬܪ̈ ܐ ܐ ܐ ܐ̈ ܬܘ (ܓ) ܄ܐܕ ܐ̈ ܬܓ ܿ ܐ ܐܬܘ(ܪ) ܐܒ ܕ ܘ ܂ܐܘ ܐ ܕ ܘ ܂ܐ ܡܐܨܕ ܕ ܂ܐܘܨܕ ܐܬܘܪܕ ܐܐ ...ܐܕ̈ ...ܐܐ ܕ ܐܘ ܂() ܕ ܘ ܂ܐܕ ܕ ܘ ܂() ܐܒܪܬ ܕ ܘ ܂ܐܐ

100 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 289. 108

Mark the Monk distinguishes virtue from mere practice.101 In turn, Evagrius emphasizes the

motivations underlying monastic action, when he states:

Near to the northern side of Alexandria, there is a lake called Maria. A monk used to live near the lake, and he was an elect from among the troop of the gnostikoi (yad‘otāne). He said that all the deeds of monks are performed on account of five reasons (Grk. aitiai, Syr. ‘ellān): God, nature, habit (Grk. ethos, Syr. ‘yādā), compulsion, or manual labor. He also said that virtue is one by nature, but that it takes many forms in the different faculties of the soul. For it is like sunlight, which is without shape, but which acquires different shapes after the likeness of the windows in which it enters.102

According to Dadisho‘, the distinguished gnostic from Alexandria who was the source of this

teaching was “perhaps Blessed Mark [the Monk].”103 In fact, Evagrius was almost certainly

referring to Didymus of Alexandria, whom Evagrius elsewhere calls “the great gnostic

teacher.”104 Dadisho‘, however, followed Babai in viewing Didymus as an Origenist heretic.105

He thus reinterprets Evagrius’s great gnostic as being Mark the Monk, due to the overlapping

content of the Didymian-Evagrian teaching and Mark’s sentence in On the Spiritual Law.

In turn, Dadisho‘ elucidates Evagrius’s teaching on the different motivations for monastic

action (which he attributes to Mark the Monk) by applying Evagrius’s five reasons for action to

the practice of fasting. As Dadisho‘ writes:

One [sort of person] fasts on account of God alone. He constrains his will and compels his desire so that he should fast and be compelled, so that his passions be subdued by

101 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 289.

102 Evagrius, Praktikos 98; Traité pratique, 2:706.

103 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 290.

104 Evagrius, Gnostikos 48; Le Gnostique, ou à celui qui est devenu digne de la science, ed. Antoine Guillaumont and Claire Guillaumont (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1989), 186.

105 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 273, and especially 262, where Dadisho states that a statement of Babai’s regarding the soul in Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika was directed against “Didymus the heretic.” 109

fasting, Nazirism, and asceticism, so that he should not sin, or grow angry at her106 Creator, and so that his107 mind should be made habituated to reflection on his God, and so that his mind should be enlightened by dwelling upon the love of [God’s] command. This is the fasting that is on account of God.

Another fasts because he is sick and is not able to be nourished, or so that he will become hungrier and then become more nourished. This is the fasting on account of nature.

Another fasts because he has been habituated to fasting and not on account of virtue, but on account of necessary events, such as those merchants who spend the whole day engaged in commerce and do not have the time to eat until the evening, or those researchers, who, when they are trying to grasp the sense of a text, fast without wishing to, so that their mind may better grasp the meaning. This is the fasting on account of habit.

Another fasts from fear, under compulsion, because he is not thinking of anything but the commandment, which constrains him to fast and is an external fear; or again [one may fast from compulsion], because he does not have nourishment. This is the fast on account of compulsion.

And another fasts because he is seized by the passion of avarice, and he fasts so that his body will grow smaller and he will be able to practice the whole day, or because when he eats a lot, his purse shrinks a lot. This is the fasting on account of manual labor.108

Dadisho‘’s discussion of the motivations for fasting shares verbatim similarities with the much shorter discussion of the motivations for fasting in the anonymous commentary on Mark the

Monk. These similarities include the structures “One [sort of person] fasts…” (ít d-ṣā’im…) and

“Another fasts on account of…” (ít d-ṣā’im meṭṭul…), as well as references to the same motivations for fasting, such as fasting on account of fear (deḥltā) and fasting on account of

habit (‘yādā). Moreover, the context for their discussion of fasting is the same. Both Dadisho‘ and the anonymous commentary provide the different motivations for fasting as a gloss on Mark

106 As earlier, this text combines masculine participial forms (“the one who fasts”) with feminine pronominal enclitics (“her Creator”). Draguet attributes this to punctuation error.

107 Here, in contrast, a masculine pronominal enclitic.

108 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 290. 110

the Monk’s distinction between practice of the commandments and virtue, as expressed in

Spiritual Law 195 — in spite of the fact that Mark makes no allusion to fasting in this text. In

turn, in both commentaries, the purpose of this gloss is to illustrate the different types of intention (níshā) that can underlie ascetic action, and so to direct the monk toward the proper

type of intention, which is action (in this case, fasting) for the sake of God.

These lexical and contextual parallels make it highly likely that the treatments of fasting

provided by Dadisho‘ and the anonymous commentator are textually related. The exact nature of this relation and its implications for the authorship of the commentary is, however, uncertain.

One may consider three possibilities:

1) Dadisho‘ was drawing upon the anonymous commentary on Mark the Monk. This scenario is the most plausible. Dadisho‘ was certainly well read, and it seems quite likely that he would have consulted a commentary on Mark the Monk when explaining a Markan text in his own exposition of Isaiah (especially if such a commentary were written by Babai). Moreover, this scenario easily explains the differences between the two commentaries’ discussions of fasting: namely, Dadisho‘ conformed the types of fasting listed in the commentary on Mark the

Monk to Evagrius’s fivefold typology of intentions, since he viewed this Evagrian typology as deriving from Mark.109

2) Alternatively, it is possible that the author of the anonymous commentary drew upon

Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis. Since, in this scenario, the anonymous commentary would postdate Dadisho‘’s commentary, it could not have been written by Babai, but may well have been composed by Abraham bar Dashandad (fl. 8th c.). With this scenario, however, it is

difficult to explain why the anonymous author, who explicitly discusses Evagrius later in the

109 At the same time, he would have connected Evagrius’s fourth cause for action (necessity) to fear (“deḥltā”) because the anonymous commentary mentions a fasting on account of fear. 111

commentary, would choose to borrow Dadisho‘’s example of different types of fasting, but abandon the Evagrian typology of five reasons for action that structured Dadisho‘’s discussion.

3) Finally, it is possible that Dadisho‘ himself authored the anonymous commentary. In

this scenario, Dadisho‘ would have provided the same example of different types of fasting in

both commentaries, but chose to conform the example to the Evagrian typology only in the

commentary on Isaiah. In this case, however, we would have to assume that ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika

was unaware of Dadisho‘’s commentary on Mark the Monk.

It thus seems most likely that the anonymous commentary on Mark the Monk predates

Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis and that Dadisho‘ used the anonymous commentary in his own exposition of Isaiah — a point that provides further support for attributing the anonymous commentary to Babai. Yet each of the three scenarios outlined above is possible, and no conclusive statement on the commentary’s authorship can yet be made. Nevertheless, all three possibilities show that the anonymous commentary on Mark the Monk was embedded within a

wider commentarial tradition. Far from being an isolated exposition of a monastic text, it contains a thematic parallel with Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika — the discussion of the number of chapters in Mark the Monk’s Spiritual Law and in Evagrius’s

Kephalaia Gnostika — and it contains a textual relation with Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis. In short, the anonymous commentary on Mark the Monk was intertwined with other

East Syrian monastic commentaries, belonging to a broader tradition of interpreting both Greek monastic texts and deep-rooted ascetic practices such as fasting.

112

The Anonymous Commentary on Isaiah of Scetis

In addition to editing Dadisho‘’s commentary on Isaiah, René Draguet edited an anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, which survives in fragments across nine

manuscripts.110 This anonymous commentary is, in fact, largely derivative of Dadisho‘’s, which

it quotes extensively, without attribution and without indication of where quoted material ends

and original material begins. Draguet described the commentary as “a kind of patchwork,

constructed using extracts from Dadisho‘, and which only cites Isaiah insofar as he was cited by

Dadisho‘.”111 The author’s originality was, in Draguet’s estimation, minimal. As he argued, in

places where we can use the surviving text of Dadisho‘ as a control, the modifications made by

the anonymous commentator take the form of the addition of “commonplace words” or a

“supporting phrase” inspired by a theme derived elsewhere from Dadisho‘.112 As I will demonstrate, however, the anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis not only transmits basic

themes in Dadisho‘’s commentary, but also adapts and alters them, and even occasionally contradicts Dadisho‘’s views. In this sense, the anonymous commentary should be considered a supercommentary on Dadisho‘’s own exposition of Isaiah.

The authorship and dating of the anonymous commentary are uncertain.113 The earliest manuscript witnesses are from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, while a terminus post quem

110 Commentaire anonyme (first cited above, p. 77, n. 1).

111 See Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire anonyme, IX: “le Commentaire anonyme n’est pas le Commentaire de Dadišo, mais, en ordre principal, une sorte de centon construit avec des extraits de celui-ci, et qui ne cite IS[aïe] que pour autant que D[adišo] le citait pour le commenter.”

112 See Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire anonyme, XIV.

113 Following a suggestion of Assemani, Anton Baumstark argued that the Anonymous commentary was likely written by Joseph Hazzaya. His argument was based upon the fact that 113

would be the late seventh century, when Dadisho‘ was active.114 That the commentator was a

male monk writing for other male monks is made sadly obvious by the derogatory references to

women and the warning to readers not to associate with women after drinking alcohol.115 The best piece of evidence for the authorship and dating of the anonymous commentary is a translation of it into Arabic Garshuni, which survives in an unedited manuscript, Paris BNF MS

Syriaque 239, copied in the year 1493.116 The manuscript rubric describes the commentary as:

“Teaching of Abba Isaiah, interpreted by one of the students (talāmīdh) of Mar Isaac.”117 This manuscript, which attributes the commentary to a student of Isaac of Nineveh, contains sections of the text that are absent from the surviving fragments of the Syriac version. In one of these

‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika’s catalogue refers to Joseph Hazzaya as having written an exposition of the work called the “Merchant’s Book” (‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue, 102) and upon the supposition that Palladius’s Historia Lausiaca refers to Isaiah of Scetis as having been a merchant before his conversion to the monastic life. Anton Baumstark, Geschichte der syrischen Literatur (Bonn: A. Marcus und E. Webers, 1922), 223. This evidence is, however, of little use for determining the authorship and dating of the anonymous commentary and has been dismissed by Draguet. For one thing, as Draguet noted, the Historia Lausiaca in fact appears to imply that Isaiah refused to become a merchant like his father. More importantly, metaphors surrounding “merchants” were common ways of describing the monastic and mystical life, due to the evangelical story of the merchant who sells all to buy the pearl of great price (Matthew 13:45– 46). The “Book of/on the Merchant,” expounded by Joseph Hazzaya, was likely a treatise on the monastic life. See Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire anonyme, XVI–XVII. There is no reason to suppose that ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika’s entry on the commentary of Joseph Hazzaya was referring to a commentary on a text written by a merchant, let alone that said merchant was Isaiah of Scetis — especially since ‘Abdisho‘ refers to Dadisho’s commentary on Isaiah of Scetis not as an exposition on the Book of the Merchant, but as an exposition on “Father Isaiah.”

114 See Draguet’s introduction to his edition, Commentaire anonyme, IX–XVIII.

115 Commentaire anonyme, 13.

116 See Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire anonyme, XVIII.

117 Paris BNF MS Syriaque 239, f. 266r: ܬ ܐܒ ܐܐ: ܗ ݇ܘܐ ܬ ܐܪ ܐܐܩ = ﺗﻌﻠﻳﻡ ﺍﻻﺏ ﺍﺷﻌﻳﺎ: ﻓﺳﺭﻩ ﻭﺍﺣﺩ ﻣﻥ ﺗﻼﻣﻳﺫ ﻣﺎﺭ ﺍﺳﺣﺎﻕ 114

passages, we find the phrase: “just as Saint Mar Isaac [of Nineveh], my teacher (mu‘allimī) said.”118 Draguet argued that the terms teacher and student in such contexts typically indicate a

personal relationship, rather than someone who, perhaps many generations later, looked back to a

saint as his or her spiritual master. If such an interpretation is accepted, it would mean that the

anonymous commentary was composed in the late seventh to mid-eighth century by a younger

contemporary of Isaac of Nineveh.119

In providing the extracts from Dadisho‘, the anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis

transmits many of the main themes of Dadisho‘’s ascetic vision described earlier in this chapter,

including his emphasis on shelyā120 and his understanding of sin and the ascetic overcoming of

sin.121 In addition, the anonymous commentary includes an abbreviated form of Dadisho‘’s discussion in his commentary on the Book of Paradise about water, sexual passion, and nocturnal

118 Paris BNF MS Syriaque 239, f. 280r: ܐ ݇ܐܠ ܐ ܐܪ ܐܐܩ = ﻛﻣﺎ ﻗﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﻘﺩﻳﺱ ﻣﺎﺭ ﺍﺳﺣﺎﻕ ﻣﻌﻠﻣﻲ

119 See Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire anonyme, XXV–XXVI.

120 This is especially the case in fragment 4, in which the anonymous commentary addresses the twentieth discourse of Isaiah. This discourse, according to the commentary, is on the virtues necessary for the brothers “who live in shelyā.” Commentaire anonyme, 39. Dadisho‘’s commentary, as it comes down to us, stopped with the fifteenth discourse, so this section in the anonymous commentary may represent an extension of Dadisho‘’s approach to the rest of Isaiah’s corpus. Due to the similarity in style of these passages to the rest of Dadisho‘’s commentary, however, Draguet argues that the anonymous commentary is likely transmitting chapters from Dadisho‘’s commentary that did not survive elsewhere. See Draguet’s introduction to his translation, Commentaire anonyme, XII–XIII, XV.

121 Here, the anonymous commentary omits Dadisho‘’s explicit reference to “indwelling sin” and “habit” and instead emphasizes the persistence of Satan’s incitement to sin, as well as the monk’s capacity to resist this incitement.

115

emission, but with the references to the Historia Monachorum omitted and with Evagrius’s

“spiritual exegesis” reattributed to Isaiah of Scetis.122

To show how the anonymous commentary adapts Dadisho‘’s exposition of Isaiah, I will

focus on the two commentators’ different attitudes toward wine, which is part of their broader

treatment of monastic diet and celibacy. Several Late Antique monastic traditions allow the

consumption of wine. One such tradition is the saying of Isaiah of Scetis, “If you happen upon

wine (ḥamrā)123, take up to three cups, but do not break a commandment on account of the wine.” Although the purpose of this saying is to limit the amount of wine a monk may drink, it permits wine consumption in general. In his commentary on this saying of Isaiah, Dadisho‘ is careful to note that wine drinking is forbidden for youths, who are more susceptible to sexual

passion. At the same time, Dadisho‘ implies that older monks may drink wine:

As for children (ṭalye) and youths (‘layme), who take care to guard chastity (nakpútā), it is utterly foreign for them to drink wine (ḥamrā) or intoxicant (shakrā)124. If they enter a city and someone wishes to refresh them, and they are of the same age, and the one who invites them is of the same level of honor, then it is right for them to guard the commandment of Abba Isaiah. But if elders (sābe) are with them, and the one who invites them is a leader of the church or someone who is honored in the world, then they are not subject to the canon.125

Dadisho‘’s gloss limits abstinence from wine and intoxicant to the young, or more precisely the

young when not in the presence of sābe — elders, or advanced monks.126 In so doing, Dadisho‘

122 Commentaire anonyme, 13–14.

123 Cognate with the Arabic khamr, the drink forbidden in the Qur’an (Q 5:90–91; 2:219).

124 Related to the English word “sugar,” but here, as in Arabic, in the sense of an intoxicating drink or liquor. Cf. sakar in Qur’an 16:67.

125 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 94.

126 Cf. gerōn in Greek, shaykh in Arabic. 116

implies that older, advanced monks are permitted to drink wine and that even young monks may

drink wine in certain contexts.127

The anonymous commentary takes up the same saying from Isaiah of Scetis. In this case, however, it does not repeat Dadisho‘’s commentary. Instead, it states:

Saint Evagrius, too, thus says: “O you who desire chastity, you and wine have nothing to do with each other. Withdraw from wine, lest it kindle the fermenting heat of passion.” Do not, that is, cast fire upon fire, lest you fall into the hands of the demon of fornication. How beautiful is this admonition and full of profit for the friends of chastity (nakpútā) — not only youths (‘layme), but also perfect elders (sābe gmíre). For, lo, many elders (sābe), who by the grace of God have conquered the passions and entered into the haven and rest of apatheia, have for their whole lives been Nazirites, abstaining from wine.128

The anonymous commentary rejects any license for wine drinking, whether for the young or the elderly, a point that directly contradicts Dadisho‘’s commentary. The anonymous commentary’s insistence that not only youths, but also older or advanced monks should renounce wine to protect their chastity seems to be a direct response to Dadisho‘’s suggestion that only youths — and not elders — must abstain from wine to guard their chastity.

This argument is corroborated by another passage in the two commentaries, in which the anonymous commentator adapts Dadisho‘’s exposition in order to insist upon a complete prohibition of wine drinking. In his fourth “admonition,” Isaiah of Scetis states, “Love every humiliation and your passions shall be overcome.” Dadisho‘ had commented on this as follows:

Love every humiliation and your passions shall be overcome. For as long, that is, as you are a novice (sharwāyā), and have not attained to the labors of the mind as the elders (sābe) have, and are healthy, habituate yourself to bodily labors — fasting, vigils, Nazirism, sleeping on the ground, a multitude of genuflections and prostrations — so

127 Here, it is worth recalling that, according to Muslim sources, some monasteries in the Islamic world were centers of wine production and distribution. See Elizabeth Campbell, A Heaven of Wine: Muslim-Christian Encounters at Monasteries in the Early Islamic Middle East (Ph.D. diss., University of Washington, 2009), 112–54, esp. 115, 123–24.

128 Commentaire anonyme, 15. 117

that when the vigor of the body is slackened from labors, even your passions shall be overcome by the divine power that is hidden in the practice of the commandments.129

The anonymous commentary, however, gives the following interpretation (boldface words

represent verbatim overlap with Dadisho‘):

“Love every humiliation and your passions shall be overcome.” He means: For as long as you are healthy, habituate yourself to bodily labors — fasting until the evening or continual [fasting]; Nazirism, which consists in [abstinence] from all fatty foods, in restricting food and the drinking of water, in the complete prohibition of wine and every drink130 (kelyānā gmírā d-men ḥamrā w-kul mashtyā), in despicable clothing, in walking [barefoot?], in sleeping on the ground, in the office of seven hours night and day, with long-lasting genuflections and vehement prostrations, in continual, hidden prayer of the mind, in reading in between the hours [of the divine office], in humility before God and before all human beings, in mourning, weeping, suffering, and tears of the heart — so that when the vigor of the body is slackened, even your passions shall be overcome by the divine power that is hidden in the practice of the commandments.131

The anonymous commentary explains the meaning of the different types of bodily ascetic

practice listed by Dadisho‘. These are the sort of glosses that Draguet dismissed as constituting

simply the addition of “commonplace” or “supporting” words and phrases. In fact, they are quite more than that. Of particular interest is the commentary’s explanation of Dadisho‘’s term

“Nazirism” (nzírútā). This term goes back to the “ vow” (nedrā da-nzírútā) in the Book

of Numbers (6:2), which begins with abstinence from wine (ḥamrā) and intoxicant (shakrā)

(6:3).132 As Jason Scully has shown, the use of this term became common among East Syrian ascetics in the seventh century, beginning with Dadisho‘. Although Dadisho‘ frequently

129 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 96.

130 Presumably in the sense of every intoxicating drink, just as, in English, someone who “doesn’t drink” is someone who abstains from alcohol.

131 Commentaire anonyme, 10.

132 I give here the terms used in the Syriac Peshitta. The Hebrew is neder nāzír (“Nazirite vow”), yayin (“wine”), shekār (“intoxicant”). 118

mentions Nazirism in lists of ascetic practices, he never explains what the term means.133 In the anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis, the commentator’s gloss serves to explain that, by

“Nazirism,” Dadisho‘ means the monk’s dietary regimen, including complete abstinence from wine.

Yet the most telling, as well as the subtlest act of adaptation is the way in which the anonymous commentator quotes Dadisho‘ in this passage. Dadisho‘’s commentary had explicitly limited the bodily ascetic practices, including Nazirism, to novices (sharwāye) and implied that elders or advanced monks (sābe) will progress beyond bodily toils: “For as long, that is, as you are a novice (sharwāyā), and have not attained to the labors of the mind as the elders (sābe) have, and are healthy, habituate yourself to bodily labors…”134 The anonymous commentary,

however, omits the references to novices and elders, and so implies that bodily toils, including

Nazirite abstinence from wine, should be embraced by all monks: “For as long as you are

healthy, habituate yourself to bodily labors…” Given the divergence between the two commentaries already shown — that the anonymous commentator wished to extend the Nazirite prohibition on wine to older monks — the omission of Dadisho‘’s limitation of bodily toils to novices must be understood as a deliberate alteration of Dadisho‘’s meaning.

What of the longer passages in the anonymous commentary that are unattested in

Dadisho‘? Draguet was of the opinion that these were all likely derived from sections of

Dadisho‘’s commentary that did not survive elsewhere. But could any of these passages have

133 In contrast, Isaac of Nineveh provides more detailed discussion of Nazirism, linking it to fasting, celibacy, and the ascetic’s function as a mediator between God and humans. Jason Scully, “The Exaltation of Seth and Nazirite Asceticism in the ,” Vigiliae Christiane 68 (2014): 321–23.

134 Dadisho‘ discusses novices here because he views this entire discourse of Isaiah (titled “Commandments for those who withdraw from the world”) as directed at novices (sharwāye); see Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 92. 119

been composed by the anonymous commentator? In one of the passages that is unattested in

Dadisho‘, the anonymous commentary recounts a litany of wine’s dangers. It states:

Wine (ḥamrā) inflames irascibility and strengthens concupiscence, as the fathers say. Wine has cast forth many murders, has worked and still works many defilements. Wine works in the monk what [even] the demons are unable to work. Wine is the progenitor of fornication, even among the sick and elderly (sābe). 135 Wine is the font of fornication, even among the wise and sober-minded. Wine sows among the elderly (sābe) the thoughts of the young (‘layme). Wine denuded Noah the just [Gen. 9:21]. Wine made Lot have sex with his daughters [Gen. 19:33-35].

It is difficult to guard holiness in the presence of the one who pillages the mind of the saints.136 But when wine enters the veins (sheryāne), then the monk does not even do his own will, because from that point on he does not even have authority over his own will.137

According to this passage, the effect of wine is an exacerbated form of drinking too much liquid,

in general. Wine floods the veins and so brings about desire and the passion of fornication.

Moreover, as an intoxicant, wine eliminates the monk’s control over his own will. Nothing similar to this jeremiad against wine is attested in any of Dadisho‘’s writings. Particularly suggestive are the two statements that wine affects the elderly (or advanced monks; sābe) as much as the young. This seems to reflect the anonymous commentator’s distinctive attitude that older monks must abstain from wine as completely as young monks. It seems probable, then, that this passage was composed by the anonymous commentator, and not by Dadisho‘.

This raises the possibility that other passages that are attested in the anonymous commentary but not in Dadisho‘’s commentary could have been composed by the anonymous author as elaborations upon Dadisho‘’s exposition, rather than being simply derived from

135 As mentioned above (p. 116), the term sābe connotes advanced monks.

136 Presumably a reference to Satan. The term for “holiness” in this sentence (qaddíshútā) also carries a connotation of virginity in Syriac literature.

137 Commentaire anonyme, 17. 120

portions of Dadisho‘’s commentary that were later lost (as Draguet suspected). For example, in the fifteenth admonition, Isaiah commands his readers to “hate the desire for food.” Dadisho‘ had linked this command to a saying of Evagrius, writing:

The passion of gluttony and its demon are that which first engages novice monks (íḥídāye sharwāye) in battle, when they go out from the world and come to this place of monasticism. It demands much fasting, Nazirism, and asceticism, as Evagrius said: “The head of the peoples is Amalek, and the head of the passions is gluttony.”138

The anonymous commentator again subtly adapts Dadisho‘’s exposition, omitting the term

“novice.”139 Following this, the author provides an extended explanation of why gluttony is harmful for the monk and how it leads to sexual passion, a discussion that is unattested in the surviving recension of Dadisho‘’s commentary:

The passion of gluttony and its demon are that which first engages monks in battle, when they commence in the place of monasticism. It demands fasting and Nazirism, as Mar Evagrius said: “The head of the peoples is Amalek, and the head of the passions is gluttony.”

For satisfying the stomach greatly injures the monk, but even more if he fattens his body with fatty foods and sweet drink (mashtyā hanyā). If, then, we fail to stop the stream that comes from above, such that its flow should worsen, and little by little the things that become foul should vanish, we will never gain victory over the passion of fornication and its impure demon. Rather, we would be like those foolish people, who, although they do not stop the entrance of the stream, wish, little by little, to draw out their waters. But this is not possible, due to the constant increase [of the stream].

Rather, just as the wise do, we should restrain this passion [of fornication] at the head of its growth and not give it material from a multitude of food. Just as our Lord said: This type [of demon] does not come out except by fasting, prayer and Nazirism (Matthew 17:21). He calls “fasting” the paucity of food, “prayer” keeping vigil throughout the night and genuflections and prostrations throughout the day, and “Nazirism” the complete prohibition of all fatty foods and sweet drink, save for simple bread and drinking water — and such things meagerly, and not to the point of satisfaction.140

138 Dadisho‘, Commentaire du Livre d’Abba Isaïe, 285.

139 The verb used by the anonymous commentary (“commence”) does, however, come from the same root as the word “novice” (ShRY), so the adaptation in this case should not be overstated.

140 Commentaire anonyme, 11. 121

The commentary here draws upon a medical understanding of food, liquid, and sexual passion similar to that which we saw expressed by Dadisho‘ in his commentary on the Book of Paradise.

Consumption of food, especially “fatty food and sweet drink,” creates an ever-growing stream of

liquid, which overflows into sexual passion. The anonymous commentary thus emphasizes that

the monk must adopt a Nazirite diet, restricting himself to bread and water (and so, implicitly,

abstaining from wine).

It is, of course, possible that Dadisho‘ composed this passage, and that it survives only in

the recension used by the anonymous commentary. Nevertheless, given that the initial quotation

from Dadisho‘ shows telltale signs of redaction by the anonymous commentator, and given that

the portion that is unattested in Dadisho‘’s commentary emphasizes the Nazirite practice of

drinking only water, we must seriously consider the possibility that the entire passage was

composed as an explanatory gloss on Dadisho‘’s own discussion of fasting and gluttony, a gloss

designed to highlight the Nazirite abstention prized by our teetotaling commentator.

In many places, then, the anonymous commentary on Isaiah of Scetis demonstrates the

transmission of Dadisho‘’s ascetic thought. Yet my analysis here indicates that the anonymous

commentary also took the form of a supercommentary that elucidated Isaiah of Scetis not only

by reproducing, but also by expanding and even altering Dadisho‘’s exposition. In particular, the

anonymous commentary drew upon Dadisho‘’s medically-grounded view that drinking too much

liquid undermines celibacy. But by extending the restriction on drink to include a complete

prohibition of wine consumption, the commentator in fact went against Dadisho‘’s own attitude

toward wine drinking. The anonymous author did this without, of course, ever breathing

Dadisho‘’s name. This is, I suggest, the sign of a living commentary tradition, one that could

incorporate yet also seamlessly adapt the interpretative approach of previous commentators.

122

The Anonymous Commentary on the Gnostic Trilogy of Evagrius of Pontus

A manuscript copied in 1289 in Alqosh (northern Iraq) contains fragments from an

anonymous commentary on the Gnostic Trilogy of Evagrius.141 This manuscript is not easily accessible to scholars, who must be grateful for the foresight of Samuel Giamil and Alphonse

Mingana, who in the early twentieth century commissioned two copies of the manuscript, currently held at the University of Birmingham (Cadbury Research Library MS Mingana Syriac

601) and the Vatican (Syriac MS 509).142 Antoine Guillaumont was not, it seems, aware of this

commentary when he published his pioneering study of the Syriac reception of Evagrius. The

text has yet to be correctly identified or examined in detail. Here, I argue that this commentary

postdates that of Babai and drew upon his interpretation of Evagrius either directly or indirectly.

The rubric signaling the beginning of the fragments of this text states “Item. [Selection]

from a commentary on the third century of Mar Evagrius. Chapter 47.” Following this, the

rubrics simply have chapter numbers, so indicating that the entire text constitutes selections from

141 Baghdad, Chaldean Monastery MS 680 (formerly Alqosh, Notre Dame des Semences 237). A copy of this manuscript made on March 10, 1909 is preserved as Baghdad, Chaldean Monastery MS 681 (formerly Alqosh, Notre Dame des Semences 238). On these two manuscripts, see Jacques Marie Vosté, “Recueil d’auteurs ascétiques nestoriens du VIIe et VIIIe siècle,” Angelicum 6 (1929): 143–206.

142 The Birmingham copy was made by an East Syrian deacon, Paul son of Hormizd, in 1932, at the behest of the great Syriac scholar Alphonse Mingana. The Vatican copy was made by Joseph Abbuna of Alqosh in 1909, at the behest of Samuel Giamil, superior general of the Chaldean monks. The two copies correspond precisely, and we may have high confidence that they accurately reflect the thirteenth-century manuscript. The Birmingham copy is the same manuscript that preserves a number of important East Syrian texts from the seventh and eighth centuries, including Dadisho‘’s letter On the Silence of the Seven Weeks, discussed above (p. 89), as well as the writings of Symeon of Taybutheh, Abraham bar Dashandad, Joseph Hazzaya, and Abraham of Nethpar. Many of these writings were translated by Mingana and published with a facsimile of the relevant portions of the manuscript as Early Christian Mystics, the seventh volume of Mingana’s Woodbrooke Studies. This volume has become a standard source for studies of East Syrian mysticism in the early Islamic world; yet Mingana’s publication omitted several sections of the manuscript, including the commentary on Evagrius. 123

a commentary on the third century of the Kephalaia Gnostika. Accordingly, in an article in which he published the rubrics of the Alqosh manuscript, Vosté identified this text as a commentary on the third century of the Kephalaia Gnostika, while Mingana’s catalogue describes the Birmingham copy as containing simply a commentary on the Kephalaia

Gnostika.143 The commentary does indeed begin with two passages from the third century of the

Kephalaia Gnostika; however, it ranges across the Gnostic Trilogy. In order, it covers Kephalaia

Gnostika 3.47, 3.48, 4.90, 5.83, and 6.85 (all in the “bowdlerized” S1 translation); followed by

Praktikos 30, 33, 69, and 91; and then Gnostikos 44 and 45.144 Whether the full commentary

treated the entire Gnostic Trilogy must remain uncertain.

Who might the author of this fragmentary commentary be?145 A terminus post quem for its composition would appear to be the late seventh century, since the text includes what seem to

143 Vosté, “Recueil,” 203; Alphonse Mingana, Catalogue of the Mingana Collection of Manuscripts, Now in the Possession of the Trustees of the Woodbrooke Settlement, Selly Oak, Birmingham, vol. 1, Syriac and Garshūni Manuscripts (Cambridge: W. Heffer and Sons, Limited, 1933–1963), 1150.

144 The manuscript identifies Praktikos chapters 69 and 91 as being chapters 68 and 90. This is because Praktikos 68 (“The perfect person does not practice self-control, and the apathetic person does not practice endurance, since endurance belongs to one subject to passions and self- control to one subject to troubles”) was omitted from the Syriac translation of the Praktikos — likely as a result of concerns about its teaching on perfect apatheia, as was argued in chapter one.

145 A 1904 article by A.S. Duncan-Jones describes, in passing, the Library of the Office Syriac MS 9 as containing, among many other texts, “selections from the Capita Scientiae of Evagrius, with the commentary of Rabban aphni-maran”; A.S. Duncan-Jones, “A Homily of St. Ephrem,” Journal of Theological Studies 5 (1904): 546. This reference, however, appears to be a mistake. Duncan-Jones cites the metrical catalogue of ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika (‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue, 187), but ‘Abdisho‘ here refers to a commentary written for Rabban Aphni-Maran by Mariyahb on a letter Mariyahb himself had written (or perhaps a commentary written by Rabban Aphni-Maran on Mariyahb’s letter); there is no reference to any commentary on Evagrius. A later article provides a full listing of the texts in Library of the India Office Syriac MS 9 and describes the relevant text (folios 261b2–268a1) as being “una selezione dai Capita Scientiae [ܐܕ ܐܪ̈] di Aphnimaran”. Giuseppe Furlani, “Il Manoscritto Siriaco 9 Dell’India Office,” 124

be two quotations from the late seventh-century monk Symeon of Taybutheh.146 The metrical catalogue of ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika lists commentaries on the “Gnostic Chapters” (ríshe da-yda‘tā) composed by Joseph Hazzaya (fl. early eighth century)147 and by a Daniel bar Ṭúbānítā (fl.

before 10th c.), Bishop of Tāḥāl (near Kirkuk, Iraq),148 who was known for objecting to some

statements of Isaac of Nineveh and writing a “solution” to the fifth part of Isaac’s writings.149 In addition, in his letter on the three stages of monastic life, Joseph Hazzaya himself states that he

Rivista degli studi orientali 10 (1923–25): 319. It appears that Rabban Aphni-Maran wrote his own “gnostic chapters,” likely modeled on those of Evagrius (or perhaps on those of Isaac of Nineveh, which were, in turn, modeled on those of Evagrius). In addition to India Office Syriac MS 9, portions of Rabban Aphni-Maran’s Gnostic Chapters survive in Baghdad Archbishopric of the Church of the East 210, ff. 173v–175v; see Phillips, “The Syriac Commentary of Dadisho‘ Qatraya on the Paradise,” 12. In addition, an anonymous commentary on Rabban Aphni- Maran’s Gnostic Chapters survives in Paris BNF MS Syriaque 367, ff. 5–36; cf. Grigory Kessel, A Bibliography of Syriac Ascetic and Mystical Literature (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 36. It seems, thus, that in a cursory description of India Office Syriac MS 9, Duncan-Jones mistook a selection of Rabban Aphni-Maran’s Gnostic Chapters as being a selection from a (non-existent) commentary by Rabban Aphni-Maran on the Gnostic Chapters of Evagrius. There is no evidence that Rabban Aphni-Maran ever wrote such a commentary.

146 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, ff. 134v and 135r contain quotations attributed, respectively, to ܢܿ ܝ and ܐ ܢܿ ܝ. The first of these begins on line 5 of folio 134v. It is similar to a saying of Symeon of Taybutheh preserved in the same manuscript (Mingana, Early Christian Mystics, 59/314). The phrase “intellectual renewal of the saints” (ܐܕ̈ ܐ ܐܬܕ) occurs in both, and the rest of the content is thematically similar (about the nous). The second saying begins on line 7 of folio 135r (ܐ ܐ), but I have not been able to identify a source for it.

147 ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue, 103.

148 ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue, 174.

149 Isho‘dnah of Basrah states that Daniel opposed Isaac due to certain things Isaac had said; Le Livre de la Chasteté composé par Jésusdenah éveque de Baçrah, ed. and trans. J.B. Chabot in Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire 16 (1896): French pp. 225–291, Syriac pp. 1–80; the reference to Daniel bar Ṭúbānítā is in entry #124, p. 277/64. The catalogue of ‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika describes Daniel as having written a “solution of the questions of the fifth theological volume of Mar Isaac of Nineveh” (‘Abdisho‘ bar Brika, Catalogue, 174.); cf. Sabino Chialà, “Two Discourses on the ‘Fifth Part’ of Isaac the Syrian’s Writings: Prolegomena for Apokatastasis?” in The Syriac Writers of Qatar in the Seventh Century, ed. Mario Kozah et al. (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2014), 125. 125

wrote a “commentary on the chapters of Blessed Mar Evagrius” (púshāqā d-ríshawhi d-Ṭúbānā

Mārí Ewagrís).150

Joseph would appear to be a strong candidate for the authorship of the anonymous commentary on the Gnostic Trilogy.151 The other texts contained in the Alqosh manuscript are primarily from the seventh and eighth centuries and include many of Joseph’s writings (some of which circulated under the name of his brother, ‘Abdisho‘ Hazzaya, perhaps due to the condemnation of Joseph Hazzaya under Timothy I).152 Furthermore, a passage on the

discernment of thoughts in the anonymous commentary bears a parallel to Joseph’s treatment of

this subject in his letter on the three stages.153 On the basis of circumstantial evidence, then,

150 Joseph Hazzaya, Lettre sur les trois étapes, 290–91, paragraph 4.

151 The anti-Messalian passages in the anonymous commentary (see below, pp. 127–29), would seem at first to fit better with the authorship of Daniel bar Tubanitha, the opponent of Isaac of Nineveh, than with Joseph Hazzaya, who does not mention Messalians in his extant works. Yet Isaac of Nineveh himself opposed Messalians at several points in his writings, including on the point, discussed in the anonymous commentary, of whether perfection is attainable in this life (Hagman, “Isaac of Nineveh and the Messalians,” 58). There is thus no reason to think that Daniel bar Tubanitha’s opposition to Isaac was connected explicitly to Messalianism. In addition, although Joseph Hazzaya does not explicitly condemn Messalianism, he emphasizes the point that one receives as a pledge (rahbonā) in this life the perfection (shúmlāyā ba- gmírútā) that the just receive in the world to come at the Resurrection — precisely the understanding of perfection emphasized by Babai and the anonymous commentary in opposition to the Messalians. See Joseph Hazzaya, Lettre sur les trois étapes, 422–23.

152 Mingana, Catalogue of the Mingana Collection, 1:1146-1153.

153 Joseph writes: “When the intellections begin to be moved in your heart, this is the sign placed between [1] the intellections that are from the clarity of thoughts, or from the angel of providence, or from the grace of the Holy Spirit, or from continual reading, or those that are from the natural seeds that arise in your heart; and [2] the intellections that are sown in you by that accursed demon.” (Lettre sur les trois étapes, 376). ܐ ܕ ܘܐܿ ܄ܐܒܕ̈ ܐܬ ܕ ̈ ܒ ܐܬܐܿ ܐܕܗ ܄ܒܒ ܙܬ ̈ ܕ ܐ ܕܿ ܐ̈ ܥܪ̈ܙ ܕ ܢܗܿ ܘܐܿ ܄ܐܕ ܐܬܐ ܕ ܘܐܿ ܂ܐܕܕ ܐܘܪܕ ܐܬܒ ܕ ܘܐ ܄ܐܬܒܕ ܟܒ ܪܕ ܐ ܘܗܿ ܐܕܐ ܕ ̈ ܢܿ ܄ܒܒ In turn, in the anonymous commentary (Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 135v), we find: “Item: the third circumcision of the mind is prudence. For this tests and distinguishes the natural intellections of the soul, those that are from the angel of providence, those that are from the 126

Joseph Hazzaya may be considered the likeliest of known writers to be the author of the

anonymous commentary. Yet such evidence does not make for an attribution, and the

commentary must for now remain anonymous.

In its exposition of KG 3.47–48, the first two chapters covered in the surviving

fragments, the anonymous commentary contains an anti-Messalian polemic that parallels that found at various points in Babai’s commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika. In KG 3.47, Evagrius states: “One is the renewal that, in the twinkling of an eye, shall happen to all rational bodies at

grace of the Spirit. And this is the circumcision: [prudence] circumcises and casts out from the soul the unnatural thoughts, those that are sown in it by the demons, and those that are born from the will of the flesh [John 1:13].” ܕ ܗܘ ܄ܐܕ ܐ̈ ̈ ܐܘ ܐܒ ܓ ܐܕܗ .ܐܬܘ ܐܿ ܐܘܗܕ ܬܕ ܒܘܬ ܐܬܪܘܓ ܐܒ̈ ܐ ܐܘ ܐܪܓ :ܐܬܪܘܓ ܿ ܐܕܗܘ .ܐܘܪܕ ܐܬܒ ܕ ܗܘ ܄ܐܬܒܕ ܐ ܐܒܕ ܐܒܨ ܕ ܗܘ ܄ܗܿ ܒ ܪܕ ܐܕܐ̈ ܕ ܗܘ .ܐ̈ The two passages share some of the same phrases, such as the idea of intellections (sukkāle) being “sown” by demons, and, most notably, the unusual description of the angel of providence as one of the sources of thoughts. Yet the two passages also bear notable differences. Most significant is that the anonymous commentary describes harmful or passionate thoughts as arising not only from demons, but also from the soul itself, or from the will. This stands in tension with Joseph’s tendency to describe harmful or passionate thoughts as arising solely from demons (Lettre sur les trois étapes, 376–93). Joseph does, however, indicate that when the monk capitulates to demonic thoughts, this leads to a division in the monk’s will, such that the soul’s will wars against that of the body (Lettre sur les trois étapes, 390). In this sense, Joseph may see the demonized soul or divided will as a source of sinful thoughts, in addition to demons. We may, then, consider three possibilities: 1) the passage in the anonymous commentary may represent an early articulation of the idea of discernment of thoughts, which Joseph later developed in the Letter on the Three Stages (if Joseph did author the Anonymous commentary, it would have been before he wrote the Letter on the Three Stages, since the Letter refers to his commentary on Evagrius’s “chapters”). On the other hand, it is also possible that 2) the anonymous commentary came from the pen of a later author who drew upon Joseph’s writings or ideas. Finally, it is quite possible that 3) the treatments of discernment of thoughts in the Anonymous commentary and in the Letter on the Three Stages are only indirectly related, that is, that they derive independently from a shared deposit of monastic wisdom. It is, unlikely, after all, that Joseph invented out of whole cloth the idea of the angel of providence as a source of positive thoughts; in fact, a similar idea is implied by Isaac of Nineveh (see Bogdan Gabriel Bucur, Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria and Other Early Christian Witnesses [Leiden: Brill, 2009], 186 n. 114).

127

the command of the just Judge, who allots to every one of them the recompense of his toil.”154

Like Babai, the anonymous commentary interprets this “renewal” as referring to the general resurrection. It states:

[Evagrius] says that the common resurrection is one… but there shall be in [the resurrection] much differentiation, in accordance with the toil and the practice (púlḥānā) of those who receive [the resurrection]. For every one of them will receive his wages in accordance with his toil and his recompense in accordance with his practice (púlḥānā). And [Evagrius says this] because in this chapter he is opposing the Messalians, whose name is a lie, those who assert about themselves that they achieve a state of apatheia in the passible world.”155

The description of Messalians as claiming to have attained apatheia in this world reflects Babai’s

anti-Messalian writings.156 As we saw in the previous chapter, of the many charges leveled against Messalians in both Greek and Syriac literature, it was the claim to perfect apatheia

which, for Babai, represented the root of Messalian heresy. In his own commentary on KG 3.47,

Babai focuses on a refutation of the Origenists. But he also says that the chapter is an expansion on KG 3.45, a chapter that he presents as directed both against Origenists and against those who claim that they have been “purified from the passions” (etdakí men ḥashe) — a statement that

any careful reader of Babai would have understood as referring to the Messalians.

Equally suggestive of Babai’s influence is the fact that the anonymous commentary refers to the Messalians as those “whose name is a lie” (daggālay shmā), that is, those who are falsely-

called “People who Pray” (Mṣallyāne). This epithet does not seem to be attached to the

154 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 133v: ܿ ̈ ܿ ܢܘ ܫ ܄ܐܐ ܐܕܕ ܒܕ ܘܗ ܂ ܐܓ ܢܘ ܐܘܗ ܐ ܒܕ ܐܬܕ ܘܗܼ ܕ ܐܪ

155 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 133v: ܐܕ ܐܘ ܬ ܐܐܓ ܐܪ ܡܒ ܒܿ ܐ ܐ ...ܝܗ ܐ ܐܓܕ ܐܕ ܐ ܐܪ ܐܒܕ ܘ .ܪ ܐܘ .ܒ ܗܓܐ ܐ ܢܘ ܕ .ܿ ܒܕ ܐ ܐܒ ܐܬ ܒܕ ܢܘ ܒܕ ܢܗ :ܐ ܓܕ̈ ܐ̈ ܒ ܒ

156 In addition, Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 134r on KG 3.48 states that Evagrius is rejecting “the headstrong Messalians, who preach apatheia in this world.” 128

Messalians anywhere else in the extant Greek or Syriac literature, save for the writings of Babai, who uses it constantly in his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika and in other writings. The phrase is absent, for example, both in Dadisho‘’s and in Isaac of Nineveh’s attacks on the

Messalians.157 It seems probable, then, that the use of this phrase in the anonymous commentary derives from Babai. Other phrases in the commentary also recall Babai’s distinctive language, such as the anti-Messalian description of the present reality as “the passible world” (‘almā

ḥāshoshā).158

Although these textual parallels indicate Babai’s influence on the anonymous

commentary, the two commentaries are largely independent in their interpretation of particular

chapters in the Kephalaia Gnostika. It is thus possible that Babai’s influence on the anonymous commentary was indirect. Yet the anonymous commentary is a testimony to the fact that Babai’s

157 The Syriac phrase daggālay shmā (literally, “liars of name”) likely originated as a calque translation of the Greek pseudonymoi. But that does not indicate that Babai’s phrase Mṣallyāne daggālay shmā derives from a Greek Euchitai pseudonymoi, as Frankenberg, indulging his love for speculative philology, suggested (Frankenberg, Euagrius Ponticus, 71). By Babai’s time, daggālay shmā had presumably become a Syriac phrase in its own right, capable of use in native Syriac expressions (see Payne-Smith, Syriac Dictionary, 83, s.v. ܓܕ). I have not found any comparable phrase associated with Euchites or Messalians in the TLG, or by consultation of the known Greek anti-Messalian writings. In Syriac literature, in turn, we find that the phrase Mṣallyāne daggālay shmā is absent from the synodal literature and from the discussion of Messalians in Dadisho‘ and in Isaac of Nineveh (see Hagman, “Saint Isaac of Nineveh and the Messalians,” 55–66). For Babai’s use of Mṣallyāne daggālay shmā, see both his commentary on the Kephalaia Gnostika (e.g. KGCOM 4.6, p. 262) and his Life of George, 505, ll. 4–5.

158 Compare Babai KGCOM 4.39 (p. 288): “He is opposing the Messalians, whose name is a lie, who claim perfection in this passible world” (lawqabbel Mṣallyāne daggālay shmā d-shāṭín gmírútā b-‘ālmā hanā ḥāshōshā) and Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 133v: “… he is opposing the Messalians, whose name is a lie, those who assert about themselves that they attain apatheia in the passible world” (lawqabbel Mṣallyāne daggālay shmā da-mṭabbín ‘al napshhōn da-b-lā ḥāshōshútā qaymín b-‘ālmā ḥāshōshā). According to Sebastian Brock, Isaac of Nineveh may have derived the phrase “the passible world” from Babai’s commentary. Sebastian Brock (trans.), Isaac of Nineveh (Isaac the Syrian): ‘The Second Part’, Chapters IV–XLI (Louvain: Peeters, 1995), XXXIX. 129

anti-Messalian emphasis continued to be embraced by East Syrian readers of Evagrius into the

Islamic period.

The anonymous commentary also follows Babai in taking a practical and ascetic approach to the Kephalaia Gnostika, an approach that the commentary extends to the Gnostic

Trilogy as a whole. Like Babai, the anonymous commentary applies an ascetic reading to passages from the Kephalaia Gnostika that do not explicitly mention ascetic practice. In KG

5.83, Evagrius states, “All circumcisions are seven, as we have found in accordance with the words of the fathers; four of them are on the sixth day, and the rest are on the eighth day.”159 The anonymous commentary interprets these circumcisions as referring to the elimination of the passions. The four circumcisions of the sixth day are asceticism (‘anwāyútā), chastity, righteousness, and fortitude, while the three circumcisions of the eighth day are wisdom, knowledge, and prudence.160

The anonymous commentary combines this practical approach to the Kephlaia Gnostika with an explication of ascetic themes in the Praktikos and Gnostikos. In Praktikos 91, Evagrius

159 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 135r: ܐܕ ܐܕܘ ܂ܐ ܐܕ ܒܪܐ .ܐܬܒܐܕ̈ ܐ ܐ ܐ ܒ ܄ܐܬܪ̈ܘܓ ܀ܐܐ

160 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, ff. 135r–135v: “He calls the seven powers of the soul, which circumcise the passions from the soul, these ‘seven circumcisions.’ Asceticism (‘anwāyútā) circumcises gluttony and greed. Chastity (nakpútā) circumcises licentiousness and lewdness. Righteousness circumcises partiality and the desire to please humans. And fortitude circumcises listlessness, acedia (ma’ínúta), and despair… Wisdom circumcises and casts out from the mind three great evils, namely, arrogance, pride, and vainglory… knowledge… circumcises, amputates, and casts out from the mind error and ignorance, [and] evil jealousy… prudence… circumcises and casts out from the soul the unnatural thoughts, those that are sown in it by the demons, and those that are born from the will of the flesh.” ̈ ܿ ܐܪܓ ܿ ܐܬ .ܐ ܐ ܪܓܿ ܢܗܕܼ ܗ :ܐ ܐܕ ̈ ܒ ܄ܐܬܪ̈ܘܓ ܗ ܿ ܒ ܐܐܒ̈ ܐܪܓ ܕ ܐܬܐ .ܐܬܘܘ ܐܬ ܐܪܓ ܒܘܬ ܐܬܘ .ܐܬܘ ܐ ܬܒ ܐܘ ܐܪܓ ܓ ܐ ...ܐܒ ܘ ܐܬܐܘ ܐ ܄ܐܪܓ ܕ ܐܬܘ .ܐܒܕ̈ ܐܪܘ ...ܐ ...ܐ ܐܬܒ .ܐܬܘ .ܐܬܪܒ .ܗ ܐܕ ܂ܐܒܪ̈ܘܪ ܐܒ̈ ܬ ܐܘܗ ܐ ܐܘ ܐܪܓ ...ܐܬ ...ܐܒ ܐ ܐ ܘ ܐܘܗ ܐܘ ܐܘ ܐܪܓ . ܐܒܕ ܐܒܨ ܕ ܗܘ ܄ܒܿ ܪܕ ܐܕܐ̈ ܕ ܗܘ .ܐ̈ ܐܒ̈ 130

tells a story about how one monk freed a brother from nocturnal “fantasies” (shargārgyātā), by

ordering him to fast and minister to the sick. Evagrius is clearly referring to sexual fantasies in

this passage, and so the implication is that both fasting and serving the sick can suppress a

monk’s sexual desires. The anonymous commentary makes these ideas explicit: “[Evagrius]

teaches us that there is nothing that subdues the raging passions and weakens and wears down

the demon of fornication (daywā d-zanyútā) so much as splendid fasting (ṣāwmā zahyā),

humility, and showing mercy to everyone who shares our fleshly existence.”161 The anonymous

commentary’s approach to the Gnostikos also shows an ascetic orientation. For example, in

Gnostikos 44, Evagrius relates Gregory of Nazianzus’s teaching on the four virtues of prudence,

chastity, fortitude, and righteousness.162 Here, the anonymous commentary explains that chastity

(nakpúta) is the “practice of desire” (d-regtā hānaw púlḥānā), that is, the ascetic practice

(púlḥānā) of the soul’s concupiscible faculty.163

The fact that the anonymous commentary emphasizes the practical and ascetic dimension

of all three texts in the Gnostic Trilogy is reinforced by the presentation of the Evagrian texts

themselves in the manuscript. As mentioned above, the rubrics only supply chapter numbers for

these texts, without any indication that they come from three separate works. The form and

content of the anonymous commentary thus function together to collapse the Kephalaia Gnostika

with the more ascetic writings of the Evagrian corpus, and so to sustain the ascetic reading of

Evagrius championed by Babai.

161 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 138v: ܐܘ ܐܗܙ ܐܘܨ ܐ :ܐܬܙܕ ܐ ܘ ܘ ܐܒ ܐ̈ ܕܿ ܡ ܕ ܘ .ܢܒ ܒ ܕ ܐܬܘ

162 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 139r.

163 Birmingham Mingana MS Syriac 601, f. 139v: ܿ ܗܿ ܐܓܪܕ 131

Conclusion

Like the biblical and Aristotelian commentaries, the six surviving East Syrian monastic

commentaries belonged to a complex tradition of interpreting Greek texts, one that was part of a

broader effort by which East Syrian authors received, transmitted, and reworked the intellectual and religious heritage of Classical and Late Antiquity. The interrelated nature of these monastic commentaries, as demonstrated in this chapter, suggests the vitality of the East Syrian commentary tradition within the early Islamic period. Monastic authors within the Islamic world

— far from being disconnected from the earlier stages of the East Syrian reception of the Late

Antique monastic heritage — reworked the ascetic thought of previous interpreters, and so continued to develop and adapt their readings of Greek monastic texts.

In expounding these texts, shared among the Christian confessions of Late Antiquity, the

East Syrian commentators created an ascetic tradition specific to the Church of the East. The confessional nature of this project at times rises to the surface —in the invocations of Theodore

of Mopsuestia, in the condemnations of Miaphysite theology, and even in Dadisho‘’s elevation

of Babai as a monastic authority. More broadly, East Syrian monks created for the Church of the

East a set of self-referential exegetical traditions, interpretations that drew upon those of previous

East Syrian commentators and were transmitted for the formation of later monks, lying open to

their further exegesis.

This chapter has examined this process with special attention to the themes of dietary

regimens and sexual abstinence. Dadisho‘’s commentary on the Book of Paradise elucidates the

interconnection of these two ascetic disciplines, affirmed by both Evagrius and Babai, by

providing the underlying physiological reasons for the effect of diet on sexuality. In turn, the

anonymous commentary on the Gnostic Trilogy explicitly highlights the interconnection of

132

fasting and celibacy in Praktikos 91, so extending Babai’s ascetic approach to reading Evagrius.

Perhaps most interesting, however, is the treatment in the anonymous commentary on Isaiah of

Scetis. This text transmits Dadisho‘’s view that drinking too much water corrodes chastity and

provides what seems to be its own medically-grounded articulation of this process. At the same

time, however, the anonymous commentary contradicts Dadisho‘ by expanding the limitations on drink to include a complete prohibition of wine consumption.

The following chapters will examine the development of Islamic interpretations of and debates about asceticism, including dietary and sexual regimens. In one sense, this development runs parallel to the evolution of the East Syrian ascetic tradition, as part of a broader process whereby authors in Iraq adapted earlier traditions of asceticism. Like East Syrian Christians,

Muslims adapted widespread ascetic ideals and reinterpreted the meaning of common ascetic practices in order to create a tradition of asceticism specific to their confession. More than simply a second manifestation of a broader process, however, Muslims actively engaged with

Christian ascetic ideals, at times Islamizing the significance of monastic disciplines, and at other

times severing the twin ascetic ideals of fasting and celibacy embraced by East Syrian authors. It is to this Islamic intervention that we now turn.

133

Part II Chapter Three: Asceticism in The Kutub al-Zuhd and Hadith

In a treatise on discernment composed in the late eighth century, the East Syrian monk

Beh Isho‘ Kamulaya urged his readers to study the books of the monastic fathers. In the

“Pachomian examples” — the apophthegmata patrum, or stories and sayings of the ascetics of

Late Antique Egypt — monks would find the ascetic wisdom that could otherwise be provided

only by a living spiritual master.1 Yet, like the rabbinic debates preserved in the , the

monastic conversations contained in the apophthegmata patrum expressed competing views

concerning the nature, extent, and proper methods of ascetic practice.2 The commentary of

Dadisho‘ Qatraya on the apophthegmata in the Book of Paradise, examined in the previous

chapter, was an attempt to impose order upon this diverse and sometimes discordant material.

1 Monica J. Blanchard (ed. and trans.), Beh Isho‘ Kamulaya’s Syriac Discourses on the Monastic Way of Life: Edition, English Translation, and Introduction (Ph.D. diss., Catholic University of America, 2001), 103a–b.

2 Although certainly not focused on ascetic practice, the Jerusalem and Babylonian themselves contained debates about the proper nature, extent, and methods of ascetic practice. Eliezer Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists: Fasting and Asceticism in Rabbinic Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); see especially pp. 117–20 on conflicting attitudes concerning whether fasting is beneficial to study and concerning whether rabbis should join fasts undertaken by the broader community. In addition, in pp. 121–132, Diamond traces disagreement between Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis concerning ascetic practice. More recently, Naomi Koltun-Fromm and Michal Bar-Asher Siegal have demonstrated ascetic traditions shared among rabbinic and monastic texts. See Naomi Koltun-Fromm, Hermeneutics of Holiness: Ancient Jewish and Christian Notions of Sexuality and Religious Community (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 175–209; Michal Bar-Asher Siegal, “The Collection of Traditions in Rabbinic Anthologies as a Reflection of Lived Religion,” Religion in the 2 (2016): 72–90; Michal Bar-Asher Siegal, Early Christian Monastic Literature and the Babylonian Talmud (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). On the diverse views of asceticism presented in the apophthegmata patrum, see the discussion of William Harmless, Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 227. In his metaphor, the apophthegmata represented a “polyphony of solo voices that sometimes combine, sometimes diverge, and sometimes even clash around a core of favored motifs.” 135

At roughly the same time that Christians were translating the apophthegmata patrum into

Arabic, Muslims began to compile accounts of the sayings and deeds of pious Muslim figures.3

Redacted over the course of the ninth century, these compilations were analogous to the apophthegmata patrum, as well as to the Talmud, in aggregating a diverse body of pious wisdom and in wrestling with competing and even contradictory ascetic ideals. At the same time, Muslim compilations articulated views on asceticism that diverged, at times consciously, from those of the apophthegmata patrum and of Christian monasticism. This chapter will examine the earliest collections of Muslim ascetic literature, arguing that they reveal a tension between competing ways in which Muslims sought to reinterpret the significance of cross-confessional practices.

These compilations were given the title kitāb al-zuhd (plural: kutub al-zuhd) — “Book on

Detachment” — or, in longer form, kitāb al-zuhd wa-l-raqā’iq — “Book on and

Softening [the Heart].” This name was given to individual compilations,4 as well as to sections of

3 The apophthegmata patrum were translated into Arabic by the ninth century. Samuel Rubenson, “The Apophthegmata Patrum in Syriac, Arabic, and Ethiopic. Status Questionis,” Parole de l’Orient 36 (2011): 323–26.

4 ‘Abdullāh ibn al-Mubārak, Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī, Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad, Asad ibn Mūsā, Hannad ibn al-Sarrī, Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī, Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ. The editions of these works cited in this chapter are: ‘Abdullāh ibn al-Mubārak, Kitāb al-Zuhd wa-l-Raqāʾiq, ed. Ḥabīb al-Raḥmān al-Aʻẓamī (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Risālah, 1971 [reprint of Malegaon, India: Majlis Iḥyāʾ al-Maʻārif, 1966]); Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī, Kitāb al-Zuhd, ed. Abū Tamīm Yāsir ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Muḥammad and Abū Bilāl Ghunaym ibn ʻAbbās ibn Ghunaym (Helwan, Egypt: Dār al-Mishkāh li-l-Nashr wa-l- Tawzīʻ, 1993); Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī and Hannad ibn al-Sarrī (published together), Kitāb al-Zuhd, ed. Aḥmad ibn Farīd ibn Aḥmad Mazīdī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-‘Ilmīyah, 2007); Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, Kitāb al-Zuhd, ed. Muḥammad Jalāl Sharaf, 2 vols. (Alexandria, Egypt: Dār al-Fikr al- Jāmiʻī, 1980–19[84?]), and, based upon a separate manuscript, Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, Kitāb al- Zuhd (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-‘Ilmīyah, 1976) [citations are to the Alexandria edition unless otherwise noted]; ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad, Zuhd al-Thamānīyah min al-Tābi‘īn, ed. ʻAbd al- Raḥmān ʻAbd al-Jabbār al-Frīwāʾī (Medina: Maktabat al-Dār, 1983); Asad ibn Mūsā, Kitāb Az- Zuhd, ed. Raif Georges Khoury (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1976); Hannad ibn al-Sarrī: see under Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī; al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī, Kitāb al-Zuhd, wa-yalīhi Musnad al- Muʻāfá ibn ʻImrān al-Mawṣilī, ed. ʻĀmir Ḥasan Ṣabrī (Beirut: Dār al-Bashāʼir al-Islāmīyah, 136

larger collections.5 The first kutub al-zuhd, composed in the late eighth and early ninth century,

organized their material according to various themes or topics. By the middle of the ninth

century, biographical compilations began to appear, which arranged the sayings and deeds of

pious figures following the generation in which the person lived. All of these compilations followed the forms established for the authentication of Hadith, according to which the central anecdote was preceded by a chain of transmission (isnād), tracing it back to an early authority figure — typically, in the case of the kutub al-zuhd, a companion of the Prophet or a successor,

but often the Prophet Muḥammad himself.6

Much of the scholarly debate concerning these works has revolved around the meaning, or multiple meanings, of the ideal of zuhd. The root ZHD occurs once in the Qur’an (12:20), but in a sense unrelated to piety and distinct from the term’s usual post-Qur’anic use.7 Moreover, no

1999); Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Kitāb al-Zuhd, ed. ʻAbd al-Raḥmān ʻAbd al-Jabbār al-Frīwāʾī, 3 vols. (Medina: Maktabat al-Dār, 1984).

5 Al-Bukhārī, Kitāb al-Riqāq (in Ṣaḥīḥ); Ibn Abī Shaybah, Kitāb al-Zuhd (in Muṣannaf); Ibn Mājah, Kitāb al-Zuhd (in Sunan); Muslim, Kitāb al-Zuhd wa-l-Raqā’iq (in Ṣaḥīḥ); Ibn Qutaybah, Kitāb al-Zuhd (in ‘Uyūn al-akhbār); al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-Zuhd (in Bayān wa-l-Tabyīn). The editions of these works cited in this chapter are: Ibn Abī Shaybah, al-Muṣannaf, ed. Ḥamad ibn ʻAbd Allāh al-Jumʻah and Muḥammad ibn Ibrāhīm al-Laḥīdān, 16 vols. (Riyadh: Maktabat al- Rushd Nāshirūn, 2004); Ibn Qutaybah,‘Uyūn al-akhbār, 4 vols. (: Maṭbaʻat Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣrīyah, 1925–1930).

6 The organization of the kutub al-zuhd is thus similar (though not identical) to that of the apophthegmata patrum, which were arranged either systematically, by the theme addressed in the tradition, or alphabetically, by the name of the desert father. In addition, chains of transmission, analogous to the isnād, were used to authenticate apophthegmata in the Ethiopic collection; Harmless, Desert Christians, 249–50. The use of chains of transmission in the kutub al-zuhd is, however, clearly derived, at least proximately, from the norms of Hadith, and it is this body of knowledge (oral and written) that provides the immediate structuring principle for the kutub al-zuhd.

7 The Qur’an uses the term to refer to the attitude of unconcern shown toward Joseph by his brothers, who sell him for only a few dirhams. 137

cognate term appears in pre-Islamic Jewish or Christian ascetic literature.8 It is, rather, first in early Islamic ascetic texts that zuhd emerges as a central term of piety. In its core sense, this term signified either renunciation of or indifference to something.9 It often appeared in the phrase al-

zuhd fī l-dunyā: “renunciation of the world”10 or, in a weaker but more encompassing sense,

“indifference to the world.” The “world,” in this case — the Qur’anic term dunyā — implied

the temporal, material, or superficial reality of life and was often contrasted with the term

ākhirah, or “the world to come.”11 Thus the person who was “indifferent to the world” (zāhid fī l-dunyā) was also “eager for the world to come” (rāghib fī l-ākhirah). At its root, then, zuhd was

the response to the Qur’an’s call to recognize the fleeting nature of the present reality and to be

mindful of the hereafter.12

8 As far as I am aware, the root ZHD lacks cognates in other Semitic languages. Cf. the analysis of the root in the Qur’an in Martin R. Zammit, A Comparative Lexical Study of Qur’ānic Arabic (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 210–11.

9 Christopher Melchert describes zuhd as corresponding to the Greek apatheia. Melchert, “Origins and Early Sufism,” 11. While zuhd lacks many of the precise connotations of apatheia, this comparison correctly conveys that zuhd is, at its root, a matter of attitude, and only secondarily a matter of behavior.

10 Hence in German scholarship, Weltverzicht. E.g., Richard Gramlich, Weltverzicht: Grundlagen und Weisen islamischer Askese (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1997).

11 Dunyā and ākhirah were, however, also paired in non-contrastive senses. For example, in Qur’an 7:156, Moses asks God for good in both the dunyā and the ākhirah. In his tafsīr on this passage, Muqātil ibn Sulaymān (d. 767) explains that “good” in the ākhirah is Paradise, while “good” in the dunyā is forgiveness. Muqātil ibn Sulaymān, Tafsīr, ed. ʻAbd Allāh Maḥmūd Shiḥātah (Cairo: al-Hay’ah al-Miṣrīyah al-ʻĀmmah li-l-Kitāb, 1979–1989), 2:66. The dunyā is thus the sphere in which we may embrace the forgiveness of God and so be prepared for the ākhirah.

12 The central idea of indifference to the present reality and concern for the world to come is indispensable for understanding two of the kutub al-zuhd, those of Asad ibn Mūsā and Hannad ibn al-Sarrī, which at first appear not to fit within the genre. Asad’s collection and the entire first half of Hannad’s tell us almost nothing about piety or asceticism as such. Instead, Asad’s work is composed of traditions warning about the justice of God and the punishments of the hereafter. In 138

At the same time, the ideal of zuhd embraced a wide range of ascetic behavior, and the kutub al-zuhd provide the richest eighth- and ninth-century sources for the actions and sayings of

early Muslim ascetics. The vocabulary of asceticism in these works included not only negative

terms that implied abstention or detachment, such as zuhd, but also positive terms that signified

ascetic action, such as ‘amal (“labor,” “action”), ijtihād (“struggle”) and ‘ibādah (“,”

“servitude”). In addition, the kutub al-zuhd employed a range of terms for specific ascetic

disciplines, including fasting and hunger (ṣawm, ṣiyām, jū‘), celibacy (tabattul, ‘uzūbah, tark al- nisā’), and continual or supererogatory prayer (ṣalāt, nāfilah, , etc.), the three disciplines

that are the focus of this chapter.

Due to the significance of such practices to Muslim ideals of zuhd, early scholars such as

Tor Andrae and Louis Massignon tended to understand zuhd as the Arabic equivalent to the

Greek term askesis and as the Islamic equivalent to the Christian category of asceticism.13 This understanding of zuhd is still common. Yet as early as 1985, Leah Kinberg, pointing to the variety of ways in which classical Muslim sources use the term, argued that zuhd simply meant

“ethics” or “a general way of conduct.”14 It represented, in her words, “the philosophy of life

inherent in Islam according to which any Muslim who considers himself pious — no matter what

turn, Hannad’s kitāb al-zuhd collects numerous traditions describing the joys of Paradise, before proceeding to more typical pious and ascetic topics. The eschatological descriptions in these works are obviously not descriptions of pious behavior per se. Rather, they serve to call the reader’s attention to the of the ākhirah. By their descriptions, they thus make the reader zāhid fī l-dunyā, indifferent to the present reality and mindful of the hereafter. It is due to this effect on the reader that they are called kutub al-zuhd.

13 Andrae, “Zuhd und Mönchtum,” 296–327; Andrae, Garden of Myrtles, 7–54; Massignon, Essai, 53, 95, 190, 205. See the critique of Leah Kinberg, “What is Meant by Zuhd,” Studia Islamica 61 (1985): 27.

14 Kinberg, “What is Meant by Zuhd,” 44. 139

religious current he thinks he belongs to — must behave.”15 In this sense, zuhd was a malleable

term for Islamic piety, which could either include or consciously exclude ascetic practice, and whose meaning could be reshaped by each author. Yet Kinberg’s sources for the definition of zuhd largely come from Sufi texts — primarily the Risālah of al-Qushayrī (d. 1073) — texts that

postdate the kutub al-zuhd by two or more centuries. These texts consciously play with the

meaning of zuhd, reinterpreting the core ideal of detachment in ways hardly suggested by earlier

traditions. Fruitful, therefore, as Kinberg’s conclusions are for understanding Sufi concepts of

zuhd, they are less relevant for interpreting the kutub al-zuhd themselves.

A recent monograph by Feryal Salem on the traditionist ‘Abdullāh ibn al-Mubārak (d.

181/797) has helped to close this chronological gap.16 A chapter in Salem’s study examines the meaning of zuhd in Ibn al-Mubārak’s kitāb al-zuhd, one of the earliest known instantiations of the genre. Based upon her reading of this compilation, Salem criticizes scholars who have seen analogies between zuhd and Christian asceticism.17 As she argues, while several practices were shared among Christians and Muslims, zuhd was not analogous to Christian asceticism and did not necessarily imply ascetic practice. Ibn al-Mubārak himself, as Salem points out, was remembered not only as a practitioner of and authority on zuhd, but also as a wealthy merchant who happily indulged his sweet tooth.18 Drawing upon the concept of “mild asceticism”

15 Kinberg, “What is Meant by Zuhd,” 29.

16 Salem, Emergence.

17 Salem, Emergence, 105–06. In particular, Salem takes aim at the similarities between Muslim and Christian ascetic practice proposed in Livne-Kafri, “Early Muslim Ascetics and the World of Christian Monasticism,” 105–29.

18 Salem, Emergence, 111. 140

developed by Nimrod Hurvitz in his study of Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal,19 Salem concludes that zuhd, as

represented in the early kutub al-zuhd collections, was characterized by moderation and restraint

in ascetic practice. It represented “an inner state of detachment from the world,” which was

opposed to more extreme renunciation of the world and which rejected severe displays of

askesis.20

Scholarship on the kutub al-zuhd has not, however, given sufficient attention to the tensions within these compilations. Although the traditions they contain are united by an overarching ideal of detachment from the world, these same traditions present conflicting attitudes toward the moderation or severity of ascetic practice, as well as toward the legitimacy, purpose, and meaning of particular ascetic actions. As this chapter shows, the kutub al-zuhd offered two competing models of ascetic practice. As Salem has argued, most traditions portray a restrained asceticism, one that was enacted and contained within the life of the family and the

Muslim community — an ideal sometimes defined in contrast to Christian monasticism. This portrayal of ascetic practice, however, coexisted alongside numerous depictions of a more severe asceticism, which could include celibacy, extreme fasting, or unrelenting prayer. Although these disciplines were contested in the kutub al-zuhd, the zuhd traditions justify extreme ascetic actions by explaining their purpose in explicitly Islamic terms. In so doing, they redefine the meaning of ascetic practices that were shared with Christian monks. Two distinct efforts to define ascetic

practice thus emerge from the kutub al-zuhd: traditions that articulate an ideal of the mild, married ascetic, and traditions that interpret as authentically Islamic more severe practices of

19 Nimrod Hurvitz, “Biographies and Mild Asceticism: A Study of Islamic Moral Imagination,” Studia Islamica 85 (1997): 41–65. Similar views have been expressed in Arabic scholarship on Ibn al-Mubārak. See Ḥabīb al-Raḥmān al-Aʻẓamī (ed.), in Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 3.

20 Salem, Emergence, ch. 2, esp. 107–10, 127. 141

askesis viewed by other Muslims as illegitimate, un-Islamic, or even characteristic of monasticism.

The kutub al-zuhd do not resolve the tension between these two approaches. Moreover, many individual traditions in the kutub al-zuhd portray disagreements between early Muslims

about the legitimacy and value of ascetic actions — disagreements that the kutub al-zuhd leave

unsettled. The traditions contained in the kutub al-zuhd thus awaited the exegesis of

contemporary and later interpreters. As the final section of this chapter will show, the process of interpreting ascetic traditions began with the production of the compilations themselves, as authors and redactors made decisions about how to organize and arrange the stories they

compiled. The kutub al-zuhd also transmitted a small amount of direct exegesis on ascetic

traditions. This material shaped, albeit in limited ways, the interpretation of the legitimacy and

underlying motivation of ascetic practices, and so laid the grounds for the interpretation of

ascetic traditions by later authors and in other textual genres.

Any attempt to define the place of asceticism within the kutub al-zuhd thus risks

imposing an unwarranted harmony upon these collections. The stories and sayings in the kutub

al-zuhd show that the value of ascetic practice was not fixed; rather, the zuhd traditions bear

witness to conflicting views and outright arguments regarding asceticism, as Muslims wrestled

over the legitimacy and purpose of widespread and cross-confessional ascetic practices. Like the

apophthegmata patrum, the kutub al-zuhd were defined by these tensions between opposing

views, and so left to contemporary and later Muslims not only a diverse array of ascetic

traditions, but also the final decision on the questions raised by these same traditions.

142

Portraits of Asceticism: Familial, Communal, Restrained

This section will examine the most common portrayal of asceticism in the kutub al-zuhd, that of an ascetic discipline undertaken within the context of the life of the family and the

Muslim community. This context is a large part of what drives the emphasis on restraint in ascetic practice identified by Hurvitz and Salem. As we will see, many traditions portray the obligations of family and of communal religious life as setting the limits of legitimate ascetic practice, as curtailing the severity of asceticism, or as distinguishing Islamic ascetic practice from that of Christian monasticism. In examining these traditions, I will draw on accounts from across the extant kutub al-zuhd that were redacted over the course of the third/ninth century. In addition, reference will also be made to the treatment of asceticism in Hadith collections compiled in the same century. After arguing for the familial and communal underpinnings of restrained asceticism, I will contrast this ideal of ascetic practice with the portrayals of extreme asceticism contained in the kutub al-zuhd and Hadith.

The majority of figures who appear in the kutub al-zuhd are married men. In turn, one of the most common portraits of ascetic practice that emerges from these collections is that of asceticism embedded within the life of the family and, more broadly, the Muslim community.

This ideal is well illustrated in a tradition of Abū Hurayrah, an important companion of the

Prophet, prolific transmitter of Hadith, and a zāhid, whose sayings and deeds are commemorated in every kitāb al-zuhd. According to a tradition recorded by al-Sijistānī, “Abū Hurayrah would rise up [in prayer] a third of the night, his wife would rise up a third of the night, and his son would rise up a third of the night.”21 The prayer vigil was central to Muslim ascetic practice, and

21 Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 255, no. 298. 143

ascetics were often noted for their frequent and extended nightly prayer.22 In this tradition, Abū

Hurayrah divides a prayer vigil among the members of his household, and so distributes asceticism, as it were, to his wife and son.

Another tradition collected by al-Sijistānī presents the ideal of domestic asceticism as a

Muslim answer to Christian monasticism. The speaker, in this case, is Abū l-Dardā’, a famous early ascetic and companion of the Prophet. Several traditions commemorate Abū l-Dardā’ for

his extended meditation (ṭūl al-tafakkur),23 ,24 and pious fervor.25 Yet Abū l-Dardā’ was

also well-known for his marriage to Umm al-Dardā’, an authority on piety and important transmitter of Hadith in her own right. Their son Bilāl ibn Abī l-Dardā’ also relates traditions about his father.26 In the account recorded by al-Sijistānī, Abū l-Dardā’ states: “Truly, the cell of a Muslim man is his house (ṣawma‘atu l-rajuli l-muslimi baytuhu). In it, he restrains his sight, his hearing, and his pleasure. So beware of the meeting places and the markets!”27 This tradition

includes the confessional term “Muslim,” because the term “cell” (ṣawma‘ah) implies the living

quarters of a Christian monk.28 As Abū l-Dardā’ suggests, if the Christian monk guards his

22 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā (d. 281/894) produced an entire compilation devoted to supererogatory, nightly prayer: Kitāb al-Tahajjud wa-Qiyām al-Layl, ed. Muṣliḥ ibn Jazāʾ ibn Fadghūsh al- Ḥārithī (Riyadh: Maktabat al-Rushd: Sharikat al-Riyāḍ, 1998).

23 Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 191–92, 196, nos. 208–09, 216.

24 Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 208, no. 235.

25 E.g., al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 192, no. 210; Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:60.

26 Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 197, no. 217.

27 Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 204, no. 227.

28 On the term ṣawma‘ah, see Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-‘Arab (Cairo: Būlāq, Almo, 1883–1891), 2498; Edward William Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon: Derived From The Best and The Most Copious Eastern Sources (London: Williams and Norgate, 1863), 1728. A similar saying appears 144

senses in the seclusion of a monastery, the Muslim man should guard his senses within the home

— and in the case of Abū l-Dardā’, at least, this means amid one’s family. As in the story of Abū

Hurayrah, it is thus the household that is the locus of ascetic practice.

The ideal of asceticism contained and enacted within the context of domestic life was

grounded in the memory of the Prophet Muḥammad and his family. The long, opening chapter of

Ibn Ḥanbal’s kitāb al-zuhd focuses on the zuhd of the Prophet, describing the constant prayer,

humble dress, and meager diet of barley bread and dates that the Prophet shared with his

family.29 Several of these accounts are related by ‘Ā’ishah or other wives of the Prophet.30 Yet it is not just that Muḥammad’s life provided a model of married, ascetic piety; his sayings also encouraged Muslims to undertake asceticism within the context of marriage. In Ibn Ḥanbal’s collection, Muḥammad promises that Paradise awaits those who persevere in fasting and pray to

God throughout the night.31 Then, in one of the next traditions, he exhorts ‘Umar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb

to a “tongue that mentions [God], a heart that gives thanks [to God], and a wife whose eyes are

fixed on the world to come (ākhirah).”32 Such traditions suggest that, far from being a hindrance

to spiritual advancement, a wife is a partner in a Muslim man’s turn toward the ākhirah.

as a Hadith of the Prophet in the collection of Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Seclusion and Isolation. Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Al-‘Uzlah wa-l-Infirād, ed. Abū ʻUbaydah Mashhūr ibn Ḥasan Āl Salmān (Riyadh, Dār al-Waṭan, 1997) 62, no. 23: “The Messenger of God (saws) said: ‘The cells of Muslims are their houses (ṣawāmi‘u l-muslimīna buyūtuhum).’”

29 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:33–99.

30 E.g. Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:38, 1:91.

31 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:59.

32 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:60. 145

In keeping with the central example of the married life of the Prophet, several condemn celibacy.33 Al-Bukhārī’s “Book on Marriage” (Kitāb al-Nikāḥ) begins with a tradition

in which three men profess their pious intentions to the Prophet. The first will “pray throughout

the night constantly”; the second will “fast continually and not break the fast”; and the third will

“withdraw from women and never marry.” The Prophet’s response emphasizes his own moderation in ascetic behavior. As he states, “I fast, but I break my fast; I pray, but I sleep; and I marry women. Whoever despises my custom (sunnah) is not one of my own.”34 While this

Hadith creates space for a moderate discipline of fasting and prayer, it allows no room for the rejection of marriage. Two other traditions in the same book relate that the Prophet prohibited his companion ‘Uthmān ibn Ma‘ẓūn from celibacy (al-tabattul).35

It is important to emphasize that this model of married, familial ascetic piety was focused upon men. When women do appear in the kutub al-zuhd, it is primarily in connection to their husbands. Thus, for example, Umm al-Dardā’ does not receive her own entry in the biographically-arranged kutub al-zuhd, but instead appears in chapters devoted to her husband

Abū l-Dardā’. In one tradition, however, Umm al-Dardā’ appears as a dispenser of ascetic advice, without any connection to her husband:

A man came to Umm al-Dardā’ and said, “I have the worst disease. Do you have a cure for it?” She said, “Well, what is it?” He said, “I find a hardness in my heart.” So she said, “Your disease is the worst disease. Consider the sick, follow the biers, go up into the graves, and perhaps God will soften (yulīn) your heart.” So the man did this, and he felt,

33 This marks, in Christian Sahner’s term, “the second sexual revolution of Late Antiquity.” Christian C. Sahner, “‘The Monasticism of My Community is Jihad’: A Debate on Asceticism, Sex, and Warfare in Early Islam,” Arabica 64 (2017): 149, 152–53, 170, 172, 183.

34 Al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ (Nikāḥ), 8:165, no. 4420 (‘Abdul Baqi no. 5063).

35 Al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ (Nikāḥ), 8:130, nos. 4430–31 (‘Abdul Baqi nos. 5073–74). 146

as it were, a tenderness (riqqah) from his soul. So he went to Umm al-Dardā’ and thanked her.36

Umm al-Dardā’ here appears as an expert on central themes in zuhd literature, including

“remembrance of death” (dhikr al-mawt) and the softening of one’s heart (riqqah). Similarly, the

kutub al-zuhd present ‘Ā’ishah as an authority on asceticism. 37 Several accounts portray her weighing in on debated ascetic topics,38 as well as pronouncing on the meaning of humility, religion, and scrupulosity.39 Such traditions suggests that, though marginalized within the kutub

al-zuhd, women could participate in the same ascetic knowledge as did men.40 Later in the

chapter, I will examine three other examples of ascetic women reported in the kutub al-zuhd.

The ideal of married asceticism belonged to a broader ideal of asceticism as enacted

within the context of the Muslim community. Consider a tradition related by Ibn al-Mubārak, in

36 Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 196–97, no. 216.

37 ‘Ā’ishah is the only woman in the biographically-arranged collections of Ibn Ḥanbal, Al- Sijistānī, and Ibn Abī Shaybah to receiver her own entry.

38 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 259, no. 35,746; Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 286, no. 338.

39 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 259.

40 On early ascetic women, see Asma Sayeed, Women and the Transmission of Religious Knowledge in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 70–76. It is not until al- Sulamī in the eleventh century that one finds a text giving significant attention to female asceticism; Early Sufi Women, ed. and trans. Rkia Elaroui Cornell (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, 1999). Ibn Ṣa‘d’s ninth-century Al-Ṭabaqāt al-Kubrā does include a final portion devoted to biographical entries on women. These entries highlight women as transmitters of knowledge. For example, it is related that Umm al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī, the mother of the famous ascetic Ḥasan al- Baṣrī, was seen “telling stories” (taqiṣṣu) to women; Ibn Ṣa‘d, Al-Ṭabaqāt al-Kubrā, ed. ‘Ali Muḥammad ‘Umar, 11 vols. (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khanji, 2001), 10:442 (on the range of meanings of the root qṣṣ, see Lyall R. Armstrong, The Quṣṣāṣ of Early Islam [Leiden: Brill, 2017]). Or, again, it is related that Mu‘adhāh al-‘Adawīyah heard Hadith from ‘Ā’ishah and had a circle of women around her when she spoke; Ibn Ṣa‘d, Ṭabaqāt, 10:447. Yet although these figures are presented as ascetics and Sufis by al-Sulamī, their asceticism is not clearly indicated by Ibn Ṣa‘d. 147

which ‘Abdullāh ibn Mas‘ūd, a companion of the Prophet, upbraids a group of Kufans for

undertaking worship outside the city:

Mu‘aḍḍad and two of his companions went out (kharajū) from Kufa and settled nearby in order to perform worship. This reached ‘Abdullāh ibn Mas‘ūd, so he went to them. They were delighted that he came to them. But he said to them, “What fruit do you gain from what you are doing?” They said, “We wanted to go out (nakhruja) from the hubbub of the people in order to perform worship.” ‘Abdullāh said, “If the people did the likes of what you have done, then who would fight the enemy? I will not go away until you return.”41

This story has sometimes been treated as historical evidence for the withdrawal of Muslims from

society, as well as for Ibn Mas‘ūd’s rejection of withdrawal from society.42 It is important, however, to consider the function and context of this account within Ibn al-Mubārak’s zuhd

collection, as it is this context that gives the story meaning. Ibn al-Mubārak includes the account

within a cycle of traditions that criticize inappropriate forms of ascetic practice. Directly after the

story of Ibn Mas‘ūd and the Kufans, we find a tradition in which the companion of the Prophet,

‘Uthmān ibn Ma‘ẓūn, wishes to take up siyāḥah, a term associated with itinerant forms of

Christian asceticism.43 He begins a constant routine of prayer and fasting, neglecting his wife, and ultimately leading the Prophet to rebuke him with the words, “If you believed what we believe, then we would be an example for you.”44 Two traditions earlier, the Prophet states, “I fast, but I break my fast, I pray, but I sleep. Whoever follows my sunnah is one of my own, but

41 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 390, no. 1104.

42 Melchert, “Origins and Early Sufism,” 6.

43 Houari Touati, Islam and Travel in the Middle Ages, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2010), 159; Josef Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt des Ḥāriṯ al- Muḥāsibī (Bonn: Selbstverlag des Orientalischen Seminars der Universität Bonn, 1961), 118–19.

44 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 390, no. 1105. 148

whoever hates my sunnah is not one of my own.”45 These traditions function together to limit

ascetic practice within set boundaries established by the normative example of the Prophet, as

well as to delegitimize forms of asceticism seen as monastic (siyāḥah).

So, too, the purpose of the story about Ibn Mas‘ūd and the Kufans is for Ibn Mas‘ūd to define the limits of legitimate asceticism over against the actions of the three Kufans. It is Ibn

Mas‘ūd, after all, an important and respected companion of the Prophet, who is the most

authoritative figure in the story. Ibn Mas‘ūd was himself renowned as a transmitter of ascetic

wisdom, and he receives a prominent, early chapter in each of the three biographically-arranged

zuhd collections.46 The central point of this account, then, is Ibn Mas‘ūd’s emphasis that legitimate ascetic worship must take place within the context of Muslim urban and communal life. According to him, the Kufans’ withdrawal is impermissible because it undermines the military needs of the community.47 The repeated use of the verb kharaja may even suggest that the Kufans’ instincts are similar to those of the , whose stringent views on sin,

45 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 389, no. 1102.

46 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:103–15; Al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 129–76; Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 204–18.

47 This fits well with a broader emphasis in Ibn al-Mubārak’s works on the importance of jihad. As Thomas Sizgorich has argued, Ibn al-Mubārak, who compiled both a kitāb al-zuhd and a kitāb al-jihād, favored an activist, militant piety, and connected ascetic practice to jihad along the Byzantine-Islamic frontier. Sizgorich, Violence and Belief, 180–87. Of course, many traditions in the zuhd literature did not encourage jihad in the sense of military warfare. In the collection of Al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī, the Prophet states that the most virtuous jihad is “jihad against your own passions,” and, when asked about the nature of jihad, the Prophet declares “He who wages jihād against his nafs for God, and prefers the desire of God over his own desire.” Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 303, nos. 217–18. 149

asceticism, and leadership placed them outside a coalescing identity grounded in the sunnah of

the Prophet and the community of Muslims.48

Several other accounts in the kutub al-zuhd emphasize the importance of the communal

frame for ascetic practice by subordinating ascetic disciplines to the obligatory religious

practices imposed upon the community, as a whole. In a tradition recorded by Ibn Ḥanbal, the

Prophet states, “The most virtuous fasting after Ramadan is [fasting during] al-Muḥarram, the

month of God, and the most virtuous prayer after the obligatory prayer (al-farīḍah) is the night

prayer.”49 Although this Hadith praises supererogatory fasting and prayer, it also emphasizes that

these acts are inferior to the fasting and prayer that are required of the whole community.50 One

of the clearest indications of the subordination of individual ascetic practice to communal

worship comes in a story about ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays, a seventh-century ascetic of Basrah.

‘Āmir’s devotions were legendary. He would spend the day, we are told, secluded in the corner

of a , interspersing among the five obligatory times of ṣalāt a constant stream of

voluntary prayer, undeterred by the midday heat of the summer or the cold of a winter’s night,

and punctuating his routine only with a short break for eating bread and drinking water.51

48 See Adam Gaiser, Shurāt Legends, Ibāḍī Identities: Martyrdom, Asceticism, and The Making of an Early Islamic Community (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2016), 47– 79.

49 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:66.

50 Other traditions, however, present supererogatory and communal worship as complementary. According to al-Qāsim ibn Muḥammad, “supererogatory prayer (al-ṣalāt al-nāfilah) is more virtuous in secret than in public, while the virtue of obligatory prayer (al-farīḍah) is in the community (al-jamā‘ah). Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 49, no. 151. In another account, Ḥasan al-Baṣrī asserts that obligatory religious acts (al-farā’iḍ) restore the dead heart to life, while voluntary actions (al-taṭawwu‘) train the heart once it has been vivified. Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:234.

51 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd (Beirut), 224; Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:174; ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad, Zuhd, 38. Later traditions portray ‘Āmir as praying up to one thousand rak‘ahs (cycles of prayer and 150

‘Āmir’s self-seclusion in prayer does not in itself attract criticism in the zuhd traditions. Yet,

perhaps due to the intensity of his private devotions, several reports present his contemporaries

accusing him of refusing to participate in the communal prayer life of the Muslims of Basrah. In

one case, people spread the false rumor that ‘Āmir “does not go near .”52 In a more specific version of this accusation, ‘Amārah ibn ‘Abdullāh al-‘Anbarī53 and his sons say, “We have not seen ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays ever performing voluntary prayer (mutaṭawwi‘an) in [our] mosque.” One of them then adds “[‘Āmir] is the last to enter the mosque and the first to leave.”54

That these accusations center upon ‘Āmir’s participation in the prayer life of the Basran

community is made clear by his response. As ‘Āmir states, “As for their claim that I do not go

near mosques, I am, in fact, in this, my mosque, but when it is Friday, I go and pray among the

community of Muslims (fī jamā‘at al-muslimīn).55 ‘Āmir is thus able to defend his withdrawal to

his personal mosque only by insisting that his individual devotions do not hinder his participation in the communal prayers at the . Participation in this communal worship sets the boundaries of permissible ascetic practice.

Such communal and familial boundaries shape the ideal of “mild” or “restrained” asceticism identified by Hurvitz and Salem. A tradition in al-Bukhārī’s “Book on Fasting” (Kitāb al-Ṣawm) depicts Abū l-Dardā’ as keeping regular vigils of fasting and prayer. Yet Salmān al-

prostration) per day. Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī, Ḥilyat al-Awlīyā’, 10 vols. (Cairo: Maktabat al- Khānjī; Maṭbaʻat al-Saʻādah, 1932–1938), 2:89.

52 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:170.

53 ‘Āmir shares with him the nisbah ‘Anbarī, and it is possible that the two are relatives.

54 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:173.

55 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:171. 151

Fārisī, another important early ascetic, convinces Abū l-Dardā’ to relax his asceticism. As

Salmān tells him, “Your Lord has a right over you, your soul has a right over you, and your

family (ahl) has a right over you.”56 This account emphasizes that the ascetic disciplines of

fasting and prayer must be moderated, in part so that they do not interfere with the ascetic’s

family life. The tradition ends with the Prophet stating that “Salmān has spoken the truth,” so giving normative force to this restrained asceticism. Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal (d. 241/855), who compiled a biographically-arranged kitāb al-zuhd, expressed a similar view when he explained that the severe diet of his contemporary Bishr ibn al-Ḥārith was admirable for one who was

single (waḥdahu), but inappropriate for someone who had to provide for a family (‘iyāl).57 Thus just as the needs of the community set limits upon withdrawal from society, and just as the

obligation of communal worship takes precedence over individual devotions, so too the needs of

the family limit the nature of a Muslim’s austerities.

Accordingly, many sayings emphasize restraint in fasting and prayer. In a Hadith

transmitted by Ibn al-Mubārak, the Prophet states, “O God, I have fasted for you, but broken the

fast for my nourishment.”58 Similarly, Mu‘ādh ibn Jabal advises a disciple: “Fast, but break the fast. Pray, but sleep.”59 Ibn Ḥanbal’s chapter on the zuhd of the Prophet relates that the Prophet’s

family never ate barley bread to the point of satisfaction.60 At the same time, however, this

56 Al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ (Ṣawm), 3:335, no. 1776 (‘Abdul Baqi no. 1968).

57 Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal Kitab al-Wara‘, ed. Muḥyī al-Dīn Ṣabrī al-Kurdī (Cairo: Maṭba‘at al- Sa‘ādah, 1921), 52; cf. 60. For further discussion of Ibn Ḥanbal’s views on this subject, see the following chapter.

58 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 495, no. 1410.

59 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:116.

60 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:38. 152

chapter contains two versions of a Hadith emphasizing that the Prophet did not find fault with food and would eat when he desired to do so.61 This tendency toward mild asceticism is visible not only in instructions to restrain ascetic behavior, but also in the nature of the ascetic disciplines portrayed. Several traditions related by Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ describe figures who would not eat to the point of satiety. The prophet Luqmān warns his son not to take his fill of food; ‘Abdullāh ibn ‘Umar refuses the use of a digestant as unnecessary for his limited diet; and the Prophet advises filling the stomach with a third food, a third water, and a third air.62 These traditions all encourage restricting the desire for and the consumption of food, but they do not recommend severe practices of fasting. To take another example, in the chapter on “sufficiency”

(kafāf) in the kitāb al-zuhd of Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī, the Prophet offers a stringent understanding of what suffices a person: “There are three things that carry no judgment for a son of Adam: clothing to cover his privates, food to straighten his spine, and a house to give him shelter. So whatever is above that carries a judgment for him.”63 Yet more permissive is another

Hadith in the same chapter, in which the Prophet allows the acquisition not only of a house and a wife, but also of a servant (khādim).64

In articulating an ideal of moderate asceticism, several traditions contained in Hadith

collections reject Christian monasticism as being incompatible with the more restrained sunnah

of the Prophet. Such traditions often center on the quintessentially monastic discipline of

61 E.g. Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:36–37.

62 Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 301–306, nos. 73–78. On the Prophet’s advice, cf. al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 306–307, nos. 222 and 225.

63 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 273, no. 160.

64 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 272, no. 158. 153

celibacy, which was rejected in several Hadiths. The most emphatic example comes in an

account transmitted in Ibn Ḥanbal’s Musnad. Here, the Prophet upbraids a rich bachelor named

‘Akkāf for his refusal to marry, exclaiming: “You brother of devils! If you were a Christian, you

would be one of their monks (min ruhbānihim). Our sunnah is marriage. The most wicked

among you are those of you who are celibate (‘uzzābukum).”65 This tradition condemns celibacy in the harshest of terms, not only as incompatible with the Prophet’s sunnah, but also as characteristic of Christian monasticism.

Yet other anti-monastic traditions focused on the broader idea of severe asceticism. In an episode recorded by al-Dārimī, the Prophet tells ‘Uthmān ibn Ma‘ẓūn, “I have not been commanded to monasticism (rahbānīyah)… Do you hate my sunnah? My sunnah is to pray and to sleep, to fast and to eat, to marry and to divorce, and whoever hates my sunnah is not one of my own.”66 This tradition emphasizes that, in contrast to monks, Muslims must not only marry,

but also moderate their prayer and fasting. In another version of this incident, ‘Uthmān’s wife

complains to the Prophet that her husband is spending the entire day fasting and the whole night

awake in prayer. The Prophet responds, “monasticism (rahbānīyah) was not prescribed for us.”67

In this case, the charge that ‘Uthmān has abstained from sex with his wife is only implicit, and the tradition thus suggests that not only celibacy, but also an extreme devotion to fasting and

65 Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, ed. Shuʻayb al-Arnaʾūṭ, ʻĀdil , 52 vols. (Beirut: Muʼassasat al-Risālah, 2008), 5:163, no. 21,488; ‘Abd al-Razzāq al- Ṣanʿānī, Al-Muṣannaf, ed. Ḥabīb al-Raḥmān al-Aʻẓamī, 11 vols. (Beirut: al-Maktab al-Islāmī, 1970–1972), 6:168, no. 10,375.

66 This Hadith is contained within a section titled “Chapter on forbidding celibacy” (Bāb al-nahy ‘an al-tabattul). Sunan al-Dārimī, ed. Muḥammad ʻAbd al-ʻAzīz al-Khālidī, 2 vols. (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-‘Ilmīyah, 1996), 2:111.

67 Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, 6:226, no. 25,395. 154

prayer is inappropriate for a Muslim (if largely, perhaps, because it interferes with one’s marital

duties). Although explicitly rejecting monastic practice, such traditions were aimed not at

monastic listeners, but at regulating the ascetic behavior of other Muslims. Taken together, they

thus provide an ideal of Muslim piety as embedded within communal and domestic life, and so

restrained in its scope — an ideal defined in accordance with the sunnah of the Prophet and in

opposition to monastic practice.

Portraits of Severe Asceticism

The apparent need in some kutub al-zuhd and Hadith traditions to restrain Muslims’

ascetic behavior is easier to understand when we consider that the model of mild asceticism,

grounded in the sunnah of the Prophet, coexisted in Muslim traditions with more severe ideals of

asceticism. In this section, we will examine several portrayals of severe asceticism in detail. As

we will see, such accounts often present extreme ascetic practices as contested, revealing a range

of criticisms, as well as divergent attempts to justify such practices by explaining their meaning

in Islamic terms. I will begin with one of the most prominent examples of severe asceticism in

the kutub al-zuhd — that of Jesus and the ascetics who followed him — before advancing to the

portrayal of exacting feats of asceticism undertaken by the Prophet Muḥammad and early

Muslims.

Two of the three biographically arranged kutub al-zuhd — those of Abū Dāwūd al-

Sijistānī and Ibn Abī Shaybah — commence with sayings of Jesus.68 In turn, Aḥmad ibn

Ḥanbal’s kitāb al-zuhd contains a long section on Jesus in the first part of the collection, which

68 For an excellent annotated translation and short study of Muslim traditions of Jesus, see Tarif Khalidi, The Muslim Jesus: Sayings and Stories in Islamic Literature (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001). 155

addresses the ascetic actions and statements of all the prophets, from Adam to Muḥammad.69 The thematically-arranged collections also present Jesus as embodying or enjoining humility, pious weeping, silence, and other ascetic traits.70 His sayings often take the form of modified

quotations from the New Testament.71 For example, in a tradition related by Ibn Abī Shaybah, a

woman passes by Jesus and exclaims, “Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that

nursed you!” — a direct quotation of Luke 11:27.72 In the Gospel, Jesus responds by stating,

“Blessed, rather, are those who hear the word of God and guard it.”73 The tradition reported by

Ibn Abī Shaybah provides an Islamic gloss on this passage, turning Jesus’s words into: “Blessed,

69 Ibn Ḥanbal’s kitāb al-zuhd, however, places the section on Muḥammad first, indicating the Prophet’s supreme importance as a pious model.

70 E.g., Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 41, no. 124; 44, no. 135; 48–49, no. 150; Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:350, no. 162; Hannad ibn al-Sarrī, Zuhd, 169, no. 879; 215, no. 1131; Abū Ḥātim al- Rāzī, Zuhd, 269, no. 3; Ibn Qutaybah, ‘Uyūn al-Akhbār (Zuhd), 2:351–53.

71 In the collection of Ibn Ḥanbal: Jesus’s temptation by Satan/Iblis (1:179), the golden rule (1:180 and 1:188), the warning that it is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven (1:190), the admonition not to cast pearls before swine (1:190), Jesus’s submission of his own will to that of God (1:192), Jesus’s prediction of the destruction of the temple, here referred to as a masjid (1:192–93), and Jesus’s stoic advice not to seek the morrow’s provisions, for the morrow shall worry about itself (1:193). In addition, however, this section includes a number of sayings attributed to Jesus that are not derived from the New Testament, but that imitate New Testament language by using phrases such as “Amen, Amen, I say to you” or “In truth, I say to you.”

72 The correspondence is even clearer when comparing the Arabic given by Ibn Abī Shaybah to the Syriac of the Peshitta: Arabic: ﻁﻮﺑﻰ ﻟﺒﻄﻦ ﺣﻤﻠﻚ، ﻭﻟﺜﺪﻱ ﺍﺭﺿﻌﻚ Syriac Peshitta: ܟܐܕ ܐܕܘ ܟܕ ܐ ܒ Greek (Nestle-Aland): μακαρία ἡ κοιλία ἡ βαστάσασά σε καὶ μαστοὶ οὓς ἐθήλασας

73 Greek (Nestle-Aland): μενοῦν μακάριοι οἱ ἀκούοντες τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ φυλάσσοντες. Syriac Peshitta: ܘ ܐܐܕ ܗ ܕ ܢܘܒ 156

rather, is whoever recites the Qur’an and follows what is in it.”74 Through adaptation of Gospel

statements, Jesus is thus able to provide pious instruction tailored to Muslims.

Many accounts about and sayings of Jesus in the kutub al-zuhd describe his extreme

asceticism.75 The first Hadith in Ibn Abī Shaybah’s collection states that Jesus “used to wear

hair, eat shrubs, and sleep wherever evening fell.”76 Jesus’s disciples express shock at his hard

life (kull hādhā shadīd, they exclaim, “this is all too severe!”), but he explains that they cannot attain the kingdom of heaven without overcoming pleasure and passion.77 According to Ibn

Ḥanbal, Jesus’s advice for gaining Paradise was to eat only wheat bread, drink only water, and sleep on dunghills surrounded by dogs.78 Muslims also remembered Jesus for his celibacy. In one tradition, he states, “I have turned the world (al-dunyā) on its head and sat upon its back. I do not

have a child who dies or a house that goes to ruin.”79 When the people ask Jesus “why have you

not taken a wife?”, he responds, “Would not that which I make with the wife die?”80 Jesus here explains his celibacy as an expression of indifference to the fleeting nature of the present reality.

74 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 134, no. 35,234.

75 In this respect, Jesus represents an exemplar of ascetic practice for both Christians and Muslims. Syriac monastic literature, however, primarily invokes Jesus as the goal of asceticism, with less explicit attention given to Jesus’s own ascetic disciplines during his forty days in the desert or during his ministry.

76 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 133, no. 35,229.

77 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 134, no. 35,232.

78 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:182.

79 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:189; cf. Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:350, no. 125: “Jesus son of Mary used to wear clothing made of hair, and eat shrubs, and not keep the day for the morrow, and spend the night wherever the night sheltered him, and he had no child who would die, and no house which would fall to ruin.”

80 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:189. 157

In this sense, his celibacy exemplifies the ideal of al-zuhd fī l-dunyā, or detachment from the

world, in spite of the fact that other Muslim traditions criticized celibacy.

The section on Jesus in Ibn Ḥanbal’s zuhd collection also contains several stories about

ascetics belonging to the Banū Isrāʾīl, the people to whom Jesus came as a prophet.81 Such

stories belonged to a broader literature of isrā’īlīyat (traditions from or about Jews and

Christians). These accounts played a limited role in the kutub al-zuhd, but also circulated in other

collections of pious literature.82 In this case, the ascetics of the Banū Isrāʾīl illustrate the pious

fervor of those who accepted Jesus’s message and followed his life of strict austerity.83 The

81 The term refers generally to Jews, but also sometimes to Christians. In this case, it designates the Israelites who received Jesus’ original message of . See EI II, s.v. “Banū Isrāʾīl.”

82 The chapter on weeping in Ibn Qutaybah’s kitāb al-zuhd contains two accounts of monks as models of and incitements toward lamentation. Ibn Qutaybah, ‘Uyūn al-Akhbār (Zuhd), 2:297. Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, who also authored a kitāb al-zuhd, compiled a separate collection of selections from a (now lost) “Book on Monks” (Kitāb al-Ruhbān) that contains several stories of Christian monks and of ascetic withdrawal. Edited in Ṣalaḥuddīn al-Munajjed, “Morceaux choisis du livre des moines,” Mélanges — Institut dominicain d’études orientales du Caire 3 (1956): 349–58.

83 Such accounts are thus exemplary of the positive attitude toward monasticism represented in some Muslim sources, an attitude that coexisted with more negative appraisals. The Qur’an praises monks but also implies, at least according to what became the majority exegesis, that monasticism was an innovation of Christians (See esp. Q 82:5 and Q 27:57). As sources from the ninth to eleventh centuries show, Muslims imagined monks both as faithful followers of the true message of Jesus — embracing his monotheism and his ascetic fervor — and as apostates from and innovators upon Jesus’s teaching; both as models and teachers of ascetic wisdom, and as offering, in their monasteries, a haven from the strictures of society, where hospitality, wine, and romantic affairs abounded. On these ambivalent attitudes toward monks in classical Muslim sources, see Elizabeth Campbell, A Heaven of Wine: Muslim-Christian Encounters at Monasteries in the Early Islamic Middle East (Ph.D dissertation, University of Washington, 2009); Hilary Kilpatrick, “Monasteries through Muslim Eyes: The Diyārāt Books,” in Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ‘Abbasid Iraq (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 19–37; Suleiman Mourad, “Christian Monks in Islamic Literature: A Preliminary Report on Some Arabic Apophthegmata Patrum,” Bulletin of the Royal Institute for Inter-Faith Studies 6 (2004): 81–98; Pietruschka, “Apophthegmata Patrum in muslimischem Gewand”; Thomas Sizgorich, “Monks and Their Daughters: Monasteries as Muslim-Christian Boundaries,” in Muslims and Others in Sacred Space, ed. Margaret Cormack (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 193–216; Sara Sviri, “Wa-Rahbānīyatan Ibtada‘ūhā: An Analysis of Traditions 158

accounts of these ascetics merge monastic and Islamic language and evoke the fanciful and dramatic qualities of Late Antique hagiography. One tradition describes a “worshipper” (‘ābid)

— a common term for a Muslim ascetic — performing worship (yata‘abbad) in his cell

(ṣawma‘ah) — a term for the dwellings of Christian monks.84 The ascetic’s enemies hire a

prostitute to seduce him. But when he resists her charms, she is struck by lightning and dies.85

Such stories, apart from entertaining their audience, illustrate the ascetic zeal of Jesus’s

followers.

Another account preserved in Ibn Ḥanbal’s chapter on Jesus relates the ascetic feats of a

woman from the Banū Isrā’īl. This tradition is transmitted by Wahb ibn Munabbih, a well-

known purveyor of isrā’īlīyāt. As he relates:

A woman from the Banū Isrā’īl passed by some water and washed herself (ightasalat). Then she rose up in prayer (qāmat tuṣallī). She remained for sixty or seventy years, without leaving, without eating, and without drinking, until she was pure. Then she left. She was asked, “How were you?” She said, “I would rise in the morning and say, ‘Evening shall not come.’ Then when evening came, I would say, ‘Morning shall not rise.’”86

This account, again, invokes language that is common in descriptions of Muslim piety. The

description of the woman as washing herself (ightasalat) may suggest that she performed ghusl,

the major, full-body ablution. Following this, the woman “rises up in prayer,” a Qur’anic

expression frequently applied to acts of prayer in Muslim texts. Nevertheless, the impossible

Concerning the Origin and Evolution of Christian Monasticism,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 13 (1990): 195–208; and Gérard Troupeau, “Les couvents chrétiens dans la literature arabe,” Nouvelle Revue du Caire 1 (1975): 265–79.

84 On the term ṣawma‘ah, see above, footnote 28.

85 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:197–98.

86 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:195. 159

severity of the woman’s asceticism — sixty or seventy years without eating, drinking, or leaving

her place of prayer —clearly goes beyond the normal portrait of asceticism in the kutub al-zuhd.

Her austerities evoke a misty ascetic past of legendary feats, one that has yielded to the more

restrained and achievable sunnah of the Prophet and the early Muslim community.

Yet the line between an extreme ascetic past and a restrained Muslim present is not so

clear. For one thing, similar accounts of Muslim ascetic women appear in the kutub al-zuhd. The

above story of a woman from the Banū Isrā’īl may be compared to traditions related by Wakī‘

ibn al-Jarrāḥ and Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal about female ascetics:

A woman from the Banū Isrā’īl passed by some water and washed herself (ightasalat). Then she rose up in prayer (qāmat tuṣallī). She remained for sixty or seventy years, without leaving, without eating, and without drinking, until she was pure. Then she left. She was asked, “How were you?” She said, “I would rise in the morning and say, ‘Evening shall not come.’ Then when evening came, I would say, ‘Morning shall not rise.’”87

There was an ascetic woman (imra’ah muta‘abbidah) in Yemen, and when evening fell, she would say, “O self! This night is your night, than which you have no other night.” Then she struggled (fa-jtahadat). And when morning came, she would say, “O self! This day is your day, than which you have no other day.” Then she struggled.88

At daybreak, Mu‘ādhah al-‘Adawīyah [fl. 7th c., Basrah] used to say, “This is my day, on which I shall die,” and so she would not sleep until it became evening. And when night came, she would say, “This is my night, on which I shall die,” and so she would not sleep until the morning. And when the cold came, she would wear a thin cloak, so that the cold would prevent her from sleeping.89

All three traditions present women verbally encouraging themselves to persist in ascetic discipline night and day by convincing themselves that the morning or evening may be their last.

This seems to have represented a trope of female asceticism that could be applied to women

87 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 1:195.

88 Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:226–27, no. 9.

89 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd (Beirut), 208. 160

across various contexts.90 While the first account portrays a Jewish or Christian woman, the second simply depicts an anonymous worshipper from Yemen. The third tradition, however, describes Mu‘ādhah al-‘Adawīyah, an important Muslim ascetic from Basrah, remembered as a student of ‘Ā’ishah and an instructor of several women, including the famous Rābiʿah al-

‘Adawīyah (who, in fact, was born around the time of Mu‘ādhah’s death).91 While only the first tradition mentions an impossible feat of fasting, all three accounts portray the women as

undertaking a regimen of unrelenting austerity. They thus resist any complete contrast between

images of pre- and post-Islamic ascetic women.

In addition, some traditions portray the Prophet Muḥammad himself as encouraging or

performing ascetic actions so severe that they cause bodily harm. According to a tradition related

by Ibn al-Mubārak, Abū Fāṭimah al-Azdī had made “his face and his knees turn black from the

abundance of his prostration (al-sujūd).” The Prophet then comes to speak to him. The story appears framed so as to make the reader or listener expect that the Prophet will rebuke Abū

Fāṭimah’s extreme devotion to prayer, in accordance with the many traditions that emphasize moderation in prayer.92 But not so: “O Abū Fāṭimah,” the Prophet says, “Increase your

prostration! For there is no servant who has prostrated a single prostration to God, may he be

90 Compare the comments of ʻAbd al-Raḥmān ʻAbd al-Jabbār al-Frīwāʾī in his edition of Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:226–27, n. 2.

91 See the discussion of Cornell (ed. and trans.), Early Sufi Women, 61–62.

92 In addition to the examples quoted in the previous section, see al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ (Tahajjud), 2:303, no. 1042 (‘Abdul Baqi no. 1153), in which the Prophet tells ‘Abdullāh ibn ‘Amr to moderate his prayer and fasting or else his eyes would give out.

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glorified and exalted, save that God has raised him up a degree.”93 In this account, far from rebuking Abū Fāṭimah, the Prophet encourages him.

In another account, recorded both in kutub al-zuhd and in canonical Hadith, the Prophet himself is depicted as engaging in prayer to the point of bodily harm. As presented in the kitāb al-zuhd of Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ:

The Prophet (saws) used to pray until his legs were swollen. So it was said to him, “Why are you doing this, when God has already forgiven you both with respect to the sins you have committed in the past and with respect to what you will do in the future?” The Prophet said, “Shall I not be a grateful servant (‘abdan shakūran)?”94

In this account, the Prophet prays for so long that his legs become swollen. When he is

questioned on this seemingly extreme behavior, he explains that he is embodying the gratitude to

God owed by God’s servant (‘abd shakūr). Far from being viewed as suspect, this account was

enshrined in the canonical collection of al-Bukhārī, both in the chapter on prayer vigils, and in

the chapter on softening the heart (al-riqāq; al-Bukhārī’s equivalent to a chapter on zuhd).95 Al-

93 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 457–58, no. 1296.

94 The next account in the collection provides an alternative version: “Mas‘ar and Sufyān related to us, on the authority of Ziyād ibn ‘Alāqah, on the authority of al-Mughīrah ibn Shu‘bah that the Prophet (saws) used to pray until his legs were swollen. So he was spoken to, and he said, ‘Shall I not be a grateful servant?’” Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:384–86, nos. 147–48.

95 Al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ (Tahajjud), 2:291, no. 1019 (‘Abdul Baqi no. 1130) and Ṣaḥīḥ (Riqāq), 10:151, no. 5760 (‘Abdul Baqi no. 6471); cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ‘Uyūn al-Akhbār (Zuhd), 2:298–99. Softening the heart (RQQ) is included in longer or variant titles for other zuhd collections (Muslim, Ibn al-Mubārak). Al-Bukhārī’s chapter on riqāq covers several themes that typically appear in other kutub al-zuhd, such as the poverty and meager diet of the Prophet’s family, restraint of the tongue, sayings about the dunyā and the ākhirah, and a large number of eschatological Hadith.

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Kharrāz, a ninth-century Sufi of Baghdad, described the Prophet’s swollen legs as a physical manifestation of gratitude to God.96

Such traditions offer an image of pious behavior that stands in tension with the ideals of mild and restrained ascetic discipline that prevail in the kutub al-zuhd and Hadith collections. Of

course, it may be objected that Muslims considered the behavior exhibited by Abū Fāṭimah al-

Azdī and the Prophet as laudatory on the grounds that it represented an intensification of a

religious duty (prayer), rather than the rejection of or abstinence from a worldly good (such as

food or marriage).97 Yet other traditions in the kutub al-zuhd portray extreme acts of abstinence, including severe fasting and permanent celibacy. The central feature of these traditions is that they depict disagreements and arguments surrounding such practices. They thus reveal divergent attitudes held by early Muslims regarding not only prayer, but also fasting and celibacy. We will now consider several of these cases in detail.

Severe Asceticism Contested I: What is Wrong with ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays?

We have already met one of the most famous early ascetics of Basrah, ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd

Qays, whose preference for private devotions aroused the charge that he disdained communal worship. Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī (d. 430/1038) described ‘Āmir as the first Basran among the

96 In al-Kharrāz’s words, the Prophet’s unrelenting prayer represents “gratitude of the body” ( al-badan). The Book of Truthfulness (Kitāb al-Ṣidq), ed. and trans. Arthur Arberry (London: Humphrey Milford; Oxford University Press, 1937), 26/38. For further discussion of al-Kharrāz and his commentary on this Hadith, see the following chapter.

97 Extended, continuous, or supererogatory prayer should, however, be considered an ascetic practice as represented in the kutub al-zuhd: such prayer — a labor of the whole body — was typically paired with fasting, and it frequently involved the restriction or abandonment of sleep and of commerce with family and society. 163

followers of the companions of the Prophet to become known for his asceticism (nusk).98 He receives pride of place in a short treatise composed by ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad (d. 121/738) called

“The Zuhd of the Eight from among the Followers,” which is the earliest extant Muslim text on zuhd.99 The opening entry in this treatise illustrates the devotion and intensity for which ‘Āmir

was long remembered:

As for ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays, when he prayed, Iblis would represent himself in the image of a snake (yatamaththalu ’iblīs fī ṣūrati l-ḥayyah) and enter underneath ‘Āmir’s shirt, coming out from his side. Whenever he touched him, [‘Āmir] would be asked, “Aren’t you going to push the snake away from you?” But he would say, “I am ashamed before God to fear anything other than Him.”

And it was said [to ‘Āmir]: “Paradise will continue without that which you do, and the Fire will remain without that which you do.” But [‘Āmir] said, “By God, I shall struggle! By God, I shall struggle! And should I be saved, it will be by the mercy of God the Exalted, and should I enter the Fire, it will be following my struggle.”100

These accounts employ hagiographic tropes that appear across religious confessions. ‘Āmir’s harassment by the Devil, come in the form of a snake, his commitment to continual struggle, his unyielding reliance on God — such features recur in the lives of Syriac Christian ascetics, as well.

In fact, ‘Āmir was remembered as a figure who blurred religious boundaries. When Ka‘b al-Aḥbār, a Jewish convert to Islam, met ‘Āmir in Syria, he reportedly declared “[‘Āmir] is the monk (rāhib) of this ummah.”101 According to another account, ‘Āmir held a session with Ka‘b

inside a mosque, in which he and Ka‘b discussed curious passages from one of the books of the

98 Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī, Ḥilyat al-Awlīyā’, 2:94.

99 This text was also used as a source and quoted by Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī in his entries on the eight figures in the Ḥilyat al-Awlīyā’.

100 ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad, Zuhd, 37–38.

101 Ibn Ṣa‘d, Al-Ṭabaqāt al-Kubrā, 9:109. 164

Torah.102 Ibn Ṣa‘d also provides the following account of ‘Āmir’s adventures in a church in

Syria:

‘Āmir was taking part with others in a military raid, and when the Muslims made camp, ‘Āmir went off and made camp in a church. And he said to a man, “Take me [inside], by the door of the church, and do not let anyone enter upon me.” Then the man came and said, “The commander [of the military raid] is asking permission [to enter].” So [‘Āmir] said, “Permit him.” So he entered, and when he entered and had drawn near, ‘Āmir said to him, “I implore you by God, I call upon you by God, to make me desire the dunyā or make me indifferent to the ākhirah.”103

The church in Syria thus becomes ‘Āmir’s cell, and like a Christian holy man, it is from this seat

of spiritual authority that he holds audience with worldly potentates. His appeal to the Muslim

commander reverses the standard trope whereby the ascetic is said to desire the ākhirah and be

indifferent to the dunyā. This playful, possibly sarcastic, turn suggests that ‘Āmir is so focused

on the ākhirah that he needs a dose of worldly attachment before he would be willing to leave

the church and resume part in the raid.104

Entries on ‘Āmir are included in the biographically-arranged kutub al-zuhd of Ibn Ḥanbal and Ibn Abī Shaybah. Yet ‘Āmir’s importance in early Muslim traditions of piety is suggested especially by the fact that Ibn al-Mubārak’s zuhd collection, which is arranged topically, nevertheless devotes a long section to a series of accounts on ‘Āmir’s asceticism. Scholarly treatment of ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays has tended to treat such accounts simply as sources for

‘Āmir’s ascetic practices. Massignon says about ‘Āmir that he was “celibate, vegetarian, did not

102 Ibn Ṣa‘d, Al-Ṭabaqāt al-Kubrā, 9:109.

103 Ibn Ṣa‘d, Al-Ṭabaqāt al-Kubrā, 9:109.

104 As such, ‘Āmir’s point is perhaps to criticize the worldliness of the military commander or the rest of his fellow Muslims on the raid.

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go to mosque on Fridays” (the last point, as we have seen, explicitly denied by ‘Āmir!).105

Charles Pellat emphasizes ‘Āmir’s celibacy and argues that it was partially the reason for his expulsion from Basrah.106 Yet we can read the accounts of ‘Āmir’s asceticism more fruitfully if

we see them as later attempts to critique, defend, or explain the motivations and legitimacy of

‘Āmir’s ascetic behavior. As we shall see, the traditions related by Ibn al-Mubārak, Ibn Ḥanbal,

and Ibn Abī Shaybah show ‘Āmir’s contemporaries questioning his severe and borderline monastic disciplines. ‘Āmir’s responses to these questions represent an effort by those who remembered and told stories about his asceticism to understand or justify his ascetic practices.

The exchanges between ‘Āmir and his critics portrayed in the kutub al-zuhd thus reveal the contested nature of severe asceticism and leave the reader with a multiplicity of possible criticisms of, as well as justifications for ‘Āmir’s ascetic practice.107

The most frequently challenged of ‘Āmir’s disciplines is his celibacy. In several traditions, his contemporaries ask him questions like, “What is wrong with you? Why don’t you get married?”108 Such questions may be motivated by the view, attested in contemporary Hadith,

105 Massignon, Essai, 142.

106 Charles Pellat, Le milieu baṣrien et la formation de Ğāḥiẓ (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient Adrien-Maisonneuve, 1953), 96; cf. EI II, s.v. “ʿĀmir b. ʿAbd al- Ḳays (later ʿAbd Allah al-ʿAnbarī).” Melchert also cites ‘Āmir as an example of an early Muslim celibate. Melchert, “Origins and Early Sufism,” 7. Citing Pellat, Alexander Knysh states that ‘Āmir was married to Mu‘ādhah al-Adawīyah; Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: A Short History (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 26. No source, however, refers to their marriage, and Pellat makes no mention of it.

107 The traditions typically group the accusations against ‘Āmir, as well as his responses to them, in the same account. For the purpose of clarity, we will consider the accusations and responses separately, according to the practice that is contested.

108 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 299, no. 267; Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 231, no. 80; Ibn Ṣa‘d, Ṭabaqāt, 9:106; Abū Nu‘aym, Ḥilyat al-Awlīyā’, 2:90. 166

that celibacy is monastic and un-Islamic. In turn, ‘Āmir’s responses to these questions typically

provide a religious and sometimes expressly Islamic defense of his celibacy. In a tradition related by Ibn al-Mubārak, he silences his detractors by saying, “As for their accusation that I do not marry women, it is because one self (nafs) has already all but overcome me.”109 Here, ‘Āmir

suggests that his refusal to marry stems from his preoccupation with the struggle against the nafs

enjoined by the Qur’an.110 The saying thus legitimizes ‘Āmir’s celibacy by employing Qur’anic

language and invoking a central element of early Muslim piety.

The sources most often associate ‘Āmir’s attempt to defend his celibacy with an incident

in which the caliph Mu‘āwīyah, through the intermediary of ‘Abdullāh ibn ‘Āmir, the amīr of

Basrah, attempts to ‘Āmir to marry. 111 The different accounts of this incident provide divergent explanations of ‘Āmir’s celibacy. In one tradition, he explains: “It is not that I have abandoned women. It is that I have learned that when there is a woman, then a child may well follow, and when there is a child, then the dunyā establishes a branch in one’s heart, and I have preferred to seclude myself from that.”112 In this case, the tradition presents ‘Āmir’s celibacy as

fundamental to his detachment from the world (al-dunyā), a detachment that defines the ideal of zuhd.

Yet in another tradition, collected by Ibn Ḥanbal, ‘Āmir invokes the language of nuptial

mysticism. As he tells the amīr of Basrah: “As for your claim that I do not marry women, it is

109 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 299, no. 266.

110 E.g. Q 12:53, Q 79:40.

111 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:169, 2:173, 2:178; Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 299, no. 267; Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 231, no. 80.

112 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 299, no. 267. 167

because I have already become engaged (khuṭibat) to my Lord, may he be glorified and exalted,

even before your mother gave you birth.”113 ‘Āmir here indicates that his celibacy stems from a prior “engagement” to God, which prevents him from seeking a human spouse. This idea of a nuptial relationship with God is most often associated in later Sufi sources with Rābiʿah al-

‘Adawīyah, the famous female ascetic of Basrah, and it is unusual to find such language in a

ninth-century source or in the kutub al-zuhd. As in the later stories about Rābiʿah, the language of marriage or engagement to God serves to justify ‘Āmir’s celibacy as a manifestation of his single-minded devotion to God, which can bear no competition from a wife or children.114 This represents an attempt, perhaps stemming from Sufi circles,115 to understand the mystical dimensions of celibacy.

These accounts explain, albeit in divergent ways, ‘Āmir’s celibacy as an authentic expression of his religious devotion, whether stemming from his battle against the nafs, his rejection of the dunyā, or his engagement to God. Yet such explanations sit uneasily with other traditions in which ‘Āmir justifies his celibacy simply by invoking his personal or financial incapacity. In accounts related by Ibn Abī Shaybah and Ibn Ḥanbal, when the amīr of Basrah asks ‘Āmir why he refuses to marry, ‘Āmir replies, “I lack the energy, and I lack the money, and

113 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:178.

114 A similar account is given of ‘Amr ibn ‘Utbah ibn Farqad in the zuhd collection of Ibn Ḥanbal. His parents wish him to marry and enlist the help of the caliph ‘Uthmān, who exhorts him by saying, “You don’t marry even though the Prophet (saws) married, and Abū Bakr married, and ‘Umar married, and I, too, have married.” At this, ‘Amr agrees to be engaged, but when he and his fiancée take up a regime of prayer and fasting, their parents realize that their union will not lead to a child, and they eventually allow ‘Amr to divorce her. Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd (Beirut), 354–55.

115 Although Sufism developed after ‘Āmir, the rise of Baghdadi Sufism is contemporary with the compilation of Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal’s kitāb al-zuhd. 168

I shall not mislead a Muslim woman.”116 This tradition explains that ‘Āmir’s celibacy is not

willful and so implies that a voluntary refusal to marry by one who possessed the means might

be illegitimate. The account thus explains away ‘Āmir’s celibacy, rather than attempting to

defend it as a religious or Islamic virtue. The explanations offered by ‘Āmir in the kutub al-zuhd thus present conflicting perspectives on the legitimacy and purpose of sexual abstinence. They reveal, first, that the discipline of celibacy itself was contested. Yet even those who accepted that

Muslim ascetics could be celibate disagreed about the meaning and purpose of such sexual abstinence.

Similarly, the kutub al-zuhd portray disagreements about ‘Āmir’s dietary practices, especially his abstinence from meat and fat. According to Ibn al-Mubārak, when the people of

Basrah questioned him on this practice, ‘Āmir responded as follows:

As for their saying that I do not eat meat, it is because those people might do something in the of which I am unaware. If I wanted meat, we would order a sheep, and I would buy it for us, and we would it, and we would eat of its meat. And as for their saying that I do not eat fat, it is that I will not eat what came from one place, but I will eat what came from another place.117

‘Āmir here defends his limited diet as stemming from his scrupulous desire to consume only

what is ḥalāl. He would only eat what he has sacrificed himself and would only consume fat

produced in certain, presumably Islamic regions. Other versions of this account in the later

compilation of Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal clarify ‘Āmir’s reasoning and make explicit its Islamic

groundings. In the story as related by Ibn Ḥanbal, ‘Āmir explains that he will only eat fat from

Arab lands (arḍ al-‘arab), not from foreign territories (arḍ al-‘ajam), for he has seen himself,

while participating in raids, that fat from non-Arab lands can be intermixed with carrion (the

116 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 340, no. 36,117; cf. Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:171.

117 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 298, no. 866. 169

consumption of which is forbidden).118 Similarly, ‘Āmir states that he will not eat meat that has not had the name of God pronounced over it.119 In another tradition collected by Ibn Ḥanbal,

‘Āmir protests that the meat he has been asked to eat was acquired and prepared “in a way that

Islam does not teach” (lā yufaqqihu l-islām).120 The fact that ‘Āmir is portrayed as being

questioned about his austere diet suggests that some Muslims considered abstinence from meat and fat suspect, or at least as requiring some explanation. It is thus significant that ‘Āmir never attempts, in any of the accounts, to justify an absolute or in principle abstention from fat and meat. Rather, he justifies his diet in explicitly Islamic terms as an expression, albeit an especially intense one, of the legal and dietary scrupulosity demanded of all Muslims. These traditions thus show the ambivalent nature of ‘Āmir’s abstinence, as a discipline that is legitimate or praiseworthy only when stemming from a broader and more entrenched ideal of confinement to what is ḥalāl.

In short, for ‘Āmir’s asceticism to be defensible, it had to stem from the right motivations. In the previous section, we saw how ‘Āmir emphasizes that, his preference for private devotions notwithstanding, he does not reject the Muslim community or its communal worship. Similarly, in another tradition, ‘Āmir is forced by the amīr of Basrah to reject outright

118 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:170–71, 2:177.

119 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:177: “As for your saying that I do not eat meat, it is because I passed by the butchers speaking hypocritical things until they slaughtered [the meat], and so I reject the butchered meat, which has not had the name of God invoked over it. If we wanted meat we would slaughter a sheep that we had raised, and we would eat its meat. And as for their saying that I do not eat fat, it is because I saw them on our raids cut into the sheep, and then pull it out with the fat, and that is carrion. But I might eat something that came from this desert (bādīyah) of ours.”

120 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:170. 170

the charge that he disdains the authority of the , the leaders of the Muslim community.121

Such accounts indicate the hard boundaries of legitimate ascetic practice. Yet the traditions about

‘Āmir’s celibacy and dietary regimes reveal a murkier area of ascetic disciplines whose

legitimacy depends upon their purpose. Here, the traditions contained in the kutub al-zuhd do not

reject the charges brought against ‘Āmir, but seek to explain the meaning or underlying

motivations of his behavior. In so doing, they reveal divergent views about and attitudes towards

abstinence from food and from marriage.

Severe Asceticism Contested II: “His Body Turned Green, and He Turned Yellow”

The tendency to present conflicting views on asceticism is even more clearly on display

in several traditions in the kutub al-zuhd concerning intense, supererogatory fasting. Several

sources from the third/ninth century indicate that some Muslims associated acts of severe fasting

with Christian monasticism. We have already seen how, in the Hadith of the Prophet and

‘Uthmān ibn Ma‘ẓūn, the Prophet contrasts his own example of moderation in fasting with

monastic practice. As we will see in the following chapter, the Kitāb al-Jū‘ (“Book on Hunger”)

compiled by the Baghdādī scholar Ibn Abī l-Dunyā (d. 281/894) provides several traditions in

which Christian monks and Christian converts to Islam commend intense disciplines of fasting or

121 Several traditions portray ‘Āmir as a man of spiritual authority, who gives advice on ascetic life to both men and women. According to an account related by Ibn Ḥanbal, ‘Āmir held a teaching session (majlis) in a mosque, in which he criticized heretics (aṣḥāb al-ahwā’) and preached the importance of self-examination (muḥāsabat al-nafs); Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd (Beirut), 226. Yet other traditions suggest that ‘Āmir’s authority was seen as usurping, or at least undermining the authority of the community’s leaders. In one case, the commander (amīr) of Basrah tells ‘Āmir that people are accusing him of “challenging the imams” (taṭ‘anu ‘alā l- a’immah). ‘Āmir’s response to the accusation is flat-out denial: “As for your claim that I challenge the imams, may God give me refuge from ever challenging an !” Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:177–78. This tradition emphasizes that whatever ‘Āmir’s spiritual or charismatic authority, it remained subordinate to the authority of the leaders of Basrah. 171

praise Muslims for fasting.122 In turn, al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857), describes the Islamic

cultivation of hunger as a form of “monasticism” (tarrahub), a service to God that makes

Muslim ascetics “like monks” (astarahbathum). A contemporary of al-Muḥāsibī in Baghdad, al-

Burjulānī (d. 238/852), composed a Book on Monks (Kitāb al-Ruhbān), two passages of which

survive in the hagiographical collection of Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī. In one of these, a Muslim

ascetic (‘ābid) from Baghdad, Abū Muḥammad ‘Abdullāh ibn al-Faraj, refers to the wisdom of

monks as “the legacy of hunger” (mīrath al-jū‘).123

The associations of fasting and hunger with monasticism perhaps underlie the ambivalence shown by the kutub al-zuhd toward practices of severe and supererogatory fasting.

Nevertheless, it should be stressed that the zuhd traditions generally emphasize the intensity of an ascetic’s fasting as the potentially problematic element, rather than the associations of severe fasting with monasticism per se. Indeed, the accounts in the kutub al-zuhd show how, even if

Muslims at times associated fasting with monasticism, they also interpreted the purpose of fasting in relation to Islamic values and ideals. Like the stories about ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays, these traditions probe the limits of ascetic practice, testing whether and how severe acts of fasting can be legitimate for Muslims. In this section, we will consider stories about al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād and al-Aswad ibn Yazīd, two ascetics, like ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays, from the generation of the followers. According to the accounts in the kutub al-zuhd, these men fasted to the point that they turned green, yellow, or ashen in color.

122 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 91–92, no. 132; 96, no. 140; and 187, no. 317.

123 Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī, Ḥilyat al-Awlīyā’, 10:151. On Abū Muḥammad ‘Abdullāh ibn al- Faraj, see al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Tā’rīkh Madīnat al-Salām [aw Baghdād], ed. Bashshār ʻAwwād Maʻrūf, 17 vols. (Beirut: Dār al-Gharb al-Islāmī, 2001), 11:228–29, no. 5122; cf. Massignon, Essai, 54. 172

Let us first take the case of al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād. Ibn al-Mubārak relates the following

account:

Al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād used to feed himself one raghīf [a round cake of bread] per day, and he would fast until he turned green and pray until he collapsed. So Anas ibn Mālik and al-Ḥasan ibn Abī l-Ḥasan [al-Baṣrī] came to him, and they said, “God has not ordered you to do all this.” He said, “I am only a slave who is owned [by God] (‘abd mamlūk), and I will not cease from self-effacement with regard to anything until I come to him.124

This tradition expresses conflicting viewpoints and does not yield an easy interpretation. It is al-

‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād who is given the final word, justifying his self-destructive fasting and prayer as an expression of his slavish devotion to God. His response thus echoes the Prophet’s defense of his swollen legs; like the Prophet, al-‘Alā’s severe asceticism allows him to embody the state of

God’s servant (‘abd mamlūk).125 Nevertheless, the two men who criticize al-‘Alā are clearly the

more authoritative figures in this account. Anas ibn Mālik was a companion of the Prophet (not a

mere follower, like al-‘Alā) and considered one of the most important relators of Hadith, as well

as a zāhid in his own right.126 In turn, al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī was perhaps the most famous of all early ascetics.127 The authority of these figures commands the reader’s attention and lends additional weight to their criticism of al-‘Alā’s extreme asceticism. And yet the account does not adjudicate

124 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 343, no. 965.

125 Similarly, in an account collected by al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī, the Prophet’s companion Abū Hurayrah states that he wished to live as a “slave owned by God” (‘abd mamlūk), a desire that had been fostered in him by his mother’s piety and by his experience on pilgrimage. Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 203, no. 38.

126 He receives his own chapter in the kutub al-zuhd of al-Sijistānī and Ibn Abī Shaybah.

127 On the portrayal of al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī in the kutub al-zuhd, see Suleiman Mourad, Early Islam between Myth and History: Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (d. 110 H / 728 CE) and the Formation of His Legacy in Classical Islamic Scholarship (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 63–70. 173

the conflicting views expressed by Anas, Ḥasan and al-‘Alā’, instead leaving the reader with

opposing attitudes and arguments.

A similar dynamic is at play in a cycle of traditions about the extreme fasting of al-

Aswad ibn Yazīd. Like al-‘Alā’, al-Aswad was from the generation of the followers, and he figures as the sixth great ascetic of this cohort in the treatise of ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad.

Traditions related by Ibn Abī Shaybah and Ibn Ḥanbal describe him as “a master of ascetic worship” (ṣāḥib al-‘ibādah),128 who was “ever fasting, ever performing Hajj, and ever rising up in prayer.”129 As in the case of ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays, we are told that al-Aswad ibn Yazīd was “a monk from among the monks (rāhib min al-ruhbān).”130 Ibn Abī Shaybah relates a striking

series of traditions about al-Aswad’s extreme fasting:

Al-Aswad used to fast vigorously on a day of intense heat, when even a camel of red hide could be seen to stagger from the heat.

…Ḥanash ibn al-Ḥārith said: “I saw al-Aswad ibn Yazīd when one of his eyes had already gone out from fasting.”

…Al-Aswad fasted during travel to the point that his color changed due to thirst, on a hot day, not during Ramadan.131

These traditions reveal al-Aswad’s reputation for intense, supererogatory fasting. He starves

himself even when not obligated to do so by the Ramadan fast, and even while traveling (a

128 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:205.

129 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 294, no. 35,894.

130 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 293, no. 35,893; Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:206.

131 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 294, nos. 35,895, 35,897–98.

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condition for which the Qur’an encourages postponing one’s fast).132 He has no regard for the heat, and he fasts to the point that his skin changes color and he damages his vision.

Several traditions describe a conflict between al-Aswad ibn Yazīd and ‘Alqamah ibn

Qays, another important ascetic and muḥaddith from the generation of the followers, concerning al-Aswad’s fasting. The most comprehensive collection of these accounts is given by Ibn

Ḥanbal:

‘Alqamah ibn Qays and al-Aswad ibn Yazīd were on Hajj, and al-Aswad was a master of ascetic worship. He fasted during the day while people were resting from the midday heat, and his face turned ashen. ‘Alqamah came to him, struck his side, and said, “O Abū ‘Umar [al-Aswad], you are not showing piety (tatqī) to God in the body. Why are you torturing (tu‘adhdhib) the body?” Al-Aswad said, “O Abū l-Shibl [‘Alqamah], it is great effort, great effort.”

… ‘Alqamah said to al-Aswad, while he was fasting, “Why are you torturing the body?” Al-Aswad said, “I want rest for it.”133

… Al-Aswad ibn Yazīd was struggling against his nafs in fasting and in worship until his body turned green, and he turned yellow.134 And ‘Alqamah said to him, “Woe unto you! Why are you torturing the body?” But Muṭarrif135 said, “It is a matter of great effort, it is a matter of great effort.”136

132 Cf. Q 2:184.

133 For this tradition, compare the version given by Ibn Abī Shaybah: “‘Alqamah used to say to al-Aswad, ‘Why are you torturing the body?’ And he said, ‘I only want rest for it.’” Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 294, no. 35,896.

134 For this tradition, compare the version in ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad’s treatise on the zuhd of the eight followers: “As for al-Aswad ibn Yazīd, he used to struggle in worship, and he fasted until he turned green and until he turned yellow. And ‘Alqamah ibn Qays said to him, ‘Why are you torturing the body?’ And he said, ‘It is a matter of great effort; it is an honor for the body that I want.’” ‘Alqamah ibn Marthad, Zuhd, 53–54.

135 Muṭarrif ibn ‘Abdullāh (d. 95/713–14), another ascetic of Basrah.

136 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:205–06. 175

Like the story about al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād, these accounts use vivid imagery to portray al-Aswad’s fasting: his face turns ashen, and his body turns green and yellow. At the same time, these accounts offer competing claims about the legitimacy and meaning of such fasting. From al-

Aswad’s perspective, his fasting is an authentic expression of the struggle against the nafs. By this great effort, he aims to overcome the body’s needs and finally grant it rest. Yet from

‘Alqamah’s perspective, al-Aswad’s fasting amounts to torturing the body. As such, it does not enact the bodily piety (taqwā) toward God to which Muslims are called.

As in the story of al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād, we are left with no easy resolution. The kutub al- zuhd do not pronounce either for the views of al-Aswad ibn Yazīd or for those of ‘Alqamah ibn

Qays; nor for the claims of al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād or the criticism of Anas ibn Mālik and al-Ḥasan al-

Baṣrī. Rather, like the Talmud and like the apophthegmata patrum, the kutub al-zuhd collect views on and attitudes toward ascetic practice that are conflicting, and even contradictory, but are nevertheless considered worthy of remembrance and transmission.

This, of course, raises the question of why Muslims found traditions of severe asceticism worth remembering and recounting, given that such asceticism was contested and stood in tension with the more restrained approach portrayed in other traditions. One clue to this question is provided by a statement of Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī (d. 275/889), the compiler of an important

(canonical) Hadith collection, as well as of a kitāb al-zuhd. In a short treatise on his methodology for compiling Hadith, al-Sijistānī distinguishes explicitly between traditions that provide legal judgments (aḥkām) and those that he collected in his kitāb al-zuhd. His statement provides uniquely valuable, albeit oblique, evidence for how a zuhd compiler understood his own collection. As he states:

I only compiled in the kitāb al-sunan [al-Sijistānī’s principal Hadith collection] legal judgments (aḥkām). I did not compile there the books on zuhd, on the virtues of actions

176

(faḍā’il al-a‘māl), or other books. So these four thousand, eight hundred [traditions in the kitāb al-sunan] are all concerning legal judgments (aḥkām). But as for the many aḥādīth in the [book on] zuhd, and the [book on] virtues, and other [books], I did not bring them out [into the kitab al-sunan].”137

We can infer from this that al-Sijistānī did not, generally, consider the traditions compiled in his kitāb al-zuhd to be of legal import or to provide normative rules for behavior.138 Traditions about severe asceticism could thus serve not to impose the behavior they portrayed as a model for imitation, but to provide a striking image of the broader ideal of detachment from the world (al-

zuhd fī l-dunyā). Thus, to recall our earlier examples, through their unceasing prayer and fasting,

the Prophet Muḥammad and al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād embodied the state of being God’s servant

(‘abd), a state that was fundamental to the worship (‘ibādah) of the Muslim ascetic (‘ābid,

muta‘abbidah). So, too, the celibacy of Jesus and ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays exemplified the ideal of

detachment from the present reality (al-dunyā). Accounts of severe asceticism could thus serve

to inspire or exemplify the attitudes of ascetic detachment and self-restraint that underlay milder,

and more generally recommended forms of ascetic practice.

Nevertheless, we should be wary of an overly anodyne interpretation of the traditions that

portray severe ascetic practice. Central to these traditions is that they depict conflict over the

legitimacy and purpose of severe asceticism, often without adjudicating this conflict. Such

137 Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī, Risālat Abī Dāwūd al-Sijistānī fī waṣf sunanihi, ed. Muḥammad ibn Luṭfī al-Ṣabbāgh (Beirut: al-Maktab al-Islāmī, 1997), 81. Christopher Melchert has identified this passage as proof that al-Sijistānī’s kitāb al-zuhd was a distinct work from his kitāb al-sunan; Christopher Melchert, “The Life and Works of Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī,” Al-Qanṭara 29 (2008): 18, n 52.

138 The non-legal nature of these reports may also have contributed to their acceptance in spite of their sometimes unsound isnāds. As Jonathan Brown has shown, many early scholars readily accepted unreliable Hadith when legal matters were not at stake. See Jonathan A.C. Brown, “Even If It’s Not True It’s True: Using Unreliable Ḥadīths in ,” Islamic Law and Society 18 (2011): 1–52. 177

accounts bear witness to — and at times even actively embrace — a divergence of views on

ascetic practice. Individual traditions, like the accounts of al-Aswad ibn Yazīd and ‘Alqamah ibn

Qays, present conflicting views on the same ascetic practice. At another level, the kutub al-zuhd

themselves present conflicting portraits of ascetic practice, from the married, domestic

asceticism of Abū Hurayrah to the celibacy of ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays, from the sleeplessness of

Mu‘ādhah al-‘Adawīyah, to the balance of prayer and sleep recommended by Mu‘ādh ibn

Jabal.139 Such tensions resist the notion that the kutub al-zuhd provide a single ideal of asceticism

or a definitive understanding of the value of particular ascetic disciplines.

On the contrary, the conflicting understandings of asceticism in the kutub al-zuhd shed

important light on how early Muslims wrestled with the meaning of widespread and cross-

confessional ascetic disciplines. Some traditions suggest that Muslims at times envisioned the

purpose of asceticism in ways characteristic of East Syrian, and more broadly Late Antique

monastic theology. For example, in a cycle of traditions related by Ibn al-Mubārak that

emphasize moderation in ascetic practice,140 we find an account of a group of people, who have

just become Muslim, who come to the Prophet and ask for permission to castrate themselves.

Forbidding this, the Prophet tells them, “fasting is incumbent upon you, for it cuts off a path to evil for the flesh.”141 The Prophet thus offers fasting as a legitimate alternative to castration. The

139 It is not simply that some kutub al-zuhd emphasized mild asceticism, while others encouraged more severe austerities. The very same compilations contained traditions of both moderate and extreme tendencies.

140 In these, inter alia, the Prophet forbids castration and states that “the castration of my community is fasting” (Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 391, no. 1106); he convinces someone who prays throughout the entire night to take a break for sleep (Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 391, no. 1107); and a companion of the Prophet emphasizes the importance of even a small amount of good work, maintained continually (Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 392, no. 1110).

141 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 392, no. 1112. 178

saying seems to reflect the widespread notion of fasting as a means for controlling sexual desire, which we have seen elaborated in the East Syrian monastic commentaries. A similar theme is

conveyed in a Hadith recorded by al-Bukhārī, where the Prophet states, “Whoever is capable of sexual intercourse should marry… but whoever is not capable [of sexual intercourse] should fast,

as this will be a gelding for them.”142 Fasting thus serves to eliminate sexual energies for those

who are incapable of enacting their sexuality in marriage,143 much as, for the monk, fasting serves to dampen or reorient the force of sexual desire.144

Yet more often the ascetic traditions in the kutub al-zuhd interpret the meaning of ascetic practice in ways that serve to distinguish Islamic from Christian asceticism. This is clearest in the case of the celibacy of ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays. As we have seen, several Muslim traditions condemn celibacy as monastic. In contrast, by emphasizing the authentically Islamic meaning of

‘Āmir’s celibacy, the stories in the kutub al-zuhd differentiate his sexual abstinence from that of

Christian monks. Other accounts of extreme asceticism also seek to transform these actions into

Islamic disciplines by establishing their meaning in relation to widely-accepted and clearly-

identifiable Islamic values, whether it be ‘Āmir’s concern to consume what is ḥalāl, al-‘Alā’s

142 Al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ (Nikāḥ), 8:126–27, nos. 4422–23 (‘Abdul Baqi nos. 5066–67); Al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ (Ṣawm), 3:295, no. 1718 (‘Abdul Baqi no. 1905).

143 This is also how the Hadith is interpreted in the earliest commentary on Bukhārī’s ṣaḥīḥ, composed by al-Khaṭṭābī (d. 386/996 or 388/998). Al-Khaṭṭābī states: “‘Gelding’ (al-wijā’): Crushing the testicle of a male goat or bull between two rocks, and [the animal] will be gelded (mawjū’). [The Prophet] means that fasting cuts off desire (al-shahwah), and he portrays this by the metaphor of gelding the stallions of beasts. The permissibility of [medical] therapy for the cutting off of desire has already been shown, such as eating camphor, and other things like it.” Aʻlām al-sunan fī sharḥ Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, 2 vols., ed. Abū ʻAbd Allāh Muḥammad ʻAlī Samak and ʻAlī ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Muṣṭafá (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʻIlmīyah, 2007), 1:493. On Al- Khaṭṭābī’s Hadith commentaries, see below, pp. 191–92.

144 See chapters one and two above. 179

desire to live in servitude to God, or al-Aswad’s relentless struggle against the nafs. These efforts

show how Muslims, like East Syrian Christians, sought to interpret in confession-specific terms

the meaning and purpose of ascetic disciplines that were shared across religious confessions in the early Islamic world.

Methods of Interpretation in the Kutub al-Zuhd

By embracing, without adjudicating, competing views on ascetic practice, the kutub al-

zuhd leave open to their readers central questions about the value and purpose of the ascetic

disciplines they portray. Nevertheless, the kutub al-zuhd themselves exhibit limited forms of

interpretation, by which transmitters of traditions, as well as compilers and redactors of zuhd

collections, attempted to shape the meaning of ascetic traditions. In this section, I will identify

and examine two such forms of interpretation internal to the kutub al-zuhd: the organization and

arrangement of traditions, and the transmission of commentary.

Scholars of hagiography have shown how compilers of biographical traditions shape their

collections not merely by redacting the content of their sources, but also by how they organize

their material.145 The same is true of the authors of Hadith collections and kutub al-zuhd. As we saw in the story of Ibn Mas‘ūd and the Kufans, the position of the tradition within a group of similar accounts shapes the story’s interpretation, emphasizing its purpose to criticize illegitimate asceticism. More broadly, the organization of the kutub al-zuhd indicates that their compilers sought to direct the interpretation of traditions by how they began and ended their collections,146

145 Jawid Mojaddedi makes this argument with regard to early Sufi hagiography in The Biographical Tradition in Sufism: The ṭabaqāt genre from al-Sulamī to Jāmī (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2001), esp. 10–18.

146 Feryal Salem notes the importance of this point in Emergence, 115. 180

by which traditions they grouped together, and by the use of chapter titles. Here, we will focus

on organizational methods of interpretation in two nearly contemporary kutub al-zuhd from

northern and southern Iraq, the collections of al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī (d. ca. 185/801)

and Wakī ibn al-Jarrāḥ‘ (129/746 – 197/812). In contrast to the kitāb al-zuhd of Ibn al-

Mubārak,147 these two collections from the late eighth and early ninth century have received almost no attention in scholarship.148 An important caveat, however, concerning the dating of the organization and redaction of these collections is necessary. As Christopher Melchert has noted, books composed before the mid-ninth century were often redacted in their extant form not by the work’s author, but by a student.149 Thus, although Ibn al-Mubārak collected and compiled traditions into a kitāb al-zuhd during the second half of the eighth century, this work was likely redacted in its current form by a student in the early ninth century. Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal’s kitāb al- zuhd was edited and significantly expanded by his son.150 In examining the organization of kutub al-zuhd, we are thus viewing the result of a process that began with the work’s compiler but was likely completed by a later redactor.

In some cases, organizational methods of interpretation emphasize the interiority of ascetic life over against its external forms. This is especially clear in the kitāb al-zuhd of al-

147 In addition to being the subject of a chapter in Salem’s monograph (Emergence, 105–38), Ibn al-Mubārak’s kitāb al-zuhd is one of the main sources for Muslim ascetic traditions in Thomas Sizgorich’s study of early Islamic militant piety (Violence and Belief, 165–66, 180–90).

148 On Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, see Salem, Emergence, 130–31; and on Al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al- Mawṣilī, see Salem, Emergence, 131–32.

149 Christopher Melchert, “Ibn al-Mubārak’s Kitāb al-Jihād and Early Renunciant Literature,” in Violence in Islamic Thought from the Qur’ān to the Mongols, ed. Robert Gleave and István Kristó-Nagy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 69.

150 Christopher Melchert, “Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal’s Book of Renunciation,” Der Islam 85 (2011): 359. 181

Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī. Unlike most other compilers of kutub al-zuhd, who were centered in southern Iraq, al-Mu‘āfā was based in the north, in the city of Mosul.151 According to the

history of Mosul written by Yazīd ibn Muḥammad al-Azdī (d. 334/945-6), al-Mu‘āfā related

Hadith from local Muslim ascetics of the city.152 Yet he also traveled widely in search of Hadith

and was associated with the important Kufan muḥaddith Sufyān al-Thawrī, who gave al-Mu‘āfā

the nickname “sapphire” (yāqūt).153 His compilation thus bears witness both to the production of ascetic knowledge in northern Iraq and to the circulation of ascetic traditions from the centers of

Muslim scholarship in southern Iraq toward the northern periphery of the ‘Abbasid empire.

Al-Mu‘āfā’s collection emphasizes the interior meaning of asceticism both through the

arrangement of traditions and through the use of chapter titles. These form an integral part of the

compilation, as in other kutub al-zuhd and Hadith collections.154 For example, reports that the

Prophet Muḥammad used to “wear wool, ride an ass, sit upon the ground, sleep upon the ground,

151 C.F. Robinson, “Al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān and the Beginnings of the Ṭabaqāt Literature,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 116 (1996): 116–17. Robinson’s article examines and ultimately rejects the proposal that al-Mu‘āfā should be credited with the composition of the earliest Islamic biographical compilation. His article was, however, written before the publication of al-Mu‘āfā’s kitāb al-zuhd and does not address this text directly.

152 Robinson, “Al-Mu‘āfā,” 118.

153 Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb al-Tahdhīb, ed. Muṣṭafá ʻAbd al-Qādir ʻAṭā (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al- ‘Ilmīyah, 1994), 182.

154 On the chapter titles in al-Mu‘āfā’s Kitāb al-Zuhd, see the comments of the editor ʻĀmir Ḥasan Ṣabrī in al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 145–46. For a discussion of chapter titles in the Hadith collection of al-Bukhārī, as well as their treatment by later commentators, see Vardit Tokatly, “The A‘lām al-Ḥadīth of Al-Khaṭṭābī: A Commentary on Al-Bukhārī’s Ṣaḥīḥ or a Polemical Treatise?” Studia Islamica 92 (2001): 55–57. It is important to stress, however, that we cannot be certain whether the chapter titles can be attributed to al-Mu‘āfā or whether they entered the compilation at a later stage of redaction. The extant manuscript of the work was copied by a scribe who died in 425/1033–34, over two centuries after al-Mu‘āfā’s death. ʻĀmir Ḥasan Ṣabrī (ed.), in Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 162. 182

heed the call of the slave, and stop to milk his goat,”155 are grouped together with a saying of

‘Ā’ishah that “humility is the most virtuous form of worship”156 and are placed within a chapter titled “on the virtue of humility and on aversion to intense boasting and pride.”157 This indicates

to the reader that the Prophet’s behavior should be interpreted as an example of his humility. In another chapter, titled “on aversion to taking pleasure in and following passion and desires,”158

‘Umar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb reports on his dietary practices. He states:

I do not desire food. Indeed, I eat bread and meat, but then I abandon the meat that I have, and I do not eat it. And I eat fat, but then I abandon the fat that I have, and I do not eat it. If I wished to do so, I could eat it, but I abandon it. And I eat olive oil, but then I abandon the olive oil that I have, and I do not eat it. And I eat salt, but then I abandon the salt that I have. Salt is for enriching food, and if I wished to do so, I would eat it. But I increase the eating of plain bread.159 For I desire what is with God.160

This saying indicates ‘Umar’s preference for an austere diet. Yet it also emphasizes that he is not bound by dietary restrictions — he is capable of eating, and does indeed sometimes eat meat, fat, olive oil, and salt. The central point is that he does not desire food, but rather desires “the things of God” (mā ‘inda ’llāh). This point is reinforced by the chapter title, “on aversion to taking pleasure in and following passion and desires.”161 The chapter heading thus emphasizes that the

155 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 237–38, no. 91; cf. 238–39, no. 92.

156 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 249, no. 113.

157 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 237.

158 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 279.

159 qafār. Ṣabrī notes that this refers to unenriched bread (khubz ghayr al-ma’dūm).

160 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 280–81, no. 175.

161 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 279. 183

purpose of ‘Umar’s saying is not to illustrate proper dietary practices, but rather to encourage an

aversion to worldly desires.

The chapter titles and arrangement of traditions in al-Mu‘āfa’s kitāb al-zuhd also serve to clarify the meaning of potentially heterodox statements. In a chapter called “on obscurity of fame, seclusion, humility, and aversion to honor and governance,” ‘Āmir ibn Sharāḥīl al-Sha‘bī declares that he would rather pray in a garbage heap (kunāsah) than in a particular mosque near him.162 In and of itself, this saying might suggest something of the contempt for mosques of

which ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays was accused by his contemporaries. Alternatively, it might

constitute simply an amusingly vulgar joke by a Muslim ascetic. But the chapter heading, as well

as the placement of this saying amid other traditions that display the humility of the pious

forebears, indicates that the purpose of the account is neither to belittle prayer in mosques, nor

solely to amuse. Rather, the story — at least as it functions in al-Mu‘āfā’s collection — serves to

demonstrates al-Sha‘bī’s desire for “obscurity of fame,” “seclusion,” “humility,” and “aversion

to honor,” the implication being that al-Sha‘bī’s distaste for praying in a nearby mosque stems

from his desire to avoid the fame and honor with which the people at the mosque would endow

him.

These chapters that emphasize ascetic attitudes provide the reader with interpretative

clues for understanding the significance of other chapters in al-Mu‘āfā’s collection that focus on

concrete practices of abstinence. Many of these revolve around dietary practice. Numerous

traditions provide accounts of figures who would not eat to the point of satiety.163 Other

traditions recall the spartan eating habits of the Prophet and his family. Overall, these accounts

162 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 213, no. 49.

163 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 306–310, 313, 316–17, 319, nos. 222–30, 239, 244, 248. 184

provide an austere portrait. We are told that by the end of his life the Prophet’s entire diet was composed of barley bread (khubz al-sha‘īr), such that he did not even have a date or a piece of wheat (khubz burr) to give to those in need.164 Similarly, it is said that the caliph ‘Umar ibn al-

Khaṭṭāb refused to eat enriched food and never consumed meat and fat together.165 Yet taking the collection as a whole, these traditions emerge as testimony not merely to the abstinence, but also, or even primarily, to the self-effacement of these authoritative figures and their underlying attitude of detachment from the world. After relating the Prophet’s and ‘Umar’s restricted diet, al-Mu‘afā’s compilation concludes with a Hadith relating that the Prophet did not restrain himself from eating: “The Prophet (saws) did not find fault with food. If he desired, he ate; and if he did not desire, he left it aside.”166 The placement of this tradition at the end not only of the chapter, but also of the entire collection makes it the final word on the Prophet’s attitude toward food. It thus serves as a counterbalance to other sayings in the collection that could be interpreted as denigrating eating — for example, the words of Abū l-Dardā’ that “asses, dogs, and pigs eat, drink, and have sex.”167 By concluding with the Prophet’s refusal to censure food, the

compilation emphasizes that zuhd does not involve disparaging eating as such, but rather requires

indifference to and detachment from food, a willingness to forego it, and a redirection of the

heart toward the things of God.

Similar methods of organizational interpretation can be seen in the canonical Hadith, as

well as in the later zuhd collections. To give one example, the kitāb al-zuhd within the Hadith

164 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 319–20, nos. 248–52.

165 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 327–29, nos. 264–66.

166 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 329, no. 268.

167 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 284, no. 181. 185

collection (sunan) of Ibn Mājah opens with the Prophet stating: “Detachment from the world (al- zahādah fī l-dunyā) does not consist in making the permissible forbidden, nor in letting wealth go to waste, but detachment from the world is that you do not put your trust in what you possess more than in what God possesses…”168 The placement of this tradition at the beginning of the

collection calls attention to its definition of zuhd, emphasizing that detachment from the world is primarily an attitude of reliance upon God, rather than the voluntary assumption of poverty or of an overly-stringent moral code. Organizational techniques such as these function to impose a measure of order on disparate and at times conflicting traditions, as well to emphasize the ethic of indifference to the dunyā and desire for the ākhirah that underlies ascetic practice.

On the other hand, organizational techniques could also function to undergird the legitimacy of seemingly extreme ascetic practices or attitudes. This can be seen in the kitāb al- zuhd of Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, like al-Mu‘afā, a student of Sufyān al-Thawrī, to whom many of the traditions in Wakī‘’s collection are credited.169 A recurring topic in Wakī‘’s collection is that of ascetic struggle. This theme is often conveyed through traditions centered on the root JHD, which indicates ascetic action, and is sounded at the beginning of the compilation by the story of the ascetic woman of Yemen who forces herself to struggle (fa-jtahadat) night and day. Wakī‘’s collection, in fact, contains an entire chapter devoted to this concept, given the title “Chapter on intensity of struggle in labor” (bāb shiddat al-ijtihād fī l-‘amal).

This chapter contains a cycle of traditions describing ascetic practices undertaken to the point of bodily harm, and the grouping of these traditions as a unit shapes their meaning. In one account, we are told that Masrūq ibn al-Ajda‘ “used to pray until his legs were swollen, and his

168 Ibn Mājah, Sunan, 5:551, no. 4100.

169 Salem, Emergence, 129–130. 186

wife would sit behind him, weeping over what he was doing to himself.”170 In and of itself, this

account seems to imply some criticism of, or at least ambivalence toward Masrūq’s practice. His

constant prayer damages his own body and causes tension to the familial bonds that were central

to many forms of early Muslim piety. Masrūq’s wife, who weeps over the self-destructive prayer

of her husband, represents the more restrained outlook, attributed to ‘Alqamah ibn Qays and

others, that asceticism should not harm the body. Nevertheless, Wakī‘’s compilation organizes

this account in a way that reinforces the positive and exemplary dimensions of Masrūq’s extreme

prayer. The first two traditions in the chapter both relate versions of the Hadith wherein the

Prophet himself, like Masrūq, prays until his legs are swollen.171 Later in the chapter, a tradition invokes the Qur’an to support such intense acts of prayer:

Sufyān related to us, on the authority of Layth, on the authority of Mujāhid, [concerning] O Mary! Be obedient to your Lord! (Q 3:43). He [Mujāhid] said: “She [Mary] used to pray until her legs were swollen.”172

In this tradition, the early exegete Mujāhid ibn Jabr comments on Qur’an 3:43. In the portions of

the ayah not quoted in this tradition (but likely assumed to be known by the audience), God

commands Mary, the mother of Jesus, to perform worship (wa-sjudī) and prostrations (wa-rka‘ī).

Mujāhid’s exegesis glosses the nature of Mary’s worship and prostration: namely, she

worshipped and prostrated to the point that her legs became swollen. Mary, too, thus comes to

exemplify the extreme devotion to prayer shown by the Prophet Muḥammad and by Masrūq ibn

170 Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:387–88, no. 149. Other traditions also remembered Masrūq for his continual prayer. According to an account related by Ibn Abī Shaybah, when Masrūq was on Hajj, he would not stop praying until he fell asleep. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 289, no. 35,873.

171 Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:384–86, nos. 147–48.

172 Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Zuhd, 1:392, no. 157. 187

al-Ajda‘. In virtue of the traditions with which it is grouped, the bodily and ascetic prayer of

Masrūq thus receives, by proxy, prophetic and Qur’anic sanction.

Organizational forms of interpretation could thus cut both ways, as it were; although they

typically functioned to highlight more restrained attitudes of detachment, they could also serve to undergird severe acts of bodily askesis. Yet such modes of interpretation could only go so far in explaining the meaning of individual ascetic traditions. This demanded direct commentary, and like the organization of the kutub al-zuhd, such commentary arose in several stages, beginning with the production of the traditions themselves and continuing to develop in later centuries.

Several different types of ascetic commentary occur within al-Mu‘āfā’s kitāb al-zuhd.

The first kind is philological in nature. In the chapter on “aversion to taking pleasure in and following passions and desires,” al-Mu‘āfā relates the following tradition, transmitted to him by

Sufyān al-Thawrī: “The Prophet (saws) said: ‘Shabbiness (al-badhādhah) belongs to faith.’”173

Al-Mu‘āfā then appends Sufyān al-Thawrī’s own exposition of the Hadith: “And Sufyān commented on this (fassarahu), saying, ‘It means relinquishing clothing, food, and the likes of that.’” Sufyān al-Thawrī’s exegesis serves to explain the meaning of the obscure term

“shabbiness” (al-badhādhah). In so doing, however, his commentary turns the Hadith into a prophetic endorsement of the ascetic abandonment of food, clothing, and related material needs.

It thus transmits not only philological, but also ascetic knowledge.

Another tradition provided by al-Mu‘āfā offers two types of commentary at once. Here, al-Mu‘āfā reports the following account of ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays:

Abū Hilāl al-Rāsibī reported to us, on the authority of Ḥumayd, who said, ‘Āmir said: “I have found that the world (al-dunyā) consists of four characteristics: money, women, sleep, and food. As for the first two, my soul has abstained from them; regarding women, I have given no thought to whether I was looking at a woman or a donkey, and regarding

173 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 293, no. 198. 188

money, I have given no thought to how much I might lose. But as for sleep and food, they are necessary for me. But by God I have forced (I believe he said ‘forced my struggle’) against them!” For when it was night, he rose up in prayer, and when it was day, he slept and fasted.174

‘Āmir’s statement that he is indifferent to or has struggled against the four characteristics of the

dunyā appears in other collections of zuhd and biographical literature.175 Here, the saying is accompanied by two forms of commentary. First, at the philological level, a transmitter or redactor of ‘Āmir’s saying has supplied for ‘Āmir’s statement “I have forced against them” the implied direct object “my struggle,” which is present in other versions of the tradition.176 In addition, at the end of the saying, the tradition provides what amounts to a gloss on ‘Āmir’s profession of struggling against food and sleep. As this gloss indicates, ‘Āmir would spend the night engaged in a prayer vigil, taking his sleep only during the day, when he would also fast.

This explanation appended to ‘Āmir’s words thus presents his life as a perpetual Ramadan.

Commentary of this sort could at times transform the meaning of an ascetic tradition. In

Ibn Ḥanbal’s kitāb al-zuhd, the opening of the chapter on ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays contains a version of the account in which the amīr of Basrah attempts to convince ‘Āmir to marry. In this case, when ‘Āmir is asked why he refuses to marry, he protests, “I am tireless in seeking

174 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 312, no. 237.

175 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:174: “I have found that the life of people consists of four things: women, food, clothing, and sleep. As for clothing, by God, I have given no thought to how I shall conceal my genitals, and as for women, by God, I have given no thought to whether I was looking at a woman or a wall. As for sleep and food, well, these two things have overwhelmed me, save that I was not harmed by them. But by God, I have forced my struggle against them.” Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 339, no. 36,113: “Life consists of four things: women, clothing, food, and sleep. As for women, by God, I have given no thought to whether I was looking at a woman or a goat; as for clothing, by God I have given no thought to how I shall conceal my genitals; as for food and sleep, they have overcome me, but by God, I have forced my struggle against them.” See also Ibn Ṣa‘d, Ṭabaqāt, 9:111; Abū Nu‘aym, Ḥilyat al-Awlīyā’, 2.88, 90–91.

176 See above footnote. 189

engagement.” “To whom?” the amīr of Basrah asks. ‘Āmir replies, “To whomever will accept from me [only] one half of a date.”177 In a related version of this account reported by Abū

Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī, ‘Āmir states that he is seeking engagement “to whomever will accept from me [only] a bit of curdled milk and a date.”178 At first blush, these traditions seem to belong to the class in which ‘Āmir professes that his refusal to marry stems from a lack of finances and his inability to provide for a wife.179 His point seems to be that, given his poverty, he could only marry a woman who would be willing to accept a meager provision from him. In Ibn Ḥanbal’s collection, however, ‘Āmir’s statement is accompanied by an interpretative gloss that transforms his words into an expression of nuptial mysticism: “‘To whomever will accept from me [only] one half of a date.’ By this, he means God, may his glory be exalted.”180 According to the gloss,

‘Āmir means that it is only God who would “accept half of a date” from him. Thus, when ‘Āmir says, “I am tireless in seeking engagement to whomever will accept from me one half of a date,” he means “I am tireless in seeking engagement to God.” ‘Āmir’s refusal to take a wife thus appears as a consequence of his desire to marry God, similar to the account in which ‘Āmir tells the amīr of Basrah, “I have already become engaged to God since before your mother gave you birth.” The commentary thus changes ‘Āmir’s celibacy from being the necessary — and perhaps regrettable — consequence of his financial straits into an expression of his longing for divine betrothal.

177 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:169.

178 Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī, Hilyat al-Awliya’, 2:90.

179 Compare the tradition discussed above (pp. 168–69) in which ‘Āmir states, “I lack the energy, and I lack the money, and I will not deceive a Muslim woman.”

180 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:169. 190

There is no evidence that any author ever composed a book of commentary specifically

devoted to the kutub al-zuhd.181 In contrast, a long tradition of expounding the canonical Hadith collections eventually developed.182 Nevertheless, the isolated acts of commentary in the kutub

al-zuhd laid the ground for the engagement with ascetic themes in later Hadith commentaries.

The earliest extant commentaries on the canonical Hadith collections were composed by Abū

Sulaymān Ḥamd ibn Muḥammad al-Khaṭṭābī (d. 386/996 or 388/998), from the city of Bust in what is now southern Afghanistan.183 Although typically philological in nature, al-Khaṭṭābī’s

181 In small part this may be because some of the compilers, such as Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ and Asad ibn Mūsā, were later deemed unreliable by Hadith scholars. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, 22. It is important to stress, however, that several other compilers of kutub al-zuhd, including Ibn al- Mubārak, Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, Al-Sijistānī, and Ibn Abī Shaybah, were considered reliable.

182 Fuat Sezgin lists fifty-six commentaries on the ṣaḥīḥ collection of al-Bukhārī; Fuat Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schriftums, 17 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1967), 1:118–126. The study of Hadith commentary is, however, still in its infancy. The first monograph on this subject was published in 2018 and examines commentaries composed from medieval Andalusia to colonial India. Joel Blecher, Said the Prophet of God: Hadith Commentary Across a Millennium (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2018). The earliest known author of a Hadith commentary was al-Khaṭṭābī (d. 386/996 or 388/998). While Blecher does not examine al- Khaṭṭābī, al-Khaṭṭābī’s commentary on al-Bukhārī is the subject of a doctoral dissertation and article by Vardit Tokatly, who argues for the polemical nature of al-Khaṭṭābī’s commentary; Tokatly, “The A‘lām al-Ḥadīth of Al-Khaṭṭābī.” In addition, al-Khaṭṭābī’s commentary on the the Sunan of Abu Dawud al-Sijistānī, which al-Khaṭṭābī considered superior to the collections of al-Bukhārī and Muslim, has been studied in Sebastian Günther, “In our days, religion has once again become something alien: Al-Khattabi’s Critique of the State of Religious Learning in Tenth-Century Islam,” The American Journal of Islamic Social Sciences 25 (2008): 1–30.

183 Al-Khaṭṭābī composed three commentaries that survive, one on the Ṣaḥīḥ of al-Bukhārī, another on the Sunan of al-Sijistānī, and a third gharīb al-ḥadīth commentary. Al-Khaṭṭābī, Aʻlām al-Sunan fī Sharḥ Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī; Al-Khaṭṭābī, Ma‘ālim al-Sunan. Sharḥ Sunan Abī Dāwud, 3 vols., ed. Muḥammad Ṣubḥī ibn Ḥasan Ḥallāq (al-Riyāḍ: Maktabat al-Maʻārif lil- Nashr wa-al-Tawzīʻ, 2010). Al-Khaṭṭābī, Gharīb al-Ḥadīth, 3 vols, ed. ʻAbd al-Karīm Ibrāhīm al- ʻAzabāwī (Mecca: Jāmiʻat Umm al-Qurá, Markaz al-Baḥth al-ʻIlmī wa-Iḥyāʾ al-Turāth al- Islāmī, Kullīyat al-Sharīʻah al-Islāmīyah, 1982–1983). Even before al-Khaṭṭābī, however, Ibn Qutaybah (d. 276/889) had composed a commentary belonging to the genre of gharīb al-ḥadīth, which clarified obscure terms in the sayings of the Prophet, companions, and followers. 191

expositions at times provided substantial discussion of ascetic terms and practices.184 Moreover, in addition to creating his own interpretations, al-Khaṭṭābī transmitted the explanations of earlier commentators, whose tafsīr, like that of Sufyān al-Thawrī on the term badhādhah, was oral, rather than written.185 The interpretation of ascetic traditions was thus a slowly evolving process, whose seeds lay in the nascent traditions of commentary attested in the kutub al-zuhd, but whose full development came from later authors and in other textual genres.

Conclusion

This chapter has examined a wide range of views about and attitudes toward ascetic practice as presented in the kutub al-zuhd and Hadith. Just as these compilations, as a whole, conveyed conflicting ideals of ascetic practice, so too, individual traditions depicted

184 See, for example, al-Khaṭṭābī’s discussion of fasting as “gelding” discussed above (note 143). In addition, al-Khaṭṭābī often attempted to resolve apparent contradictions by adjudicating the legitimacy of certain ascetic practices. For example, al-Sijistānī’s chapter on fasting contains contradictory reports concerning fasting on the day of Arafah, the second day of the Hajj pilgrimage, preceding Eid al-Adha. According to one tradition, the Prophet prohibited (nahā) fasting on this day (Al-Sijistānī, Sunan [Ṣawm], 2:326, no. 2440). But according to another tradition, the Prophet stated that fasting on this day was so meritorious as to atone for the sins of two years (Al-Sijistānī, Sunan [Ṣawm], 2:322, no. 2425). Al-Khaṭṭābī preserves the harmony of these traditions by arguing that the Prophet’s prohibition was a “recommended prohibition” (nahy istiḥbāb), rather than an “obligatory prohibition” (nahy ’ījāb). Namely, the Prophet prohibited fasting for pilgrims who required food to maintain strength for their prayers at Arafah; other pilgrims, capable of fasting without weakening their invocations, were welcome to fast. Al- Khaṭṭābī, Sharḥ Sunan Abī Dāwud, 2:192–93. Even al-Khaṭṭābī’s gharīb al-ḥadīth commentary, though strictly philological in its orientation, dealt with ascetic themes. See, for example, al- Khaṭṭābī’s commentary on a saying of the companion Ḥudhayfah ibn Yamān, in which Ḥudhayfah urges people to “be cut off” (la-tabtilunna). As al-Khaṭṭābī explains, this term can carry the sense of cutting off to give to charity, cutting oneself off from sexual intercourse, divorce, withdrawing from society, or being cut off from honor and nobility. Al- Khaṭṭābī, Gharīb al-Ḥadīth, 2:329–30.

185 For example, in his exposition of the “heart softening” (al-riqāq) chapter of al-Bukhārī’s Hadith collection, al-Khaṭṭābī relates a commentary (fassarahā, tafsīr) from the early exegete al- Qatādah. Al-Khaṭṭābī, Sharḥ Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, 2:517, no. 1159. 192

disagreements concerning the severity of asceticism, and the legitimacy, value, and purpose of

particular ascetic disciplines, such as celibacy, fasting, and continuous prayer. It is the unresolved tensions among the views expressed in these traditions that most defines the

treatment of asceticism in the kutub al-zuhd. These tensions encouraged the interpretative efforts

of compilers and redactors who sought to impose order upon their diverse material. Yet basic

questions about the role of asceticism in Muslim piety, as well as the legitimacy of contested

disciplines remained open to contemporary and later authors.

In either criticizing or defending contested ascetic practices, the zuhd traditions often invoked virtues and ideals shared widely among early Muslims. The Prophet Muḥammad and al-

‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād explain that their intense prayer and fasting is the dutiful act of God’s servant

(‘abd); yet in another tradition, ‘Alqamah ibn Qays criticizes al-Aswad’s fasting on the grounds that it does not show piety (taqwā) to God. In some cases, traditions discussed asceticism in ways that were self-consciously Islamic. The Prophet explains that constant prayer and fasting, as well as celibacy, violate his sunnah, while ‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays explains that his dietary regimens are grounded in his commitment to eat only that which has been prepared as “taught by

Islam” (yufaqqihu l-islām). Such traditions reveal efforts to create an Islamic understanding of ascetic practices shared among the of the Late Antique Middle East. Nevertheless, while the values invoked by these traditions — servitude to God, taqwā, the Prophet’s sunnah, the fiqh of Islam — generally represent central and widely embraced norms, a few traditions reveal more specialized interpretations of ascetic practice. In particular, the accounts that explain

‘Āmir ibn ‘Abd Qays’s celibacy as an expression of his engagement to God show the influence of mystical ideas, and so the beginnings of the Sufi appropriation of early Muslim ascetic traditions.

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In addition, one of the traditions about ‘Āmir’s celibacy presents his sexual abstinence as

a form of struggle against the nafs, the lower-self and source of human passions. While the

struggle with the nafs does not form a major theme in the kutub al-zuhd, this chapter has tracked

isolated references to this idea. Just as ‘Āmir contended with his nafs through sexual abstinence, al-Aswad ibn Yazīd “struggled against his nafs” in fasting. Such efforts were given prophetic approval in a Hadith, which appears in al-Mu‘āfa’s kitāb al-zuhd, in which the Prophet defines

jihād as struggle against the nafs for the sake of God.186 The following chapter will show how

these ideas about combatting the nafs, already nascent in the traditions of zuhd, were developed

by ascetic authors in ninth-century Baghdad, forming the basis for the Sufi interpretation of

asceticism. As we shall see, in articulating an ideal of struggle with the nafs, ascetics and Sufis in

Baghdad confronted the tensions latent in the kutub al-zuhd between competing ways of

Islamizing ascetic practice.

186 See above, p. 149, footnote 47. 194

Chapter Four: Asceticism and Sufism in Third/Ninth-Century Baghdad

In the year 264/877–78, a man known as Ghulām Khalīl (d. 275/888) arrived in Baghdad from the city of Wāsiṭ, further down the Tigris river.1 He had a reputation as a traditionist and

popular preacher, with roots in the ascetic circles of Basrah. He seems to have gained some

influence at the ‘Abbasid court, and within less than a year of his arrival, he managed to engineer

the arrest and interrogation of around seventy Sufis under the charge of zandaqah, or heresy.

Those charged were eventually acquitted. Nevertheless, the “inquisition” (miḥnah) initiated by

Ghulām Khalīl cast a cloud over Sufism in Baghdad, leading to the departure from the city of

several high-profile figures, including Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Nūrī (d. 295/907) and Abū Sa‘īd al-

Kharrāz (d. ca. 286/899). One of the most prominent Sufis, Abū l-Qāsim al-Junayd (d. 835/910),

managed to avoid arrest. According to one account, this was because he claimed to be only a

student of fiqh and not a Sufi at all.2

The central issue in Ghulām Khalīl’s inquisition seems to have been suspicion of the developing language of Sufi mysticism, possibly centered upon Sufi discussion of love for God.3

The inquisition was, however, only the most drastic incident in a growing set of tensions and debates surrounding not only the mystical discourse, but also the ascetic practices of Sufis in

1 His full name was Abū ʿAbdullāh Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Ghālib al-Bāhilī. The significance of his nickname “Ghulām Khalīl” (“servant of Khalīl”) is uncertain; it may have indicated his discipleship to a shaykh named Khalīl, or it may have been an honorific meaning “servant of Abraham (al-Khalīl).” For the most recent account of Ghulām Khalīl and his inquisition of the Sufis in Baghdad, see the article by Maher Jarrar in EI III, s.v. “Ghulām Khalīl.”

2 Melchert, “Transition,” 66.

3 In particular, al-Nūrī’s use of the term ‘, implying passionate love or eros, may have raised eyebrows. Melchert, “Transition,” 65–66, 68; Karamustafa, Sufism, 12, 23. 195

Iraq.4 Ghulām Khalīl’s miḥnah thus gave extra urgency to an ongoing effort by Sufis to develop

ascetic and mystical ideals rooted in the normative customs of the Prophet Muḥammad and his

companions, and to come to terms with criticisms of Sufi practice.5

A letter written by Junayd to his student ‘Amr ibn ‘Uthmān al-Makkī (d. 291/903–4)

bears the imprint of these pressures.6 Here, Junayd describes the characteristics of an ideal Sufi,

emphasizing orthodoxy and adherence to the sunnah:

He is one of the most esteemed of all people in the legal statutes (aḥkām), the most knowledgeable concerning what is permissible and what is forbidden, the most discerning in the laws of Islam (sharā’i‘ al-islām). He follows in the footsteps of the messengers and follows the customs (sunan) of the friends of God (al-awliyā’) and the righteous. He does not incline to innovation (bid‘ah) and does not refrain from accepting the sunnah [of the Prophet].

… He does not incline toward rational theology (al-kalām). He gives it no thought and takes no interest in it. He does not challenge the leaders (a’immah), nor does he condemn them. He wants good for them in every respect. He in hearing and then obeying, and not eschewing the community (jamā‘ah). He is of the opinion that rebellion against

4 As Christopher Melchert notes, debates surrounding Sufi language of love had already arisen in Basrah, before Ghulām Khalīl’s inquisition. Melchert, “Transition,” 65. This may have coincided with the development of the Sufi movement in Basrah, which then crystallized in Baghdad, particularly around the figure of Junayd; see Christopher Melchert, “Baṣran Origins of Classical Sufism,” Der Islam 82 (2005): 221–40. Debates concerning the ascetic practice of early Sufis centered upon, for example, the extent to which reliance on God () implied renunciation of work and livelihood (Benedikt Reinert, Die Lehre vom tawakkul in der klassichen Sufik [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1986], esp. pp. 217–84); or on the wearing of wool (ṣūf), criticized due to its associations with Christian monasticism (Kafri, “Early Muslim Ascetics and the World of Christian Monasticism,” 112–13).

5 As Melchert argues, in response to the inquisition, Junayd emphasized “outwardly acceptable behavior and self-description,” articulating a new mystical language that stressed a return to differentiation from God (farq) after divine union (jam‘), and a real subsistence (baqā’) following annihilation in God (fanā’). Melchert, “Transition,” 67.

6 Junayd, Rasā’il: Ali Hassan Abdel-Kader (ed.), The Life, Personality and Writings of al- Junayd: A Study of a Third/Ninth Century Mystic (London: Luzac & Company Ltd., 1962), Arabic pp. 7–26.

196

the leaders is the act of ignorant sinners, deviants who have gone astray, those who want seditions (fitan) and desire corruption upon the earth.7

Junayd forswears any engagement with religiously8 or politically9 threatening ideas. He stresses

adherence to Islamic law, the sunnah, and the jamā‘ah. Moreover, he emphasizes the harmony of the customs (sunan) of the awliyā’, the righteous friends of God, with the custom (sunnah) of the

Prophet Muḥammad. In Junayd’s view, these two patterns of life, that of the Sufi saint and that of the Prophet, stem from the same root, the laws and revelation of Islam (sharā’i‘ al-islām).

But what were the customs of God’s friends? As we saw in the previous chapter, early

Muslims articulated divergent ideals of ascetic piety — on the one hand, an ideal of moderation, often grounded in the sunnah of the Prophet and limited by the ascetic’s religious and social obligations — and, on the other hand, an ideal of severe ascetic discipline, which rejected the desires and needs of the self and tested religious and social boundaries. Like other Sufis in the ninth century, Junayd advocated for rigorous ascetic practice as an indispensable tool for overcoming the nafs, the passionate and base aspect of the self. Nevertheless, Junayd was acutely aware of the tension between the rigorous asceticism undertaken by Sufis and the milder ideals of ascetic practice provided by the example of the Prophet and other early Muslims. His efforts

7 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 22.

8 In his rejection of kalām, Junayd may have been mindful of the fate of his teacher al-Muḥāsibī, whose involvement in the field of rational theology earned him the opprobrium of Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal and his followers, whose attacks ruined al-Muḥāsibī’s reputation (see below, pp. 223– 24).

9 Junayd’s insistence on obedience to leaders and his explicit rejection of rebellion may reflect the tense political situation in Baghdad stemming from the rebellions of the zanj (“black” slaves), which cast southern Iraq into turmoil in the second half of the ninth century. This would seem to add further credence to Carl Ernst’s suggestion that the threat of revolt contributed to the suspicion of Sufis as holding antinomian and revolutionary sentiments. Carl Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1985), 101. 197

to resolve this tension were the fruit of ongoing debates in ninth-century Baghdad concerning the legitimacy and value of ascetic practice.

In this chapter, I trace these debates through an examination of the two contested ascetic

disciplines of fasting and celibacy, focusing on three central figures in the religious landscape of

ninth-century Baghdad: Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal (d. 241/855), Junayd’s teacher al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī

(d. 243/857), and Junayd himself.10 The texts of these figures reveal a growing conflict between, on the one hand, the ideal of rigorous ascetic self-discipline, and, on the other hand, a concern for conformity to the sunnah and preservation of the ascetic’s religious and social obligations.

This conflict came to a head in Junayd’s writings, as he was forced to confront the objections to

Sufi asceticism made by contemporary Muslims in Baghdad. The result was, ultimately, the development of a new Sufi interpretation of the meaning of the sunnah and its significance for

Islamic asceticism. Just as the previous chapter traced competing methods of Islamizing the meaning of ascetic practice, this chapter shows how Muslims addressed and ultimately sought to reconcile these competing approaches.

Zuhd, Asceticism, and Disciplining the Nafs

In order to understand the debates surrounding ascetic practices in ninth-century

Baghdad, we must first examine the central ideal of asceticism that Sufis and their predecessors developed over the course of the ninth century. The defining feature of early Sufi treatments of

10 Al-Sarrāj and Abū Nu‘aym al-Isfahanī relate that Junayd was a student of al-Muḥāsibī, whom he met at the house of his uncle, the ascetic Sari al-Saqaṭī. Abdel-Kader, Junayd, English pp. 18– 20. Much of our biographical information about al-Muḥāsibī was, in fact, transmitted firsthand by Junayd. Gavin Picken, Spiritual Purification in Islam: The Life and Works of Al-Muḥāsibī (Abingdon, Oxon.: Routledge, 2011), 53–54. On the inimical relationship between al-Muḥāsibī and Ibn Ḥanbal, see below, pp. 223–24. 198

asceticism was the idea of disciplining the nafs, or “self,” by depriving the self of its desires and acting contrary to its demands. As we saw in the previous chapter this idea is already present, albeit in a limited way, in the kutub al-zuhd — in the Prophet Muḥammad’s command to wage jihād against the self,11 or in al-Aswad ibn Yazīd’s effort to “struggle against the nafs” in fasting

and prayer.12 Several early ascetic and mystical texts describe the disciplining of the nafs as a

response to the Qur’anic injunction to deny the self (nafs) from attaining its desires (hawā).13

According to al-Sulamī (d. 412/1021), the first Sufi to develop a framework of stations along the path to God was the Khurāsānī shaykh Shaqīq al-Balkhī (d. 194/810).14 A treatise attributed to

Shaqīq identifies the first of these stations as zuhd and states that zuhd consists in disciplining the

nafs (adab al-nafs) by restricting one’s food to two small meals per day. As this treatise explains,

11 Al-Mu‘āfā, Zuhd, 303, no. 218.

12 Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 205–206.

13 In a text preserved in Istanbul Süleymaniye MSS Ayasofya 511 and 513, the early Khurāsānī ascetic Ḥātim al-Aṣamm (d. 237/851–52) describes the Qur’an as arousing him to struggle with his nafs: “I looked to the speech of God, may he be Exalted and Glorified, As for whoever has feared the position of his Lord and denied the nafs from passion (nahā l-nafsa ‘an al-hawā), Paradise will be the refuge (Q 79:40–41). And I learned that the speech of God, praise be to him and may he be exalted, is the truth, so I struggled against my nafs (ajhadtu nafsī), in order to ward off passion (al-hawā), until I stood firm in the obedience of God, may he be praised and exalted.” Istanbul, Süleymaniye MS Ayasofya 511, ff. 77v–78r; MS Ayasofya 513, f. 32v. The tafsīr on this passage by Sahl al-Tustarī (d. 283/896) is similar in theme: “Only the Prophet and some — but not all — of the verifiers have been free from passion (hawā). And only he will be free from passion who forces his nafs in discipline (adab). And discipline has only been pure for the prophets (upon whom be blessings and ) and some of the verifiers. And so, too, with characteristics (al-akhlāq). Ibn al-Sammāk went out one day to his companions, and they were already gathered to him, and he said to them, ‘I have already given you many admonitions. Do you want my cure for you?’ They said, ‘Yes.’ He said, ‘Oppose your passions. But God, may he be praised and exalted, knows best.’” Tafsīr al-Tustarī, ed. Muḥammad Bāsil ʻUyūn al-Sūd (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʻIlmīyah, 2002), on Q 79:40–41.

14 See EI III, s.v. Shaqīq al- Balkhī. 199

by “making the nafs hunger,” one may cut off the excessive passions and desires of the self.15 In

turn, it is only after disciplining the nafs through ascetic hunger that one may advance to the

higher stations of fearing God, longing for Paradise, and at last, loving God.16

The ideal of disciplining the nafs became central to how Sufis in ninth-century Baghdad

understood the meaning and purpose of asceticism. At the beginning of his treatise Maqāmat al-

Qulūb, al-Nūrī explains that governing (siyāsah), training (riyāḍah), and disciplining (adab) the

nafs is indispensable to approaching God (al-ḥaqq).17 Al-Kharrāz indicates the rigorous

asceticism that this self-discipline could entail. In a short treatise called the Kitāb al-Ḥaqā’iq

(“Book of Realities”), he defines the essential meaning (dhātīyah) of important terms in the

emerging Sufi lexicon:

What is the essence of training (riyāḍah)? It is torturing the self (ta‘dhīb al-nafs) in the area of observing [one’s obligations to God]18. This means that whoever trains his nafs at every movement and breath, through the restriction of food and continual silence, belongs to the people of training.19

15 Shaqīq al-Balkhī, Ādāb al-‘Ibādāt: Paul Nwyia (ed.), Trois oeuvres inédites de mystiques musulmans: Šaqīq al-Balẖī, Ibn ‘Aṭā, Niffarī, ed. Paul Nwyia (Beirut: Dar El-Machreq, 1986), Arabic pp. 17–18.

16 A resumé of the treatise at the end of the manuscript describes zuhd and fear, together, as characterizing the first of three groups of people, with the second group characterized by longing for Paradise, and the third by love of God. The pairing of zuhd and fear is also reflected in the long form of the treatise, where Shaqīq describes zuhd and fear as inextricably intertwined: “Zuhd and fear are brothers, and neither one is made perfect without its companion. They are like spirit and body bound together. For zuhd cannot come about save in the fear of God…” Shaqīq al-Balkhī, Ādāb al-‘Ibādāt, Arabic p. 18.

17 Edited in Paul Nwyia, Textes mystiques inédites d’Abū-l-Ḥasan al-Nūrī (m. 295/907) (Beirut: Imprimerie catholique, 1968), 131.

18 ri‘āyah, here serving as shorthand for ri‘āyat al-ḥuqūq. This term was used by ascetics and Sufis in Baghdad to indicate fulfilling one’s obligations to God (al-ḥuqūq); one may compare the use of the phrase ri‘āyat al-ḥuqūq in the treatise of al-Nūrī cited above (Textes mystiques, 131), as well as in the magnum opus of al-Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-Ri‘āyah li- Ḥuqūq Allāh.

19 Rasā’il al-Kharrāz, ed. Qāsim al-Samarrāʼī (Baghdad: al-Majmaʻ al-ʻIlmī al-ʻIrāqī, 1967), 54. 200

In another work, the Kitāb al-Ṣidq (“Book on Veracity”), al-Kharrāz’s enjoins war against the nafs. A Sufi, he explains, must restrain the nafs from its desires, wean it from the dunyā (the present reality), burden the nafs with what it hates, and struggle against it with all one’s strength.20

Baghdadi Sufi texts tend to associate the ascetic taming of the nafs with an early stage of spiritual development. In Junayd’s case, this tendency is present, although in an understated and inconsistent fashion. As Christopher Melchert has noted, in Junayd’s text al-Waṣāyā (Good

Counsels), Junayd presents a schema of three groups: “those who have chosen worship (‘ibādah)

and fear,” “those who have chosen zuhd and austerity (taqashshuf)… and have renounced the

world (zahadū fī l-dunyā),” and “those who have chosen spiritual poverty (faqr) and Sufism (al-

taṣawwuf).”21 Here, Junayd appears to define Sufism in opposition to ascetic practices and attitudes, including zuhd. Yet, in the same text, Junayd urges that at the “beginning” (bidāyah) of

the Sufi path, novices should undertake a regimen of fasting intended in part to prevent the

spiritual corruption of their nafs.22 Elsewhere, Junayd explains that Sufis bring about the initial level of annihilation in God (fanā’) through “opposition to the nafs, holding it back from what it wants, and confining it to what it hates.”23 Yet the two subsequent levels of fanā’ are unconnected to asceticism or disciplining the nafs.24 Nevertheless, in another schema, Junayd

20 Al-Kharrāz, Kitāb al-Ṣidq, Arabic pp. 12–13, 42.

21 Istanbul Süleymaniye MS Reşid Efendi 1218, ff. 4v–5r. On this text, see Melchert, “Transition,” 69–70.

22 Istanbul Süleymaniye MS Reşid Efendi 1218, f. 4r; see below, p. 233.

23 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 55.

24 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 55. 201

outlines three “points” (mawāṭin) on the path to God, and in this case, disciplining the self

(ta’dīb al-nafs) holds a middle position, following seclusion and self-examination, and followed

by continual worship of God and departure from the dunyā.25 While his approach is thus

somewhat inconsistent, the overall impression given is of zuhd, asceticism, and opposition to the nafs as representing the essential entry points into Sufism.

In contrast to Junayd, al-Kharrāz is more systematic in locating the ascetic taming of the

nafs at the beginning stage of spiritual development. He seems to have adopted the framework

attested also in the treatise of Shaqīq al-Balkhī, in which the Sufi progresses from zuhd and

disciplining the nafs to fear of hell, longing for Paradise, and, finally, love of God. Like Shaqīq,

al-Kharrāz speaks of a “light” (nūr) associated with each of these stations. As he states: “Know

that the light of longing is higher than the light of fear, and the light of fear is higher than the light of zuhd; but at the light of love the skin shivers, and the spirits fly in longing to the

encounter with the Beloved.”26 In the Kitāb al-Ṣidq, al-Kharrāz maps this overarching

progression from zuhd, to fear, to longing, to love onto an internal scheme of progress in zuhd.

The first degree (darajah) of zuhd, he explains, is acting contrary to the nafs and renouncing its

desires, taking only the bare minimum of food, clothing, sleep, and other material needs.27 Some have undertaken zuhd out of fear of punishment on the day of Resurrection, or out of a longing

25 This text, called Dawā’ al-Tafrīṭ (“The Healing of Negligence”), is preserved in Birmingham, Cadbury Research Library Mingana Arabic and Islamic MS 905 IV, ff. 109r–119v. See folios 112r–115r for Junayd’s discussion of the three “points.” In addition, portions of the Dawā’ al- Tafrīṭ, including Junayd’s treatment of the mawāṭin are quoted and attributed to Junayd by Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī. For the mawāṭin, see Ḥilyat al-Awliyā’, 10:271–73.

26 Al-Kharrāz, Rasā’il, 43.

27 Al-Kharrāz, Kitāb al-Ṣidq, Arabic p. 28. 202

for Paradise;28 yet the highest degree of zuhd belongs to those who have “conformed to God in

love.”29 In al-Kharrāz’s view, then, the Sufi’s ascetic struggle with the nafs yields, at last, to a

ready love for God; having overcome the desires of the nafs, the spirits of the Sufis are free to

encounter their Beloved.30

Despite tending to locate asceticism at the early stages of the Sufi path, both Junayd and

al-Kharrāz resist the notion that Sufis abandon ascetic practice as they advance in spiritual development. In his letter to ‘Amr ibn ‘Uthmān al-Makkī, Junayd presents the ideal Sufi as devoted to seclusion (khalwah) and worship (‘ibādah),31 refraining even from permissible things, and preferring abstinence (zihādah) and toilsome worship (al-kadd wa-l-‘ibādah) before all.32 In

28 Al-Kharrāz, Kitāb al-Ṣidq, Arabic pp. 31–32.

29 Al-Kharrāz, Kitāb al-Ṣidq, Arabic p. 32.

30 It is intriguing that several early Sufi authors, including al-Kharrāz, associate an emphasis on love of God with ascetic women. Al-Kharrāz relates a remarkable account of a woman upbraiding a male ascetic for failing to bear witness to the mutual love of God and human: “Ismā‘īl ibn Muḥammad said that Zuhayr al-Baṣrī said to him: ‘I met Sha‘wānah, and she said to me, “How excellent is your path, save that you deny love (al-maḥabbah).” I said, “I do not deny it.” Then she said to me, “Do you love your Lord?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “Then how can you fear, when you love him, that he does not love you?” I said, “I love him for what he has so generously given me from his knowledge and his blessings. Yet I fear that he may not love me for the sins that I have acquired (kasabtu).” At that, she fainted. Then she recovered and said, “Zah!” [an exclamation].’” Al-Kharrāz, Kitāb al-Ṣidq, Arabic p. 50. In al-Mu‘āraḍah, the ninth century mystic Sahl al-Tustari states, simply, “You find that the majority of ascetic women (al- nisā’ al-muta‘abbidāt) are lovers (muḥābbāt).” Edited in Cihad Tunç, Sahl b. ‘Abdallāh at- Tustarī und die Sālimīya: Übersetzung und Erläuterung des Kitāb al-Mu‘āraḍah (Ph.D. diss., Universität Bonn, 1970), Arabic p. 36, no. 181. Note that Tunç translates muḥābbāt as while Tunç’s ,(ﻣﻬﺎﺑﺎﺕ) Ehrerbietig” (“deferential”); Ehrerbietig, however, corresponds to muhābāt“ It is possible that the edition of the text is mistaken, and I have .(ﻣﺤﺎﺑﺎﺕ) edition reads muḥābbāt not been able to examine the manuscript.

31 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 20.

32 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 21. 203

the Kitāb al-Ṣidq, al-Kharrāz explicitly denies that the Sufi abandons ascetic labor. As he

explains, it is rather that the Sufi ceases to experience ascetic practice as laborious:

[God] makes easy for him what is hard and what he found difficult on his own, and [God] gives him sweetness in place of bitterness, lightness in place of heaviness, softness and gentleness in place of roughness. Rising up [in prayer] at night becomes easy. Converse with God the exalted and seclusion in His service becomes pleasant, after one’s intense suffering. Fasting and thirst (al-ṣiyām wa-l-ẓama’) through the midday heat become light.33

In the end, then, ascetic actions cease to be a matter of struggle or war with the self and become

instead an experience of sweetness and gentleness from God, an expression of the closeness to

the divine experienced by the Sufi who has “conformed to God in love.”

Nevertheless, the Sufi can only attain this state of ascetic bliss following what al-Kharrāz

describes as a regimen of “self-torture” (ta‘dhīb al-nafs). It is hardly surprising that such ideals

of disciplining the nafs through rigorous asceticism were contested by proponents of milder

ideals of piety. I will now examine these debates as they developed in Baghdad concerning the

ubiquitous ascetic discipline of fasting and the highly contested discipline of celibacy.

Fasting and Hunger

The previous chapters have shown the importance of practices of fasting in both East

Syrian and Muslim sources.34 The traditions recorded in the kutub al-zuhd suggest that acts of fasting undertaken by Muslims could, at times, go to extreme lengths, as in the case of al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād, who starved himself to the point that he turned green. Yet other traditions emphasized

a milder discipline of hunger. The Prophet Muḥammad consumed a meager diet of barley bread,

33 Al-Kharrāz, Kitāb al-Ṣidq, Arabic p. 62.

34 In addition, on the significance of ascetic hunger in rabbinic , see Diamond, Holy Men, esp. 106–116. 204

yet he would eat when he needed to; ‘Umar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb generally abstained from salt, meat, and fat, but would at times indulge in richer fare.

Traditions about the fasting and dietary practices of early Muslims continued to circulate

in ninth-century Baghdad. In a remarkable compilation called the Kitāb al-Jū‘, or Book on

Hunger, the Baghdadi ethicist, zāhid, and litterateur Ibn Abī l-Dunyā (d. 281/894) collected over three hundred such traditions.35 These jū‘, or “hunger,” traditions show that some Muslims

understood fasting as an ascetic discipline shared across religious disciplines, lauded in previous scriptures, and practiced by monks, as well as by Muslims. More broadly, these traditions reveal

the diversity of views available in ninth-century Baghdad concerning the value and purpose of

fasting and hunger. In order to contextualize the attitudes that Ibn Ḥanbal, al-Muḥāsibī, and

Junayd took toward these disciplines, I will first chart the terrain of ascetic hunger, as presented

in the collection of Ibn Abī l-Dunyā.

Several traditions compiled in the Kitāb al-Jū‘ attribute ideals of ascetic hunger to

previous scriptures. One saying begins by echoing the Beatitude of Matthew 5:6: “Thawr ibn

Yazīd36 said, ‘I read in one of the Scriptures (ba‘ḍ al-kutub): Blessed are those who have taken on thirst and taken on hunger (yataẓāmu’ūn wa-yatajawwi‘ūn) for the sake of piety; they are

35 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā was born and died in the ‘Abbasid capital of Baghdad. Despite being a client of the Banū Umayyah and known Umayyad sympathizer, he became a tutor to the future ‘Abbasid caliphs al-Muʿtaḍid (r. 279/892 – 289/902) and al-Muqtafī (r. 289/902 – 295/908). He was remembered for his zuhd and for authoring a prolific number of texts of edifying, moral, and spiritual literature. See EI II, s.v. Ibn Abi ’l-Dunyā, and, on Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s Umayyad connections, James Bellamy, “Pro-Umayyad Propaganda in Ninth-Century Baghdad in the Works of Ibn Abī l-Dunyā,” in George Makdisi, Dominique Sourdel, and Janine Sourdel- Thomine, eds., Prédication et propogande au Moyen Age: Islam, Byzance, Occident (Paris: Presses Universitaires de , 1983), 71–86.

36 Thawr ibn Yazīd was associated both with Ḥims (Emesa), which had a substantial Christian population, and with Jerusalem. 205

those who will find shelter in the Holy Enclosure in My presence.”37 Similarly, Farqad al-

Sabakhī, an Armenian Christian convert to Islam, states, “I read in one of the Scriptures,

‘Blessed are those who have taken on hunger for the sake of God (al-mutajawwi‘ūn lillah). They will receive honor in the courtyard of the Resurrection.’”38 The verb forms in these sayings

indicate people who voluntarily or deliberately endure hunger and thirst (rather than, say, those who are forced to hunger by their inability to earn a living).39 According to these accounts, the

scriptures thus promise that those who compel themselves to hunger and thirst for reasons of

piety will be rewarded in the life to come.

In one tradition, it is a Christian monk (rāhib) who promises the heavenly reward that

awaits ascetic hunger. In this account, ‘Abdullāh ibn Rabbāḥ40 and the future Umayyad caliph

Mu‘āwiyah visit an unnamed monk at his monastery. When the monk asks ‘Abdullāh why he is not eating the food that has been offered him, ‘Abdullāh explains that he is fasting. The monk

37 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Kitāb al-Jū‘, ed. Muḥammad Khayr Ramaḍān Yūsuf (Beirut: Dār Ibn Ḥazm, 1997), 186–87, no. 314: ﻁﻭﺑﻰ ﻟﻠﺫﻳﻥ ﻳﺗﻅﻣﺅﻭﻥ ّﻭﻳﺗﺟﻭﻋﻭﻥ ّﻟﻠﺑﺭ... Compare Matthew 5:6 (Peshitta): ...ܐܬܐ ܗܨܘ ܕ ܢܘܒ

38 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 187, no. 317. Other examples: Qutham the Worshipper (al-‘ābid): “Blessed are those who hunger for God.” Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 89, no. 124. An unnamed companion of ‘Abdullāh ibn ‘Ayyāsh: “It is written in the first Book (al-sifr al-awwal): Blessed is he who makes his nafs hunger for the day of great satiety; blessed is he who makes his nafs thirst for the day of great quenching.” Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 90, no. 128. Wahb ibn Munabbih: “I read in one of the Scriptures: ‘The sweetness of the dunyā is the bitterness of the ākhirah, and the bitterness of the dunyā is the sweetness of the ākhirah. The thirst of the dunyā is the quenching of the ākhirah, and the quenching of the dunyā is the thirst of the ākhirah. The hunger of the dunyā is the satiety of the ākhirah, and the satiety of the dunyā is the hunger of the ākhirah. The sorrow of the dunyā is the joy of the ākhirah, and the joy of the dunyā is the sorrow of the ākhirah.” Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 143, no. 231.

39 Cf. Lane, Arabic-English Lexicon, 490.

40 One of the anṣār of Medina, who then moved to Basrah (Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 96, n. 2). 206

exclaims, “A table (mā’idah) will be laid out in the Garden [of Paradise], and the first to eat from it will be those who fast.”41 In this account, it is the Muslim ascetic, not the monk, who is fasting.

By outdoing the monk in a shared ascetic discipline, ‘Abdullāh ibn Rabbāḥ earns the monk’s approbation. The Christian monk’s promise of a banquet in the Garden of Paradise reflects

Qur’anic depictions of feasting in the afterlife.42 The Kitāb al-Jū‘ records Muslims ascetics, too,

as speaking of this heavenly banquet. According to Mālik ibn Dīnār, “those who make

themselves hunger (al-mutajawwi‘īn) shall eat a feast on the day of Resurrection.”43 In the words

of Bahīm al-‘Ajalī, an ascetic (‘ābid) from Kufah, those who hunger for the sake of God will be

given a table (mā’idah) at the Resurrection, from which they shall eat and drink.44 Such

traditions provide a language of heavenly reward for ascetic hunger that is seen as cross-

confessional, rooted in past scriptures, and endorsed by Christian monks.

Another tradition combines monastic language with the developing lexicon of Sufism. In this account, two obscure figures, ‘Īsā ibn Zādhān and Ziyād al-Qaysī, discuss ascetic hunger while they are in a monastery:

‘Īsā ibn Zādhān said:

“Ziyād al-Qaysī said to me one day, while we were in the monastery (wa-naḥnu bi-l- dayr): ‘You should hunger (tajawwa‘)! For hunger (al-jū‘) is from the spoils of piety, and the one who is long in hunger shall one day eat to satiety.’”

41 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 96, no. 140.

42 It also seems to reflect the idea of a heavenly “table” sent down to Jesus and his followers (Q 5:112–15).

43 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 97, no. 141.

44 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 139, no. 223. 207

I paid close attention [to Ziyād’s words], and by God, I knew what was meant! So I said, “You are my father.45 Do you never see your servant eating during the day?”

[Ziyād] said: ‘That is what I want for you. Do the murīds46, who are busy with their labor, have food during the day? No, by God! Only Sufism (al-taṣawwuf)47 and [consuming] the bare minimum, until the command of God comes. So let [hungry] bellies direct the limbs to long for God and for meeting Him.’”48

In this fascinating, albeit cryptic exchange set in a monastery, Ziyād al-Qaysī encourages his fellow ascetic ‘Īsā ibn Zādhān to endure in fasting. Ziyād urges ‘Īsā to fast throughout the day, taking only such nourishment as is necessary. In this way, ‘Īsā may train his belly and his body to long for God. Although set in a monastery, the account invokes central terms in early Sufi discourse, speaking not only of hunger (jū‘), but also of murīds and “Sufism” (al-taṣawwuf). ‘Īsā ibn Zādhān and Ziyād al-Qaysī thus appear as hybrid figures, who stand astride the boundaries of monk and Sufi.49 Like the tradition in al-Burjulānī’s Book on Monks examined in the previous

45 bi-abī enta. This could also be rendered, in monastic language, as “You are my abba.” Or possibly, in a weaker and more general sense, as “You are like a father to me.”

46 Typically referring to “novices” in the Sufi path, but more generally to Sufis as those “who want” God.

47 Or, in a weaker sense, “wool-wearing”, but the technical meaning of Sufism would likely have occurred to Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s contemporaries.

48 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 91–92, no. 132. This account is followed by another relating an ascetic poem attributed to ‘Īsā ibn Zādhān, which exhorts “paucity of food.” The account concludes by stating that ‘Īsā belonged to the “masters of food” (aṣḥāb al-taqawwut).

49 In this respect, it is noteworthy that the Ṣifat al-Ṣafwah of Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1200) includes a reference to ‘Īsā ibn Zādhān within an account of a dream by ‘Ammār the Monk (‘Ammār al- Rāhib), in which ‘Īsā ibn Zādhān fasts to the point that he becomes bent over and loses his voice. Two entries previously one finds a description of an ascetic woman (min al-‘ābidāt) who was given the nickname “[female] monk” (yuqālu lahā rāhibah) — an appellation given on occasion to stringent male ascetics, but not to my knowledge, otherwise known to be applied to women. These accounts provide further indication of the hybrid monk-Muslim nature of ‘Īsā ibn Zādhān as remembered by later Muslims. Ibn al-Jawzī, Ṣifat al-Ṣafwah, 4 vols. (Beirut: Mu’assasat al- Kutub al-Thaqafīyah, 1991), 4:26. 208

chapter,50 the traditions collected by Ibn Abī l-Dunyā thus present ascetic hunger as a cross-

confessional discipline and suggest an awareness by Muslims of the importance of fasting and

hunger for Christian monks.

What, then, does the discipline of ascetic hunger look like for Muslims? Like the kutub

al-zuhd, Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s Kitāb al-Jū‘ does not provide a monolithic portrait. In general, the

traditions depict more prominent and authoritative figures as undertaking a restrictive, yet stable

diet.51 Sufyān al-Thawrī, we are told, would have two raghīfs (loaves of bread) for supper every

day. If a beggar came, he would give him half a raghīf. But if another beggar came, he would

simply say, “May God be generous to you,” so always retaining to himself at least one and a half

loaves.52 In contrast, another tradition informs us that when ‘Ā’ishah was fasting and planning to eat only two raghīfs, she gave both away to beggars.53 Or, again, when Mālik ibn Dīnār was asked whether two raghīfs were sufficient for him, he responded that he ate fat, two light qurahs

(another type of loaf of bread), and water.54 In turn, for al-Haṣan al-Baṣrī, dates and water would

by themselves suffice.55 Although these traditions have several differences, they all emphasize a regular, restricted diet, designed to induce hunger while maintaining one’s sustenance.

50 See above, p. 172.

51 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s starting point was the example of the Prophet, manifest in several well- known Hadiths (e.g., “The Son of Adam does not fill a worse vessel than his stomach. [Proper] measure for a man is food that will keep straight his spine […], so a third food, a third drink, and a third air.” [Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 24, no. 1]), as well as in the Prophet’s own avoidance of satiety and regular diet of barley bread.

52 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 178, no. 279.

53 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 165, no. 275.

54 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 167, no. 197.

55 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 146, no. 236; 172, no. 287. 209

Other traditions, however, describe extreme and long-lasting acts of fasting. ‘Abdu l-

Raḥmān ibn Abī Nu‘m spent fourteen days without eating, while Ḥajjāj ibn Furāfiṣah spent fourteen days without drinking water.56 In another tradition Sufyān al-Thawrī relates that he

spent two weeks with Ḥajjāj ibn Furāfiṣah and never saw him eat, drink, or sleep.57 Ibrāhīm al-

Taymī outdid them all, spending two months subsisting on nothing but juice (possibly fermented;

nabīdh)58, and that only because he was forced to consume something by his family.59 Ibn Abī l-

Dunyā also collected stories about fasting so severe that it caused bodily harm, similar to the accounts of al-‘Alā’ ibn Ziyād and al-Aswad ibn Yazīd recorded in the kutub al-zuhd. According to one tradition, a companion of al-Haṣan al-Baṣrī, named Yazīd al-Raqqāshī, “made his nafs hunger for [the sake of] God for sixty years, to the point that his body withered, and his figure was emaciated, and his color changed.”60 Another account expressly justifies this sort of self-

torture as salvific:

‘Abdu l-Wāḥid ibn Yazīd said: “God has no need for his servants to torture (ta‘dhīb) themselves with hunger and thirst. It is, rather, the believer who has need of that, so that his Master should see him worn out with thirst. [The believer] thus makes his nafs hunger for His sake, and bathes his eyes [in tears], and wears out his body, so that perhaps He will look to him in mercy and give him, for that hunger and thirst, an ample price.” Then he said, “And do you know what that ample price is? Emancipation of the slaves from the Fire.”61

56 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 86, no. 119; 87, no. 121.

57 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 86, no. 120.

58 This could mean either a fermented or an unfermented juice, derived from grape or date.

59 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 85, nos. 115, 117.

60 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 141, no. 227.

61 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 135, no. 213. 210

According to ‘Abdu l-Wāḥid ibn Yazīd, the willing starvation of God’s servants invites God’s merciful gaze and earns the reward of salvation from the fire of Jahannam. By emaciating the

body through hunger in this life, believers gain the safety of their bodies in the world to come.

Traditions of extreme fasting, often attached to more obscure figures, thus circulated in ninth- century Baghdad alongside accounts of the more stable, albeit still stringent regimens of ascetic hunger exemplified by the paragons of early Muslim piety.

So, too, the traditions collected by Ibn Abī l-Dunyā provide divergent views on the purpose of ascetic hunger. Many sayings, as we have seen, stress the heavenly reward for those who hunger and thirst. Other traditions emphasize the benefits of hunger for religious and spiritual practice in this life. As we are told, while too much food puts the heart to death,62 reducing one’s food causes the heart to become illuminated.63 Satiety (shab‘) invites insolence, while hunger eliminates it.64 Food and the “belly” harden the heart,65 and hunger softens the

heart (al-jū‘u yuriqqu l-qalba).66 Hunger thus accomplishes a central virtue of early Islamic

asceticism, namely, the softening of the heart before the divine commandments and admonitions

(riqqah, raqā’iq). A small number of sayings even suggest the role of hunger in attaining

mystical states. According to Abū Ṣafwān the Worshipper (al-‘ābid), “Hunger bequeaths to its

62 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 78, no. 100.

63 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 97, no. 142.

64 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 89, no. 125; 125–26, no. 193.

65 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 73, no. 84; 102, no. 156.

66 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 76, no. 93; Compare the saying of Qutham the Worshipper: “Blessed are those who taken on hunger for the sake of God (al-mutajawwi‘īn lillāh)… no one’s food has ever been reduced, save that it has softened his heart (raqqa qalbahu) and his eyes have become moist.” (Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 88, no. 124); cf. Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 103, no. 157. 211

people vision of the light of God…”67 So, too, Khālid ibn Ma‘dān states “I read in one of the scriptures: ‘Make your nafs hunger, and lay it bare, and perhaps your heart will see God.’”68

In contrast, some traditions emphasize the benefits of hunger for physical health. In one story, an unnamed king gathers “the people of medicine” (ahl al-ṭibb) and asks them for the best

“cure for the stomach” (dawā’ al-ma‘idah).69 Their advice takes the form of common-sense

medical wisdom: “Never eat food unless you desire it. Do not eat meat until you have scrutinized

that it is fully cooked. Do not swallow a morsel until you have thoroughly chewed it, and until it

presents no trouble to the stomach.”70 According to Khalaf ibn Ismā‘īl, a learned man from India

(rajulu min ‘uqulā’i l-Hind) told him that “much food weakens the body.”71 Conversely, Wahb ibn Munabbih states that “Hunger is the purification of the body, by which it becomes pure and soft.”72 Such traditions suggest that ascetic hunger is beneficial for the health of the body as a whole, and not simply for its effect upon the “heart” or upon one’s spiritual condition.

Indeed, it would be a mistake to separate the spiritual and physical benefits of hunger in the ascetic imagination. Several sayings, for example, suggest that the restriction of food

indirectly facilitates the ascetic’s ability to remain vigilant in prayer, due to the stimulating effect of hunger upon the body. Numerous traditions describe food as soporific and assert that one

67 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 77, no. 95.

68 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 130, no. 205.

69 Strictly medical traditions tend to use al-ma‘idah (“stomach”) while more moralizing or religious traditions tend to use al-baṭn (“belly”).

70 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 167, no. 277.

71 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 102, no. 155.

72 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 126, no. 195; cf. 140, no. 224. 212

should reduce one’s food in order to limit one’s sleep.73 Abū Sulaymān al-Dārānī provides the physiological basis for this: “There are two veins running from the stomach to the eyes. So if the stomach is weighed down, the eyes will be closed, and if the stomach is lightened, the eyes will be opened.”74 In turn, several traditions indicate that one should avoid the soporific effects of food in order to make oneself more attentive for prayer. An esteemed member (qayyim) of the

Banū Isrā’īl states, “Do not eat a lot, for if you eat a lot, you sleep a lot, and if you sleep a lot, you pray little.”75 So, too, ʻUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb warns against filling the belly, on the grounds

that this “is a source of laziness in prayer.”76 By rousing the body, hunger thus serves to promote

pious practice.

As the Kitāb al-Jū‘ shows, Muslims in ninth-century Baghdad had at their disposal a wide range of views concerning the purpose of ascetic hunger, as well as divergent portraits of the severity of fasting in the lives of the pious forbears. Like the kutub al-zuhd, Ibn Abī l-

Dunyā’s collection offers these accounts as worthy of remembrance but leaves open to other interpreters how to judge or appraise the practices and ideas they convey. In the texts of Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, al-Muḥāsibī, and al-Junayd, however, we find contemporary pronouncements on the legitimacy and purpose of these ascetic disciplines. These texts thus show how the diversity of

73 E.g. “If you want to make your body healthy and reduce your sleep, then reduce your eating.” Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 100, no. 150. “Whatever you wish, but do not drink, for if you do not drink, sleep will not come to you.” Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 99, no. 148. “Much food scatters clarity of mind and causes hardness [of heart] and sleep.” Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 102, no. 156.

74 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 100, no. 149.

75 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 182, no. 306.

76 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 72, no. 81. 213

attitudes toward hunger and fasting produced ongoing debates that ultimately shaped early Sufi

understandings of asceticism.

Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal

Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal was one of the most important religious figures of ninth-century

Baghdad, a collector and critic of Hadith and a major force in the emergence of early Sunni

theology. His fame was secured during the miḥnah, as he was imprisoned and scourged by the

Caliph al-Mu‘taṣim (r. 833–842) for his refusal to concede the createdness of the Qur’an.77

Although he was credited with establishing the Ḥanbalī school of law, this was, in reality, the work of his followers.78 Nevertheless, Ibn Ḥanbal’s teachings on various legal, moral, and

religious subjects were recorded in several compilations made by his children and students.

These works provide important witness to Ibn Ḥanbal’s views on asceticism, and more generally, to the development of ascetic ideals in ninth-century Baghdad.

One source for Ibn Ḥanbal’s views on hunger and fasting is the Masā’il, a collection of

Ibn Ḥanbal’s responsa on legal questions, compiled by his sons ‘Abdullāh (d. 290/903) and Ṣāliḥ

(d. 266/879–80).79 A chapter in this collection focuses on fasting (ṣawm). Most of the questions

relate to issues surrounding the Ramadan fast, from the sighting of the crescent moon80 to the

77 This miḥnah, concerning the createdness of the Qu’ran, is not to be confused with Ghulām Khalīl’s miḥnah of Sufis.

78 Christopher Melchert, The Formation of the Sunni Schools of Law, 9th–10th centuries C.E (Leiden: Brill, 1997), esp. 137–55.

79 Masā’il al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, ed. ʻAlī Sulaymān al-Muhannā, 3 vols. (Medina: Tawzīʻ Maktabat al-Dār, 1986).

80 E.g., Ibn Ḥanbal, Masā’il, 2:607–14, 616–18, nos. 816–37, 839–40. 214

issue of whether cupping is permissible during Ramadan.81 Some questions, however, center on

acts of voluntary or severe fasting that are attested in early Muslim ascetic traditions. In one case,

Ibn Ḥanbal’s son asks him about fasting during travel: “I asked my father about a man who fasts

voluntarily (taṭawwu‘an) while traveling. Does he sin, in view of the saying of the Messenger of

God (saws), ‘Fasting during travel does not belong to piety (birr)’?”82 As we saw in the previous chapter, several zuhd traditions remembered al-Aswad ibn Yazīd for fasting during travel, even

(in one account) outside of the month of Ramadan, an act for which al-Aswad was criticized by

his companion ‘Alqamah ibn Qays. These traditions — collected by, among others, Aḥmad ibn

Ḥanbal — left the value of al-Aswad’s fasting unsettled. Was fasting during travel an act of

struggle against the nafs, as al-Aswad asserted, or was it an offense against bodily piety, as

suggested by ‘Alqamah ibn Qays or by the Hadith of the Prophet quoted by Ibn Ḥanbal’s son? In the Masā’il, Ibn Ḥanbal presents his own view. As he tells his son, “If [the man fasting during travel] were undertaking an obligatory fast (ṣawm farīḍah) on his travel, then this is satisfactory for him (ajza’ahu). But it does not please me that he fast voluntarily (taṭawwu‘an), and not obligatorily while traveling.”83 Ibn Ḥanbal thus condones fasting while traveling if it takes place

during Ramadan, but discourages fasting during travel outside of Ramadan. In so doing, he

provides a clear judgment on an ascetic action whose legitimacy remained undetermined in the

zuhd traditions.

In general, Ibn Ḥanbal’s responses stick closely to the legal and moral obligations that constrain ascetic fasting. In a section on “continual fasting” (ṣiyām al-dahr), Ibn Ḥanbal

81 Ibn Ḥanbal, Masā’il, 2:622–630, nos. 845–54.

82 Ibn Ḥanbal, Masā’il, 2:639–40, no. 865.

83 Ibn Ḥanbal, Masā’il, 2:640, no. 865. 215

addresses the case of a man who fasts for an entire year. This refers, it should be noted, to a

regimen of only eating at night and so extending the Ramadan fast for twelve months, not to the

impossible act of total abstinence from food for a year. According to Ibn Ḥanbal, those engaged

in a yearlong fast must break their fast on the two ‘Eids and on the days of al-tashrīq (the three

days following ‘Eid al-Adha).84 Ibn Ḥanbal thus tacitly condones the practice of continual fasting as legally permissible and establishes its boundaries, but he does not indicate whether yearlong fasting is praiseworthy or in what contexts it is appropriate. A similar case is that of someone who vows (nadhara) to fast every Monday and Thursday; this fast, too, Ibn Ḥanbal asserts, must be broken on ‘Eid al-Fitr and ‘Eid al-Adha. By setting the limits of weekly fasting, Ibn Ḥanbal indicates that the practice is legally permissible; but beyond this, he does not present any view on the purpose or value of abstaining from food every Monday and Thursday.85

To move beyond the questions of permissibility, constraints, and obligations, toward an

understand of how Ibn Ḥanbal assesses the value of fasting and hunger, we thus have to turn to

other textual genres. Here, Ibn Ḥanbal’s Kitāb al-Wara‘ (“Book on Scrupulosity”) is a uniquely

valuable source.86 This text, compiled by Ibn Ḥanbal’s student Abū Bakr al-Marrūdhī (d.

275/888), gathers Ibn Ḥanbal’s recommendations for scrupulous behavior (wara‘), that is, behavior guided by the concern to avoid illegitimate or dubious acts in a wide range of religious

84 Ibn Ḥanbal, Masā’il, 2:620, no. 842. Various Hadiths refers to the days of al-tashrīq as devoted to eating, drinking, and dhikr (Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ [Ṣawm], 4:80–81, nos. 144/1141– 145/1142) and indicate that the Prophet forbade fasting on those days (Al-Sijistānī, Sunan [Ṣawm], 2:320, no. 2418).

85 Ibn Ḥanbal, Masā’il, 2:615, no. 838.

86 Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, Kitāb al-Wara‘, ed. Muḥyī al-Dīn Ṣabrī al-Kurdī (Cairo: Maṭba‘at al- Sa‘ādah, 1921). For an annotated German translation of this work, see Christoph Pitschke, Skrupulöse Frömmigkeit im frühen Islam: Das “Buch der Gewissensfrömmigkeit” (Kitāb al- Wara‘) von Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010), 67–249. 216

and legal matters. In one chapter in this collection, al-Marrūdhī asks Ibn Ḥanbal about those who

voluntarily force their nafs to hunger:

I said to Abū ‘Abdullāh Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Ḥanbal, may God be pleased with him, that the masters of reduction (aṣḥāb al-taqallul) say that nothing is better than having little (al-qillah) and hunger (al-jū‘), and that if a man accustoms himself (nafsahu) to only eat once every two or three days, [God] will reward him, and he will be in the station of one who has made a habit of continual fasting (ṣiyām al-dahr).87

According to al-Marrūdhī, some people advocate eating only once every two or three days. This

practice habituates the self (nafs) to a regimen of hunger and is thus equivalent to the sort of

continual fasting that Ibn Ḥanbal tacitly condones in the Masā’il. Al-Marrūdhī’s description

portrays the hunger of the “masters of reduction” as a mode of self-discipline and evokes the

developing ideal of training the nafs that is attested in traditions about ascetic hunger collected

by Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, as well as in contemporary Sufi texts.88

Ibn Ḥanbal’s response indicates that he holds this practice of hunger in high esteem.

Nevertheless, he emphasizes that stringent regimens of fasting are only acceptable for someone

who does not have a family. As he states:

“This is only permissible for one who is single (waḥdahu). But for a man with a family (mu‘īl), how is he able to do this? I already broke my fast yesterday, and today my nafs has summoned me to break the fast. Nothing is worthier than poverty. I remember those young men, masters of prayer (ula’ika l-fityāna ’aṣḥāb al-ṣalāt).” Then [Ibn Ḥanbal] said: “If they were satiated with bread and dates, what else should they want?” Then he began extolling hunger and poverty.

87 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 60–61.

88 Here, it is important to stress that the treatise attributed to Shaqīq al-Balkhī emphasizes hunger as the central means of discipling the nafs (see above, pp. 199–200). For examples contemporary to Ibn Ḥanbal, see the section on al-Muḥāsibī below. In addition, the idea of hunger as a means of struggle with the nafs is suggested in the sayings of Yazīd al-Raqqāshī, ‘Abdu l-Wāḥid ibn Yazīd, and Khālid ibn Ma‘dān, collected by Ibn Abī l-Dunyā (see above, pp. 210–12). 217

It is important to emphasize that Ibn Ḥanbal’s response ends with him “extolling hunger and poverty.” Although such asceticism, in his view, is praiseworthy for those who are young (al- fityān), it is inappropriate for those who must support a family (mu‘īl). Ibn Ḥanbal thus suggests that regimens of hunger are good for an earlier stage of life but are unsustainable at a later age,

when one takes on the obligations of family life. His view is the product of his own experience.

He remembers the company of the young men of prayer, satisfied with only bread and dates; he,

too, perhaps, once belonged to their number. Yet here he is now, overcome by his nafs, and

hardly able to fast for even a day!89

The chapter continues by giving Ibn Ḥanbal’s views on the benefits of hunger and fasting. Here, he endorses several positive themes surrounding strict dietary regimens in the kutub al-zuhd and in Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s Kitāb al-Jū‘:

I said to Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal], “Will a man be rewarded [by God] for abandoning his desires?” He said, “How would he not be rewarded, when Ibn ‘Umar says, ‘I have not eaten to satiety for four months.’”

I said to Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal], “Will a man find softening of heart (min qalbihi riqqah), while he is eating to satiety?” He said, “I have not seen it.”90

Ibn Ḥanbal thus praises the stringent diet of ‘Abdullāh ibn ‘Umar, who provides a prominent

example of hunger in the kutub al-zuhd. At the same time, he endorses the view, attested in several of the jū‘ traditions collected by Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, that hunger is necessary in order to soften the heart.

89 According to biographical sources, Ibn Ḥanbal married at the age of forty (204/819–20), his first son Sāliḥ being born shortly thereafter. Christopher Melchert, Ahmad ibn Ḥanbal (Oxford: Oneworld, 2006), 4–5. As Christopher Melchert has suggested, we may perhaps detect in Ibn Ḥanbal’s comments on hunger a wistful remembrance of the ascetic rigor of his youth, now supplanted by the demands of family life. Melchert, Ahmad ibn Ḥanbal, 117.

90 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 61. 218

The chapter concludes with Ibn Ḥanbal praising the example of his fellow Baghdadi

Bishr ibn al-Ḥārith. As he tells us, Bishr had not eaten to satiety for five years and, more marvelous still, had not craved eggplant (bādhinjān) for twenty years.91 As impressive as this abstinence was to Ibn Ḥanbal, elsewhere in the collection he is more ambivalent about Bishr’s diet. As he notes, only an unmarried man like Bishr could be so abstemious:

‘Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal] said to me, “Did Bishr ibn al-Ḥārith eat from the produce of Baghdad?” I said, “No. He used to repudiate whoever ate of it.” [Ibn Ḥanbal] said, “Bishr was only able to do this because he was single and did not have a family (‘iyāl). One who has a family is not like one who is single. In my case,92 I would not have given thought to what I ate.”93

Ibn Ḥanbal thus emphasizes, again, the legitimate demands of family life, which make ascetic

hunger inappropriate or even impossible for one who has a family. While he praises restrictive

diets in many cases, he also resists an unqualified approbation of ascetic hunger and seeks to

limit the discipline to the young and unmarried. Again, this attitude seems to have shaped, and to an extent stemmed from, his own dietary habits. As Nimrod Hurvitz argues, biographical sources portray Ibn Ḥanbal as adopting a moderate diet that eschewed luxuries and over-consumption and was grounded in the ideal of self-control, an ideal that contrasted with the starvation of extreme ascetics.94 So, too, in the Kitāb al-Wara‘, Ibn Ḥanbal offers his own example of

moderation and breaking the fast as a counterweight to severe disciplines of fasting.

91 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 63.

92 law kāna ilayya. The meaning of this phrase here is uncertain; see Pitschke, Skrupulöse Frömmigkeit, 167.

93 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 52.

94 Hurvitz, “Biographies and Mild Asceticism,” 51–57. 219

Nevertheless, the Kitāb al-Wara‘ provides one set of accounts that depict Ibn Ḥanbal himself engaging in severe acts of fasting — at first under duress, and then freely. This takes

place during the miḥnah and its aftermath, as Ibn Ḥanbal is imprisoned under the Caliph al-

Mu‘taṣim (r. 833–842) and later honored at the court of al-Mutawakkil (r. 847–861). By the time of the miḥnah, Ibn Ḥanbal was already married and a father;95 despite having a family, however,

the exigencies of his imprisonment and later rehabilitation led him to fast. Ibn Ḥanbal’s

recollections of these events, and the testimony of his companions, offer striking testimony to

how Ibn Ḥanbal and his followers understood the significance of hunger and fasting.

In describing his imprisonment under al-Muʿtaṣim, Ibn Ḥanbal presents his hunger as the

central symbol of his suffering and endurance:

I heard Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal] say, “When I was carried off to the house [of imprisonment],96 I spent two days without eating. Then, after I was beaten, they brought me porridge (sawīq).97 But I did not drink it, and I completed my fast (atammtu ṣawmī).

Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal] said to me, “I spent two days in prison without drinking water.”98

95 Ibn Ḥanbal married at the age of forty (204/819–20) and his first son Sāliḥ was born shortly thereafter; see above, note 89.

96 Cf. Pitschke, Skrupulöse Frömmigkeit, 151.

97 Sawīq is a gruel typically composed of either wheat, barley, or a combination of the two. Ibn Manẓūr, Lisan al-‘Arab 2156; Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon, 1472.

98 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 44. Intriguingly, Ibn Ḥanbal’s description of his foodless imprisonment is directly preceded in the collection by an account in which Ibn Ḥanbal describes a monk (rāhib), speaking from his cell, instructing the Basran ascetic Mālik ibn Dīnār to build “an iron wall” between himself and the world. Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 44. The juxtaposition of these accounts may be intended to suggest that Ibn Ḥanbal’s imprisonment during the miḥnah was itself a forced experience of monasticism, complete with fasting, seclusion in a cell, and an iron bar separating him from the world. 220

The Kitāb al-Wara‘ then provides a series of accounts relating how, after the miḥnah ended, Ibn

Ḥanbal was freed from persecution and brought in honor to the court of the Caliph al-

Mutawakkil. The traditions portray this, too, as a time of trial and suffering. As one account relates:

Abū ‘Abdullāh [Ahamd ibn Ḥanbal] said to me, while we were in Al-‘Askar [“The Camp” of al-Mutawakkil in Sammara],99 “… I am afraid of being seduced by the dunyā. I thought about this yesterday and said [to myself], ‘These are two inquisitions (miḥnatān). I have been examined in matters of religion (imtuḥintu bi-l-dīn). But this is an inquisition in matters of the world (miḥnatu l-dunyā).’”100

Ibn Ḥanbal thus suggests that the luxuries available to him at the caliphal residence are

themselves a “trial,” akin to the trial of his faith in the time of al-Muʿtaṣim. In response to this

new miḥnah, he undertakes a rigorous fast:

‘Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal] said to us, while we were in Al-‘Askar, “I have now had eight days, in which I have only eaten less than a quarter of a bowl of porridge (sawīq).” And he spent three days without eating, while I was with him. When it was the fourth night, I placed between his hands one eighth of a bowl of porridge. He may have drunk it [all], but he may have left some of it aside. Then he spent around fourteen or fifteen days only eating less than half a bowl of porridge.101

According to this account, Ibn Ḥanbal’s fasting eventually made him sick, and he was forced to

eat in order to strengthen himself.102 Yet he justified his strict regimen by citing the examples of

Abū Dharr, who spent thirty days consuming nothing but water from the well of Zamzam; Ibn al-

99 Pitschke, Skrupulöse Frömmigkeit, 152, n. 161.

100 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 44–45.

101 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 45.

102 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 45.

221

Zubayr, who went seven days without eating; and Ibrāhīm al-Taymī, who spent up to two months without food (as related also by Ibn Abī l-Dunyā).103

According to the Kitāb al-Wara‘, Ibn Ḥanbal thus not only condoned, but even adopted the severe acts of fasting attested in kutub al-zuhd and in traditions about ascetic hunger.

Nevertheless, it is important to emphasize the particular context for Ibn Ḥanbal’s fasting as

presented in these traditions, namely, his resistance to the corrupting influence of the caliphate.

His refusal to eat porridge during his imprisonment symbolizes his contempt for the miḥnah and

his resolve, even in the face of worldly suffering, not to capitulate to his jailers. So, too, his

fasting as a guest at the camp of al-Mutawakkil indicates his refusal to become embroiled in the dubious luxuries that attend proximity to the caliph.104 Ibn Ḥanbal’s fasting thus serves to prove

his patient suffering and show his steadfast resistance to being seduced by the trappings of

political power.

Overall, however, Ibn Ḥanbal emerges as wary of hunger and fasting as an ascetic ideal.

He can appreciate the benefits of hunger and the dangers of satiety as portrayed in the zuhd and

jū‘ traditions. Nevertheless, he was ambivalent toward fasting as a means of self-discipline,

arguing that, while it is well-suited for the young and single, it is inappropriate for those, like him, who have a family. His own fasting, as recorded in the Kitāb al-Wara‘, is an expression of

fundamental values of patience (ṣabr) and detachment from the world, rather than an effort to

accustom the nafs to a state of regular hunger or continual fasting.

103 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 46.

104 This explanation would also fit well with the historical reports that Ibn Ḥanbal was pressured into coming to the caliph’s residence, fearful of the caliph’s intentions, and wary of accepting any gifts. See Walter M. Patton, Aḥmed ibn Ḥanbal and the Miḥna (Leiden: Brill, 1897), 139– 45; Melchert, Ahmad ibn Ḥanbal, 14–15. 222

Al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī

Ibn Ḥanbal’s ambivalence toward hunger and fasting is mirrored in the views of his

contemporary, al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī. Al-Muḥāsibī was an influential teacher and author on

pious and ascetic subjects. In addition to his magnum opus, the Kitāb al-Ri‘āyah li-Ḥuqūq Allāh

(“The Book on the Observance of the Rights of God”), al-Muḥāsibī wrote a number of shorter

treatises on pious behavior, including a work on contested topics related to zuhd (Masā’il fī l- zuhd). Perhaps his most enduring achievement lay in the system of self-examination (al- muḥāsabah)105 that he developed, according to which one would scrutinize one’s actions to determine their underlying intention and sift one’s thoughts (khaṭarāt) to discern their satanic, selfish, or divine origin.106 This system of self-examination, along with his other teachings on

pious and ascetic subjects, was deeply influential on central figures in the development of

Baghdadi Sufism, especially al-Muḥāsibī’s student Junayd. Nevertheless, although al-Muḥāsibī evinced some interest in subjects discussed by Sufis, he does not seem to have identified himself as a Sufi, or to have been regarded as such by his contemporaries.107

Al-Muḥāsibī was also acquainted with Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal; in fact, the two men were

enemies. According to several sources, Ibn Ḥanbal condemned al-Muḥāsibī for his engagement

in rational theology (kalām).108 These attacks ruined al-Muḥāsibī’s name, and he died in hiding

105 This is the origin of al-Muḥāsibī’s name, which means “The [Self-]Examiner.”

106 See especially Al-Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-Ri‘āya li-Ḥuqūq Allāh, ed. Margaret Smith (London, Luzac & Co., 1940), 44–53.

107 Van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 6, 15, 20, 218–224; Melchert, “Transition,” 55–56; Melchert, “Origins and Early Sufism,” 14.

108 Van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 29, 110–15. On al-Muḥāsibī’s views on common topics in kalām, see pp. 160–95. 223

from Ibn Ḥanbal’s followers.109 At least one student of Ibn Ḥanbal, Abū Zur‘ah al-Rāzī (d.

264/878), also condemned al-Muḥāsibī’s ascetic teachings.110 Nevertheless, Ibn Ḥanbal and al-

Muḥāsibī shared a broad range of views on moral, legal, and even ascetic subjects. Important to both of them was the concept of “scrupulosity” (wara‘), the rigorous effort to avoid contravening moral and legal standards. Indeed, the goal of al-Muḥāsibī’s system of self-examination was to

compare one’s thoughts and actions in every particular to the divine ordinances, as transmitted

by the sources of Islamic law,111 and so to ensure one’s total conformity with God’s commands.

Self-examination, for al-Muḥāsibī, was thus a tool for enacting wara‘.

It is not surprising, then, that like Ibn Ḥanbal, al-Muḥāsibī treats the value of fasting and hunger in light of the ideal of scrupulosity and in view of a precise understanding of religious and social obligations. In a treatise called Kitāb al-Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘ (“Book on Acquisitions

and Scrupulosity”),112 al-Muḥāsibī addresses a range of topics related to scrupulous behavior. A chapter in this work titled “Scrupulosity and Hunger” (Al-wara‘ wa-l-jū‘), provides an overview of the attitudes toward ascetic hunger taken by al-Muḥāsibī’s contemporaries, as well as by

109 Christopher Melchert, “The Ḥanābila and the Early Sufis,” Arabica 48 (2001): 359.

110 Christopher Melchert, “The Piety of the Hadith Folk,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002): 430–31.

111 Al-Muḥāsibī presents the sources of law as the Qur’an, the sunnah of the Prophet, and the consensus of scholars. It is the goal of reason (‘aql) and knowledge (‘ilm) to compare one’s actions and thoughts to these sources. Although al-Muḥāsibī places greater emphasis on consultation with the Qur’an and sunnah, he twice mentions consensus as a valid source for discerning khaṭarāt. Al-Muḥāsibī, Ri‘āya, 45, 46.4. In turn, he suggests that to reach knowledge based on consensus, one must consult in person with ‘ulamā’. Al-Muḥāsibī, Ri‘āya, 48.

112 The work is edited in Al-Muḥāsibī, al-Masāʼil fī aʻmāl al-qulūb wa-l-jawāriḥ; wa-l-Makāsib; wa-l-ʻAql, ed. ʻAbd al-Qādir Aḥmad ʻAṭā (Cairo: ʻĀlam al-Kutub, 1969), 173–234. On the title of this work, also sometimes given in the shorter form of Kitāb al-Makāsib (“Book on Acquisitions”), see Van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 12; Pitschke, Skrupulöse Frömmigkeit, 16–17. 224

earlier generations of Muslims. Unlike Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, however, al-Muḥāsibī not only collects the views of early Muslims, but also provides his own stance on the purpose and value of ascetic hunger. Al-Muḥāsibī structures this discussion by distinguishing “groups” of people (ṭawā’if, sing. ṭā’ifah) that have held different views on hunger and fasting. This approach was a common one in early Islamic literature, and it must be emphasized that these “groups” do not correspond to actual, let alone organized factions. Rather, they are artificial , created by al-

Muḥāsibī in order to map out a schema of ascetic attitudes.113 The groups, as he presents them, are as follows:

1) The first group includes a range of prominent ascetics and traditionists (Sufyān al-

Thawrī, Ibrāhīm ibn Adham, Shu‘ayb ibn Ḥarb, al-Mu‘āfā ibn ‘Imrān al-Mawṣilī, Ḥudhayfah al-

Mur‘ashī, and Bishr ibn al-Ḥārith), for whom hunger stems from legal scrupulosity. The

members of this ṭā’ifah are happy to fill themselves with permissible food (al-ḥalāl), and when

they have food that is ḥalāl, they do not regard hunger as a virtue or religious obligation (lā

takallufa fīhi li-faḍīlah). The implication is that the members of this group only endure hunger

when they are unable to find legally permissible food.114

2 and 3) Al-Muḥāsibī then notes that groups of ascetics (al-muta‘abbidūn) have imbued

hunger with various meanings (ma‘ānin): 2) A group of Basrans have embraced hunger as a tool

for disciplining the nafs (ta’dīb al-nafs), advancing the nafs from one condition to another, and

cutting it off from legally dubious things (al-shubuhāt). 3) Another group of ascetics have used

113 On the ubiquitous use of schematized “groups” in classical Muslim biographical texts, see Michael Cooperson, Classical Arabic Biography: The Heirs of the Prophets in the Age of Al- Ma’mūn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 13–18. Cooperson refers to this as the “ṭā’ifa model” of biography.

114 Al-Muḥāsibī, Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘, 226. 225

hunger as a means of opposing “the natural desires” of the nafs and preventing the nafs from

attaining what it seeks. This group includes certain, unnamed Basrans, as well as the ascetic of

northern Iraq, Fatḥ al-Mawṣilī. Groups (2) and (3) are related inasmuch as they are both

composed of “ascetics” (al-muta‘abbidūn), primarily from Basrah, who regard hunger as a

means of managing the nafs. But group (2) is more concerned with the nafs as an impediment to legal scrupulosity, while group (3) focuses on counteracting the nature and desires of the nafs, in

general.115

4) A fourth group is composed of the companions of the Prophet and the ahl al-ṣuffah, the paupers who lived at the “portico” of the Prophet’s mosque in Medina. For them, hunger was a matter of tafwīḍ, that is, entrusting their affair to the governance of God, thanking God for what they were given and enduring patiently their times of deprivation (ḥālat al-man‘). In their view, neither hunger nor satiety constituted a spiritual path (sabīl, ṭarīq). Nevertheless, they were alive to the spiritual benefits of hunger, knowing that “in satiety lies error and a callousness toward the promise [of Paradise] and the threat [of the Fire], but in hunger lies a softening [of the heart] and an arousal to piety.”116

5) Finally, al-Muḥāsibī introduces a group for whom hunger represents the highest station

(manzilah) and the governing principle of all pious works (sayyidu ’a‘māli l-birr). This class is composed of everyone from the “groups of Basrans” who disciplines his nafs (addaba nafsahu).

It thus corresponds closely to groups (2) and (3) described earlier by al-Muḥāsibī.117

115 Al-Muḥāsibī, Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘, 226.

116 Al-Muḥāsibī, Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘, 226–27.

117 Al-Muḥāsibī, Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘, 227. 226

There is no obvious logical or chronological order to the way in which al-Muḥāsibī organizes these groups. Nevertheless, a clear distinction emerges between those who hold what we might call a “weak” and a “strong” conception of hunger as a religious virtue. In a weaker sense, some regard hunger as occasionally necessitated by legal scrupulosity (group 1), or as a cause for patience and source of blessing in times of want (group 4). In a stronger sense, others regard hunger as an indispensable tool for disciplining the nafs, and so have made hunger into a virtue and a station upon a spiritual path (groups 2, 3, and 5). Al-Muḥāsibī associates the weaker conception of hunger with the companions of the Prophet, as well as other ascetics and traditionists; he associates the stronger sense with ascetic movements arising from Basrah, the city where he himself was born and lived before settling in Baghdad.118

Al-Muḥāsibī clearly favors the weaker conception of the value of ascetic hunger that he

associates with groups (1) and (4). After describing the five ṭawā’if, he explains that neither hunger nor satiety is in and of itself preferable. Hunger, he concedes, has the benefit of generating humility; yet, in contrast to the views of group (5), the highest station (manzilah) on the spiritual path is not hunger, but rather dependence upon God (al-faqr ilā ’llāh). Al-

Muḥāsibī’s central point is that hunger should not be regarded as a religious obligation. As he states:

The best hunger is the hunger of being deprived [of food] (jū‘ al-man‘).119 The hunger that one imposes as an obligation (jū‘ al-takalluf) will come to disgrace in satiety [i.e. when one fails to live up to the obligation to hunger]. And if there is hunger during fasting, the meaning of that is monasticism (al-tarrahub) and itinerant monasticism (al-siyāḥah) devoted to God, may he be exalted and glorified. Thus it is related from God, may he be exalted and glorified, “Fasting is for me, and I am its reward. The son of Adam foregoes

118 Cf. Melchert, “Baṣran Origins of Classical Sufism,” 223.

119 Compare the use of man‘ in this sense in the discussion of the companions and ahl al-ṣuffah. Cf. Van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 117. 227

his food and his drink for my sake.” This is making [hunger] a supererogatory action desired [by God] (al-targhīb).120

Al-Muḥāsibī thus indicates his preference for the approach of the companions of the Prophet and

the ahl al-ṣuffah (group 4), who endured hunger only when they were involuntarily deprived of

food (fī ḥālat al-man‘). Similarly, he endorses the attitude of group (1), the early traditionists and

men of piety who refused to impose hunger as a religious obligation (takalluf). Al-Muḥāsibī does

appear to speak positively about the hunger that may result from fasting, presenting it as a form

of “monastic discipline” (al-tarrahub, al-siyāḥah).121 He reiterates the connection between hunger and “monasticism” at the end of this section, speaking of those whose hunger and service

(khidmah) to God have “made them like monks” (astarhabathum).122 Nevertheless, he emphasizes that for Muslims ascetic hunger must be seen as supererogatory, and not obligatory.

Al-Muḥāsibī concludes by rejecting any general call to either hunger or satiety. As he states:

Whoever summons people to hunger has disobeyed God. [Such a person] knows that hunger kills… some will resort to the knife and sacrifice themselves, and some will change their nature and make their constitution bad. Wahb ibn Munabbih said: “When a servant [of God] fasts, his vision strays, and when he breaks his fast with a sweet, it returns.” But whoever summons to satiety has [also] disobeyed God, and has not made his nature good, for satiety is a weight upon the body, a callousness in the heart toward the threat of God, an error in the mind, and a lassitude in the limbs.123

120 Al-Muḥāsibī, Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘, 227. On al-Muḥāsibī’s use of the root RGhB to denote action that is supererogatory and non-obligatory, see al-Muḥāsibī, Masā’il fī l-Zuhd: ʻAbd al- Qādir Aḥmad (ed.), Al-Masāʼil fī aʻmāl al-qulūb wa-l-jawāriḥ, 87.

121 On the meaning of these terms as used by al-Muḥāsibī and their association with monasticism, see Van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 119.

122 Al-Muḥāsibī, Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘, 228.

123 Al-Muḥāsibī, Makāsib wa-l-Wara‘, 227–28. 228

Al-Muḥāsibī here endorses the understanding of the mental effects of satiety that he attributes to the companions of the Prophet and ahl al-ṣuffah. Like them, he regards too much food as causing

mental errors and hardening the heart against the divine admonitions. In addition, he warns that

eating weighs down the body and slackens its members, thus echoing the views on satiety

expressed in numerous jū‘ traditions. Yet he balances the benefits of hunger with its degrading

effects upon the mind and body: hunger is potentially lethal, able to ruin one’s constitution and

even induce a suicidal madness in those who are starving. In a separate work, al-Muḥāsibī

cautions that the weakness induced by hunger can cause people to abandon their religious

obligations and commit unlawful actions.124 In accord with the example of the Prophet’s

companions and other early Muslims (groups 1 and 4), al-Muḥāsibī thus refuses to make hunger into a general religious virtue.

In a treatise on debated topics related to zuhd (Al-Masā’il fī l-Zuhd), al-Muḥāsibī goes further, rejecting the practice of controlling the nafs by restricting one’s diet. As he states:

Peoples’ natures (ṭabā’i‘) differ. There are some who need food in [a given] time of eating, but do not need it at the same time on another day. And one may, perhaps, need food [in a given circumstance], but not need a similar [amount of food] in another circumstance (ḥāl). But the best is to take whatever food the nafs needs, neither more, nor less. So one should take of [food] what is just right for [the nafs] (mā yu‘ayyinuhā) and prevent from [the nafs] what would overflow it.125

Al-Muḥāsibī here seeks a middle ground between hunger (jū‘) and satiety (shab‘). One should

give the nafs “what is just right for it”, no more, no less, and this amount will vary according to

the person and the circumstance.

124 Al-Muḥāsibī, Ri‘āya, 57.

125 Al-Muḥāsibī, Masā’il fī l-Zuhd, 85–86. Cf. Istanbul, Süleymaniye MS Carullah 1101, ff. 15a– 15b. 229

Al-Muḥāsibī emphasizes this moderate approach toward food in response to those who exalt ascetic hunger:

Some people have said: “It is best for one to abandon superfluous food (al-faḍl min al- ṭa‘ām), and [only] take sustenance (al-qūt), but not to approach what is superfluous. For if one takes [superfluous food], he will weaken in obedience, and his nafs will summon him to disobedience.” For, according to them, nothing better restrains disobedience and causes obedience than having little food (qillat al-ṭa‘ām). But it is not so. God forbid that something should be permissible, but that taking it would summon to disobedience and hold one back from obedience.126

Al-Muḥāsibī thus criticizes those who force the nafs to obey God by adopting a subsistence diet.

This is a direct rejection of the practice of using hunger to discipline the nafs, which al-Muḥāsibī attributes to the ascetics of Basrah. As he suggests, since food is in and of itself permissible, it is unthinkable that a moderate diet, responsive to the needs of one’s nafs, would lead one to disobey God.

Yet in one context, al-Muḥāsibī embraces hunger and fasting as a means of disciplining the nafs. In so doing, he seems to endorse the Basran ascetics’ use of hunger that he had criticized in the above passages. In a treatise called, The Beginning for One Who Turns to God in

Repentance (Bad’u man anāba ’ilā ’llāh), al-Muḥāsibī describes the initial stages (bad’, ibtidā’) of the Muslim’s path toward God.127 Here, he urges those who repent and turn to God to tame their nafs through hunger and fasting. “Crush [the nafs] through continual fasting (idmān al-

ṣiyām),” al-Muḥāsibī advises, “then it will be crushed in its vigor.”128 As he explains, one should

126 Al-Muḥāsibī, Masā’il fī l-Zuhd, 86–87.

127 The text commences with a student asking al-Muḥāsibī, “What is the beginning (bad’) for one who turns in repentance to God, may he be exalted and glorified?” Al-Muḥāsibī responds, “The beginning (ibtidā’), for one who turns to face his Lord and who labors in seeking his satisfaction, is knowledge of God, may he be exalted and glorified.” Al-Muḥāsibī, Bad’u man anāba ’ilā llāh wa-yalīhi Ādāb al-Nufūs, ed. Majdī Fatḥī al-Sayyid (Cairo: Dār al-Salām, 1991), 23.

128 Al-Muḥāsibī, Bad’u man anāba, 27. 230 first threaten the nafs with the loss of its rest, wealth, and pleasure. If such threats fail to make the nafs repent, however, then one should turn to actual measures of ascetic practice:

Then one should visit [the nafs] with the punishment wherewith one threatened to punish it. Then, if it does not desist, one should tire it out with much prayer and make it hunger and thirst through fasting (ajā‘ahā wa-a‘ṭashahā bi-ṣiyām), or prevent it from much of its desires [even] for what is permissible…129

Al-Muḥāsibī explains that if prayer and fasting succeed in converting the nafs, then one should lighten its punishment. But if the nafs again refuses to capitulate, one should afflict it with further fasting:

“One should prevent [the nafs] from some of its pleasure, from the large amount of food, whether meat or some other type of food, to which it is accustomed, and from the intense gluttony of being filled, and one should make a pact of fasting (al-ṣawm), if one is able to.”130

Al-Muḥāsibī thus portrays a recurring cycle of disobedience and submission from the nafs, as the person begins to redirect the nafs’s desires toward God. In this process, hunger and fasting serve as a final, but highly effective resort for disciplining the self.

Two ideals of ascetic hunger and fasting thus coexist in tension in al-Muḥāsibī’s thought: on the one hand, a more stringent disciplining of the nafs through crushing hunger, and on the other hand, a more moderate attitude toward hunger as the occasional by-product of deprivation or legal scrupulosity. The milder attitude toward hunger is, in al-Muḥāsibī’s view, better supported by the example of the companions of the Prophet and other early pious Muslims.

129 Al-Muḥāsibī, Bad’u man anāba, 28–29.

130 Al-Muḥāsibī, Bad’u man anāba, 29. The importance of hunger for discipling the nafs is intimated in al-Muḥāsibī’s work Ādāb al-Nufūs (“The Rules of the Self ), in which al-Muḥāsibī warns of the deleterious physical and moral effects of satiety (al-shab‘), which “excites desire, and bequeaths hardness [of heart], pride, sluggishness, and sleep.” This work is also edited in Al- Muḥāsibī, Bad’u man anāba ’ilā llāh wa-yalīhi Ādāb al-Nufūs; for the passage cited, see 135, no. 160. 231

Accordingly, al-Muḥāsibī refuses to make hunger into a general virtue or obligation, and he

advises against the Basran practice of subjecting the nafs to regular regimens of hunger.

Nevertheless, he reserves room for the practice of starving the self at the beginning of the spiritual path and at times when gentler methods of turning the nafs to God are ineffective. His approach thus runs parallel to that of Ibn Ḥanbal. For both men, disciplines of hunger and fasting threaten to undermine a Muslim’s religious or social duties, whether the obligation to support the family, to honor the body, or to uphold the normative example of the Prophet and his companions. For both, ascetic hunger is thus only praiseworthy when it is contained within strict bounds — for Ibn Ḥanbal, when it is limited to an early stage of life, and for al-Muḥāsibī, when it is limited to an early stage of spiritual development.

Al-Junayd al-Baghdādī

The understanding of hunger as an initial method of disciplining the nafs was formative for al-Muḥāsibī’s student Junayd. Junayd was perhaps the most influential of the Sufis of ninth- century Baghdad. Both Sufi tradition and western scholarship have remembered him for creating a tradition of “sober” mysticism, crafted in response to the dangerously ecstatic outbursts of Abū

Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d. 261/874–5 or 234/848–9), the man who was drunk on God. Nevertheless, this portrayal of Junayd (however accurate) is largely the product of later Sufi hagiographers, who fixed Junayd’s legacy within the Sufi tradition.131 It remains to establish in more detail the development of Junayd’s, and more broadly early Sufi thought, within the context of third/ninth-

century Baghdad. As we shall see, Junayd developed his understanding of asceticism in response

131 See esp. Jawid Mojaddedi, “Getting Drunk with Abū Yazīd or Staying Sober with Junayd: The Creation of a Popular Typology of Sufism,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 66 (2003): 1–13. 232

to contemporary trends and ideas in Baghdad. In articulating an ideal of fasting as a means of disciplining the nafs, Junayd was forced to respond to the types of objections to ascetic hunger

that were raised by al-Muḥāsibī and Ibn Ḥanbal and that circulated in Baghdad during the second

half of the third/ninth century.

Let us first return to al-Waṣāyā, the text identified by Christopher Melchert in which

Junayd offers “counsels” on the Sufi path. At the commencement of this text, Junayd describes

the requirements (shurūṭ) incumbent upon the “beginner” (al-mubtadi’) at the “beginning” (al-

bidāyah) of the path to God.132 The beginner, he emphasizes, must observe both the religious

obligations (farā’iḍ) compulsory for all Muslims and the recommended, but not obligatory

customs (sunan) of the Prophet Muḥammad.133 In addition, Junayd summons the beginner to a range of ascetic disciplines, including fasting and prayer vigils:

Whoever does not abstain (yaḥtamī) during his day, [his secrets]134 will not be made pure, and whoever does not keep vigil at night, his faith will not increase. In abstinence during the day (ḥimyat al-nahār), inner hearts and become sound, and in the night vigil, obedience becomes faultless for novices. For when the novice (al-murīd) eats, he grows lazy and weary, and when he sleeps, his heart becomes negligent, and when he laughs, his heart [illegible word] and falls into error.

For when souls (nufūs) eat, they become arrogant. When they become arrogant, they become ignorant. When they become ignorant, they become forgetful. When they become forgetful, they become heedless. When they become heedless, they repudiate. When they repudiate, they violate. When they violate, they exchange. And when they exchange, they commit unbelief (kafarat).135

132 Istanbul Süleymaniye MS Reşid Efendi 1218, f. 4r.

133 Istanbul Süleymaniye MS Reşid Efendi 1218, f. 4r.

134 Supplied in red interlinearly.

135 Istanbul Suleymaniye MS Reşid Efendi 1218, f. 4r: ﻓﻜﻞ ﻣﻦ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺤﺘﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﺎﺭﻩ ﻟﻢ ﺗﺼﻒ ﺍﺳﺮﺍﺭﻩ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺴﻬﺮ ﻟﻴﻠﻪ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺰﺩ ﺍﻳﻤﺎﻧﻪ ﻻﻥ ﺣﻤﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﺭ ّﺗﺼﺢ ﺑﻪ ﺍﻟﻀﻤﺎﻳﺮ ﻭﺍﻟﻴﻘﻴﻦ ﻭﺳﻬﺮ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﺗﺨﻠﻮ ﺍﻟﻄﺎﻋﺔ ﻓﻴﻪ ﻟﻠﻤﺮﻳﺪﻳﻦ ﻻﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺮﻳﺪ ﺍﺫﺍ ﺍﻛﻞ ﺗﻨﺒﻞ ّﻭﻣﻞ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﻧﺎﻡ ﻏﻔﻞ ﻗﻠﺒﻪ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﺿﺤﻚ () ﻗﻠﺒﻪ ّﻭﺿﻞ ﻻﻥ ﺍﻟﻨﻔﻮﺱ ﺍﺫﺍ ﺍﻛﻠﺖ ﺑﻄﺮﺕ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﺑﻄﺮﺕ ﺟﻬﻠﺖ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﺟﻬﻠﺖ ﻧﺴﻴﺖ (ﻭﺍﺫﺍ) ﻧﺴﻴﺖ ﻏﻔﻠﺖ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﻏﻔﻠﺖ ﺟﺤﺪﺕ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﺟﺤﺪﺕ ﻧﻘﻀﺖ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﻧﻘﻀﺖ ﺑﺪّﻟﺖ ﻭﺍﺫﺍ ﺑﺪّﻟﺖ ﻛﻔﺮﺕ 233

Junayd here presents both fasting and vigils as indispensable to the beginner’s spiritual progress.

Just as sleep makes the heart negligent, so food makes one lazy and fatigued. Junayd understands eating to have a deleterious effect not only upon the body, but also upon the nafs, causing a chain reaction of spiritual corruption that finishes in unbelief. Accordingly, he instructs the beginner to keep vigil at night and practice abstinence during the day. The term that he uses for “abstinence”

(ḥimyah, yaḥtamī) typically connotes abstaining from food, and in this context clearly refers to the novice limiting or refraining from eating during the day.136 Junayd thus indicates that,

through fasting, beginners may restrain the nafs from a wide range of spiritual ills.

In another treatise, Adab al-Muftaqir ’ilā ’llāh (“Proper Discipline for One who is

Dependent upon God”), Junayd describes the struggle between the Sufi and the Sufi’s nafs over

the discipline of fasting. This work, which has been edited by ‘Ali Hassan Abdel-Kader, is

preserved in Istanbul Süleymaniye MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374. This manuscript was copied by

Ismā‘īl ibn Sawdakīn (d. 646/1248), a student of Ibn ‘Arabī.137 It is the only manuscript that

preserves the majority of Junayd’s extant treatises, and scholarship on Junayd has treated its contents, including Adab al-Muftaqir ’ilā ’llāh, as authentic.138 There are several reasons for this

136 On the term, see Ibn Manẓūr, Lisan al-‘Arab 1014; Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon, 652.

137 Although the text has been edited by Abdel-Kader (Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic pp. 58–62), my translations are based upon a digital copy of the Istanbul manuscript (MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374), kindly supplied by the librarians of the Süleymaniye Mosque. Both Josef Van Ess and Georges Vajda have noted errors in Abdel-Kader’s edition and translation; my assessment is the same, and in several, relatively minor details, my reading thus differs from that provided by Abdel- Kader. Nevertheless, Abdel-Kader’s edition and translation is highly useful for making accessible the principal contents of this fascinating, but otherwise unedited text.

138 On Adab al-Muftaqir ’ilā ’llāh, see, e.g., Josef Van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert Hidschra: Eine Geschichte des religiösen Denkens im frühen Islam, 6 vols. (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1991–1997) 4:501, 501 n. 14; Annabel Keeler, “The Concept of Adab in Early Sufism with Particular Reference to the Teachings of Sahl b. ‘Abdallāh al-Tustarī (d. 283/896),” in Ethics and Spirituality in Islam: Sufi adab, ed. Francesco Chiabotti et al. 234

view: Four of the treatises contained in Istanbul Süleymaniye MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374 are quoted and attributed to Junayd by al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988), Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī (d. 430/1038), and al-

Qushayrī (d. 465/1072), indicating that the collection is generally reliable.139 Similarly, al-

Qushayrī appears to paraphrase a portion of Adab al-Muftaqir ’ilā ’llāh in describing Junayd’s

teaching on khawāṭir, or tempting thoughts.140 In addition, the contents of this text fit well within a ninth-century Baghdadi context, reflecting not only the influence of al-Muḥāsibī, but also contemporary controversies concerning fasting, and, as we will see in the next section, monasticism and celibacy. Finally, there is no indication in the text of the influence of ideas from

Ibn ‘Arabī or other post-Junaydian sources.

At the beginning of Adab al-Muftaqir ’ilā ’llāh, Junayd elaborates the system of self- examination inherited from al-Muḥāsibī.141 Following al-Muḥāsibī, he describes three types of

“thoughts” (khāṭir, khawāṭir) that enter the heart: those which derive from God, those which derive from Satan, and those which derive from the nafs. Since only a divine thought (khāṭir

(Leiden: Brill, 2017), 65–66; Erik Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition: ʿUmar al- Suhrawardī and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 161, 161 n. 57. On other texts of Junayd preserved in this manuscript, see, e.g. Van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft, 4:283–86; Karamustafa, Sufism, 16–18.

139 See Abdel-Kader, Junayd, 59–60.

140 Compare Junayd’s teaching on the distinction between khawāṭir from the nafs and khawāṭir from Satan in Istanbul Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, f. 67b / Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 61; and Al- Qushayrī, Al-Risālah Al-Qushayrīyah fī ‘ilm al-taṣawwuf, ed. ʻAbd al-Ḥalīm Maḥmūd (Cairo: Dār al-Muqaṭṭam, 2009), 147.

141 See especially Al-Muḥāsibī, Ri‘āya, 44–53.

235

rabbānī) leads to right action, it is essential to distinguish a divine thought from a thought deriving from Satan (khāṭir shayṭānī) or from the nafs (khāṭir nafsānī).142

As Junayd explains, thoughts from the nafs provide the greatest impediment to the Sufi’s

disciplines, as they induce the Sufi to rest from ascetic labor (ṭalab al-rāḥah)143 and to fulfill the

nafs’s desires (shahwah).144 Accordingly, Junayd indicates that the nafs will attempt to persuade the Sufi to cease from fasting and submit to the self’s desire for food:

Concerning food, when [the nafs] has an intense need for it, it might deceive you in summoning you to abandon fasting (ṣiyām) or to eat something that it desires, by saying that in the continuation of the fast, the nafs will be made too weak to do what is necessary for obedience [to God], or [by saying that] refraining from eating this desired food would offend the heart of a Muslim, should a friend invite you to eat it, [or that it would offend] the heart of [your] family (‘iyāl), if [the food] were something that you had brought to your family.145

The nafs thus attempts to persuade the Sufi to cease from fasting by stating that such abstinence

will interfere with the Sufi’s religious duties and his or her obligations to friends and family. In so doing, the nafs manipulates ideas about moderation in fasting held by contemporary

142 Junayd also goes further than al-Muḥāsibī in providing signs for distinguishing thoughts that derive from the nafs from those that derive from Satan. Al-Muḥāsibī was ambiguous on this point, being primarily concerned to distinguish thoughts that were opposed to divine law (those deriving from Satan and those deriving the nafs) from those that accorded with divine law (those deriving from God). In one passage in the Masā’il fī l-zuhd, Muḥāsibī indicates that the “distinction” (farq) between a thought of the nafs and a thought of Satan is that thoughts from the nafs are deliberate, while satanic thoughts are inadvertent. Yet in the same text, Muḥāsibī notes that some types of thoughts from the nafs are, in fact, inadvertent. See al-Muḥāsibī, Masā’il fī l-zuhd, 77–78. In contrast, Junayd clearly distinguished between nafsānī and shayṭānī thoughts, on the grounds that the nafsānī thoughts are enduring and constant, whereas shayṭānī thoughts are transient, altering or vanishing as suddenly as they appear. Istanbul Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, f. 67b; Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 61; Al-Qushayrī, Risālah, 147.

143 That this refers specifically to rest from ascetic labor is clear from the examples given by Junayd, which are treated here and in the following section.

144 Istanbul Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, f. 66b; cf. Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 85.

145 Istanbul Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, f. 67a; cf. Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 59. 236

Baghdadis such as al-Muḥāsibī and Ibn Ḥanbal. Just as al-Muḥāsibī warns that hunger can weaken the constitution and cause one to abandon religious obligations, so too the nafs suggests that fasting will make the self too weak to perform religious duties. While Ibn Ḥanbal warns that voluntary hunger is inappropriate for one who has a family, the nafs suggests that fasting will offend one’s family. Yet the thoughts of the nafs are an act of self-deceit (talbīs). For what the nafs truly wants is not to fulfill religious obligations or to please family and friends, but to satisfy its desire for food and drink.146

So, too, Junayd indicates that Satan and the nafs will manipulate the Sufi’s sense of ascetic zeal in order to undermine the Sufi’s ascetic practice. In some cases, Junayd explains, satanic thoughts and thoughts from the nafs work together to disrupt the lawful suggestions of

God, with Satan arousing the nafs to mislead the Sufi.147 As an example, Junayd gives the case of fasting and prayer vigils:

A [divine] thought may occur to fast for part of a month (ṣiyām ba‘ḍ al-shahr), a fasting that is encouraged by Revelation (al-shar‘), or [a divine thought may occur] to rise [in prayer] for part of the night. Then you say [to yourself], “Forego this until I might complete a night from the beginning or complete a whole month.” This is nothing but an act of deceit (mukhādi‘ah) to shut the door of success granted by God (al-tawfīq).148

Here, Junayd warns that Satan and the nafs will convince the Sufi that postponing a partial month’s fast will allow the Sufi to complete a full month of fasting in the future. Instead, Junayd suggests, one should pursue whatever measure of fasting is granted by God, even if one is unable to extend the discipline for as long as one might wish.

146 According to Junayd, the nafs desires these things because it needs them, and this desire increases the further the nafs is removed from its needs. Istanbul Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, f. 66b; cf. Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic pp. 58–59.

147 Istanbul Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, f. 68a; cf. Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic, p. 61.

148 Istanbul Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, f. 68a; cf. Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic 62. 237

Junayd thus portrays a psychological drama unfolding between the Sufi and the Sufi’s

nafs over the practice of fasting. The anti-ascetic suggestions made by the nafs are especially

threatening because they resemble genuine concerns raised by contemporary Muslims about the

effect of hunger and fasting on one’s religious and social duties. By arguing that such concerns

derive from the concupiscible thoughts of the nafs, Junayd indicates that they should not

interfere with the Sufi’s ascetic practice. His portrayal of the tempting thoughts of the nafs is

thus also a statement on contemporary conversations concerning the value of fasting and ascetic

hunger, disciplines that Junayd presents as incumbent upon all who seek to redirect the desires of

their nafs toward God.

Celibacy and Sexual Abstinence

Debates about ascetic practice in ninth-century Baghdad were even sharper concerning

the discipline of celibacy, which, as we saw in the previous chapter, was viewed by many

Muslims as constitutive of Christian monasticism and directly opposed to the normative example

of the Prophet. Scholarly treatment of Muslim attitudes toward celibacy has so far focused on

two distinct developments: first, the rejection, in Hadith and zuhd collections of the eighth and ninth century, of the sexual abstinence practiced by some early Muslim ascetics;149 and secondly,

the treatment, in classical Sufi literature, of the relative merits of marriage and celibacy.150 These

149 See, most recently, Sahner, “‘The Monasticism of My Community is Jihad,’” 149–83.

150 See especially Shahzad Bashir, “Islamic Tradition and Celibacy,” in Celibacy and Religious Traditions, ed. Carl Olson (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 137–41; Beatrix Immenkamp, Marriage and Celibacy in Mediaeval Islam: A Study of Ghazali’s Kitāb Ādāb al- Nikāh (Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 1995); Madelain Farah, Marriage and Sexuality in Islam: A Translation of al-Ghazālī’s Book on the Etiquette of Marriage from the Iḥyāʼ (Salt Lake City, UT: University of Utah Press, 1984). 238

later treatments belonged to a broader “tafḍīl” literature in which Muslim authors compared the relative value of two contrasting objects, such as wealth and poverty, logic and grammar, or, in this case, marriage and celibacy. Thus both Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī (d. 386/996) and ʿAlī al-Hujwīrī

(d. ca. 464/1072) emphasized the greater advantages of unmarried life;151 in contrast, al-Ghazālī

(d. 505/1111), responding directly to al-Makkī, argued for the general superiority of marriage to

celibacy,152 while also asserting that at the beginning of the Sufi path, an unmarried novice

should remain celibate.153 The missing link in scholarly understanding of Muslim attitudes toward celibacy is thus an examination of the development of early Sufi attitudes toward sexual abstinence. In this section, I show how ongoing debate in ninth-century Baghdad concerning the value and legitimacy of celibacy shaped early Sufi attitudes toward sex, marriage, and sexual abstinence, as represented in Junayd’s Adab al-Muftaqir ilā ’llāh.

Ibn Ḥanbal’s discussion of marriage in the Kitāb al-Wara‘ explicitly condemns celibacy.

As al-Marrūdhī154, the work’s compiler, relates (in the “Chapter on the Command to Marry and what is Excellent in it”):

I heard Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal] say: “The Prophet (saws) prohibited celibacy (nahā ‘an l-tabattul). Whoever hates an act of the Prophet (saws) stands in opposition to the truth, and whoever hates an act of the companions of the Prophet (saws), the

151 Al-Makkī, Qūt al-Qulūb, ed. Saʻīd Nasīb Makārim, 2 vols. (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1995), 2:456– 94; Al-Hujwīrī, al-Maḥjūb, ed. Vālintīn Zhūkūfskī (Teheran: Ṭahūrī, 2002), 470–79. Although al-Makkī states that neither marriage nor celibacy is inherently superior, he presents the benefits of celibacy as outnumbering those of marriage.

152 Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyā ‘Ulūm al-Dīn, 5 vols. (Cairo: Lajnat Nashr al-Thaqāfa al-Islāmiyya, 1937– 38), 1:681–708 (Kitāb Ādāb al-Nikāḥ). For an overview of the views of al-Hujwīrī, al-Makkī, and al-Ghazālī on the general relative value of marriage and celibacy, see Bashir, “Islamic Tradition and Celibacy,” 138–40.

153 Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyā, 2:1522–23 (Kitāb Kasr al-Shahwatayn).

154 I.e. from the town of Marw al-Rūdh in Khurasan; see EI II, s.v. “Marw al-Rūdh.” 239

muhājirūn, and the anṣār,155 has nothing to do with religion. The Prophet said: ‘I will boast over you to the nations.’ Even in his grief, Jacob married and a child was born for him. And the Prophet said: ‘Women are beloved to me.’ And the companions of the Prophet (saws) married.”156

Here, Ibn Ḥanbal asserts that celibacy is incompatible with the married life of the Prophet and

his companions. The Hadith quoted by Ibn Ḥanbal, “I will boast over you to the nations” has

nothing ostensibly to do with marriage or celibacy. It is, however, an abbreviated form of a

Hadith, presumed to be known to the readers of this collection, in which the Prophet exhorts his

followers to marry and multiply, so that he may boast over his community at the Resurrection

(e.g. in the Sunan of al-Sijistānī, “Marry those who are very loving and bear many children, and I

shall boast over you to the nations.”157). Thus, according to Ibn Ḥanbal, the Prophet not only

provided an authoritative model of married life, but also expressly condemned celibacy and

commanded marriage.

It would be hard to understand Ibn Ḥanbal’s vehemence on this point, or the need to

devote an entire chapter of the Kitāb al-Wara‘ to the subject, if some Muslims in ninth-century

Baghdad did not set a positive value on celibacy. In fact, in this same chapter, Ibn Ḥanbal

criticizes his fellow Baghdadi Bishr ibn al-Ḥārith for being celibate:

I heard Abū ‘Abdullāh [Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal] say: “Celibacy (al-‘uzūbah) has nothing to do with Islam. The Prophet (saws) married fourteen women and died leaving nine.” Then he said: “If Bishr ibn al-Ḥārith had been married, his whole affair would have been perfect.”158

155 The “emigrants” from Mecca and their “helpers” in Medina.

156 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 71–72.

157 Al-Sijistānī, Sunan (Nikāḥ), 2:220, no. 2050. Cf. Ibn Mājah, Sunan (Nikāḥ), 3:300, no. 1846: “Marriage (al-nikāḥ) belongs to my sunnah, and whoever does not act in accord with my sunnah is not one of my own. So marry (tazawwajū), and I will boast over you to the nations.”

158 Ibn Ḥanbal, Wara‘, 71. 240

For Ibn Ḥanbal, then, the celibacy of his contemporary was irreconcilable with the married

sunnah of the Prophet. Yet Ibn Ḥanbal’s remarks also serve as evidence that at least some in

Baghdad practiced celibacy as an ascetic discipline or admired celibate ascetics.

Nevertheless, al-Muḥāsibī has little to say about marriage and celibacy. He neither condemns celibacy nor extols the advantages of marriage. In his magnum opus, the Kitāb al-

Ri‘āyah li-Ḥuqūq Allāh (“The Book on the Observance of the Rights of God”), he seems to imagine his audience as those who have a family; thus, for example, he criticizes “renunciants” who stop providing for their family (‘iyāl) or children.159 In one work, Ādāb al-Nufūs (“Rules of

Conduct for Souls”), al-Muḥāsibī lists the desire for women and sexual intercourse (shahwāt…

al-manākiḥ) as belonging, like the desire for food and drink, to the passion (hawā) that the pious

must overcome.160 But this point was not particularly important to his mind. As he explains, the passions for sex and food are easier to overcome than the subtler passions, such as the desire for fame, honor, and elevation in society.161

Nevertheless, the idea of desire for sexual intercourse as a passion of the self, akin to the desire for food, indicates the way in which al-Muḥāsibī’s student, Junayd, thought about

celibacy. In Adab al-Muftaqir ’ilā llāh, Junayd describes the bodily desire (shahwah jismānīyah)

of the nafs as comprising “food, drink, sex (al-nikāḥ)162, clothing, pleasure and things of that

159 Al-Muḥāsibī, Ri‘āya, 47, 57.

160 Al-Muḥāsibī, Ādāb al-Nufūs, 88.

161 Al-Muḥāsibī, Ādāb al-Nufūs, 88.

162 The term nikāḥ typically denotes marriage, but could also refer specifically to sex (see Ibn Manẓūr, Lisan al-‘Arab, 4537). Junayd uses it in this context to refer to “marital relations” as a bodily desire (shahwah jismānīyah) of the nafs; that is, to refer to sex. As can be seen in the following quotation, Junayd uses the term tazwīj to refer to marriage itself as distinct from sex. 241

sort.”163 According to Junayd, the nafs has a “need” (ḥājah, iḥtiyāj) for such things.164 Yet the

Sufi’s goal is not to give in to the desires and needs of the nafs, but rather to deprive the nafs of

that which it is seeking.165 Junayd thus urges the Sufi to resist the desire of the nafs for sex (al- nikāḥ) and for marriage (al-tazwīj). As I will suggest below, Junayd may have intended this to be a temporary abstinence from sex and marriage, concurrent with the Sufi’s effort to discipline the nafs. It is possible, however, that he envisioned permanent celibacy as a legitimate or even praiseworthy Sufi discipline.

In discussing abstinence from sex and marriage, Junayd responds to exactly the sorts of arguments against celibacy raised by Ibn Ḥanbal and contemporary Baghdadis, including the association between sexual abstinence and Christian monasticism. As he states:

One of the [signs of a thought from the nafs] is the occurrence of the thought simultaneous with [the nafs’s] need for one of the things it desires, such as the occurrence of [the thought of] getting married (al-tazwīj) simultaneous with the intensity of [the nafs’s] need for sex (al-nikāḥ). And the deception from [the nafs] will be this, that its intention was to carry out the saying [of the Prophet] (saws): “Marry and procreate, and I will boast about you over the nations on the Day of Resurrection” or to avoid his saying (saws): “There is no monasticism in Islam” (lā rahbānīyata fī l-islām).166

As Junayd suggests, the nafs seeks to mask its desire for sex as a legitimate desire to follow the

prophetic sunnah of marriage. Accordingly, the nafs will use the Prophet’s encouragement to

marry and condemnation of celibacy as a means of disrupting the Sufi’s sexual abstinence.

163 Istanbul MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, 66b; Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 58.

164 Istanbul MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, 66b–67a; Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 59.

165 Istanbul MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, 67b; Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 60.

166 Istanbul MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, 66b–67a: Aḥaduhumā [al-‘alāmatānu] ḥuḍūru hādhā al- khāṭiri ‘inda iḥtiyājihā ’ilā ba‘ḍi l-ashyā’i l-mushtahiyāti mithla ḥuḍūru l-tazwīji ‘inda shiddati ḥājatihā ’ilā l-nikāḥi wa-talbīsuhā dhālika ‘alayhi bi-anna qaṣdaha i‘mālu qawlihi (saws) tanākaḥū tanāsalū fa-innī mukāthirun bikum al-umama yawma l-qiyāmati, wa-tajannubu qawlihi (saws) lā rahbāniyyata fī l-islām. Cf. Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 59. 242

Junayd is thus clearly advocating that the Sufi should abstain from sex and marriage, at least in the process of disciplining the self. Yet the result is that the nafs can turn the sunnah of the

Prophet into an impediment to the Sufi’s ascetic practice. Junayd reiterates this point:

When you exhaust [the nafs] in worship (al-‘ibādah) and force it to acts of obedience [to God] against its will, then it will propose to you that the Prophet prohibited celibacy (nahā ‘an al-tabattul) and tiring out the self.167

In Junayd’s treatment, the objections to celibacy offered by Ibn Ḥanbal and other Baghdadis reappear in the mouth of the nafs, which uses the anti-celibacy traditions of the Prophet in order

to trick the Sufi into indulging the nafs’s sexual lusts. Ibn Ḥanbal himself cites, in abbreviated

form, the Hadith “Marry and procreate, and I will boast about you over the nations,” in order to

affirm his rejection of celibacy. So, too, he asserts that the Prophet prohibited celibacy (nahā ‘an

l-tabattul). While Ibn Ḥanbal lived a generation before Junayd, the Kitāb al-Wara‘ was compiled

by Ibn Ḥanbal’s students and in circulation during Junayd’s time. This does not mean that

Junayd was replying directly to Ibn Ḥanbal or to the Kitāb al-Wara‘. Yet it does seem that

Junayd wished to respond to contemporary rejections of celibacy that were grounded in the

sayings of the Prophet, and so to ensure that the desire to live in accordance with the sunnah did

not interfere with the Sufi’s abstinence from sex and marriage.

Most striking is Junayd’s concern about the nafs’s use of the Hadith “there is no

monasticism in Islam” (lā rahbānīyata fī l-islām). It is important to note that Christian

monasticism continued to be an active presence not only in ‘Abbasid Iraq, but even in Baghdad

itself, where the rival Christian confessions established monasteries as part of an effort to gain

167 Istanbul MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, 67a: ‘Indamā takudduhā bi-l-‘ibādati wa-tulzimuhā ‘alā l- karāhiyati l-ṭā‘ati, fa-takhtāru laka nahiya l-nabiyyu (saws) ‘an al-tabattuli wa-‘an i‘tiyābi l-nafs. Cf. Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 59. 243

the patronage of the new regime.168 Such efforts could be quite successful. Timothy I (d. 823), the catholicos of the Church of the East, reports that he convinced the caliph to donate 84,000 silver dirhams to the monastery of Mār Petiōn, which lay in Baghdad along the Tigris.169

According to the Book on Monasteries (Kitāb al-Diyārāt) of the Muslim author al-Shābushtī (d. ca. 988) — a text that describes fifty-three monasteries, thirty-seven of them in Iraq — the monasteries around Baghdad were famous for their festivals, which drew both Christian and

Muslim visitors.170 Judging by the complaints of monks like Dadisho‘ Qatraya and Joseph

Hazzaya, we may also assume that Christian monks often left these monasteries and intermingled with the population of the city.171

Despite theoretical prohibitions on the building and repair of monasteries, Christian

monks thus continued to be a noticeable presence in and around Baghdad throughout the

third/ninth century. At the same time, several Muslim traditions circulating in Baghdad

condemned monasticism and celibacy. As mentioned in the previous chapter, in a Hadith in Ibn

Ḥanbal’s Musnad, the Prophet upbraids an unmarried man named ‘Akkāf, saying to him, “You brother of devils! If you were a Christian, you would be one of their monks (min ruhbānihim).

168 Baghdad had a significant Christian population, composed of Christians who had been living in the area when the imperial capital was founded, as well as Byzantine prisoners resettled in the so-called “Roman quarter” of the city (Dār al-Rūm). Michel Allard, “Les chrétiens à Baġdād,” Arabica 9 (1962): 375–388.

169 Timothei Patriarchae I Epistulae, ed. Oscar Braun (Paris: J. Gabalda, 1914), 90. The monastery was known in Arabic as Mār Fatyūn or al-Dayr al-‘Atīq (“The Old Monastery”). On its location, see Allard, “Les chrétiens à Baġdād,” 378. Timothy reports the sum using the Syriac term zúze. But one zúzā was equivalent to one dirham. Raphaël Bidawid, Les lettres du patriarche nestorien Timothée I (Vatican: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1956), 21.

170 The main attraction at these festivals, of course, was likely monastic wine and the atmosphere of celebration. See EI II, s.v. “al- S̲ h̲ ābus̲ h̲ tī”; Campbell, Heaven of Wine, 45–46.

171 See above, ch. 2, p. 88. 244

Our sunnah is marriage. The most wicked among you are those of you who are celibate

(‘uzzābukum).”172 These anti-celibate and anti-monastic traditions eventually crystallized into a well-known Hadith reported by the Baghdadi scholar Ibn Qutaybah (d. 276/889): “The

Messenger of God (saws) said: ‘…there is no monasticism in Islam (lā rahbānīyata fī l-islām), and there is no celibacy and no itinerant asceticism in Islam (wa-lā tabattula wa-lā siyāḥata fī l- islām).’”173 In Junayd’s account, the Prophet’s statement that “there is no monasticism in Islam” returns as a means for the nafs to convince the Sufi that abstaining from sex and marriage is monastic and therefore un-Islamic. As Junayd says, when the nafs introduces the thought of getting married (al-tazwīj), “the deception from [the nafs] will be this, that its intention was to… avoid his saying (saws): ‘There is no monasticism in Islam (lā rahbānīyata fī l-islām).’”174

As Junayd here presents it, the implicit logic of the nafs, by which the self seeks to deceive the Sufi, includes two premises: 1) that the Sufi’s celibacy constitutes monasticism

172 Ahmad ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, 5:163, no. 21488.

173 Ibn Qutaybah,‘Uyūn al-akhbār, 4:18 (Chapter on “Encouragement to Marry and Condemnation of Celibacy [al-tabattul]”). As far as I am aware, this is the earliest attestation of the famous lā rahbānīyata fī l-islām tradition, a saying that has, at times, been assumed to have arisen either earlier or later than this ninth-century Baghdadi context. The full Hadith, as reported by Ibn Qutaybah is: “On the authority of Ṭāwūs [ibn Kaysān], the Messenger of God (saws) said: ‘There is no nose ring and no nostril ring, and there is no monasticism in Islam, and there is no celibacy and no itinerant asceticism in Islam.’” However, an earlier version of this saying is reported by ‘Abd al-Razzāq al-Ṣanʿānī (d. 211/827), in which it is tarrahub (another term meaning “monasticism”), rather than rahbānīyah, that is condemned: “‘Abd al-Razzāq on the authority of Mu‘ammar on the authority of Ibn Ṭāwūs on the authority of Layth on the authority of Ṭāwūs, who said, the Messenger of God (saws) said: ‘There is no nose ring, no nostril ring, and no itinerant asceticism’ — Ibn Jurayj added: ‘and no celibacy (tabattul) and no monasticism (tarrahub) in Islam.’” ‘Abd al-Razzāq, Muṣannaf, 8:448, no. 15,860. This tradition appears to indicate the accretion of the condemnation of monasticism and celibacy to an earlier Hadith condemning nose rings and itinerant asceticism, with the Qur’anic term rahbānīyah coming, in the version reported by Ibn Qutaybah, to replace the equivalent term tarrahub.

174 See above, p. 242. 245

(rahbānīyah); and 2) that monasticism is categorically un-Islamic. One way to interpret Junayd’s treatment of these ideas would be to hold that he is targeting the first premise. That is, he is seeking to create space for a form of celibacy (such as temporary celibacy) that is not monastic

and that therefore is compatible with the sunnah. In this sense, the deception of the nafs would lie in falsely identifying the Sufi’s abstinence from sex and marriage as monastic, not in its correct claim that monasticism is un-Islamic.

But Junayd seems to be saying something more. The key lies in his understanding of the meaning of the term “monasticism” (rahbānīyah) that is so closely associated with celibacy in early Muslim sources. As we shall see, Junayd had an expansive notion of this term. In his view, a certain type of “monasticism” was not exclusively Christian and could legitimately be adopted by Sufis. In other words, the deception of the nafs did not lie simply in identifying the Sufi’s

celibacy as monastic, but in identifying the Sufi’s celibacy as a particular type of rahbānīyah that

was rejected by the Prophet — namely, Christian monasticism. Junayd was thus not simply

trying to create space for an Islamic discipline of celibacy, but for an Islamic form of

monasticism that could be taken up by Sufis.

The two points were necessarily related. Sexual abstinence in ninth-century Baghdad was

a contested discipline not only because it was tied to monasticism but because monasticism itself was a contested category. Debate over the value of monasticism centered on the exegesis of

Qur’an 57:27:

Then We caused Our messengers to follow in their footsteps; and We caused Jesus, son of Mary, to follow, and gave him the Gospel, and placed in the hearts of those who followed him compassion and mercy; and as for monasticism (rahbānīyah), they instituted it, we did not prescribe it for them, except in regard to seeking God’s

246

pleasure, and they observed it not with right observance. So We give those of them who believe their reward, but many of them are evil-livers.175

To understand the debates about this verse, and how they shaped Junayd’s understanding of rahbānīyah, we must turn back to Junayd’s teacher, al-Muḥāsibī. Beginning in the eighth

century, exegetes of Qur’an 57:27 focused on the question of whether the monasticism practiced

by the followers of Jesus was invented by them or was ordained by God.176 Al-Muḥāsibī took up

the same question at the beginning of Kitāb al-Ri‘āyah li-Ḥuqūq Allāh (“Book on Observing the

Rights of God” — an allusion to the same Qur’anic ayah). He reports two earlier readings of the

verse: Mujāhid ibn Jabr focused on the phrase “we did not prescribe it for them, except in regard

to seeking God’s pleasure,” and concluded that God had ordained rahbānīyah, but that it was later corrupted by Jesus’ followers. In contrast, Abū Umāma al-Bāhili focused on the phrase

“they instituted it,” and concluded that Jesus’ followers had invented rahbānīyah. Al-Muḥāsibī accepted this latter view. At the same time, he emphasized Abū Umāma’s view that God censured the followers of Jesus for failing to observe their monasticism properly. As al-Muḥāsibī

states, quoting the verse in question, “They did not observe it [monasticism] with right observance. So God the Exalted condemned them for abandoning the observance of that which was not a duty for them and to which they were not obligated.”177 Al-Muḥāsibī thus suggests that

175 thumma faqaynā ‘alā ’āthārihim bi-rusulinā wa-faqaynā bi ‘īsā bni maryama wa-’ataynāhu ’l- injīla wa-ja‘alnā fī qulūbi ’lladhīna ’ttaba‘ūhu ra’fatan wa-raḥmatan wa-rahbāniyyatan ibtada‘ūhā mā katabnāhā ‘alayhim illā ’btighā’a riḍwāni ’llāhi fa-mā ra‘awhā ḥaqqa ri‘āyatihā fa-’ataynā ’lladhīna ’āmanū minhum ajrahum wa-kathīrun minhum fāsiqūn.

176 Massignon, Essai, 123–31; and, more recently, Sviri, “Wa-Rahbānīyatan Ibtada‘ūhā,” 195– 208.

177 Al-Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-Ri‘āya, 4.19–5.3. 247

God did not blame the followers of Jesus for inventing monasticism. Rather, God only blamed

them for abandoning the proper observance of monasticism after they had invented it.

Junayd seems to have drawn upon these exegetical discussions in order to describe a

“monasticism” associated with Sufis. In his short treatise On the Healing of Spirits (Kitāb Dawā’ al-Arwāḥ), Junayd describes the “characteristics of the chosen friends of God (ahl al- muwālāh).”178 These elect gladly undertake any duty that will bring them near to their Lord, and as a result they have been set free from their desires. Junayd describes the ahl al-muwālāh as follows:

Their gaze is ever on that which applies to them in the saying that has imposed (alzama) the duty of servanthood in monasticism (rahbānīyah), which is blamed in the one who has accepted it as a duty (iltazamahā) and has, in abandoning its observance (ri‘āyah), not undertaken the obligation of its duty.179

A close examination of this dense statement allows us to draw out several conclusions

concerning Junayd’s understanding of rahbānīyah. First, he holds that monasticism is

blameworthy in the one who, despite accepting it as a duty (iltazamahā), has abandoned its observance. This appears to reflect Qur’an 57:27, understood by Junayd in terms similar to al-

Muḥāsibī, as referring to God blaming the Christians for abandoning the proper observance of monasticism. At the same time, Junayd refers to a “saying” (al-qawl) — presumably also Qur’an

57:27 — that has “imposed” (alzama) the “duty of servanthood in monasticism.”180 This

178 Junayd, Kitāb Dawā’ al-Arwāḥ: A.J. Arberry, “The Book of the Cure of Souls,” The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 2 (1937): 219–31; ahl al-muwālāh at 224.

179 Junayd, Kitāb Dawā’ al-Arwāḥ, 224–25.

180 A similar idea of God imposing special obligations of “servanthood” is suggested by Junayd’s contemporary al-Nūrī. At the beginning of Maqāmāt al-Qulūb, al-Nūrī states: “Remembrance of the punishments necessitates governance of the nafs, and attentiveness to the paths necessitates training the nafs; remembrance of the consequences necessitates guarding the heart, and vision of 248

imposed duty attracts the constant gaze of God’s elect.181 Junayd appears to suggest that it is

they, the true friends of God, who undertake the “obligation of the duty” of monasticism. Like

other ninth-century Sufis, Junayd thus seems to view rahbānīyah as a positive category that can

be applied to Sufis.182 Here, he even hints at a Sufi practice of monasticism that is defined in

contrast to the Christian form of monasticism.

This passage suggests a way of reinterpreting Junayd’s discussion of the nafs’ desire for

marriage and sex. The nafs, in order to mask its own bodily desire, will make the Sufi think that his sexual renunciation is “monastic” in the sense rejected by the Prophet. What makes the nafs’s deception so insidious is that the Sufi’s sexual abstinence is, in a certain sense, monastic. But it

the realities necessitates observance of the obligations (ri‘āyat al-ḥuqūq)… these are the special qualities of servanthood (al-‘ubūdīyah), all of which God has made obligatory on his servants, in secret and in public, outwardly and inwardly.” Al-Nūrī, Maqāmāt al-Qulūb, 131.

181 On Junayd’s understanding of election (walāya), see Ahmet Karamustafa, “Walāya According to al-Junayd (d. 298/910), in Reason and Inspiration in Islam: Theology, Philosophy, and Mysticism in Muslim Thought, ed. Todd Lawson (London: I.B. Tauris in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2006), 64–70.

182 In addition to al-Muḥāsibī’s use, discussed above (p. 228), of tarrahub and astarhabtum to describe ascetic hunger, another relevant positive evaluation of the meaning of rahbānīyah in relation to ascetic practice comes in the Kitāb Dawā’ Dā’ al-Qulūb, likely composed by Aḥmad ibn ‘Āṣim al-Anṭāqī (d. ca. 220/835). This work, which was originally attributed to al-Muḥāsibī, shares a number of themes with al-Muḥāsibī’s writings and was regarded by Massignon as “embryonic” in relation to the Kitāb al-Ri‘āya. Massignon, Essai, 204. Al-Anṭāqī states that the servants of God hold that rahbānīyah consists in acting, rather than speaking, and that the tongue should be applied only to prayer. See Aloys Sprenger, “Notice on the Dawā dā al-qulūb of Mohasaby being the earliest work of Sufism as yet discovered, and on the Arabic Translation of a work ascribed to Enoch,” The Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal 25 (1856): 139; Massignon, Essai, 205. The text is not edited and was consulted by Sprenger and Massignon in a manuscript, no. 601, of the “Syrian Society of Beirut.” This appears to refer to al-Jam‘īyah al- Sūrīyah li-l-‘Ulūm wa-l-Funūn (“The Syrian Society for Sciences and Arts”), founded by Eli Smith, with whom Sprenger carried on an epistolary correspondence. This society no longer exists, however, and it is not clear what happened to its manuscripts. However, Fuat Sezgin has identified the sayings attributed to al-Anṭāqī in the Ḥilyat al-Awliyā’ as quotations from the Kitāb Dawā’ Dā’ al-Qulūb. Sezgin, Geschichte, 1:638 (citing the tarjama of al-Anṭāqī in Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī, Ḥilyat al-Awliyā’, 9:280–297). 249

does not, in Junayd’s view, constitute monasticism in the sense rejected by the Prophet. Rather,

the Sufi’s celibacy is monasticism in a non-blameworthy sense, a state of servanthood to God,

imposed by God upon his elected friends, a form of rahbānīyah to which the Prophet’s words

“There is no monasticism in Islam” do not apply.

Junayd has sometimes been considered, both by medieval and modern authors, as a

proponent of marriage and opponent of celibacy, due to a saying attributed to him by al-Makkī

and al-Ghazālī, “I need sex like I need food.”183 This saying seems to imply that sex, and so

marriage, are a “desirable necessity,” not to be shunned by the Sufi.184 Indeed it is quite plausible

that Junayd, like al-Ghazālī, recommended marriage in general, while also holding that the

beginner Sufi, preoccupied with disciplining the nafs, should abstain from marriage. Yet

Junayd’s statement pairing food and sex takes on a new meaning when viewed in light of the

ascetic ideal of resistance to the needs and desires of the nafs, an ideal embraced both by Junayd

and by other Sufis in Baghdad. In this sense, “I need sex like I need food” can be understood as

expressing the twin needs of the self that the Sufi must resist as she or he disciplines the nafs.

The ascetic ideal of the Sufi novice thus came close to that of East Syrian monks, who sought to

reorient their concupiscible soul toward God through fasting and sexual abstinence. Yet this very

similarity made Sufis vulnerable to the charge that, by engaging in monastic practices, they were

violating the sunnah of the Prophet. Junayd’s genius was to attribute this charge to the influence

183 Al-Makkī, Qūt al-Qulūb, 2:461; Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyā, 1:695. Cf. Bashir, “Islamic Tradition and Celibacy,” 140 and Andrae, Garden of Myrtles, 49, although Andrae correctly notes Junayd’s view that novices should abstain from marriage and sex.

184 Bashir, “Islamic Tradition and Celibacy,” 140. In al-Ghazālī’s discussion of marriage and celibacy, this saying becomes an explicit defense of marriage: “Junayd used to say, ‘I need sex like I need food. So a wife is truly nourishment (qūt) and a means to the purification of the heart.” Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyā, 1:695–96. This appears, however, to be an elaboration upon the original, briefer saying attributed to Junayd by al-Makkī. 250

of the desire-driven nafs. He thus sought to enable the Sufi to overcome the tension between the

Sufi’s asceticism and the sunnah, and to remain celibate, at least for a time, in spite of the

example of the Prophet’s married life.

Conclusion: Sufi Asceticism and the Sunnah

In the kutub al-zuhd, the example of the Prophet often served to set the limits of

acceptable piety, to moderate the instinct to severity, and to resist the desire for ascetic practices,

such as celibacy, which were seen as un-Islamic. So, too, al-Muḥāsibī and Ibn Ḥanbal cited the

example of the Prophet and his companions in order to criticize severe disciplines of hunger or

sexual abstinence. Yet in Junayd’s view, any use of the sunnah to discourage or impede ascetic

practice represented an abuse and misinterpretation of the sunnah stemming from the deception

of the nafs. By the same token, Junayd seems to have viewed the sunnah, properly understood, as

encouraging the Sufi’s opposition to the nafs. All the prophets, he explained, abandoned the

dunyā and strove for the world to come.185 It was, for him, a canonical Hadith — the famous

ḥadīth qudsī about nawāfil, or supererogatory labors — that underlay the Sufi project of drawing

near to God through ascetic disciplines.186 Junayd thus suggests a Sufi reinterpretation of the meaning of the sunnah as promoting the discipline of the nafs and as encouraging more severe ascetic practices, including the quasi-monastic discipline of abstinence from sex and marriage.

Or, to put this another way, Junayd brought to the fore a minority strand in the traditions of zuhd, one that did connect the custom of the Prophet Muḥammad to more severe ascetic disciplines —

185 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic pp. 13–14.

186 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic pp. 33–34. 251

for example, by remembering his call to warfare against the nafs, or his swelling legs from

unceasing prayer.187

Junayd’s contemporary in Baghdad, al-Kharrāz, makes explicit this Sufi interpretation of the sunnah as the grounds of ascetic labor. As al-Kharrāz states in the Kitāb al-Ḥaqā’iq:

What is the essence (dhātīyah) of the sunnah? It is coldness toward the dunyā, and love of the companions [of the Prophet]. This means that whoever makes himself cold toward the dunyā and takes of it [only] what is necessary for himself, for the sake of his Lord, and loves the companions in the goodness of his soul and heart, and becomes characterized by their characteristics and actions, for the sake of his tomorrow (li- ghadihi), is a sunnī.188

As al-Kharrāz indicates, the sunnah entails loving and emulating the companions of the Prophet

Muḥammad. Yet it also entails an attitude of indifference toward this world and taking from the world only what is necessary for sustenance (bulghat nafsihi). To be a sunnī, in short, is to be an ascetic.

Although al-Kharrāz does not use the term zuhd in this case, his emphasis on the sunnah as entailing “coldness toward the dunyā” reflects the idea of al-zuhd fī l-dunyā, or detachment from the world, that he invokes in the Kitāb al-Ṣidq and elsewhere in the Rasā’il as central to a

Sufi’s formation.189 More broadly, the Sufi interpretation of the sunnah also involved taking a

stance on tensions inherent in the early Islamic traditions of zuhd, embracing severe practices of fasting and even sexual abstinence and incorporating them into a new system of Sufi spiritual development. The following chapter will show how Christian authors in Iraq, beginning in the ninth and tenth centuries, developed their own understandings of zuhd. In so doing, they came to

187 See above, ch. 3, pp. 149 n. 47, 162–63.

188 Al-Kharrāz, Rasā’il, 56.

189 On zuhd in the Kitāb al-Ṣidq, see above, pp. 202–203; in the Rasā’il, see al-Kharrāz, Rasā’il, 50. 252

confront Islamic ideals of asceticism, just as Muslim authors in the ninth century had responded to Christian monasticism.

253

Part III Chapter Five: The Language of Zuhd and the Rise of an Ascetic Koiné

In the Conquest of Syria (Futūḥ al-Shām), Abū Ismā‘īl al-Azdī (fl. late 2nd/8th c.) relates

an account in which an envoy of ‘Umar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb confronts a delegation from the Byzantine army in Syria.1 The caliph’s messenger was Mu‘ādh ibn Jabal, a figure whom we have met

already, for he appears in the kutub al-zuhd as the proponent of a moderate regimen of fasting

and prayer. As Nancy Khalek has shown, in al-Azdī’s account Mu‘ādh invokes the ideal of zuhd

in order to castigate the Byzantines for their worldliness and luxury.2 God, as Mu‘ādh tells them, has made his servants “indifferent to the world” (yuzahhidu Llāhu fī l-dunyā).3 Indeed, all God’s

prophets were “renunciants of the world” (min zuhhādi l-dunyā).4 Mu‘ādh thus suggests that it is the Muslims, rather than the Byzantines, who are heirs to zuhd, an ascetic legacy that has been bequeathed by God and passed down by the prophets. Al-Azdī notes that Mu‘ādh was speaking through a translator (tarjumān),5 and so one must imagine that the particular resonances of

Mu‘ādh’s references to zuhd would have been lost on his audience. But what about when

Christians and Muslims shared the same language?

1 On the dating of this text to the second/eighth century, see Suleiman Mourad, “On Early Islamic Historiography: Abū Ismā‘īl al-Azdī and His Futūḥ al-Shām.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 120 (2000): 577–93.

2 Khalek, “‘He Was Tall and Slender,” 115–16.

3 Abū Ismā‘īl Muḥammad ibn ʻAbd Allāh al-Azdī, Tārīkh Futūḥ al-Shām, ed. ʻAbd al-Munʻim ʻAbd Allāh ʻĀmir (Cairo: Muʼassasat Sijill al-ʻArab, 1970), 116.

4 Al-Azdī, Futūḥ al-Shām, 117.

5 Al-Azdī, Futūḥ al-Shām, 116. 255

As this chapter argues, both Muslim and Christian authors in Iraq, writing in Arabic, laid claim to the inheritance of zuhd. As we saw in the last two chapters, zuhd (renunciation of or

indifference to worldly things) first emerged as a defining ascetic ideal in post-Qur’anic Islamic

texts.6 Muslims began to collect traditions about zuhd in the second half of the eighth century.

These collections, the kutub al-zuhd, were then redacted over the course of the ninth century.

These redactions included initial efforts to adjudicate conflicting ideals of zuhd, as well as to interpret particular ascetic traditions. At the same time, Muslim authors in the ninth century began to develop more extended treatments of ascetic practice; these authors included early

Sufis, who associated zuhd with the disciplining of the nafs. This chapter will follow the career of zuhd beyond Islamic texts. As we shall see, over the course of the ninth and tenth centuries,

this Islamic ascetic discourse became a koiné, in which not only Muslims, but also Christians and

Jews took part.7

This koiné was composed of shared Arabic technical terms for ascetic piety, especially zuhd and al-zuhd fī l-dunyā (“renunciation of the world,” “indifference to the world”). It was also composed of common phrases, shared themes, and even discrete traditions about asceticism that circulated across confessional boundaries. We may call this koiné the “language of zuhd,” after the term that had come to define traditions of Islamic asceticism and came, in turn, to shape both

Christian and Jewish ascetic texts. This chapter will trace the development of the language of

6 The root does not appear in pre-Islamic Jewish or Christian ascetic literature. It appears once in the Qur’an, but in a sense unrelated to piety. See above, ch. 3, pp 137–38.

7 My use of the term koiné in this context is inspired by Sizgorich, Violence and Belief, 276 (and passim). While Sizgorich refers, however, to a “cultural” or “semiotic” koiné of shared “signs, symbols, and narratives” among Muslims and Late Antique Christians, I here refer not only to shared topoi, but to shared terms, phrases, and discrete traditions by which to express those topoi. 256

zuhd as a cross-confessional idiom, examining its use in a variety of Christian and Jewish genres.

As I will argue, far from promoting identical views on asceticism, the shared language of zuhd

facilitated the polemical use of asceticism, as well as debate concerning the value of celibacy,

which remained a primary point at issue between Muslim and Christian writers on asceticism

into the eleventh century.

While scholars have long argued for (or against) the influence of Christian asceticism on

Islam, this chapter reverses this paradigm by showing how Christians, especially East Syrians,

sought to adopt and Christianize an ascetic vocabulary that is first attested in early Islamic

collections and thoroughly shaped by the language, themes, and traditions of Muslim ascetics.

The previous chapters of the dissertation have shown how both Christians and Muslims in Iraq

shaped ascetic traditions specific to their confession. This chapter brings together these two lines of research, showing how Christians not only drew upon Greek monastic traditions, but also came to confront Islamic ascetic ideals — ideals that Muslims had formed partly in response to

Christian monasticism.

Competing Claims to Zuhd

The earliest evidence for the emergence of zuhd as a cross-confessional idiom comes in

polemical literature. In this section, we will examine two polemical works, one written by a

Christian, the other by a Muslim, both of whom make their religion’s claim to zuhd a central part of their apology.

257

Perhaps the earliest extensive Christian discussion of zuhd comes in the anti-Islamic work known as the “Apology of Al-Kindī.”8 This text describes an epistolary correspondence between a Muslim and a Christian at the court of al-Ma’mūn. On the basis of internal evidence, most scholars have dated the work to the early or middle ninth century.9 The Apology consists of two

parts: a letter attributed to a Muslim who summons the Christian, al-Kindī, to Islam, along with a

much longer response and refutation of Islam by al-Kindī. William Muir, the first western

scholar to study the Apology, accepted the text’s attribution of these letters to a Muslim and a

Christian author. He noted, however, that when he showed the Apology to one of the ‘ulamā in

Istanbul, the scholar could not imagine a Muslim having written so weak a defense of Islam and

argued that both letters should be attributed to the same Christian author.10 Recent scholarship has largely come to accept this view.11 The Muslim’s letter serves primarily to set up the

8 It is not, however, necessarily the earliest Christian use of the term zuhd. Some of the Palestinian monastic translations discussed in the next section, and which invoke the term zuhd on rare occasion, may predate al-Kindī’s Apology. In addition, the root ZHD appears in a poem of the sixth-century Arab Christian poet ‘Adī ibn Zayd (as preserved in the late-ninth / tenth- century Jamharat ash‘ār al-‘arab of al-Qurashī), occurring as the verb yuzhad. The poem, however, employs the term not in reference to renunciation or asceticism, but to the involuntary humiliation and loss of wealth that will befall wealthy misers who refuse to give to beggars. ‘Adī ibn Zayd al-‘Ibādī, Dīwān, ed. Muḥammad Jabbār al-Muʻaybid (Baghdad: Sharikat Dār al- Jumhūrīyah lil-Nashr wa-l-Ṭabʻ, 1965), 107, l. 40 (poem 23).

9 Laura Bottini (trans.), Apologia del Cristianesimo (Milan: Jaca Book, 1998), 31–35. While some earlier scholars favored a tenth-century date, this has largely been rebutted in modern scholarship. It must, however, be emphasized that the date of the text is not certain.

10 Sir William Muir, The Apology of Al-Kindy, Written At the Court of Al Mâmûn (Circa A.H. 215; A.D. 830), 2nd ed. (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1887), 32–33.

11 For a dissenting view, which holds the text’s attribution of the letters to a Muslim and Christian author as most likely correct, see Samir Khalil Samir, “La version latine de l’Apologie d’al-Kindī (vers 830 ap. J.-C.) et son original arabe,” in ¿Existe una identidad mozárabe?: historia, lengua y cultura de los cristianos de al- Andalus (siglos IX-XII), ed. Cyrille Aillet, Mayte Penelas y Philippe Roisse (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2007), 33–41. 258

critiques of the Christian response, which uses the Muslim’s letter as a pretext for denigrating

Islam and the Prophet.12 Furthermore, the supposed name of the Muslim is a clear contrivance.13

Both letters thus appear to have been composed by the same Christian author, “al-Kindī,”14 who was likely an East Syrian.15 This conclusion is supported by our analysis here, which shows how

the two letters function together to claim zuhd as an exclusively Christian virtue and to paint

Islam as anti-ascetic and luxurious.16

The author of the “Muslim’s” letter, although likely al-Kindī himself, was nevertheless

acquainted with Islamic religious discourse. He is able to quote from the Qur’an and Hadith and

give a knowledgeable, if sometimes polemically twisted, summary of Islamic belief and practice.

So, too, the author of this letter speaks the language of zuhd. At the beginning of the Muslim’s

12 Bottini (trans.), Apologia, 12–13; Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008), 85–87.

13 The Muslim is called ‘Abd Allāh ibn Ismāʿīl al-Hāshimī (“Servant of Allah, the son of Ishmael, of the Banū Hāshim [the family of the Prophet Muhammad]), while the Christian is named ‘Abd al-Masīḥ ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī (“Servant of Christ, the son of Isaac, of the Banū Kindah [a tribe that helped spread Christianity among before the coming of Islam]). The fictional names serve to present the two writers as archetypes of Muslim and Christian debaters. Griffith, Church in the Shadow, 87.

14 This was quite likely not his real name (see above footnote), but I will continue the convention of referring to the Christian author of this text under the name of al-Kindī.

15 The Muslim’s letter describes the Christian correspondent as belonging to the “Nestorians,” praises this confession, and attacks the “Jacobites” (i.e. Miaphysites). Risālat ʿAbd Allāh ibn Ismāʿīl al-Hāshimī ilā ʿAbd al-Masīḥ ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī yadʿūhu bihā ilā l-Islām wa-risālat al- Kindī ilā l-Hāshimī yaruddu bihā ʿalayhi wa-yadʿūhu ilā l-Naṣrāniyya, ed. A. Tien (London: Turkish Mission Aid Society, 1880; repr. London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1885), 5–6.

16 While it remains conceivable that the first letter was actually composed by a Muslim associate of al-Kindī, this would not alter the overall argument, which is that al-Kindī’s apology uses the ideas about zuhd presented in the first letter in order to turn the discourse of zuhd into an anti- Islamic polemic. 259

letter, the author marvels at the asceticism of Christian monks and bishops. “I have met,” he

writes, “a community of monks known for the intensity of their zuhd… and I have seen their marvelous struggle (ijithād).”17 Again, he recalls, “I have seen the metropolitans and bishops

famous… for their extreme renunciation of the world (ghāyat al-zuhd fī l-dunyā).”18 Yet such

asceticism, the author explains, is not the way of Islam. As the Qur’an says, “God wants ease for

you; he does not want hardship for you.”19 Thus, even during Ramadan, Muslims may spend

their nighttime indulging in food and sex to their heart’s delight — an anticipation of the carnal

pleasures that await in Paradise.20 The author concludes by calling upon al-Kindī to leave the ascetic path of Christianity and enter the easy way of Islam:

Cast off, then, your involvement with this error, this long, intense, and tiring abstinence (ḥimyah), the struggle of that difficult, all-consuming fasting (ṣawm), the continual hardship and long trial in which you are immersed, the which has no benefit and yields nothing, serving only for you to tire out your body (it‘ābuka budnika) and torture your soul (ta‘dhībuka nafsika). Accept and enter into the religion that is true and easy (sahl)…”21

The letter of the Muslim thus functions within al-Kindī’s Apology to present Islam as an anti-

ascetic temptation. Like the Sufi’s nafs, which warns the Sufi not to tire out the body and torture

the soul, the Muslim summoner to Islam invites the Christian to lay aside his asceticism and

enter the easy path. Zuhd belongs to Christian monks and bishops, but the way of Islam is ease

and pleasure.

17 Risālat al-Kindī, 7.

18 Risālat al-Kindī, 8.

19 Risālat al-Kindī, 11; cf. Qur’an 2:185.

20 Risālat al-Kindī, 10–11 (on Ramadan); Risālat al-Kindī, 15 discusses sex with the houris, a point that al-Kindī will seize upon in his response letter.

21 Risālat al-Kindī, 22. 260

In al-Kindī’s response, the Christian author reaffirms the portrayal of Islam as anti-

ascetic and even indulgent. He highlights Muḥammad’s lust for women, exemplified by the

account in which Muḥammad marries the divorced wife of his adopted son Zayd.22 He reminds his Muslim correspondent that the fast of Ramadan is nothing but an ersatz copy of Christian fasts.23 Finally, he rejects his correspondent’s summons to carnal pleasures in this life and the hereafter, emphasizing instead his own distaste for this fleeting world. Unlike Muslims, he writes, he will not be seduced by the opportunity to marry multiple women, take his pleasure with concubines, and eat without restraint.24 In sum, while his correspondent calls him to “the easy laws and customs” of Islam (al-tashīlāt fī sharā’i‘ika wa-sunanika), al-Kindī will prefer

“the narrow path” of Christ that leads to salvation.25

Al-Kindī reinforces his portrayal of Christianity as ascetic and Islam as luxurious by comparing the ascetic piety of Jesus and the early Christians with the self-indulgence of the

Prophet and his companions. Directly after his baptism, al-Kindī writes, Jesus began to teach his followers zuhd: “he urged them to repentance, rejection of the world (rafḍ al-dunyā), and renunciation of [the world] (al-zuhd fīhā).”26 He sent forth his disciples poor and unadorned; and

“he made them indifferent (zahhadūhum) to this passing, illusory world and made them desire

(raghghabūhum) the abode of the hereafter.”27 Al-Kindī thus casts the commission of the

22 Risālat al-Kindī, 50.

23 Risālat al-Kindī, 97.

24 Risālat al-Kindī, 121–23.

25 Risālat al-Kindī, 125.

26 Risālat al-Kindī, 145.

27 Risālat al-Kindī, 158. 261

apostles in a language shared by Muslim ascetics, invoking the pairing of zuhd toward the present world and desire (raghbah) for the world to come, which was common in Islamic ascetic

literature.28 So, too, al-Kindī states that those whom the disciples converted rejected the world

(rafaḍū hādhihi l-dunyā).29 “This was not,” he tells his correspondent, “like the life (sīrah) of

your Master [Muḥammad] or the life of his companions.”30 While the early Christians rejected the world, the early Muslims sought to take the world through violence, plundered others’

wealth, and burdened the people with forbidden actions and evil morals.31

Al-Kindī thus turns the language of zuhd into a polemical tool. He rejects the widely-held

Islamic view, attested in all the kutub al-zuhd, that Muḥammad and the early Muslims were

paragons of zuhd. Instead, he presents zuhd as an exclusively Christian virtue. By appropriating

the language of zuhd to Christianity, al-Kindī makes a moral argument for the superiority of his religion. The call of Islam becomes the voice of temptation that lures its victims with promises of pleasure and luxury. In contrast, Christianity represents authentic adherence to the life and teaching of Jesus, who, as Muslims themselves affirmed, led a life of zuhd.32

This sort of portrayal of Islam and early Muslims as anti-ascetic and luxurious was

refuted in the mid-ninth century by a Christian convert to Islam named ‘Alī ibn Rabban al-

28 Cf. Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 93–94; al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 133; Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, 1:219–20, nos. 2 and 3.

29 Risālat al-Kindī, 161.

30 Risālat al-Kindī, 162.

31 Risālat al-Kindī, 162.

32 See chapter three, where the role of Jesus in the kutub al-zuhd is discussed. Cf. Khalidi, The Muslim Jesus. 262

Ṭabarī.33 Al-Ṭabarī was a medical authority at the court of the caliphs of al-Muʿtaṣim (r. 833–

842) and al-Mutawakkil (r. 847–861), and, like al-Kindī, he was likely an East Syrian Christian.

He converted to Islam late in life — perhaps as old as seventy — but he lost little time in writing

two works attacking Christianity and defending his new faith.34 In the Book of Religion and

Empire, composed around the year 855, Al-Ṭabarī goes to great lengths to emphasize the asceticism of the Prophet Muḥammad and the early Muslims, stressing that their political power went hand-in-hand with an attitude of detachment from the world (al-zuhd fī l-dunyā) and

concrete practices of austerity. The Prophet, as al-Ṭabarī relates, only ate bread and meat under

constraint; he lived in poverty and left little for his wives; he would bind a stone to his stomach

out of hunger, eat on the ground, use his hand as a pillow, and wear a woolen cloak (al-

‘abā’ah).35 As al-Ṭabarī argues, no one could charge a man of such evident zuhd of having fabricated his claim to .36

In addition, al-Ṭabarī devotes an entire chapter to the zuhd of the caliphs Abū Bakr,

‘Umar ibn al-Khaṭtāb, ‘Alī ibn Abi Ṭālib, and ‘Umar ibn ‘Abd al-‘Azīz, along with a number of early Muslim ascetics. The purpose of this chapter, as al-Ṭabarī explains, is to refute those who have “attributed falsehood and deviation to the disciples (ḥawārīyūn) of the Prophet.”37 Al-

33 Not to be confused with the more illustrious son of Tabaristan, the historian and exegete Abū Ja‘far Muḥammad ibn Jarīr al-Ṭabarī.

34 On al-Ṭabarī’s life, see Rifaat Ebied and David Thomas (eds. and trans.), The Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 1–24; see pp. 7–8 on al-Ṭabarī’s age.

35 Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī, 238–240. On the significance of the woolen cloak, see below, pp. 276–77.

36 Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī, 238.

37 Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī, 302. 263

Ṭabarī seems to have in mind here Christian attacks on the character of the early Muslims. In addition to the fact that the treatise as a whole is directed against Jews and Christians, al-Ṭabarī

uses the term ḥawārīyūn, which is the Qur’anic appellation for the disciples of Jesus, setting up a comparison between the companions of the Prophet and the disciples of Christ.38 First, however, al-Ṭabarī documents the zuhd of the early Muslims. Abū Bakr demonstrated “detachment from the world” (al-zuhd fī-l-dunya) by refusing anything more than a moderate income and possessions.39 ‘Umar ibn al-Khaṭtāb “was content with [mere] sustenance [in food], and satisfied with nakedness and wretchedness. He lay down to sleep on pebbles and rested his head on his forearm. He cut himself off from every desire and pleasure.”40 So, too, the early zuhhād, from

Rabī‘ ibn al-Khaytham41 to a nameless ascetic woman from Basra, were all distinguished by their disdain for worldly power, wealth, and esteem.42

As in the case of the Prophet Muḥammad, al-Ṭabarī presents the zuhd of the early

Muslims as proof of their veracity. He even suggests that the early Muslims exceeded the zuhd of

the early Jews and Christians. As he writes:

If the likes of those whom we have named [i.e. the early Muslims] are under suspicion, how much more should we suspect those who did not attain their degree of zuhd and were not tempted by their trial (miḥnah) and their deliverance [from that trial]. For if whoever

38 Qur’an 3:52, 5:111–12, 61:14. Although the worldliness of the early caliphs was also part of Shī‘ī polemic, al-Ṭabarī does not seem to be directing his argument against Shī‘īs. For one, al- Ṭabarī defends ‘Alī’s piety, which would be unnecessary if responding to Shī‘ī charges. In addition, he passes over ‘Uthmān, whose reputation would presumably need to be defended within an anti-Shī‘ī context (indeed, this may be why ‘Uthmān’s zuhd is extolled in Sunnī kutub al-zuhd).

39 Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī, 304.

40 Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī, 308.

41 One of the famous “eight zuhhād” from the generation of the followers (see chapter 3).

42 Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī, 318. 264

abandoned fishing nets,43 distanced themselves from administration, or withdrew from business and farm, from among the disciples (ḥawāriyūn) of Moses and Christ (upon whom be peace), necessitates [by their acts of renunciation] the acceptance of what they say and the affirmation of what they report, then how much more should one regard as truthful whoever ruled the caliphate in its entirety, yet in whose eyes [the caliphate] was more trivial than a drop of spit in a river, or even a drop of dung in the ocean.44

Al-Ṭabarī thus turns the type of argument employed by al-Kindī on its head. If the zuhd of Jesus

and the early Christians demonstrates the truth of their religion, then, so too, the zuhd of the

Prophet Muḥammad and the early Muslims demonstrates the truth of their message and the

authenticity of the laws and customs of Islam. Even more, al-Ṭabarī implies that the early

Muslims excelled the followers of Moses and Jesus in their renunciation of the world. The

possession of political power was the “trial” (miḥnah) of the early Muslims.45 Yet precisely

because the Muslim community had the entire caliphate at their fingers, their indifference to the

pleasures of the dunyā is the proof of their greater “degree of zuhd” (darajat zuhdihim). Whether

al-Ṭabarī was responding directly to al-Kindī must remain uncertain, given that the dating of al-

Kindī’s Apology is not secure. In either case, however, it seems clear that al-Ṭabarī was

responding to Christian (and possibly also Jewish) attacks on the worldliness of Islam, the

Prophet, and the early Muslims. In response, he reasserted the Islamic claim to zuhd.

43 A reference to the disciples of Jesus (Matthew 4:20).

44 Polemical Works of ‘Alī al-Ṭabarī, 320.

45 Al-Ṭabarī’s use of the term miḥnah is significant given that he was writing under the reign of al-Mutawakkil, who, shortly before the composition of al-Ṭabarī’s treatise, had ended the famous miḥnah of the ‘ulamā’ who upheld the eternality of the Qur’an and had rehabilitated their champion, Ibn Ḥanbal. As we saw in the previous chapter, Ibn Ḥanbal’s endurance throughout the miḥnah was seen as proof of his ascetic piety; and yet Ibn Ḥanbal himself was remembered as saying that his greatest “trial” was the temptations of luxury at the caliphal court following his rehabilitation. Al-Ṭabarī here makes steadfastness in the face of the miḥnah of power and temptation a proof of the zuhd of the early Islamic community. 265

Monastic Zuhd

The writings of al-Kindī and al-Ṭabarī thus suggest the emergence of zuhd as a cross-

confessional language within the broader controversies between Christian and Muslim authors.

Yet while al-Kindī appropriated the language of zuhd for polemical purposes, a more irenic form

of appropriation was undertaken by an East Syrian Christian author in Iraq named Ḥanūn ibn

Yūḥannā ibn al-Ṣalt. At the beginning of the tenth century (ca. 900–905), Ḥanūn produced an

Arabic paraphrase of the writings of Isaac of Nineveh, the influential seventh-century monk of

the Church of the East.46 In the preface, Ḥanūn addressed his work to a friend who, lacking the knowledge of Syriac necessary to read Isaac in the original, had asked Ḥanūn to send him a selection of Isaac’s sayings translated into Arabic.47 Ḥanūn answered with three sets of Arabic

extracts, entitled Three Treatises from the Speech of Mar Isaac of Nineveh concerning Zuhd and

Monasticism (rahbanah).48 This work represents perhaps the most extensive engagement by a

Christian author with the idea of zuhd and so provides the strongest evidence for the use of

Islamic ascetic language and traditions by Christians. As we will see, Ḥanūn did not simply

translate Isaac’s words into Arabic, but refashioned Isaac’s sayings in the language of zuhd, employing not only the technical terms and phrases of Islamic ascetic literature, but also discrete

traditions that circulated in Islamic ascetic collections. In so doing, Ḥanūn performed an act of

46 The dating of this text is secure. In his prefaces to the three parts of the work, Ḥanūn reveals a number of biographical details, including a recent conversation between himself and the East Syrian Catholicos Yūḥannā ibn ‘Īsā ibn al-‘Araj (r. 900–905). The work can thus be confidently dated to the beginning of the tenth century. The text, Three Treatises from the Speech of Mar Isaac of Nineveh concerning Zuhd and Monasticism, has been edited and translated into French by Paul Sbath, Traités religieux, philosophiques et moraux, extraits des oeuvres d'Isaac de Ninive (VIIe siècle) par Ibn As-Salt (IXe siècle) (Cairo: N.G. Thamaz, 1934).

47 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 10; Ḥanūn describes the friend as ghayr māhir bi-lisān al-suryānīyah.

48 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 9. 266

ascetic inculturation, transforming Isaac’s writings by recasting them into a language formed by

Islamic ascetic discourse, and making of Isaac not only a Christian monk, but also a zāhid.

The Islamic character of Ḥanūn’s work has already attracted the notice of Alexander

Treiger, who has identified quotations of the Qur’an and Hadith in Ḥanūn’s translation and

suggested that the friend to whom Ḥanūn addressed the text may have been Muslim.49

Nevertheless, no detailed analysis of Ḥanūn’s work has yet been undertaken, and this

examination will be the first to demonstrate the role of the language of zuhd in Ḥanūn’s

translation. I will also consider a compelling piece of evidence in support of Treiger’s suggestion

that Ḥanūn’s addressee was Muslim.

At the beginning of the work, Ḥanūn tells his friend about his own longstanding interest

in Isaac of Nineveh’s writings. As a young man in the second half of the ninth century, Ḥanūn

entered a monastery in the city of al-Anbar, just under 40 miles west of Baghdad.50 There he

hoped to discuss Isaac’s teachings with the elders (shaykhs) of the monastery.51 One shaykh, however, warned Ḥanūn that they were not permitted to talk with young monks about Isaac’s

49 As Treiger writes, “This is a very interesting compilation, which integrates some authentically Isaacian material with unidentified ascetic traditions of East Syriac and even Muslim origin. In fact, the abundance of Islamic turns of phrase and frequent, if often covert, allusions to the Qur’an and Hadith (Islamic oral tradition) make it likely that this work was commissioned by a Muslim ascetic (whom Ibn al-Salt characterizes as a ‘stranger’ [gharīb], indicating that he was unfamiliar with the Syriac language) and was written for a Muslim audience.” Alexander Treiger, “The Fathers in Arabic,” The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Patristics, ed. Ken Parry (Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley Blackwell, 2015), 447. For citations of quotations or allusions to Qur’an and Hadith in Ḥanūn’s translation, see Alexander Treiger, “Mutual Influences and Borrowings,” in Routledge Handbook on Christian-Muslim Relations, ed. David Thomas (London: Routledge, 2018), 196–97.

50 Gorgias Encyclopedic Dictionary of the Syriac Heritage, ed. Sebastian P. Brock et al. (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2011), 21, s.v. “al-Anbār.”

51 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 11–12. 267

teaching on “mercy” (raḥmah), for fear that this would lead the young into sin.52 As Ḥanūn

indicates later, this referred to Isaac’s view that the torments of Gehenna are temporary and that

all creatures will one day be saved.53 Ḥanūn also mentions the refutation of Isaac written by

Daniel bar Tubanitha,54 but he assures his reader that the Catholicos Yuḥannā ibn Narsay55 (r.

884–892) dismissed this refutation as failing to grasp Isaac’s heavenly wisdom.56

Ḥanūn’s encounter with Isaac of Nineveh was thus shaped by the ongoing East Syrian

reception of Isaac’s teachings, a reception that demonstrated some unease about the ramifications

of Isaac’s eschatology. In spite of the attention that Ḥanūn gives to this subject in the preface,

however, the selections that he translates do not touch on the eschatological dimensions of

Isaac’s doctrine that concerned the monks at al-Anbar, but rather on Isaac’s pious, moral, and

ascetic teaching. Ḥanūn perhaps wanted to show that Isaac’s more speculative views on universal

salvation were grounded in the practical wisdom of an experienced ascetic. As Babai had done in

his commentary on Evagrius, Ḥanūn thus turns the reader to the pragmatic dimension of the

saint’s writings.

52 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 12.

53 See Isaac of Nineveh (Isaac the Syrian): ‘The Second Part’, Chapters IV–XLI, ed. and trans. Sebastian Brock (Louvain: Peeters, 1995), 162–173. As Ḥanūn explains, Isaac held that God is too merciful to impose eternal punishment for temporal sins: “Third issue: Is it permissible in the justice of God, may he be exalted and glorified, that a person should sin for a short duration of time and God should punish him with an eternal punishment? Some people have answered that this is permissible and not reprehensible. But Mar Isaac said that the Creator is too merciful and generous to do this with his goodness that does not change or alter.” Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 17.

54 On this refutation, see above, chapter 2, p. 125.

55 The Arabic text has Yuḥannā ibn Barsay, having placed the diacritic dot under, rather than above the consonant.

56 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 54. 268

At the same time, Ḥanūn indicates that he sought to adapt Isaac’s sayings to fit the new

milieu of Arabic learning and culture. He explains his method of translation to his friend in the

preface:

I informed you (may God aid you) that a precise translation of [Isaac’s] words (naqlu ’alfāẓihi ‘alā jihatihā) would require long explication and would reduce the clarity of [his] meaning (ma‘nā). But concision and abbreviation, along with a choice selection of words (takhayyuru l-alfāẓ),57 would be more suitable to the hearts of those who cultivate and retain learning (al-udabā’ wa-l-ḥuffāẓ58). I thus chose (may God strengthen you) to translate this [work] with concise expressions (‘ibārāt) but comprehensive ideas (ma‘ānin).59

Ḥanūn’s translation thus involves a cultural repackaging of Isaac’s writings, recast into the

Arabic of high culture. He does not provide a literal translation of Isaac’s words (naqlu ’alfāẓihi

‘alā jihatihā), but rather translates according to the sense (ma‘nā). In turn, to best convey the sense, he deploys the language of the udabā’, the learned elite. Remarkably, Ḥanūn suggests later that his translation involved not only adapting Isaac’s words, but even adapting his meaning. As he states at the beginning of the second treatise: “I extracted from [Isaac’s] speech concerning zuhd and monasticism ideas that I deemed good (ma‘ānī staḥsantuhā), and I translated them from Syriac into Arabic. I followed the most suitable path of correcting the ideas

(taṣḥīḥ ma‘ānī) and refining the words (tahdhīb al-alfāẓ).”60 As this suggests, by rendering Isaac

57 Compare al-Jāhiẓ, who states that “well-chosen expression” (takhayyur al-lafẓ) is necessary to the excellence of poetry; Mohammed Nashmi Alenezi, The Development of Ma‘nā as a Measure of Literary Merit in Classical Arabic Criticism: The Question of Loyalty to the Tradition (Ph.D diss., University of Michigan, 2004), 36.

58 The use of ḥuffāẓ here is unusual but seems to have been chosen by Ḥanūn due to its rhyme with alfāẓ.

59 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 10–11.

60 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 31–32. 269

suitable for learned Arabic readers, Ḥanūn altered not only the expression, but also the sense and

content (ma‘ānī) of Isaac’s discourse.61

Before analyzing the “expressions” and the “content” of Ḥanūn’s translation, it should be

emphasized that his work was not the first Arabic rendition of Isaac of Nineveh. The earliest

Arabic monastic texts were translations of Greek and Syriac works produced in the Melkite

monasteries of Palestine in the ninth and possibly late eighth centuries. Several of these texts,

including a translation of Isaac of Nineveh, are attested in two manuscripts copied in the year

885/6 CE (272 hijrī) at monastery, about 8 miles southeast of Jerusalem.62 Yet

61 In the discussion of his method, Ḥanūn invokes a common contrast between ma‘nā, or meaning, and lafẓ, or verbal expression. The exact nature of this contrast, as well as the meaning of ma‘nā, differed in various intellectual disciplines within the Islamic world (cf. EI II, s.v. “Ma‘nā”).

62 The monks at Mar Saba also maintained close ties with the monastery at Mount Sinai, which collected many Arabic monastic manuscripts in the ninth and tenth centuries and preserves many of these texts today. These manuscripts attest to the collaboration between Mar Saba and Mount Sinai, for in the colophon of the two manuscripts produced in 885/6, the copyist Anthony David of Baghdad states that he produced the manuscripts for the library at Mount Sinai, at the request of a monk from that monastery. As Sidney Griffith points out, Anthony David seems to have been only the copyist, and not the translator of these texts, and so it is likely that the translations themselves date from somewhat earlier in the ninth century. Sidney H. Griffith, “Anthony David of Baghdad, Scribe and Monk of Mar Sabas: Arabic in the Monasteries of Palestine,” Church History 58 (1989): 8–13; Alexander Treiger, “Syro-Arabic Translations in Abbasid Palestine: The Case of John of Apamea’s Letter on Stillness (Sinai Ar. 549),” Parole de l’Orient (2014): 80–81. In addition, two manuscripts from Mount Sinai that preserve ninth-century translations have been the subject of studies by Jean Mansour and Alexander Treiger. These are Strasboug MS 4225 (copied, according to its colophon, at Mt. Sinai in the year 288/900) and Sinai MS 549 (tenth century), which includes the same translation of Isaac of Nineveh preserved in the ninth- century manuscripts copied by Anthony David of Baghdad. A complete edition of Strasbourg MS 4225 is available in Jean Mansour, Homélies et légendes religieuses: Un florilège arabe chrétien du Xe s. (Ms. Strasbourg 4225) (Ph.D. diss., Université des sciences humaines de Strasbourg, 1972). A detailed catalogue of Sinai MS 549, along with an edition of John of Apamea’s Letter on Stillness, is provided in Treiger, “Syro-Arabic Translations.” On these manuscripts, see also Jason Zaborowski, “Greek Thought, Arabic Culture: Approaching Arabic Recensions of the Apophthegmata Patrum,” in Monastic Education in Late Antiquity: The Transformation of Classical Paideia, ed. Lillian I. Larsen and Samuel Rubenson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 326–42. 270

Ḥanūn’s version of Isaac was of a markedly different character from these Palestinian translations. To give one example, many of the Palestinian translations, including the translation of Isaac, make no use or only minimal use of the terms al-zuhd and al-zuhd fī l-dunyā. Instead, the translators prefer more literal renderings of Greek and Syriac expressions for indifference to or renunciation of the world.63 In contrast, Ḥanūn not only includes zuhd in the title of his work, but also makes Isaac’s pronouncements on al-zuhd fī l-dunyā an important theme of his translation. It is important, however, to recognize that the Palestinian translations represent a large body of literature, much of which remains unedited and unexplored by scholarship.64 It is possible that texts will emerge from this corpus showing that some Palestinian translators did adopt the language of zuhd and the mode of ascetic inculturation undertaken by Ḥanūn.

63 I have, however, identified some cases of the use of the term zuhd. Sinai MS 549 (tenth- century) preserves a translation of Mark the Monk’s On those who think they are justified by works, which contains the phrase al-zuhd bi-mutā‘ al-dunyā (“renunciation of the things of this world”). This renders the Greek ek tēs tōn hylōn apochē, with zuhd corresponding to apochē. Sinai MS 549, f. 62r; cf. Mark the Monk, On those who think they are justified by works: Georges-Matthieu de Durand (ed.), Marc le Moine. Traités, 2 vols. (Paris: Cerf, 1999–2000), 1:196, no. 211. The same folio contains a treatise of Diadochus of Photike, in which the Greek a- phil-argyria is translated as al-zuhd [bi/li]-ḥubb al-fiḍḍah, with al-zuhd rendering the alpha privative (cf. ḥubb al-fiḍḍah in J.M. Sauget, “Une version arabe du ‘sermon ascétique’ d’Étienne le Thébain,” Muséon 77 [1964]: 377, l. 11). The use of zuhd is, however, noticeably absent from the ninth-century Palestinian translation of Isaac of Nineveh. Instead, the translators employ more literal renderings of ascetic ideals of rejection of the world; e.g. arḥaq… ‘al zabnānāye (Isaac of Nineveh, First Part: Paul Bedjan (ed.), Mar Isaacus Ninivita De perfectione religiosa [Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz, 1909], 179) becomes yatabā‘ad min… umūr hādhihi l-dunyā (Sinai MS 549, f. 121v); mappqtā d-men ‘almā (Isaac of Nineveh, First Part, 119) becomes al-khurūj min al-‘ālam (Sinai MS 549, f. 160r); astarreq men ‘almā (Isaac of Nineveh, First Part, 121) becomes kharaja min hādhihi l-dunyā (Sinai MS 549, f. 161v), in all of which cases the Arabic literally reflects the Syriac expression of “departure from” or “distancing oneself from” the world.

64 Treiger, “Syro-Arabic Translations,” 81. 271

In contrast to the Palestinian translation of Isaac of Nineveh,65 Ḥanūn’s adaptation of

Isaac is sufficiently thorough that it is difficult to align the sayings given by Ḥanūn with a Syriac

Vorlage. Indeed, in many cases it would be futile even to attempt to coordinate Ḥanūn’s rendition of Isaac with the Syriac version, for Ḥanūn introduces material into his translation that

appears to be external to Isaac’s writings, including Islamic traditions. My procedure in this section is thus not to show how Ḥanūn changed particular Syriac statements of Isaac, but, more generally, to show how the language adopted by Ḥanūn reflects an Islamic milieu.

Throughout the work, Ḥanūn employs language central to Islamic religious discourse. In one maxim, Ḥanūn has Isaac say: “Beware of following a path not followed by the people of your religion (ahlu l-dīnika). All innovation (bid‘ah) is error. Know the roots (uṣūl) in order to understand the branches (furū‘).”66 The term bid‘ah or “innovation” is applied throughout early

Islamic texts to refer to ideas or practices introduced after the life of the Prophet and his

companions. As such, the term often has a negative connotation, indicating inappropriate

changes in belief or practice, much in the way that Ḥanūn uses the word here. Yet it is not just

that the term bid‘ah had special resonance in Islamic discourse; the saying “all innovation is

error” (kull bid‘ah ḍalālah), which Ḥanūn attributes to Isaac, was a Hadith of the Prophet, which circulated in Hadith collections that predate Ḥanūn’s translation.67 In addition, Ḥanūn’s translation invokes the pairing of uṣūl and furū‘, or “roots” and “branches.” These, too, are basic categories in early Islamic thought, with the “roots” indicating the principles of a field of

65 See note 63 above and pp. 278–80 below.

66 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 64, no. 320: ﺇﻳﺎﻙ ﺍﻥ ﺗﺴﻠﻚ ﻁﺮﻳﻘﺎً ﻟﻢ ﻳﺴﻠﻜﻬﺎ ﺍﻫﻞ ﺩﻳﻨﻚ ﻓﻜﻞ ﺑﺪﻋﺔ ﺿﻼﻟﺔ ﻭﺍﻋﺮﻑ ﺍﻻﺻﻮﻝ ﻟﺘﻔﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﻭﻉ.

67 E.g. Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ (Jumu‘ah), 3:235, no. 43/867. 272

knowledge, while the “branches” indicate the derivative conclusions of that field.68 Ḥanūn’s rendering of Isaac thus employs technical terms that would have been instantly recognizable to any reader familiar with Islamic thought, as well as invoking a concrete tradition about the nature of “innovation” that is attested in Islamic texts. The fact that Ḥanūn has Isaac refer to “the people of your religion” (ahlu l-dīnika) and then quote a Hadith provides additional support for

Treiger’s supposition that the addressee of Ḥanūn’s text was Muslim. The implications of this

evidence will be considered further at the end of this section. For now it will suffice to say that,

in Ḥanūn’s rendering, Isaac speaks the language of Islamic theology.

So, too, Ḥanūn populates his translation of Isaac with terms and phrases that are common

in the Islamic zuhd traditions. These include terms for ascetic attitudes or characteristics, such as zuhd or al-zuhd fī l-dunyā,69 ijtihād (effort), ṣabr (patience), riḍā and qanā‘ah (contentment with

what one is given by God),70 tawakkul (trust in God),71 tawbah (repentance),72 ṭūl al-amal (a negative term referring to extending one’s hopes for this world);73 terms for ascetic practices or

68 Thus in Islamic jurisprudence, law is divided into the “roots of jurisprudence”, uṣūl al-fiqh, which are the sources for making legal judgments, and the “branches of jurisprudence,” furū‘ al- fiqh, which are the legal judgments themselves.

69 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 18, no. 3; 27, no. 90; 32–33 (second preface); 33, no. 128; 43, no. 190; 45, no. 207; 47, nos. 220–21.

70 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 45, no. 206; 53, no. 271.

71 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 60, no. 287.

72 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 67, no. 338.

73 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 67, no. 343.

273

disciplines, such as ‘ibādah (acts of ascetic worship),74 ṣawm (fasting),75, jū‘ (hunger, as a means

of disciplining the soul [ta’dīb al-nafs]),76 sahr al-layl (vigil),77 ḥifẓ al-lisān (restraint of the

tongue),78 and solitude (waḥdah);79 and terms for the divine aid given to the pious by God, such as tawfīq (success) and ‘iṣmah (protection).80 Particularly notable is the term used by Ḥanūn for

the passionate or demonic “thoughts” (Grk. logismoi, Syr. ḥúshābe) that tempt the monk. The

Palestinian monastic translations typically render this term literally as fikr/afkār (“thoughts”);81

Ḥanūn, however, uses the term khaṭarah, which, as we saw in the previous chapter, was used by

Muslim authors in Baghdad to refer to the divine, satanic, and selfish “suggestions” that enter the human heart.82 Already, then, in Ḥanūn’s word choice, we can see indications that he is adopting the language of Islamic ascetic discourse.

By employing the terms and phrases of Islamic asceticism, Ḥanūn is able to make Isaac address frequent topics in Islamic ascetic texts. One of these topoi was how to achieve the best

74 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 22, no. 40; 34, no. 135; 45, no. 207; 50, no. 250; 63, no. 313.

75 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 67, no. 338.

76 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 22, no. 32.

77 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 45, no. 208.

78 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 23, no. 48.

79 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 45, no. 206.

80 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 53, no. 271.

81 Compare the translation of Evagrius, Praktikos and Antirrhetikos, passim, in Paris MS Arabe 157 and Vat Arab MS 93; e.g. in Antirrhetikos 2.49, the “thought of fornication” is fikr al-zinā’; Paris MS Arabe 157, f. 89r; Vat Arab MS 93, f. 75v. See also Sauget, “Une version arabe,” 383, para. 44; 387, para. 63; 400, para. 104.

82 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 47, no. 219; 57, no. 275. 274

form of worship (‘ibādah), a term that denoted the action of service rendered to God by the pious. Both kutub al-zuhd and early Sufi texts connected the term ‘ibādah to intense ascetic practice; an ascetic is thus called an ‘ābid, a “worshipper.”83 In turn, several traditions define

“the best form of worship” (afḍal al-‘ibādah). According to the ninth-century Baghdadi scholar

Ibn Abī l-Dunyā (d. 281/894), the Syrian ascetic Makḥūl al-Dimashqī (d. ca. 113/731) held that

“the best form of worship (afḍal al-‘ibādah), after obligatory actions, is hunger and thirst.”84

Other ninth-century sources, however, defined the best form of worship as a matter of attitude, rather than practice. In the kutub al-zuhd of Ibn Abī Shaybah and al-Sijistānī, ‘Ā’ishah states that the “best form of worship” (afḍal al-‘ibādah) is humility,85 while Umm al-Dardā’ suggests that

the “best form of worship” (afḍal al-‘ibādah) is contemplation.86 In Ḥanūn’s rendering, Isaac

also provides an internalizing definition, stating that “the best form of worship (afḍal al-‘ibādah)

is good patience and contentment.”87 In this way, Isaac joins an ongoing conversation in the

Islamic ascetic discourse and provides his own answer to the question of how best to serve and

worship God.

As this example suggests, Ḥanūn’s translation not only employs common terms from the

discourse of zuhd, but even echoes specific traditions about ascetic piety that circulated in

Islamic collections. Further evidence for this can be seen in two cases where Isaac explains the

83 Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic pp. 20–21 (letter to ‘Uthmān al-Makkī); Istanbul MS Sehit Ali Pasha 1374, 67a / Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 59 (Adab al-Muftaqir ilā ’llāh); Ibn Ḥanbal, Zuhd, 2:205; Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 390, no. 1104.

84 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Jū‘, 103, no. 157.

85 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf (Zuhd), 259, no. 35,746; al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 286, no. 338.

86 al-Sijistānī, Zuhd, 196, no. 216.

87 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 50, no. 250. 275

meaning of the core Islamic ascetic ideal al-zuhd fī l-dunyā (“indifference to / renunciation of the

world”). In the first case, Ḥanūn has Isaac address the relationship of zuhd to visible displays of

asceticism. As Ḥanūn’s translation states, “Indifference to the world (al-zuhd fī l-dunyā) is not

wearing the woolen cloak (libās al-‘abā’) or garment. Rather, zuhd is enduring patience and

contentment.”88 This saying, attributed by Ḥanūn to Isaac of Nineveh, echoes a tradition of the

important early Hadith scholar and zāhid, Sufyān al-Thawrī, which appears in at least two

collections that predate Ḥanūn’s translation, the kitāb al-zuhd of Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ (d.197/812), and Condemnation of the World (Dhamm al-Dunyā), compiled by Ibn Abī l-Dunyā.

Table 1: Zuhd and the Woolen Cloak

Ḥanūn89 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā90 Indifference to the world (al-zuhd fī l-dunyā) is Sufyān said, “Indifference to the world (al- not wearing the woolen cloak (libās al-‘abā’) zuhd fī l-dunyā) is curtailing one’s hopes. It or garment. Rather, zuhd is enduring patience is not eating coarse food or wearing the and contentment. woolen cloak (libs al-‘abā’).” ﻋﻥ ﺳﻔﻳﺎﻥ ﻗﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺯﻫﺩ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺩﻧﻳﺎ ﻗﺻﺭ ﺍﻻﻣﻝ ﻟﻳﺱ ﺑﺎﻛﻝ ﺍﻟﻐﻠﻳﻅ ﻟﻳﺱ ﺍﻟﺯﻫﺩ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺩﻧﻳﺎ ﻟﺑﺎﺱ ﺍﻟﻌﺑﺎء ﺍﻭ ﺍﻟﻛﺳﺎء ﺍﻧﻣﺎ ﺍﻟﺯﻫﺩ ﺍﺣﺗﻣﺎﻝ ﻭﻻ ﻟﺑﺱ ﺍﻟﻌﺑﺎء.91 ﺍﻟﺻﺑﺭ ﻭﺍﻟﺭﺿﻰ

Both Christian monks and Muslim ascetics were known for wearing wool.92 In some cases, early

Muslims were criticized for wearing wool on the grounds that a woolen garment was a sign of

88 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 47, no. 220.

89 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 47, no. 220.

90 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Dhamm al-Dunya, ed. Ella Almagor (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1984), 40, no. 99.

91 Cf. Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Kitab al-Zuhd, 1:222, no. 6: ﻗﺎﻝ ﺳﻔﻴﺎﻥ: ﺍﻟﺰﻫﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻗﺼﺮ ﺍﻻﻣﻞ ﻟﻴﺲ ﺑﺄﻛﻞ ﺍﻟﻐﻠﻴﻆ ﻭﻻ ﻟﺒﺲ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﻳﺔ The version given by Wakī‘ ibn al-Jarrāḥ is identical, with the exception that the edition of al-‘abā’) for “woolen cloak”; however, Ibn) ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎء al-‘abāyah) rather than) ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﻳﺔ Wakī‘’s text gives Abī l-Dunyā traces the saying to Wakī‘ in the isnād, and so this should be understood as a simple variant of the saying as reported by Wakī‘.

92 This was likely the origin of the term Ṣūfī, which means “wool-wearer.” 276

Christian monasticism.93 Perhaps in light of this association, Sufyān al-Thawrī defines al-zuhd fī l-dunyā in opposition to wearing the ‘abā’, or wool cloak, and so casts zuhd as an internal attitude of limiting one’s hopes for this world. So, too, the saying attributed by Ḥanūn to Isaac defines al-zuhd fī l-dunyā in opposition to wearing the ‘abā’ and presents zuhd as a matter of internal patience (ṣabr) and contentment (riḍā).94 Ḥanūn’s version of Isaac thus draws upon a constellation of ideas about cross-confessional practices (wearing the ‘abā’) and attitudes (al-

zuhd fī l-dunyā), ideas shared and expressed in the same language in both Muslim and Christian sources.

The very next statement in the collection, also concerning al-zuhd fī-l-dunyā, bears an even closer correspondence to an Islamic ascetic tradition.

Table 2: Zuhd and Seclusion

Ḥanūn95 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā96 Indifference to the world (al-zuhd fī-l-dunyā) grants Makḥūl [al-Dimashqī] said, “If virtue to the heart immediate rest, and withdrawal to God lies in the community, then soundness bequeaths strength and protection, and contentment lies in seclusion (in kāna l-faḍlu fī l- from God is the root of certainty and worship. And jamā‘ah fa-inna l-salāmata fī-l- if virtue lies in the community, then worship lies in ‘uzlah).” isolation and solitude (wa-la-’in kāna l-faḍlu fī l- jamā‘ah fa-inna l-‘ibādata fī l-infirādi wa-l- khalwah). ﻋﻥ ﻣﻛﺣﻭﻝ ﻗﺎﻝ ﺇﻥ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻔﺿﻝ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺟﻣﺎﻋﺔ ﻓﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﺯﻫﺩ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺩﻧﻳﺎ ﻳﻛﺳﺏ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﺏ ﻋﺎﺟﻝ ﺍﻟﺭﺍﺣﺔ ﻭﺍﻻﻧﻘﻁﺎﻉ ﺍﻟﻰ ﷲ ﻳﻭﺭﺙ ﺍﻟﺳﻼﻣﺔ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻌﺯﻟﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﺯ ﻭﺍﻟﺣﺭﺍﺳﺔ ﻭﺍﻟﺭﺿﻰ ﻋﻥ ﷲ ﻫﻭ ﺍﺻﻝ ﺍﻟﻳﻘﻳﻥ ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺑﺎﺩﺓ ﻭﻟﺋﻥ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻔﺿﻝ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺟﻣﺎﻋﺔ ﻓﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻌﺑﺎﺩﺓ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻻﻧﻔﺭﺍﺩ ﻭﺍﻟﺧﻠﻭﺓ

93 Livne-Kafri, “Early Muslim Ascetics,” 112–13.

94 Ṣabr and riḍā were themselves central virtues in Islamic piety and ascetic literature.

95 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 47, no. 221.

96 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Al-‘Uzlah wa-l-Infirād, 64, no. 26. 277

Ḥanūn here attributes to Isaac a statement on zuhd, the final portion of which reflects a saying that circulated in another collection of Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, called Seclusion and Isolation (Al-

‘Uzlah wa-l-Infirād). In this work, Makḥūl al-Dimashqī states “if virtue lies in the community,

then soundness lies in seclusion.” The first part of the saying (the protasis, “if virtue lies in the

community”) is verbatim identical to that given by Ḥanūn. In turn, the second part (the apodosis,

“then soundness lies in seclusion”) is grammatically parallel and conveys a related idea about the

benefit of solitude.97 We are clearly dealing with two versions of the same saying, one attributed

to a Muslim ascetic and appearing in a Muslim text, and the other, slightly later, attributed to a

Christian monk and appearing in a Christian text.

The use of the language of zuhd distinguishes Ḥanūn’s version of Isaac from the ninth-

century Palestinian translation copied at Mar Saba.98 To illustrate this, we may compare three versions of statements in which Isaac of Nineveh enjoins remembrance of death: 1) the original

Syriac version (East Syrian recension), 2) the Palestinian translation of this same statement, and

3) a similar saying attributed to Isaac by Ḥanūn.

97 The same saying, still attributed to Makḥūl al-Dimashqī, appears in later compilations, as well. E.g. Abū Manṣūr ‘Abd al-Mālik ibn Muḥammad ibn Ismā‘īl al-Tha‘labī (d. 1037), Al-Laṭā’if wa- l-Ẓarā’if (Beirut: Dār al-Manāhil, 1992), 125. Note that in the version given by al-Tha‘labī — “Makḥūl (al-Dimashqī) said, “If virtue lies in the community, then soundness lies in solitude and seclusion (in kāna l-faḍlu fī l-jamā‘ah fa-inna l-salāmata fī l-waḥdati wa-l-‘uzlah)” — the saying contains a redundancy in the apodosis (solitude and seclusion), similar to that which occurs in the saying as given by Ḥanūn.

98 A third translation of extracts from Isaac of Nineveh, rendered from the Greek translation into Arabic, was produced by the famous Christian translator ‘Abdullāh ibn al-Faḍl al-Antạ̄ kī (fl. mid-eleventh century) and is preserved (at least in part) in Vat Ar. MS 164, ff. 86v–101v. This version also appears to lack significant use of zuhd or allusions to Islamic ascetic traditions, although it does show other signs of adoption of cross-confessional Arabic vocabulary, e.g. mutakallim for “theologian” at Vat. Ar. MS 164, f. 98v. 278

Table 3: Zuhd and the Remembrance of Death

Original Syriac99 Mar Saba Arabic100 Ḥanūn101 Let us love silence, brother, So if we choose, brothers, Whoever wants to live in a state so that this world (‘almā) let us choose silence, so that of well-being, should live alone will die from our heart, and the world (al-‘ālam) will die and keep silent. And whoever let us remember death from our hearts, and let us wants indifference to the world unceasingly (netdkar remember death (al-zuhd fī l-dunyā) should be amínā’īt l-māwtā) unceasingly (nadhkur al- unceasing in the remembrance of mawt bī-l-dawām). death (yudmin min dhikr al- mawt) ﻣﻦ ﺍﺣﺐ ﺍﻥ ﻳﻌﻴﺶ ﺳﺎﻟﻤﺎً ﻓﺎﻟﻴﻌﻴﺶ ﻭﺣﺪﻩ ﻓﺎﻥ ﺍﺧﺘﺮﻧﺎ ﻳﺎ ﺍﺧﻮﺓ ﻓﻠﻨﺨﺘﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﺴﻜﻮﺕ ܐ ܒ ܐ ܕܬ ﻭﻳﺴﻜﺖ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺍﺣﺐ ﺍﻟﺰﻫﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻓﻠﻴﺪﻣﻦ ﻟﻜﻲ ﻳﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﻣﻦ ﻗﻠﻮﺑﻨﺎ ﻭﻧﺬﻛﺮ ܐ ܗܐ ܒ ܘܕ ﻣﻦ ﺫﻛﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﺑﺎﻟﺪﻭﺍﻡ ܐܐ ܬܐ

The Palestinian version clearly corresponds to the Syriac saying.102 Its rendering is fairly literal,

and the translator uses several cognate terms, such as the Arabic al-‘ālam (“world”) for the

Syriac ‘almā and the Arabic verb nadhkur (“let us remember”) for the Syriac verb netdkar. The saying given by Ḥanūn is not as clearly related, and so it is impossible to be certain that it was inspired by this Syriac saying. Nevertheless, the statement given by Ḥanūn shares several features with the Syriac and Palestinian versions, with all three dicta connecting a life of silence

(Syr. shelyā; Ar. sukūt), rejection of the world, and unceasing remembrance of death.

Yet while the themes and some of the vocabulary of all three sayings are closely related,

Ḥanūn’s rendering of Isaac is distinct in its use of technical phrases common in Islamic ascetic

99 Isaac of Nineveh, First Part, 464.

100 Sinai MS 549, f. 201v–202r.

101 Ḥanūn, Three Treatises, 47, nos. 89–90.

102 Minor differences may be due to the Palestinian version being based upon the West Syriac recension; see Tamara Pataridze, “Isaac from the Monastery of Mar Saba: The History of the Origin of the Multiple Translations of St Isaac the Syrian’s Work and Their Distribution in the Holy Lavra,” in Saint Isaac the Syrian and His Spiritual Legacy, ed. Metropolitan Hilarion Alfeyev (Yonkers, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2015), 41–45. 279

literature. First and foremost, Ḥanūn employs the phrase al-zuhd fī l-dunyā, the defining ascetic ideal of the kutub al-zuhd, and more broadly, early Islamic asceticism. A subtler difference is

that Ḥanūn uses the nominal construction dhikr al-mawt (“remembrance of death”), rather than

the verbal nadhkur al-mawt found in the Palestinian translation. The nominal phrase dhikr al- mawt was also a term of art in early Islamic literature. The first kitāb al-zuhd, of Ibn al-Mubārak, contains a chapter entitled dhikr al-mawt.103 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā compiled an entire collection on

the theme, also called Dhikr al-Mawt.104 In explicitly connecting dhikr al-mawt to al-zuhd fī l- dunyā, Ḥanūn’s translation recalls a Hadith that appears in Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s compilation.

According to this tradition, the Prophet said, “Increase remembrance of death (dhikr al-mawt), for it purges sins and makes one indifferent to the world (yuzahhid fī l-dunyā).”105 The

Palestinian translation of Isaac of Nineveh conveys a similar message. Yet it is Ḥanūn’s version that most closely echoes the Islamic tradition, both conceptually and lexically.

Let us, then, appraise the evidence that we have gathered. Many of the statements attributed by Ḥanūn to Isaac employ the terms and phrases of Islamic zuhd and even echo discrete ascetic traditions and Hadiths that circulated in Islamic collections. Such features are, in

contrast, noticeably absent from the translation of Isaac copied at Mar Saba monastery in

Palestine. Furthermore, Ḥanūn tells his addressee that he deliberately adapted the language and even the content of Isaac’s writings, in order to make them suitable to learned Arabic readers.

103 Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd, 90–93.

104 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Dhikr al-Mawt, ed. Abū ‘Ubaydah Mashhūr ibn Ḥasan Āl Salmān (ʻAjmān, UAE: Maktabat al-Furqān, 2002).

105 Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Dhikr al-Mawt, 81–82, no. 148: ﻋﻦ ﺃﻧﺲ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺒﻲ ﺻﻠﻰ ﷲ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﻭﺳﻠﻢ: ﺃﻛﺜﺮﻭﺍ ﺫﻛﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﻓﺈﻧﻪ ّﻳﻤﺤﺺ ﺍﻟﺬﻧﻮﺏ ّﻭﻳﺰﻫﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ Cf. 46, no. 70: ﻗﺎﻝ ﺭﺳﻮﻝ ﷲ ﺻﻠﻰ ﷲ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﻭﺳﻠﻢ: ﻛﻔﻰ ﺑﺬﻛﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ّﻣﺰﻫﺪﺍً ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ّﻭﻣﺮﻏﺒﺎً ﻓﻲ ﺍﻵﺧﺮﺓ 280

Finally, there is reason to think that Ḥanūn’s addressee may have been Muslim. Taken together, these points suggest that Ḥanūn consciously recast Isaac’s ascetic writings into an idiom of ascetic piety that he knew to be shared by Muslims and shaped by Islamic traditions. In this way,

Ḥanūn performed an act of ascetic inculturation, Islamizing the language of Christian asceticism, while also Christianizing the Islamic ascetic discourse by incorporating it into the works of an

East Syrian saint.

This, of course, raises the question of how Ḥanūn became familiar with the language of zuhd. The reader will likely have noticed that in all the examples we have given the sayings that

Ḥanūn attributes to Isaac echo — in one case verbatim — traditions collected by Ḥanūn’s older

contemporary in Baghdad, the Muslim scholar Ibn Abī l-Dunyā. It is possible that Ḥanūn had

access to Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s works, and that these collections shaped his understanding of ascetic piety. Yet, given that only one of these correspondences is exact (and that only partially), parallel oral transmission seems more likely. Ibn Abī l-Dunyā collected a great number of traditions, and it is no surprise that statements circulating orally in and around Baghdad would have found their way into his works, as well as being absorbed by other writers.

Christians authors after Ḥanūn continued to employ the language of zuhd, using terms, phrases, and concepts shared with Islamic ascetic literature,106 as well as drawing upon discrete

106 For example, a thirteenth-century Egyptian manuscript provides the lives of forty monks. It begins by describing each of them, in the classic phrase of Islamic asceticism, as “indifferent to this world, and eager for the world to come” (zāhid fī-l-dunyā wa-rāghib fī l-ākhirah). Paris MS Arabe 278, f. 2v. Another example might be drawn from a Christian Arabic text, of uncertain date, which provides the life (sīrah) of a saint named Timothy, from the village of Kākhushtā, a small locale near Antioch, otherwise unattested. The life recounts Timothy’s decision to become a monk in the language of zuhd: “Lo, upon his heart came a pious thought to renounce this world (an yazhada min hādhihi l-dunyā) and become a monk. As he spent the night contemplating this thought in his heart, while he was sleeping, a person appeared to him and said, “O Timothy, why are you negligent of your soul? Awake, rise, seek God, and renounce this passing world (wa- zhad fī hādhihi l-dunyā l-fānīyah). For all that is in it shall cease and fade away, like the dream 281

traditions concerning asceticism and monasticism that also appear in Islamic texts.107 The study of this literature is still in its infancy. Yet it has the potential to sharpen scholarly discussion of both similarities and differences in Christian and Muslim conceptions of asceticism. To give one more example, in the original Syriac recension of his writings, Isaac of Nineveh speaks of the

of a sleeper [cf. Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Dhamm al-Dunya, 9, no. 22], when he awakes and findings nothing left of it.” The Life of Timothy of Kākhushtā: Two Arabic Texts, ed. and trans. John C. Lamoureaux and Cyril Cairala, PO 48.4, no. 216 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), Paris version 2.1, p. 468 [38].

107 We may include here a remarkable example: an East Syrian Christian manuscript from fourteenth-century Iraq (Paris MS Arabe 206) contains an account of a conversation between a Muslim and a Christian concerning the meaning of the monastic garment. The account in this manuscript is an expanded version of a story collected by Ibn Qutaybah, as well as other Muslim authors from the ninth and tenth century, in which a monk discusses the meaning of the monastic habit. Ibn Qutaybah, ‘Uyūn al-Akhbār, 2:297; Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi, Kitāb al-‘Iqd al-Farīd, ed. Aḥmad Amīn et al. (Cairo: Maṭba‘at Lajnat al-Ta’līf wa-l-Tarjamah wa-l-Nashr, 1940–1953), 3:167; and Abu Bakr al-Dīnawarī, al-Mujālasah wa-Jawāhir al-ʻIlm (Bahrain: Jamʻīyat al- Tarbiyah al-Islāmīyah, 1998), 3:108, no. 733; cf. Mourad, “Christian Monks in Islamic Literature,” 91. Ibn Qutaybah: Zayd al-Ḥimyarī said, “I said to Thawbān the monk. ‘Inform me about this black clothing of the Christians. What meaning lies in it?’ He said, ‘It resembles the clothing of the people of afflictions (ahl al-maṣā’ib).’ I said, ‘Have all of you monks been afflicted by an affliction?’ He said, ‘God have mercy on you! What affliction is greater than the afflictions of sins upon those who commit them (ayyu muṣībatin a‘ẓamu min maṣā’ibi l-dhunūbi ‘alā ahlihā)?’…Paris MS Arabe 206 (ff. 86v–87r): Report concerning a monk from the land of Najran… “I said to him, ‘Monk, what is your name?’ He said, ‘My name is Ṭūbān [i.e., “Blessed”].’ I said, ‘Whose servant are you?’ He said, ‘I am a servant of the All-Merciful (‘abd al-Raḥmān).’ I said, ‘Why do you wear black?’ He said, ‘Because it is the clothing of the people of afflictions (ahl al-maṣā’ib).’ I said, ‘What affliction has afflicted you?’ He said, ‘Which affliction is the greatest? Namely, sins (ayyu muṣībatin a‘ẓamu fa-l-dhunūb).’…” Both accounts take place in southwestern Arabia, either in the region of Himyar or of Najran. The name of the ,And in both cases .(ﻁﻮﺑﺎﻥ، ﺛﻮﺑﺎﻥ) monk is the same, except for a shift in the initial dental consonant the monk explains the black monastic robe as mimicking the dress of mourners (ahl al-maṣā’ib); when asked what affliction has been visited upon monks, he states that their affliction is the greatest kind (ayyu muṣībatin a‘ẓamu) — the disaster of sins (al-dhunūb). The two accounts patently derive from the same core story about a monk expounding the meaning of the monastic garment. Stories of this sort, which relate conversations between monks and Muslims, have often been used as sources, albeit limited by their idealized or apologetic nature, for historical encounters between Christian and Muslim ascetics. Yet when such stories occur in later Christian collections, they also provide witness to the cross-confessional production and transmission of accounts of ascetic exchange. 282

spiritual benefits of hunger (Syr. kapnā), which drives back the evil spirits, concentrates the senses, and guards chastity (nakpútā).108 Yet in Ḥanūn’s rendering, Isaac speaks of the benefits of hunger (jū‘) for “disciplining the animal soul” (ta’dīb al-nafs al-ḥayawānī), recalling the

ascetics who, as al-Muḥāsibī tells us, used hunger (jū‘) for the purpose of disciplining the soul

(ta’dīb al-nafs). The similarity in language can help us appreciate a similarity in how Christian

and Muslim authors in Iraq understood the purpose of voluntary hunger, while also alerting us to

a distinction in their conceptions of the soul or nafs.109 So, too, for Ḥanūn himself, the shared ascetic language seems to have served a useful purpose, allowing him to conform East Syrian monastic theology to the ascetic ideals and traditions of Islam.

Jewish Zuhd

By the early tenth century, we also find Jewish authors writing about zuhd. Although this dissertation has focused on Muslim and Christian ascetic literature, it is important to discuss these Jewish texts here, for they suggest that, at least by the tenth century, the language of zuhd was not simply an Islamic discourse at times adopted by Christian authors, nor even a shared

Islamo-Christian idiom, but, more broadly, a koiné, in which multiple confessions of the early

Islamic world took part. These texts also provide further evidence of the contested nature of zuhd. For even as Jewish authors embraced the shared language of zuhd, they criticized what

they saw as inappropriate forms of asceticism, above all the Christian discipline of celibacy.

108 Isaac, First Part, 241, 452, 477.

109 The understanding of the nafs as representing the base or passionate aspect of the self appears to be absent in Ḥanūn’s translation, which typically contrasts nafs (“soul”) with jism/badan (“body”). Ḥanūn’s reference to the “animal soul” suggests the influence of Aristotelian philosophy on his understanding of the nafs. 283

The earliest extant example of Jewish writing on zuhd comes in the Book of Beliefs and

Convictions (Kitāb al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt), composed by the Rabbinic scholar Saadya ha-

Gaon around 30 years after Ḥanūn’s translation of Isaac of Nineveh. Saadya was born in upper

Egypt in the late ninth century (ca. 882). In 915, he departed from his homeland, possibly due to the influence of Karaites, an anti-Rabbinic group that rejected the and based religious law upon the written Bible.110 Saadya settled in Iraq and in 928 was appointed Gaon, or leader,

of the Rabbinic academy in Sura, near Kufa. In 932, he was removed from office and during this

time wrote the Book of Beliefs and Convictions, completed in 933.111 The work articulates Jewish

beliefs in the language of Aristotelian philosophy and of kalām.112 In the final chapter, however,

Saadya addresses the proper forms of conduct within the present world (dār al-dunyā).113 Here, he engages extensively with cross-confessional ideals of zuhd.

Saadya’s main counsel is to seek moderation in all things. He divides into thirteen types the manifold pursuits of the human race, which range from zuhd, to sex, to attaining wisdom, to taking revenge.114 The aim of human life, as Saadya explains, is to attain a “balance” (al-ta‘dīl,

110 The name “Karaite” indicates that they are “readers” (Qara’im), that is, students of the written, not oral Torah.

111 Gyongyi Hegedus, Saadya Gaon: The Double Path of the Mystic and the Rationalist (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 2; Sarah Stroumsa, “Saadya and Jewish kalam,” in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval Jewish Philosophy, ed. Daniel H. Frank and Oliver Leaman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 79.

112 Hegedus, Saadya Gaon, 3–5. As Stroumsa argues, Saadya drew upon theological ideas and arguments in both Islamic (Mu‘tazilī) and Christian kalām; Stroumsa, “Saadya and Jewish kalam,” 80–81.

113 Saadya ha-Gaon, Kitāb al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, ed. S. Landauer (Leiden: Brill, 1880), 281.

114 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 286–87. The full list is: “renunciation (al-zuhd), eating and drinking, sex, erotic love (al-‘ishq), accumulating wealth, having children, civilization, long life, leadership, taking revenge, cultivating wisdom, divine worship, and relaxation.” 284

al-i‘tidāl) among these different pursuits.115 The person who has attained this equilibrium will become like a musical instrument that sounds in harmony, or like the famous desert fālūdhaj, confected from a just measure of starch, sugar, honey, saffron, and other ingredients.116 Saadya

thus emphasizes the need for self-restraint, so that no single pursuit will attain undue weight.

This seems to be why he states that, were he to provide a comprehensive account of the thirteen

human pursuits, he would call this collection “a complete book on zuhd” (kitāb zuhd tāmm),117

that is, a book on how to restrain oneself from immoderate behavior.

The first pursuit that Saadya examines in this would-be kitāb al-zuhd is zuhd itself.118 He frames his discussion as a response to those who say that humans should undertake “renunciation of the worldly abode” (al-zuhd fī dār al-dunyā), spending their lives in weeping and sorrow.119

These ascetics encourage people to “reject this world… and not marry or procreate.” Rather, they say, “one should live in solitude in the mountains, eating whatever vegetables he finds until he dies…”120 Saadya argues that the claims of these people about the transience and worthlessness of the world are largely correct (ṣaḥīḥ); nevertheless, they go too far in abandoning the necessities of sustenance and settled existence.121 In contrast, Saadya asserts that renunciation of

the world (al-zuhd fī l-dunyā) is only appropriate when one renounces what is religiously and

115 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 286, 318.

116 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 316–17.

117 Or, perhaps, “a book on perfect zuhd”; Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 286.

118 The chapter is titled al-bāb al-awwal fī l-zuhd.

119 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 287.

120 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 288.

121 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 288. 285

legally forbidden, whether it be forbidden food, impermissible sex, or illicitly-gained wealth. He

thus emphatically rejects celibacy, arguing that if everyone were celibate, the human species

(jins) would die out, and with it would pass away “wisdom, the law (al-sharī‘ah), resurrection,

heaven, and earth.”122

Yet Saadya’s vision of zuhd was not limited to the renunciation of illicit activities. He

also indicates that one should restrict the use of legally permissible pleasures, including food and

sex. Echoing early Islamic traditions about the deleterious nature of food, Saadya holds that too

much food “weighs down” (tathqil) the body, making the heart stupid, and changing a person’s

constitution so that she or he neglects revelation (al-shar‘).123 So, too, wine (though legally permissible for Jews) damages the brain, mind, stomach and liver, and induces a person to commit all manner of crimes. As a result, Saadya concludes, humans should take of food and drink only what is necessary for bodily sustenance (qūt).124 Similarly, Saadya is hardly sanguine

about the benefits of sexual intercourse, which damages the eyes, fattens and wears out the body,

causes venereal disease, and brings about overwhelming desire and shame.125 He thus argues that humans should indulge the desire for sex only in order to procreate126 — an act that, as Saadya

indicates later, should be moderated, since children do not represent an unqualified good.127

122 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 289.

123 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 290. Compare the traditions in Ibn Abī l-Dunyā’s Kitāb al- Jū‘, discussed in the previous chapter.

124 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 292.

125 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 293–94.

126 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 294.

127 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 300–301. 286

Saadya’s treatment of ‘ibādah, ascetic acts of worship and service to God, mirrors his discussion of zuhd; here, too, he argues for a restrained and moderate form of “servitude,” while explicitly rejecting celibacy. As he writes, many people state that “the best undertaking for a servant [of God] (‘abd)128 in this world is worship (‘ibādah) of God, and that alone, and this

consists in fasting during the day and rising up [in prayer] at night, praising and worshipping,

and repudiating the world in its entirety.”129 As in the case of extreme zuhd, Saadya expresses much sympathy with this view. The proponents of constant worship are correct in their praise of

‘ibādah, but they go too far in their exclusive devotion to it, for without a break from worship in order to produce children,‘ibādah itself would die off along with humanity.130 Saadya also

inveighs against those who abuse the idea of tawakkul (trust in God), which some early Muslim

ascetics had interpreted as meaning that one should forego earning a living in order to depend

entirely upon God for sustenance.131 In this way, Saadya not only embraces the shared ideals of

zuhd and ‘ibādah, but also criticizes what he sees as extreme expressions of these ideals.

Similar themes and language can be found in Karaite Jewish sources. Several Karaite

authors discuss zuhd in commenting upon the Book of Qohelet (Ecclesiastes), a biblical text attributed at the time to King Solomon.132 In so doing, these authors followed a tradition,

128 Saadya here uses the term ‘abd, a standard term for “human” in Arabic religious literature. Typically, however, he uses insān, and his use of ‘abd here likely reflects the discussion of ‘ibādah (lit., “servitude”).

129 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 311.

130 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 311.

131 Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 312. On tawakkul, see Reinert, Die Lehre vom Tawakkul.

132 James T. Robinson, Asceticism, Eschatology, Opposition to Philosophy: The Arabic Translation and Commentary of Salmon ben Yeroham on Qohelet (Ecclesiastes) (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 171, n 21. 287

expressed also in Rabbinic133 and Syriac Christian sources134 of interpreting Qohelet as

addressing asceticism. James Robinson has edited and analyzed a Judeo-Arabic commentary on

Qohelet, composed by Salmon ben Yeroham (fl. ca 930–960), a Karaite author who also wrote

an attack on Saadya ha-Gaon.135 As Robinson shows, renunciation and asceticism form major themes in this commentary.136

“Vanity of vanities, says Qohelet; dust of dust!” (Qohelet 1:2). As Salmon ben Yeroham explains, with these words King Solomon teaches his students that “they should not desire this world (lā yarghibū fī hādhihi l-dunyā), but rather they should renounce it (yazhadū fīhā).”137

Salmon ben Yeroham thus invokes, in Judeo-Arabic, and for a Jewish audience, the central concepts of detachment (zuhd) from the present reality (al-dunyā) and of reserving one’s desire

(raghbah) for God or for the hereafter. Salmon’s understanding of zuhd is similar to that of

Saadya, stressing restriction to bodily sustenance but also moderation in ascetic practice.

According to Salmon, the best advice is to take from food and drink only the “measure of one’s

133 Cf. Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 284–86, 318–20.

134 Three Syriac Christian commentaries on Ecclesiastes have been edited by Werner Strothmann, those of Theodore of Mopsuestia (translated from Greek into Syriac), John of Apamea, and Dionysius bar Salibi. One of the earliest Jewish (possibly Karaite) commentaries on Qohelet was written by Dāwūd al-Muqammaṣ, who converted to Christianity and studied in Syriac Christian schools before reconverting to Judaism. Robinson, Asceticism, Eschatology, Opposition to Philosophy, 10.

135 On Salmon’s life, see Robinson, Asceticism, Eschatology, Opposition to Philosophy, 18.

136 Robinson, Asceticism, Eschatology, Opposition to Philosophy, 109–36.

137 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet: Robinson, Asceticism, Eschatology, Opposition to Philosophy, 171. I transcribe Salmon’s Judeo-Arabic into the standard transliteration of Arabic. The script, of course, is Hebrew; here: לא ירגבו פי הד ה אלדניא בל יזהדו פיהא 288

sustenance” (miqdār qūtihi).138 By renouncing (zahādah) “the goods of this world (khayr al- dunyā),” Salmon explains, one will receive in exchange the “goods of the hereafter (khayr al-

ākhirah)”.139 The prophets David, Solomon, , and Elisha all pursued this life of asceticism, being content with little sustenance (yasīr al-qūt).140

At the same time, like Saadya, Salmon stresses moderation and balance.141 As King

Solomon says, “for every thing there is a season” (Qohelet 3:1). So, Salmon ben Yeroham

explains, there is a season for matters of the dunyā and a season for matters of the ākhirah, a

season for worship in service of the All-Merciful and a season for labor and seeking a living in

the world.142 Salmon thus follows Saadya in criticizing extreme asceticism, especially celibacy.

Qohelet 4:8–9 laments the one (eḥad) who lacks a second (shenī) and declares that “two are

better than one.” According to Salmon ben Yeroham, Solomon is here decrying the state of “a celibate man who does not have a wife.”143 In this way, the wise king reiterates the biblical

condemnation of celibacy. After all, Salmon ben Yeroham argues, it is written in Genesis that “it

is not good for man to be alone” (Gen 2:18), and this tells us that “celibacy is not praiseworthy”

138 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 271.

139 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 271.

140 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 191.

141 See Robinson’s discussion in his introduction; Asceticism, Eschatology, Opposition to Philosophy, 120–22.

142 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 277.

143 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 337. 289

(al-ta‘azzub ghayr maḥmūd).144 Later, Salmon repeats this point, arguing that a life of celibacy and seclusion has not been required by God and may even lead to insanity and suicide.145

By the tenth century, then, both Rabbinic and Karaite authors had begun to adopt the

language of zuhd, employing terms, phrases, and concepts shared with Christian and Muslim

authors. This suggests that we should consider the language of zuhd as a koiné — one that

received fundamental imprint in early Islamic texts, but that continued to be developed by

Christian and Jewish authors, as well as by Muslims. While this shared idiom could promote an

irenic use of Islamic traditions (as in the case of Ḥanūn ibn Yūḥannā ibn al-Ṣalt), it could also

lead to polemical exchanges (as in the case of al-Kindī and al-Ṭabarī). Furthermore, a shared

language did not mean identical understandings of the value or legitimacy of asceticism. As we

have seen, both Muslim and Jewish texts on asceticism expressed criticism of the Christian

discipline of celibacy, either rejecting it, or, as we saw in previous chapters, seeking to

distinguish Islamic forms of sexual abstinence from the practice of Christian monks. The use of a

shared ascetic language thus often became a means for expressing difference in claims to or

understandings of ascetic piety.

The critical views of Muslim and Jewish authors concerning celibacy would eventually

summon a Christian response. In the following sections I will examine two Christian defenses of

celibacy, written by Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī in tenth-century Baghdad and by Elias of Nisibis in northern

Mesopotamia in the early eleventh century. Both of these texts reveal how Christian authors

responded to Islamic criticism of celibacy. As we shall see, in each case, their response was

144 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 337.

145 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 425. A very similar claim is made by Saadya, al-Amānāt wa-l-I‘tiqādāt, 289, both Saadya and Salmon arguing that a life of celibacy and solitude will lead to insanity (wiswās) and self-destruction. 290

conditioned by their participation in multiple koinés of the Islamic world, in particular Arabic

philosophy, which framed Yaḥyā’s treatment of celibacy, and rational theology (kalām), which

guided Elias’s discussion. Yet the contention of this chapter is that, for both authors, their effort

to defend the Christian discipline of celibacy was also shaped by their participation in another

koiné — the language of zuhd.

Zuhd and Celibacy I: Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī

Yaḥyā ibn Adī‘ belonged to the circle of philosophers in Baghdad. Though a Miaphysite,

he studied philosophy under the East Syrian scholar Abu Bishr Mattā ibn Yūnus, who also taught the famous Muslim philosopher al-Fārābī.146 Yaḥyā took a special interest in defending Christian

teachings against Islamic critique, penning a defense of the Trinity against the Muslim

philosopher al-Kindī,147 as well as the defense of celibacy that we will examine here. This defense centered on the nature of the virtue called “continence” (‘iffah, ta‘affuf), one of Plato’s four cardinal virtues. Like Muslim and Jewish philosophers in Baghdad, Yaḥyā understood continence as the virtue proper to the concupiscible faculty of the soul.148 Unlike Muslim and

146 Griffith, Church in the Shadow, 122–25; Sidney H. Griffith, “Yaḥyā b. ‘Adī’s Colloquy on Sexual Abstinence and the Philosophical Life,” in Arabic Theology, Arabic Philosophy: From the Many to the One: Essays in Celebration of Richard M. Frank, ed. James E. Montgomery (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 300.

147 Not, of course, to be confused with the Christian apologist al-Kindī discussed above.

148 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq: Sidney H. Griffith (ed. and trans.), The Reformation of Morals (Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 2002), 76–78; Aḥmad ibn Miskawayh, Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq, ed. Constantin Zurayk (1966), 16, 18, 20–21; Dāwūd al-Muqammaṣ, Twenty Chapters, ed. Sarah Stroumsa (Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 2016), 319–321. The other three cardinal virtues are the “courage” (al-shajā‘ah) of the irascible faculty, the “wisdom” (al-ḥikmah) of the rational faculty, and the “justice” (al-‘adl) of the tripartite soul, as a whole. See Miskawayh, Tahdhīb, 16; Dāwūd, Twenty Chapters, 319–21; Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī in Vincent Mistrih (ed.), “Traité sur la continence de Yaḥyā ibn ʿĀdī,” in Studia Orientalia 291

Jewish philosophers, however, Yaḥyā held that continence included complete abstinence from

sex and marriage. Yaḥyā thus upheld the idea, expounded by the East Syrian monastic

commentaries examined in chapters one and two, that celibacy is integral to the health of the

concupiscible faculty of the soul. Yaḥyā articulated his views on continence in a treatise that

included his own defense of celibacy, a critique of celibacy by an unnamed Muslim friend

(ṣadīq), and finally a rebuttal of the friend by Yaḥyā. These exchanges appear to have taken place around the year 964.149

Yaḥyā’s friend’s argument was grounded in the Aristotelian principle of the golden mean. As the friend expresses this principle, “Human virtue (faḍīlah) consists in the mean

between two extremes (wasaṭ bayn nihāyatayn) with regard to each one of the human faculties,

and the two extremes are the two vices (mardhūlatān).”150 The Muslim friend applies this

principle to the virtue of continence (al-‘iffah), arguing that continence lies in the mean between the two vices of, on the one hand, indulging desire and, on the other hand, completely rejecting

the objects of desire:

Christiana 16 (1981): 61, para. 129. The four cardinal virtues derive ultimately from Plato (cf. Republic 4:427e). See Stroumsa’s discussion in Dāwūd, Twenty Chapters, 318–19, nn. 23–25; and Mohammed Nasir Bin Omar, “Miskawayh’s Theory of Self-Purification and the Relationship between Philosophy and Sufism,” Journal of Islamic Studies 5 (1994): 49–51.

149 On the composition of this treatise, its date, and its reception history in scholarship, see Griffith, “Yaḥyā b. ‘Adī’s Colloquy,” 306–10; and Sidney H. Griffith, “The Virtue of Continence (al-‘iffah) and the ‘Perfect Man’ (al-insān al-kāmil): An Islamochristian Inquiry in Abbasid Religious and Philosophical Circles.” In Gotteserlebnis und Gotteslehre: christliche und islamische Mystik im Orient, ed. Martin Tamcke (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010), 28–34. I here follow the established view that the letter by a Muslim friend was, in fact, written by a Muslim friend (and not by Yaḥyā); however, as we will see, Yaḥyā was clearly responding to contemporary Muslim ideas about celibacy and continence, regardless of the authorship of this letter.

150 “Traité sur la continence,” ed. Mistrih, 29–30, para. 45. 292

Continence (al-‘iffah), which is the virtue of the vegetative faculty151 found in humans, consists in moderation (tawassuṭ) in the movement toward whatever action pertains to this faculty.

… The two extremes (al-ṭarafān) are blameworthy, and they are [1] seeking pleasure, having too much food and drink, and having sex (jimā‘) however it is agreeable and whenever it is easy; and [2] voluntarily abandoning food, drink, procreation, and the like altogether. For this [second] condition rapidly leads to the corruption of the form and the destruction of the species, since the body, which lives in matter, only subsists through nourishment, while the subsistence of the species and [its] continued existence come only through the acts of the faculty of procreation.152

Like Saadya ha-Gaon, Yaḥyā’s Muslim friend rejects celibacy on the grounds that procreation

(al-tawlīd) is necessary for the survival of the human species. The “continent” person should

thus seek balance and moderation in sexual activity, rather than a repudiation of sexuality. As the

friend writes:

So you see that we speak the truth when we call a person “continent” (‘afīf), who is characterized by domestic discipline and civic participation, and who takes a middle road (tawassaṭa) in his movement toward marriage (nikāḥ) and follows therein the path of the law (al-sharī‘ah). For the term “continence” (al-‘iffah) is not only applied to taking nourishment in accordance with necessity for the persistence of the body, but also with regard to whoever attains balance (man i‘tadala) in the movement toward the matter under discussion, namely, procreation (tawlīd).

… So the “continent person” (al-‘afīf) is not one who abandons altogether whatever act pertains to the vegetative faculty, nor the one who is excessive in the movement toward [such acts], but rather the one who is balanced and moderate (al-‘ādil al-mutawassiṭ) with regard to the movement toward these matters.153

151 al-qūwah al-nabātīyah. Yaḥyā’s friend here adopts the Aristotelian framework of dividing the soul into vegetative, sensitive (animal), and intellective (human) aspects, rather than the Platonic framework of concupiscible, irascible, and rational aspects. Several authors (such as Miskawayh) seem, however, to have aligned these divisions, with the vegetative and concupiscible faculties corresponding. See Adamson, “Miskawayh’s Psychology,” 42, n. 10; and Dāwūd, Twenty Chapters, 318, n. 23. There is evidence that Yaḥyā’s friend also held this view, for he associates the “vegetative” and “animal” faculties with the virtues of continence (‘iffah) and courage (al- shajā‘ah), which are typically associated with the concupiscible and irascible faculties; “Traité sur la continence,” 41, para. 82.

152 “Traité sur la continence,” 42, paras. 82–83.

153 “Traité sur la continence,” 42, para. 84. 293

The Muslim friend’s argument reflects themes found among several near-contemporary Jewish

and Muslim authors. Both the Jewish philosopher Dāwūd al-Muqammaṣ and the Muslim author

Miskawayh describe virtue as the attainment of “equilibrium” (al-i‘tidāl) within and among the faculties of the soul.154 Miskawayh, in particular, would echo the argument of Yaḥyā’s friend,

describing continence (al-‘iffah) as a mean (wasaṭ) between the two vices of indulging in

pleasure and abandoning the licit needs of the body.155 Yaḥyā’s friend applies such ideas to a

criticism of celibacy. Continence (‘iffah) consists in a moderate and balanced approach not only to food and drink, but also to sex. The continent person is thus one who pursues the middle

course of engaging in licit sexual activity, ensuring not only the needs of the body, but also the

persistence of the human species.

In his rebuttal, Yaḥyā aimed directly for his friend’s guiding premise that virtue consists

in the mean between two extremes. This premise is not, as Yaḥyā argues, true with respect to

every human faculty. For example, with the five “faculties” (qūwā) of sight, hearing, smell, taste,

and touch, virtue does not lie in the mean.156 Rather, Yaḥyā argues, “as each [sensory] faculty increases, each becomes more virtuous (or ‘excellent’; afḍal), and the human in whom the faculty exists becomes more virtuous (afḍal) than before.”157 In turn, the greatest human faculty

154 Dāwūd, Twenty Chapters, 321; Miskawayh, Tahdhīb, 16. This stance is grounded in the Platonic view that the virtue of the tripartite soul, as a whole (the fourth cardinal virtue) is ‘adl (justice), a term that derives from the same root as the terms for “balance.”

155 Miskawayh, Tahdhīb, 27.

156 Note that al-Fārābī also treats the five sensory faculties as faculties of the soul. Luis Xavier, López-Farjeat, “Al-Farabi's Psychology and Epistemology,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Summer 2018 Edition, ed. Edward N. Zalta, .

157 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, “Traité sur la continence,” 34, para. 56. 294

is “the faculty (al-qūwah) of acquiring knowledge of the truth as abundantly as possible.”158 By

definition, the virtue of this faculty does not consist in a mean between extremes. On the

contrary, Yaḥyā argues, all human actions should be directed to the faculty’s goal of acquiring

truth. Accordingly, those who seek the truth should abandon procreation (nasl) because it

presents an obstacle to the pursuit of knowledge. The married man must devote time to finding

food and clothing, not only for himself, but also for his wife and children;159 and so, the one who is bogged down by the exercise of procreation will not attain “the virtue that brings one close to

God.”160 Conversely, celibacy means that one can restrict the need for labor to one’s own livelihood and so liberate one’s days for the pursuit of truth.161

The debate between Yaḥyā and his Muslim friend thus took place largely on the philosophical , employing shared anthropological and ethical concepts (the faculties of the soul and the cardinal virtues) inherited from classical antiquity. Yet this fact should not obscure the confessional nature of their exchange. Yaḥyā’s friend refers explicitly to the active domestic and sexual lives of the Prophet Muḥammad and the early Muslims. As the friend writes, “our

Prophet (the blessings of God be upon him), who is the best of prophets, and his companions, who are the best of companions, as well as other prophets (upon whom be peace), died leaving houses, wealth, spouses, children, and slaves.”162 The claim is similar to that made by Ibn Ḥanbal

in the Kitāb al-Wara‘, where he asserts, “Celibacy has nothing to do with Islam. The Prophet

158 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, “Traité sur la continence,” 34, para. 58.

159 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, “Traité sur la continence,” 24, para. 30.

160 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, “Traité sur la continence,” 35, para. 58.

161 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, “Traité sur la continence,” 57.

162 “Traité sur la continence,” 46–47, para. 97. 295

(saws) married fourteen women and died leaving nine.”163 Yaḥyā, in turn, invokes the example of Christ and his companions (aṣḥāb), who attained the perfection of the four cardinal virtues

(continence, courage, wisdom, and justice), even though they renounced both sex and marriage.164 The debate on celibacy between Yaḥyā and his friend was thus shaped by a tension, which we saw in the kutub al-zuhd themselves, between two models of ascetic piety — an ideal of moderation, grounded in the sunnah of the Prophet, and an ideal of more stringent asceticism, exemplified here, as in the kutub al-zuhd, by Jesus and his followers.

At the same time, Yaḥyā’s understanding of continence was shaped by his engagement with the Islamic discourse of zuhd. This is suggested by his treatise on ethics and adab (proper

behavior), called Refinement of Character (Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq).165 In this treatise, Yaḥyā

identifies continence (‘iffah, ta‘affuf) as the virtue that arises in the concupiscible faculty, when

the soul’s desire has been properly restrained.166 In turn, in order to convey how one restrains the

soul’s desire, Yaḥyā invokes the language of zuhd and of monasticism. As he writes, “it is necessary for whoever wants to restrain (qam‘) his concupiscible soul that he increase sessions with renunciants (zuhhād), monks (ruhbān), ascetics (nussāk), and people of scrupulosity (ahl al- wara‘)…”167 Again, he writes, one should “persist in contemplating the books of ethics, discipline, and the accounts of renunciants, monks, ascetics, and people of scrupulosity (akhbār

163 Ibn Ḥanbal, Kitāb al-Wara‘, 71. See above, ch. 4, p. 240.

164 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, “Traité sur la continence,” 61, para. 129.

165 On this text as a work of adab, see Griffith’s introduction to Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Tahdhīb al- Akhlāq, xliv.

166 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq, 76–78.

167 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq, 72. 296

al-zuhhād, wa-l-ruhbān, wa-l-nussāk, wa-’ahl al-wara‘).”168 It is noteworthy that Yaḥyā uses

both the term “monks” (ruhbān) and typically Islamic terms such as zuhhād and “people of

scrupulosity” (ahl al-wara‘).

Similarly, Yaḥyā offers a definition of zuhd that invokes both monastic and Islamic language:

And concerning zuhd, it is having little desire for wealth, possessions, accumulation, and acquisition, choosing to be content merely with what sustains life, making light of the world with its goods and pleasures, paying little heed to those of high status, and thinking little of kings and their kingdoms and the wealthy and their wealth. This characteristic (khalaq) is regarded as very good, but it is for the scholars, monks (ruhbān), religious leaders, sermonizers, preachers, and whoever makes people desire the Return [to God] and the Remaining [in God] after death (man yuraghghibu l-nāsa fī l-ma‘ādi wa-l-baqā’i ba‘da l-mawt).169

Yaḥyā thus adopts the common Islamic understanding of zuhd as an attitude of detachment, one that goes hand-in-hand with a desire for the hereafter. His language may even allude to Sufi notions of persistence in God (al-baqā’). At the same time, he explicitly presents Christian monks as paragons of zuhd. Remarkably, Yaḥyā even groups together ascetic activities undertaken by Christians and Muslims, including withdrawal to both churches and mosques. As he writes:

As for monks (ruhbān), renunciants (zuhhād), shaykhs and scholars, especially sermonizers, preachers, and religious leaders… for them, it is regarded as good to wear hair and coarse material, walk barefoot, and cling to churches (al-kanā’is), mosques (al- masājid), and other [places of worship], and to hate living in luxury.170

168 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq, 74.

169 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq, 62.

170 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Tahdhīb al-Akhlāq, 60. 297

Yaḥyā’s repeated use of both Islamic and Christian language suggests that he understood zuhd as

a cross-confessional ideal, exemplified both by monks and by Muslim zuhhād.171

In turn, Yaḥyā’s treatment of zuhd and asceticism in Refinement of Character provides

context, albeit indirect, for his defense of celibacy. He seems to have viewed both Christian

monks and Muslim ascetics as undertaking a shared set of ascetic practices and attitudes

designed to restrain the soul’s concupiscence. At the same time, he was aware that, while monks

restrained their concupiscible faculty through celibacy, many Muslims were critical of celibacy.

When writing explicitly about zuhd, Yaḥyā avoids discussing sexual abstinence, instead

exhorting the ascetic disciplines held in common by Christians and Muslims. Yet Yaḥyā’s

appreciation of commonality in ascetic practice went hand-in-hand with his understanding of

what was not held in common. Even, therefore, while Yaḥyā embraced the cross-confessional

ideal of zuhd as a means of restraining the soul’s desire, he also felt compelled to defend celibacy

as a distinctively Christian manifestation of this ideal.

Zuhd and Celibacy II: Elias of Nisibis

With Elias of Nisibis we see a more direct connection between the embrace of the

language of zuhd and the defense of celibacy. Elias was an East Syrian Christian, born in

Shenna, near modern-day al-Zab in northern Iraq. After serving as a priest in Shenna and

studying in a monastery in Mosul, he was appointed bishop of Beth Nuhadra, north of Nineveh.

From there, he became metropolitan bishop of Nisibis, at the northern reaches of the Church of

171 Cf. Sidney H. Griffith, “Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī’s (d. 974) Kitāb Tahdhīb al-akhlāq,” in The Oxford Handbook of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Khaled El-Rouayheb and Sabine Schmidtke (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2017), 136. 298

the East, in the region of upper Mesopotamia that now lies in southeastern Turkey.172 As

metropolitan of Nisibis, Elias established a friendly rapport with Abū l-Qāsim al-Ḥusayn ibn ‘Alī

al-Maghribī, a wazīr of the Marwanid dynasty based in Diyarbakır. Over several days in the summer of 417/1026, the bishop and the wazīr discussed a number of topics related to Christian and Islamic theology, conversations which Elias summarized and published in a work called the

Book of Sessions (Kitāb al-Majālis).

Elias’s writings thus return us to the birthplace of the East Syrian monastic reform movement in northern Mesopotamia, where we began this study. Yet, by Elias’s time, the ascetic ideals of this region had taken on a new character through contact with Islamic ascetic traditions.

Indeed, Elias presents the monks of northern Mesopotamia as exemplifying the ideal of zuhd. In one part of the Book of Sessions, he describes his former teacher, a monk from Mosul named

Yuḥannā al-‘Araj, as a zāhid.173 In another section, Elias relates how, in his final session with

Abū l-Qāsim, he and the wazīr conversed about monks and zuhd.174 In summarizing this

conversation, Elias first notes that Abū l-Qāsim sought the prayers of the monks of Nisibis. Elias

answered, however, that the monks would only pray for the wazīr’s spiritual success and not his

worldly affairs (umūr al-dunyā). According to Elias, Abū l-Qāsim accepted this offer; yet the

wazīr conceded that he himself — in contrast to Elias’s monks — had a greater love for power

172 This region belonged to the area known to Arab geographers as al-jazīrah, the “island” between the Tigris and Euphrates. For Elias’s biography, see Samir Khalil Samir, “Bibliographie du dialogue islamo-chrétien: Elie de Nisibe (Iliyyâ al-Naṣîbî) (975–1046),” Islamochristiana 3 (1977): 258; repr. in Samir Khalil Samir, Foi et culture en Irak au XIe siècle: Elie de Nisibe et l’Islam (Aldershot, Hampshire: Variorum, 1996), I:4.

173 Elias of Nisibis, Kitāb al-Majālis, ed. Nikolai Seleznyov (Moscow: Grifon, 2017/8), 89.

174 According to Samir Khalil Samir, this session took place on July 29, 1026 (= 10 Jumāda al- Thānī, 417 hijrī). Samir, “Bibliographie,” 266; repr. in Samir, Foi et culture, I:12. 299

(‘izz) than for zuhd.175 Elias concludes by stating that he spent three days in conversation with

Abū l-Qāsim, before the wazīr returned to Diyarbakır. During this time, Elias tells us, he and

Abū l-Qāsim discussed many subjects, including “the customs of monks and the people of zuhd”

(ādāb al-ruhbān wa-l-zuhhād).176

Elias thus presents zuhd as a form of piety that was comprehensible to both Christians

and Muslims, but that was closely associated with Christian monasticism and exemplified, at least at times, by East Syrian monks. In another part of the Book of Sessions, Elias tells Abū l-

Qāsim that if Muslims truly wanted to devote themselves to understanding revealed truths (al-

‘ulūm al-shar‘īyah), then “it would be incumbent upon Muslims to renounce (yazhadū) the collection of wealth, the seeking of leadership and high status, food, drink, sex, and the rest of the bodily desires.”177 As this passage suggests, Elias considered zuhd to embrace not only

fasting, or renunciation of power and prestige, but also renunciation of sex (jimā‘). Yet Elias was well aware that many Muslims rejected the value of permanent sexual abstinence. Like Yaḥyā

ibn ‘Adī, he thus felt compelled to write a defense of celibacy.

This text, called On the Virtue of Continence (Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf), perhaps in echo of

Yaḥyā’s treatise, was likely composed by the year 418/1027.178 Elias addressed the treatise to his brother, Abū Sa‘d ibn Manṣūr ibn ‘Īsā, who had written to Elias about a statement by the Muslim

author al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 255/868/9), in which al-Jāḥiẓ criticized Christians for their embrace of

175 Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 154–56.

176 Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 156.

177 Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 137–38.

178 This is the death date of the Marwanid wazīr Abū l-Qāsim al-Ḥusayn ibn ‘Alī al-Maghribī, who appears to allude to Elias’s treatise in a letter (see below, p. 307). 300

celibacy.179 Like Elias, Abū Sa‘d had a close relationship with the Marwanid wazīr Abū l-Qāsim, serving as the wazīr’s personal doctor.180 Abū Sa‘d also apparently gained a reputation for his piety, earning the nickname Zāhid al-‘Ulamā, or “the ascetic among the scholars.”181 His zuhd

perhaps explains his interest in al-Jāḥiẓ’s dismissal of celibacy and his desire for Elias to defend

the practice of permanent sexual abstinence.

Al-Jāḥiẓ’s most extensive criticism of celibacy came in his treatise Refutation of the

Christians (Radd ‘alā l-Naṣārā). Here, he charged Christians with an ascetic devotion that is almost Manichean in its opposition to the material world. As he wrote:

When you hear their speech about forgiveness and pardon, their mention about itinerant monasticism (al-siyāḥah), their disdain for whoever eats meat and their desire for eating grains and abandonment of [eating] animals, their making people renounce (tazhīd) marriage, their abandonment of seeking children, their praise for the catholicos, metropolitan, bishop, and monks, due to their abandonment of marriage and seeking procreation, and their praise for the leaders, then you learn that there is a relation between their religion and Manicheism (al-zandaqah),182 and that they yearn for that [Manichean] madhhab.183

As this passage suggests, al-Jāḥiẓ found one of the most astonishing aspects of Christian

asceticism to be the embrace of celibacy. It is marvelous, he continues, that every catholicos,

179 Elias of Nisibis, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf: Fr. Georges Rahmé, “Lettre d’Iliya de Nisibe sur la vertu de la chasteté,” Al-Mashriq 62 (1968): 14. On this treatise, see Griffith, “Virtue of Continence,” 34–43.

180 He also served as the doctor of the Marwanid amīr Naṣr al-Dawlā.

181 On Elias’s brother, see Samir Khalil Samir, “Note sur le medicine Zahid al-‘Ulama, frère de Elie de Nisibe,” Oriens Christianus 69 (1985): 168–83; repr. in Samir, Foi et culture, V:168–83.

182 While this term often referred broadly to “heresy,” context suggests that al-Jāḥiẓ is using it in its more restrictive (and older) sense of “Manicheism.” See EI II, s.v. zindīḳ.

183 Al-Jāḥiẓ, Radd ‘alā l-Naṣārā: J. Finkel (ed.), Three Essays of Abu ‘Othman ‘Amr ibn Bahr al- Jahiz (d. 869) (Cairo: Salafyah Press, 1926), 20. 301

metropolitan, bishop, and monk abandons marriage and children.184 Like Saadya ha-Gaon and

Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī’s Muslim friend, al-Jāḥiẓ emphasizes that this practice, taken to its fulfillment,

would spell the end of the human species — and then, he writes, even “religion (dīn) would pass away.”185

Al-Jāḥiẓ returns to this theme in his well-known work Book on Animals (Kitāb al-

Ḥayawān), a wide-ranging text on divine, human, and animal subjects, comprising a “taxonomy of the ‘world and what it contains.’”186 In the middle of a discussion of castration (both human and animal), al-Jāḥiẓ provides an anecdote about a young Byzantine man named Abū l-Mubārak, who was led by his “renunciation of the world” (al-zuhd fī l-dunyā) to castrate himself.187 Al-

Jāḥiẓ uses this story to illustrate the excessive nature of celibacy, which, like castration, aims to cut off a desire inextricably rooted in the human person.188 As he states:

It does not lie in one’s ability (istiṭā‘ah) or in the attribute of possibility (ṣifat al-imkān) to restrain oneself from the love of women when one has the need for them or when one has the desire for them to so great an extent. God the Exalted is too merciful to his creation

184 Al-Jāḥiẓ, Radd ‘alā l-Naṣārā, 20–21.

185 Al-Jāḥiẓ, Radd ‘alā l-Naṣārā, 21.

186 Jeannie Miller, “Man is Not the Only Speaking Animal: Thresholds and Idiom in al-Jāḥiẓ,” in Arabic Humanities, Islamic Thought: Essays in Honor of Everett K. Rowson, ed. Joseph E. Lowry and Shawkat M. Toorawa (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 94.

187 Al-Jāḥiẓ, Al-Ḥayawān, 7 vols. (Egypt: Maktabat Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī wa-Awlāduh, 1938–1945), 1:126. Al-Jāḥiẓ asserts that it was the Byzantines (al-Rūm) who invented the practice of castration. This is rather astounding (min al-‘ajab), says al-Jāḥiẓ, given that the Byzantines are Christians, who profess compassion, mercy, and softness of heart. Al-Jāḥiẓ, Al- Ḥayawān, 1:124.

188 As Elias points out in his response, al-Jāḥiẓ was making an argument for the impossibility of celibacy a fortiori. In the story of Abū l-Mubārak, it is related that the young man, now deprived of his sexual organs, was nevertheless continually afflicted by lust for women. As al-Jāḥiẓ suggests, if even a castrate is unable to overcome his sexual desire, how much more impossible is this for one who is fully intact! Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 15. 302

and too just to his servants to oblige them (yukallifahum) to abandon something that he has joined so tightly to their hearts and confirmed so emphatically.189

It was this statement that caught the eye of Elias’s brother Abū Sa‘d. According to Elias, when

his brother read this passage, he was astounded at al-Jāḥiẓ’s insolence in the face of both reason

and revelation.190

Yet al-Jāḥiẓ’s argument was grounded in central principles of Islamic theology. We will first consider his argument within this context, before examining how Elias responds to it. Al-

Jāḥiẓ invokes two important categories in early Islamic kalām, or rational theology: that of taklīf,

which referred to God “obliging” humans to perform certain actions, and that of istiṭā‘ah, which

referred to the human “ability” to perform actions. The Qur’an implies at several points that God

does not oblige humans to perform actions that exceed their capacity.191 Accordingly, Muslim

theologians debated the extent to which God could be said to impose impossible duties upon humans; this was often referred to as taklīf mā lā yuṭāq, or “obligating what cannot be done.”

Like other Mu‘tazilī theologians, al-Jāḥiẓ held that God does not require humans to perform

actions that lie outside their ability (istiṭā‘ah).192 In the passage discussed by Elias and Abū Sa‘d,

189 Al-Jāḥiẓ, Al-Ḥayawān, 1:128.

190 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 15.

191 E.g. Q 2:286: “God does not oblige a soul save within its capacity” (lā yukallifu Llāhu nafsan illā wus‘ahā).

192 Al-Jāḥiẓ discusses the relation between istiṭā‘ah and taklīf in a passage of his Kitāb al- Masā’il; Charles Pellat, “Min Kitāb al-Masā’il wa-l-Jawābāt fī l-Ma‘rifah,” Al-Mashriq 63 (1969): 322; cf. Daniel Gimaret, Théories de l'acte humain en théologie musulmane (Paris: J. Vrin, 1980), 33; Charles Pellat, The Life and Works of Jāḥiẓ (London: Routledge & K. Paul, 1969), 35. Early Ash‘arī theologians were in agreement with Mu‘tazilīs concerning physically impossible actions. For example, both Mu‘tazilī and Ash‘arī theologians agreed that God does not require a lame person (‘ājiz) to stand in prayer. Yet early Ash‘arīs tended to hold that God could oblige the impossible in a certain, restrictive sense; for example, God obliges all unbelievers to believe even though (in the Ash‘arī understanding of human capacity) it is 303

al-Jāḥiẓ turns this principle into a critique of Christian celibacy. Sexual abstinence exceeds the

bounds of human ability (istiṭā‘ah), and therefore God does not impose it upon humans as a duty

(yukallif). When Christian monks and bishops, not to say a zuhd-crazed castrate like Abū l-

Mubārak, require themselves and others to live celibately, they thus impose a duty more stringent

than God would require and so fall short of God’s mercy and justice.193

Al-Jāḥiẓ was not the only one to make this type of argument. Earlier in the chapter, we saw how the Karaite author Salmon ben Yeroham condemned what he saw as extreme displays of asceticism, including celibacy. In so doing, Salmon explicitly invokes the concept of taklīf mā

lā yuṭāq. Commenting on Qohelet 7:16 (“Be not righteous over much; neither make thyself over

wise: why shouldest thou destroy thyself?” [JPS 1917]), Salmon writes, “God does not oblige

one [to perform] what one cannot do (lā yukallifuhu mā lā yuṭīq), for the obligating of what

cannot be done (taklīf mā lā yuṭāq)194 is tyranny and little justice.” He then warns his readers not

to engage in extreme ascetic actions that have not been imposed by God. “Do not,” he writes,

“pursue a life of celibacy in the mountains or deserts (al-ta‘azzub fī l-jibāl wa-l-barārīy), thinking that through this, you will draw near to God.”195 Like al-Jāḥiẓ, Salmon thus applies

principles of kalām in order to condemn excessive forms of asceticism, including celibacy.

considered “impossible” for an unbeliever to believe without direct divine action. E.g. Al- Baqillānī, Kitāb al-Tamhīd (Beirut: al-Maktabah al-Sharqīyah, 1957), 293–94.

193 On al-Jāḥiẓ’s statement as a form of taklīf mā lā yuṭāq argument, see Mohammed Hocine Benkheira, La maîtrise de la concupiscence: mariage, célibat et continence sexuelle en Islam des origines au Xe/XVIe siècle (Paris: J. Vrin, 2017), 402.

תכליף םא לא יטאק :In Salmon’s Judeo-Arabic 194

195 Salmon ben Yeroham, Commentary on Qohelet, 425. 304

Elias was well acquainted with the discipline of kalām and likely recognized the

theological underpinnings of al-Jāḥiẓ’s rejection of celibacy.196 In responding to al-Jāḥiẓ, Elias

devoted much of his attention to refuting the claim that humans lack the capacity (istiṭā‘ah) for sexual abstinence. He provides numerous counter-examples, from Greek philosophers, the desert fathers, and contemporary Christians, of those who have successfully abandoned marriage and sex. These counter-examples dispose of the explicit, strong form of al-Jāḥiẓ’s assertion, namely, that God does not require sexual abstinence because it is impossible.

Yet Elias was also concerned about al-Jāḥiẓ’s broader claim regarding taklīf, namely, that

God does not oblige humans to abandon a desire that God has “joined so tightly in [human] hearts and confirmed so emphatically.” Sexual abstinence might not be strictly impossible, but the sexual drive might be so deeply rooted in the human person that people should not require themselves to live celibately, in the way that “every catholicos, metropolitan, bishop, and monk” does. Accordingly, Elias shifts the focus away from obligation (taklīf). Celibacy, he suggests, is not a matter of obligation, but a matter of voluntary action (taṭawwu‘). In this way, he argues, sexual abstinence is similar to abstinence from meat, which is not required, but which an ascetic

196 In the Book of Sessions, Elias demonstrates familiarity with several aspects of kalām, such as the nature of the divine attributes (Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 22), while also arguing that Christian kalām is superior to Islamic kalām (Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 136). At several points, Elias refers to Muslim “theologians” (mutakallimūn), including the contemporary Ash‘arī theologian al- Baqillānī (Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 82, 94, 171). In addition, in a letter to Abū l-Qāsim, Elias praises al-Jāḥiẓ for “the glory of his abilities in science and in speech (fī ‘ilm wa-l-kalām)” (Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 252). At the same time, Elias suggests that al-Jāḥiẓ’s claims about the impossibility of sexual abstinence may have been tongue-in-cheek. After all, al-Jāḥiẓ himself was unmarried and, one presumes, celibate (Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 50–51). As Elias proposes, al-Jāḥiẓ’s claims are rather like his approach in his treatises In Praise of Misers (Fī Madḥ al- Bukhalā’) and On the Superiority of Lunatics to Those who are Rational (Fī Tafḍīl al-Majānīn ‘alā al-‘Uqalā), that is to say, his claims are satirical. Nevertheless, Elias continues, since many readers might take al-Jāḥiẓ seriously, his statements still need to be refuted (Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al- ‘Afāf, 15). Elias repeats this point in a letter to Abū l-Qāsim (Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 252–53). 305

may embrace “voluntarily and for religious reasons (taṭawwu‘an wa-tadayyunan).”197 Of course,

East Syrian monks and bishops (like Elias himself) were canonically obligated to live

celibately.198 Yet by stressing that entrance into a life of celibacy is voluntary, Elias ducks al-

Jāḥiẓ’s charge that Christians exceed divine demands by turning celibacy into a religious duty.

At the same time, both al-Jāḥiẓ’s and Elias’s discussion of celibacy revolved around the idea of zuhd. In the Refutation of the Christians, al-Jāḥiẓ criticizes Christians for making people renounce (tazhīd) marriage. In turn, in the Book on Animals, it is the extreme devotion of Abū l-

Mubārak to al-zuhd fī l-dunyā that prompts al-Jāḥiẓ’s attack on celibacy. So, too, in his response to al-Jāḥiẓ, Elias invokes the ideal of zuhd. Similarly to Yaḥyā, Elias writes that one who seeks to acquire knowledge should be “a renunciant” (zāhid) of sexual desire.199 In turn, Elias refers to

zuhd in the stories he tells about people who have successfully renounced sex and marriage. A rather misogynistic account of an Egyptian desert monk shows how the desire for rest can make one “indifferent to women” (tuzahhid fī-l-nisā).200 Even King Solomon, in the Book of Qohelet,

revealed his “renunciation” (tazahhud) of women.201 Another story related by Elias concerns a

contemporary Christian, who was “indifferent to marriage and had little desire for it” (zāhid fī l-

197 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 53–54.

198 Synodicon Orientale, 80–85/332–38 and 540–50/551–61, esp. canon 12, p. 547/557.

199 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 17.

200 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 31.

201 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 73. In proof of this, Elias quotes Ecclesiastes 7:26, “I found the woman more bitter than death.”

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zawāj wa-qalīl al-raghbah fīh).202 The early Islamic ideal of being “indifferent to the world”

(zāhid fī l-dunyā) thus becomes, here, “indifferent to marriage” (zāhid fī l-zawāj).

The references to zuhd in Elias’s defense of celibacy recall his conversation on the

customs of monks and zuhhād with the Marwanid wazīr Abū l-Qāsim. In fact, Abū l-Qāsim

seems to have been interested in Elias’s response to al-Jāḥiẓ, for in a letter to Elias, Abū l-Qāsim

asks him to send him his “refutation of al-Jāḥiẓ.”203 It is possible that this was a separate work,204

but the request suggests that Elias and Abū l-Qāsim may have discussed not only zuhd, in

general, but Elias’s refutation of al-Jāḥiẓ’s comments on celibacy, in particular.

Like Yaḥyā, then, Elias was conscious of sharing with Muslims the ascetic ideal of zuhd.

At the same time, his understanding of zuhd explicitly embraced the Christian discipline of

celibacy, a discipline that he knew was criticized by many Muslims. As I have suggested,

Yaḥyā’s and Elias’s treatises show how Christian authors participated in the shared idioms of

Arabic philosophy and kalām. So, too, they suggest that Christian participation in the language

of zuhd, far from reducing the differences in how Christians and Muslims viewed asceticism,

202 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 41.

203 The letter is edited in Elias of Nisibis, Kitāb al-Majālis, 165; cf. Nikolai Seleznyov, “Seven Sessions or Just a Letter? Observations on the Structure of the Disputation between Elias, Metropolitan of Nisibis, and the Vizier Abū l-Qāsim al-Ḥusayn ibn ‘Alī al-Maghribī,” Scrinium 14 (2018): 444.

204 On its face, the reference would seem to refer clearly to Elias’s defense of celibacy against al- Jāḥiẓ, especially since no other work of Elias against al-Jāḥiẓ is known. However, in Elias’s reply to Abū l-Qāsim’s letter, he briefly discusses his “refutation of al-Jāḥiẓ” in a way that suggests it was a general defense of Christianity against al-Jāḥiẓ’s own work Refutation of the Christians, rather than a defense of celibacy, specifically (Elias, Kitāb al-Majālis, 252–53). Of course, al-Jāḥiẓ’s Refutation of the Christians also included an extended criticism of celibacy (as discussed above, pp. 301–302). It is possible that Elias’s treatise in defense of celibacy grew out of or replaced his plans for a general refutation of al-Jāḥiẓ’s polemic against Christianity. 307

brought those differences into the open and led to direct debate concerning the Christian practice

of celibacy.

Conclusion

Near the end of his treatise on celibacy, Elias relates a story from a book composed by

an anonymous monk,205 in which the monk describes a debate between himself and “three

Muslim Sufis” (thal[ā]thah min ṣūfīyat al-muslimīn).206 As Elias relates, each of the Sufis tried,

in turn, to convince the monk that marriage is preferable to celibacy. One by one, however, the

monk dismantled their arguments, leaving his opponents stupefied. “Ṣadaqta,” the final Sufi

exclaims — “You have spoken the truth!”207 And with that concession, Elias’s account suggests not only the legitimacy of celibacy, but also the moral victory of Christian monasticism over

Sufism.

The story is clearly a fantasy, whether dreamed up by Elias or another monk before him.

Yet the very fact that a Christian author invented a story about the victory of a monk over three

Sufis is telling. Several scholars have noted how Muslims collected accounts — also frequently

invented — of Muslim ascetics and Sufis interacting with Christian monks. Many of these stories

exist in order for the Christian monk to recognize the truth of Islam or to validate, in some way,

the virtue and piety of the Muslim ascetic.208 Yet in Elias’s story, it is the Christian monk who

205 “A certain monk mentioned in a book that he wrote…” (dhakara ba‘ḍu l-ruhbāni fī kitābin anshāhu)

206 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 69.

207 Elias, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 72.

208 See especially Mourad, “Christian Monks in Islamic Literature,” 90–91. 308

receives, from the Sufi, confirmation of the validity of the monastic way of life. The monk’s need for an Islamic approbation of monastic celibacy reflects the rising cultural and demographic

dominance of Muslims. Yet it also reveals the extent to which Christian writing on asceticism

was reshaped by the encounter with Islam.

Christians incorporated Islamic ascetic traditions and terminology into monastic

literature; they employed the Islamic ascetic discourse to argue for the truth of Christianity; and they responded to Islamic criticisms of Christian asceticism. All of this has been overlooked

amid the longstanding focus on the influence of Christian asceticism on Islam. Yet, just as we

have seen that, rather than being simply influenced by Christian asceticism, Muslims

transformed Late Antique ascetic piety, so, too, we should not view the sources examined in this

chapter simply as evidence of Islamic influence on Christianity. While Christians seem to have

derived the idiom of zuhd from Muslims, they made it their own, with a distinctive and, at times,

self-consciously confessional understanding of the meaning of zuhd. In so doing, they

transformed the Christian ascetic heritage and summoned the arrival of a new figure, unknown in

the ascetic literature of Late Antiquity: the Christian zāhid.

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Conclusion

The previous chapter examined two Christian responses to Muslim critiques of celibacy.

These texts bring to the fore the intertwined nature of the ascetic’s dietary and sexual regimens.

In the exchange between Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī and his Muslim friend, Yaḥyā’s friend drew an analogy between restraint in dietary matters and restraint in sexual matters. Just as, the friend argued, continence does not require the complete rejection of food, so too, it does not require the complete rejection of sex. Rather, moderation should be the rule in both cases.1 While Yaḥyā

appears to have ignored his friend’s point, Elias of Nisibis responded to exactly this type of

argument in his refutation of al-Jāḥiẓ. Some might contend, Elias suggested, that abandoning sex is like abandoning food, since the desires for food and sex are “composed together in human

nature.”2 And yet, Elias argued, these two desires are not comparable, for a person will die

without food, whereas abstaining from sex strengthens the body. “Since the matter is thus,” he

concluded, “it is not appropriate for an analogy to be made (tuqās) between the desire for sex and the desire for food and drink.”3

Elias protested this point, I suggest, precisely because the analogy between the desire for

food and the desire for sex was so forceful a structuring principle in the minds of Christian and

Muslim ascetics. Indeed, the sources in this dissertation suggest that we might trace the history of Christian and Islamic ascetic literature in Iraq by considering how Muslims and Christians treat fasting, celibacy, and their interrelation. While this dissertation has examined several forms

1 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, “Traité sur la continence,” 42, para. 84; see above, ch. 5, p. 293.

2 Elias of Nisibis, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 51.

3 Elias of Nisibis, Fī Faḍīlat al-‘Afāf, 52. 310

of ascetic practice, I have focused on these interwoven threads of celibacy and fasting. To conclude, I will draw these threads through the five chapters, before returning to the broader question of the relationship of Christian and Islamic asceticism, with which I began the dissertation.

In the late sixth and early seventh century, Christian monks belonging to the Church of the East launched a movement of monastic reform and revitalization, defining their movement in opposition to the practices, beliefs, and identity of rival Christian communities and monastic movements. Integral to this process, I have suggested, was the development of a monastic commentary tradition, through which East Syrian authors adapted Late Antique ascetic texts and claimed the authority of Greek monastic authors for the Church of the East. In the first chapter, I examined the foundational commentary in this tradition, Babai the Great’s exposition of the

Kephalaia Gnostika of Evagrius of Pontus. Reacting to what he saw as contemporary threats to

East Syrian monasticism, Babai emphasized an ascetic interpretation of Evagrius, read in light of

Theodore of Mopsuestia, and suited to the formation of East Syrian monks. In emphasizing the ascetic and “orthodox” dimensions of the Evagrian corpus, Babai presented fasting and celibacy as working together to redirect the soul’s desire to God, part of the broader askesis by which the monk heals the three faculties of the soul. In describing these disciplines, Babai transmitted Late

Antique anthropological and medical assumptions, which understood an abundance of food and drink as a cause of increased sexual desire and activity.

As the second chapter argued, East Syrian monks living under Islamic rule developed these ideas further in their own commentaries. These later commentaries were likely composed over the course of the seventh and eighth centuries. In his exposition of the Book of Paradise,

Dadisho‘ elaborated upon Evagrius’s and Babai’s understanding of the role of fasting in

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reinforcing chastity. In turn, the anonymous commentator on Isaiah of Scetis, responding directly to Dadisho‘, broadened Dadisho‘’s understanding of fasting and celibacy to include a complete prohibition on wine consumption. So, too, the anonymous commentator on the Gnostic Trilogy of Evagrius, reacting, like Babai, to perceived “Messalian” threats to East Syrian monasticism, affirmed the role of fasting in safeguarding the monk’s celibacy. East Syrian monks thus not only commented on Greek monastic texts, but also responded to the views of earlier East Syrian interpreters. The interconnected nature of these texts suggests that we should view them as a coherent commentarial tradition, akin to the traditions of biblical and Aristotelian commentary.

Through this exegetical tradition, East Syrian monks not only claimed the Greek fathers for the

Church of the East, but also yoked together fasting and celibacy as mutually reinforcing disciplines, central to monastic practice throughout the life of the monk.

By the time of these later commentaries, Muslims were developing their own understandings of asceticism. Like East Syrian Christians, Muslims in Iraq sought to establish ascetic traditions specific to their community, Islamizing the meaning of ascetic practice, just as the monastic commentators had, so to speak, “East Syrianized” the Greek ascetic tradition.

Central to this process was that Muslims intervened in contemporary understandings of fasting, celibacy, and their interrelation. As we saw in chapter three, some Muslims appear to have perceived an interconnection between fasting and sexual abstinence. A Hadith of the Prophet advised fasting as a means of “castrating” sexual desires for the unmarried. In turn, some early

Muslim ascetics adopted regimens of both dietary restriction and celibacy. In reassessing the value of these practices, the Islamic traditions of zuhd manifest a tension concerning whether to promote an ideal of moderate asceticism grounded in the sunnah and defined in opposition to

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extreme practices, or whether to embrace severe examples of askesis by Islamizing their significance.

This tension grew especially around the practices of fasting (or voluntary hunger) and celibacy, disciplines associated by some Muslims with Christian monasticism. On the one hand, some Muslim traditions reinterpreted the meaning of such practices as representing the struggle against the nafs, servitude to God (‘ibādah), scrupulous adherence to the rules of fiqh, or even betrothal to God. Such traditions thus incorporated both dietary and sexual abstinence into a broader framework of Islamic piety, guided by Qur’anic themes, and at times expressed in self- consciously Islamic language. Nevertheless, other Islamic traditions criticized the practices of severe fasting and celibacy. Several traditions in the kutub al-zuhd and in Hadith collections embrace a moderate regimen of fasting, while rejecting permanent sexual abstinence as monastic or un-Islamic. Muslim ascetic traditions thus severed dietary and sexual regimens that had been yoked together in the East Syrian monastic tradition.

As chapter four argued, the tensions between moderate and severe ascetic impulses — and hence between competing ways of Islamizing asceticism — increased as Muslims in the ninth century deepened their understandings of asceticism. Ibn Ḥanbal and al-Muḥāsibī had an ambivalent attitude toward ascetic practice. Both men were wary of the idea of using fasting to discipline the self (nafs) and suggested that such asceticism could undermine a Muslim’s religious or domestic obligations. Ibn Ḥanbal also explicitly condemned the practice of celibacy as monastic and un-Islamic. For him and for al-Muḥāsibī, the sunnah of the Prophet represented a check on severe ascetic impulses, underlining the un-Islamic nature of celibacy for Ibn Ḥanbal and undergirding a more critical attitude toward the value of hunger for al-Muḥāsibī.

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In contrast, al-Muḥāsibī’s student Junayd emphasized fasting and sexual abstinence as

complementary methods of overcoming the desires of the nafs. His understanding of asceticism thus resembled that of East Syrian monks. Yet it neither derived from them, nor arose entirely

independently of them. Rather, Junayd differentiated the discipline he proposed from that of

Christian monks. Invoking al-Muḥāsibī’s system of self-examination, he offered a Sufi form of

asceticism — and perhaps even, as I have suggested, a Sufi form of “monasticism” (rahbānīyah)

— defined in opposition to the monasticism of Christians. Both Junayd and other Sufis thus

sought to reconcile the growing tension between an ideal of severe asceticism and the Prophet’s

model of moderation, instead interpreting the sunnah as an encouragement to the Sufi’s ascetic

and ostensibly monastic regimens.4

Already by Junayd’s time, Christians were beginning to participate in the Islamic ascetic

discourse, which I have called the “language of zuhd.” As I argued in chapter five, this discourse became a koiné, employed by Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike. This koiné at times promoted irenic forms of cross-confessional exchange, such as in the case of Ḥanūn’s use of Islamic traditions and phrases in adapting the writings of Isaac of Nineveh. At the same time, however, the language of zuhd facilitated criticism of the ascetic attitudes and practices of rival

confessions. Part of this more polemical ascetic exchange was that Christians confronted Muslim

criticisms of celibacy. Ironically, in this case, it was Muslims, not Christians, who yoked

together dietary and sexual practices in a new synthesis — a moderate regimen of restraint in

4 It may be noted that the perception of an interconnection between discipline of fasting and sexual abstinence persists in medieval Islamic sources. In al-Ghazālī’s, Iḥyā ‘Ulūm al-Dīn, in the section on “Crushing the Two Desires” (Kasr al-Shahwatayn), the twin desires are those for food and for sex. In arguing that the Sufi murīd should abstain from sex and marriage, al-Ghazālī proposed that the murīd adopt a regimen of continual hunger and fasting in order to curb his sexual appetite. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyā (Kasr al-Shahwatayn), 2:1523. 314

both food and sex — and Christians, not Muslims, who sought to break this regimen apart, by

rejecting altogether the use of the sexual faculty, while conceding the necessity of eating. This

reversal points us toward a broader shift in the trajectories of Christian and Islamic ascetic

literature: as Muslims had responded to Christian monasticism in forming Islamic ideals of asceticism, by the ninth and tenth centuries it was Christians who were responding to Islamic

understandings of ascetic practice. As the final chapter thus showed, in reshaping Late Antique

ascetic ideals, Muslims not only created a new ascetic tradition, but also led Christians to reshape

their own traditions of asceticism.

Having traced these developments throughout the dissertation, we can return to the

question of influence and the relationship between Islamic and Christian asceticism. East Syrian

Christians inherited a textual tradition from Late Antiquity, one that they reshaped and made

their own. At the same time, Muslims developed their own textual traditions, responding to longstanding practices, ideals, and attitudes about asceticism, often associated with Christian monasticism. Members of both religious communities thus drew upon and adapted deep-rooted ascetic ideals, in order to create ascetic traditions specific to and imbued with the values of their confession. Through this process, Muslims responded to Christians, and eventually Christians responded to Muslims. I suggest, then, that we speak neither of Christian influence on Islamic asceticism, nor of Islamic influence on Christian asceticism, but rather of rival cultures of piety that developed in response to each other, as they laid claim to the ascetic heritage of Late

Antiquity. Islamic traditions of asceticism represented a dramatic restructuring of this ascetic heritage, one that ultimately transformed the Christian ascetic tradition.

There is much more room, of course, to explore further the development and interaction of ascetic ideals within the Islamic world. In particular, continuing scholarship on asceticism

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within other religious confessions — Jews, Shī‘ī and Khārijī Muslims, Miaphysite Christians,

etc. — promises to advance scholarly understanding of the religious and cultural world of

Islamic Iraq. In addition, I have focused in this dissertation on physical practices of asceticism —

fasting and celibacy, as well as continual or supererogatory prayer, and seclusion or isolation.

Yet I have also drawn upon Babai’s and Dadisho‘’s writings to suggest that we might conceive

of asceticism more broadly, as embracing what Babai calls “labors of the soul” (‘amle

napshānāye), including gentleness and humility, and reading and learning as forms of askesis.

Similar notions of non-bodily asceticism are suggested in early Islamic sources, as well. Junayd

includes among the desires of the nafs that the Sufi must combat not only the lust for food and

sex, but also the longing for honor and revenge.5 And, as al-Muḥāsibī notes, it is these less corporeal desires that are the hardest to overcome.6 Indeed, a broader construal of asceticism promises to deepen our understanding of the development and interaction of Christian and

Islamic attitudes toward the self, piety, and mysticism. For East Syrians and Muslims alike, albeit in different ways, bodily asceticism was integral to the transformation of the self and its

desires. Yet in the words of al-Kharrāz, the highest form of zuhd is to conform to God in love.

5 Istanbul MS Sehit Ali Paşa 1374, 66b; Junayd, Rasā’il, Arabic p. 58. Although Junayd describes all of these desires as stemming from and belonging to the nafs, he also classes the desire for food and sex as “bodily desire” (shahwah jismānīyah), while stating that the subtler desires for honor or revenge belong to the “desire of the soul/nafs” (shahwah nafsānīyah).

6 Al-Muḥāsibī, Ādāb al-Nufūs, 88; see above, ch. 4, p. 241. 316

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