About the Work
Messages and Letters of Ibn Arabi gathers together two distinct but intimately related bodies of writing by the great Andalusian mystic Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi: his epistolary correspondence and the short treatises or “messages” he composed for particular disciples, patrons, and seekers. The book belongs to that fertile period of Islamic letters in which the letter was not merely a practical instrument of communication but a literary and spiritual form in its own right—a vehicle for doctrinal exposition, personal counsel, and the transmission of esoteric knowledge. Ibn Arabi, who lived from the second half of the twelfth century into the middle of the thirteenth, was among the most prolific authors of his age, and the letters and messages collected here represent a more intimate register of his thought than the vast systematic works for which he is chiefly known.
“Arabia is the cradle of Islam and, in all probability, the primitive home of the Semitic race.”
The work is rooted in the geography of the medieval Islamic world at its widest extent. Ibn Arabi was born in Murcia in al-Andalus and died in Damascus, and his life traced an arc from the western edge of the Islamic world to its eastern heartlands. The correspondence gathered in this volume reflects that range: letters written to companions in Andalusia, to correspondents in North Africa, to disciples in Egypt and Syria, and to seekers in the Hijaz and Yemen. The book thus preserves not only a body of doctrine but a network of relationships—the living tissue of a spiritual community stretched across continents. The letters are addressed to named individuals, to rulers and courtiers, to fellow scholars, and to ordinary believers who had been drawn to the author’s reputation for sanctity and learning.
What distinguishes the collection is its combination of the occasional and the eternal. Many of these letters were written in response to specific questions—a request for clarification of a difficult Quranic verse, a plea for guidance in a moment of doubt, a query about the legitimacy of a particular practice or the meaning of a dream. Yet Ibn Arabi characteristically treats even the most particular question as an occasion for the widest possible reflection, so that a letter about a dream may open into a treatise on the nature of imagination, and a note of consolation to a grieving friend may become a meditation on the metaphysics of death and resurrection. The messages are similarly occasional in origin but universal in scope, composed for individuals yet intended, as the author frequently indicates, for anyone who might later read them.
The book also preserves a dimension of Ibn Arabi’s activity that is often overshadowed by his reputation as a theoretician: his role as a spiritual director. The letters show him advising, encouraging, correcting, and consoling. He writes to a disciple who has grown lax in his devotions, to a patron who has been accused of injustice, to a friend who has suffered the loss of a child, to a scholar who has fallen into a dispute with his colleagues. In these letters the reader encounters not the architect of a vast metaphysical system but the pastor of souls—patient, demanding, affectionate, and always alert to the particular circumstances of the person addressed. This pastoral dimension is essential to understanding the collection as a whole, for it shows how Ibn Arabi’s most abstract doctrines were meant to be lived.
The volume also includes letters of a more public character, addressed to rulers and men of affairs. Ibn Arabi lived through a period of considerable political turbulence, and his correspondence with those in power reflects his conviction that the spiritual life is not a withdrawal from the world but a transformation of it. He writes to kings and governors not as a suppliant but as a counselor, reminding them of their obligations to justice and mercy, warning them of the consequences of tyranny, and urging them to protect the scholars and saints within their domains. These letters are among the most revealing documents in the collection, for they show how Ibn Arabi understood the relationship between the inner life and the outer order—between the purification of the soul and the governance of a city.
The style of the letters varies enormously. Some are brief and almost abrupt, written in the terse idiom of a man who assumes his correspondent will understand a hint as well as an exposition. Others are elaborate and rhetorically ornate, moving through chains of Quranic citation, poetic quotation, and technical terminology with the assurance of a master. Some are warm and personal, full of affection and concern; others are formal and reserved, written in the measured cadence of official correspondence. This variety is not a defect but a reflection of the occasions that produced the letters and the relationships they sustained. Taken together, they offer a portrait of Ibn Arabi in many moods and many roles—teacher, friend, counselor, critic, suppliant, and master.
The messages, by contrast, tend to be more sustained and systematic. They are short treatises rather than letters, composed for a particular person or occasion but organized around a single theme or question. Some of them are commentaries on Quranic passages; others are explanations of Sufi technical terms; others are responses to questions about the spiritual path. They share with the letters a quality of direct address—the sense of a living voice speaking to a living person—but they also display Ibn Arabi’s genius for compression, his ability to pack a world of meaning into a few pages. Many of these messages were later incorporated into his larger works, and they provide a valuable window onto the way his thought developed and circulated among his followers.
The collection as a whole is thus a kind of spiritual archive, preserving the traces of a life lived in constant communication. It is not a systematic treatise, and it should not be read as one. Its unity is not the unity of an argument but the unity of a person—a person who was, by all accounts, one of the most remarkable spiritual teachers of the Islamic tradition. The letters and messages allow us to see that person in action, responding to the needs of his correspondents, adapting his teaching to their capacities, and revealing in the process both the depth of his learning and the warmth of his humanity.
Context
The world in which Ibn Arabi wrote was one of extraordinary intellectual and spiritual ferment. The Islamic world of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries was a civilization at its height, with a network of cities stretching from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean, a common language of learning, and a religious tradition that had developed over five centuries into a rich and complex synthesis of law, theology, philosophy, and mysticism. Ibn Arabi was formed by this world and contributed to it in ways that would shape Islamic thought for centuries to come.
The political context of his life was one of fragmentation and conflict. The Abbasid caliphate, which had once unified the Islamic world, had long since lost effective power, and the Islamic lands were divided among a patchwork of dynasties—the Almohads in the Maghrib and al-Andalus, the Ayyubids in Egypt and Syria, the Seljuks and their successors in the east, and a multitude of smaller principalities. This fragmentation was accompanied by the external threat of the Crusades, which had established Latin kingdoms along the eastern Mediterranean coast, and by the more distant but ultimately more consequential threat of the Mongols, whose advance would devastate Baghdad in 1258, a few years after Ibn Arabi’s death. The letters in this collection reflect this turbulent environment: Ibn Arabi writes to rulers who are engaged in constant warfare, to scholars who have been displaced by political upheaval, and to friends who have suffered the loss of homes and livelihoods.
The religious context was equally complex. The Islamic tradition had, by Ibn Arabi’s time, developed a rich and diverse set of intellectual disciplines: Quranic exegesis, the study of hadith, jurisprudence, theology, philosophy, and the various sciences of the Arabic language. Alongside these formal disciplines there had grown up a tradition of asceticism and mysticism, which by the twelfth century had crystallized into the Sufi orders—communities of seekers organized around a master and a method of spiritual training. Ibn Arabi was not a member of any of the major orders, but he was deeply formed by the Sufi tradition and was recognized as a master in his own right. His letters and messages are addressed to people who are engaged in the Sufi path, and they presuppose a familiarity with its practices, its technical vocabulary, and its literature.
The intellectual context of Ibn Arabi’s work was shaped by the encounter between the Islamic sciences and the philosophical tradition of the Greeks, which had been translated into Arabic in the ninth and tenth centuries and had stimulated a rich tradition of Islamic philosophy. Ibn Arabi was not a philosopher in the technical sense, and he was critical of some of the claims of the philosophers, but he was deeply influenced by their vocabulary and their questions. His letters and messages show him engaging with philosophical problems—the nature of causality, the relationship between the one and the many, the status of universals—but always from the perspective of a mystic who believes that these problems are ultimately resolved not by argument but by experience.
The social context of the collection is the world of the medieval Islamic city, with its mosques and madrasas, its markets and caravanserais, its scholars and craftsmen, its rulers and beggars. Ibn Arabi’s correspondents come from every level of this society: he writes to sultans and to shoemakers, to judges and to illiterate peasants, to women as well as to men. The letters thus provide a cross-section of medieval Islamic society, revealing the concerns and aspirations of people from a wide range of backgrounds. They also reveal the networks of patronage and friendship that sustained the scholarly and spiritual life of the time, and the ways in which a master like Ibn Arabi could serve as a node connecting people across vast distances.
The literary context of the letters is the rich tradition of Arabic epistolography, which had developed over centuries into a highly refined art. The letter was, in medieval Islamic culture, a form with its own conventions and its own aesthetic, and a skilled letter-writer was admired for his eloquence, his wit, and his ability to adapt his style to the occasion and the recipient. Ibn Arabi was a master of this art, and his letters display a wide range of registers, from the informal and conversational to the formal and ceremonial. At the same time, he transformed the genre by making it a vehicle for spiritual instruction, so that the letter becomes not merely a means of communication but a means of transformation.
The context of the messages is somewhat different. These short treatises belong to the tradition of Sufi writing that had developed over the preceding centuries, in which masters composed brief works for the instruction of their disciples. Such works were often written in response to a specific question or request, and they were intended to be read and re-read, studied and meditated upon. Ibn Arabi’s messages are among the finest examples of this genre, combining doctrinal precision with spiritual warmth, and they were widely circulated among his followers and beyond.
Structure of the Book
The book is organized around the distinction between letters and messages, though the two categories overlap and interpenetrate. The letters are arranged, as far as can be determined, in rough chronological order, so that the reader can follow the trajectory of Ibn Arabi’s career from his early years in al-Andalus to his final decades in Damascus. The messages, by contrast, are arranged thematically, grouped according to their subject matter or their occasion. This arrangement allows the reader to see both the development of Ibn Arabi’s thought over time and the range of his concerns at any given moment.
The letters themselves vary greatly in length and formality. Some are brief notes, written on the spur of the moment to a friend or disciple; others are extended treatises, running to many pages and covering a wide range of topics. Some are written in the first person, in a warm and personal voice; others are written in the third person, in the more formal style of official correspondence. Some are addressed to individuals; others are addressed to groups—the followers of a particular master, the inhabitants of a particular city, the scholars of a particular discipline. This variety reflects the diversity of Ibn Arabi’s relationships and the range of occasions that prompted him to write.
The messages are similarly varied. Some are commentaries on specific Quranic verses or hadith; others are explanations of Sufi technical terms; others are responses to questions about the spiritual path. Some are short and aphoristic; others are longer and more discursive. Some are addressed to named individuals; others are addressed to anyone who might read them. What unites them is their practical orientation: they are all intended to help the reader understand and advance on the spiritual path.
The book also includes a number of letters and messages that are more public in character. These include letters to rulers and governors, in which Ibn Arabi offers counsel on matters of justice and governance; letters to scholars, in which he engages in theological and legal debate; and letters to the community at large, in which he addresses matters of common concern. These public writings are important because they show Ibn Arabi engaging with the political and social issues of his time, and because they reveal his understanding of the relationship between the spiritual and the temporal.
The structure of the book thus reflects the structure of Ibn Arabi’s life. It begins with the letters of his youth and early career, when he was still in al-Andalus and North Africa, and it moves through the letters of his middle years, when he was traveling in the east, to the letters of his maturity, when he had settled in Damascus and had become a recognized master. Along the way, the messages are interspersed, providing moments of doctrinal reflection that illuminate the more occasional writings. The result is a portrait of a spiritual teacher in action, responding to the needs of his correspondents and the demands of his time.
Inside the Book
Arabia as the Cradle of Islam: Geography, Peoples, and the Land
Gabriel Oussani’s entry on Arabia opens with the claim that the peninsula is the cradle of Islam and, in all likelihood, the primitive home of the Semitic race. He sketches its shape—an irregular triangle or parallelogram—bounded by Syria and the Syrian desert to the north, the Indian Ocean to the south, the Persian Gulf and Babylonia to the east, and the Red Sea to the west. Its western coast runs some eighteen hundred miles; its breadth from the Red Sea to the Persian Gulf is about six hundred miles; its area is roughly a million square miles, four times Texas and equal to a whole cluster of European nations combined.
The land itself is a central table-land ringed by desert: sandy to the west, south, and east, stony to the north, and girt by a line of low, sterile mountains that rise toward Yemen and Oman into genuine height, breadth, and fertility. Only about a fifth of Arabia is cultivated. Doughty’s geology is simple—plutonic foundation, then sandstone, then limestone. There are no rivers; the wadys run dry nine or ten months of the year, and rain is so infrequent that vegetation is sparse outside parts of Yemen.
Oussani rejects the old Greek and Roman division into Deserta, Felix, and Petraea as arbitrary, noting that Arabic geographers knew nothing of it. The Arabic scheme gives five provinces—Yemen, Hijaz, Tehama, Nejd, and Yamama—though this too omits much of the north and east. A modern politico-geographical division gives seven: Hijaz, Yemen, Hadramaut, Oman, Hasa, Irak, and Nejd. At the time of writing, most of these are Turkish provinces, while the rest are ruled by independent Arab rulers constantly at war with one another; Aden, Perim, and Socotra fall under English authority.
The flora and fauna are only partly studied: the date-palm in some forty varieties, coffee, aromatic and medicinal plants, gums and balsams; lions and panthers (both scarce), wolves, boars, jackals, gazelles, foxes, monkeys, the white antelope, ibex, horned viper, cobra, hawk, and ostrich. Among domestic animals the ass, mule, sheep, goat, and dog matter less than the horse and, above all, the camel. The population, never officially counted, is guessed at between eight and twelve millions, all Mohammedans. The Arab is described as undersized, dark-complexioned, with copious coarse black hair and aquiline features; his life is simple, monotonous, out-of-doors, and roving. He is peaceful, generous, hospitable, and chivalrous, yet jealous and revengeful—and, in later times, greatly deteriorated.
Explorers and the Recovery of Arabia’s Past
Until a century and a half before Oussani wrote, knowledge of Arabia came mainly from Greek and Latin writers—Herodotus, Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy—and from the Old Testament, both meagre sources. The best material lies in Arabic writers and geographers: Hamadani’s “Arabian Peninsula,” and the dictionaries of Bekri and Yaqut, though these are thick with fabulous and legendary traditions drawn from native legend and rabbinical fancy. Assyrian cuneiform inscriptions have thrown great light on early Arabian history, as have the scholars Halévy, Mueller, Glaser, Hommel, and Winckler.
The first European scientific explorer was C. Niebuhr, sent by the Danish government in 1761–64. Reinaud followed in 1799 as English agent of the East India Company. U. J. Seetzen copied South-Arabian inscriptions in Himyar between 1808 and 1811. J. L. Burckhardt, a Swiss and probably the most distinguished of them all, journeyed to the Hijaz in 1814–16 and completed the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina, leaving information copious, interesting, and accurate. Captain W. R. Wellsted travelled into Oman and Hadramaut in 1834–35; Ch. J. Cruttenden went from Mokha to Sana in 1838, copying inscriptions later deciphered by Rödiger and Gesenius.
Adolf von Wrede visited Wady Doan and Hadramaut in 1843, copying an inscription of five long lines. Thomas Joseph Arnaud, the same year, journeyed from Sana to Marib, capital of the ancient Sabean kingdom, collecting some fifty-six inscriptions. G. Wallin crossed from Hayil through Medina and Taima between 1845 and 1848. Richard Burton, translator of the “Arabian Nights,” made the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina in 1853 and twice visited Midian in North Arabia in 1877 and 1878. Jacob Saphir, a Jew from Jerusalem, visited Yemen in 1861 and found Jewish settlements there. W. Gifford Palgrave, an English ex-Jesuit, completes the roll of explorers whose work began to open the peninsula to scholarship.
The Musri Theory: Northern Arabia Against Egypt
A striking body of argument proposes that several biblical references traditionally read as “Egypt” (Misraim) should instead be read as “Musri” or “Misrim,” a region in northern Arabia. Under this theory, Agar, Sarai’s handmaid, was not Egyptian but from Musri in northern Arabia. Abraham did not go down into Egypt to receive men-servants and handmaids from Pharaoh, but into Musri in northern Arabia. Joseph, bought by the Ismaelites or Madianites—that is, Arabs—was brought not to Egypt but to Musri in north Arabia, the home of the Madianites. The young man of I Kings XXX, 13 should be read as a man of Musri, not of Egypt. Solomon’s marriage to an Egyptian king’s daughter is deemed extremely improbable; instead he married the daughter of the king of Misrim in north Arabia. Where Solomon’s wisdom is compared to the wisdom of the children of the east and of Egypt, the parallelism requires Madian or Musri, whose proverbial wisdom the Old Testament frequently alludes to. The horses said to come from Egypt were scarce there but numerous and famous in Arabia. The same emendation applies to at least a dozen more passages.
The most revolutionary consequence would concern the Hebrews’ sojourn in Egypt: if the Israelites sojourned in north Arabian Musri and fled from there into nearby Chanaan, the result for ancient Hebrew history and religion would be radically transformative. Similar emendation has been applied to passages mentioning Chush or Ethiopia, including Genesis II, 13; X, 6; Numbers XII, 1; Judges III, 10; II Kings XVIII, 21; Isaiah XX, 3; XLV, 14; Habakkuk III, 7; Psalm LXXXVI, 4; and II Chronicles XIV, 9 and XXI, 16.
Assur, Cheyne, and the Limits of Radical Geography
Another geographical name, Assur—abbreviated Sur—formerly always referred to Assyria, has been matched by a similarly named country discovered in Arabia. Winckler and Cheyne are warmly supported in this view by Hommel, who first suggested it. Cheyne pushed these identifications to extremes, transplanting the whole historical and religious life of Israel to the Nejeb, the country of Jerameel in northern Arabia. According to Cheyne, the prophets Elias, Eliseus, Amos, Osee, Ezechiel, Joel, and Abdias are all North Arabians, and all remaining prophets either came from that country or constantly have it in view. Isaiah XL–LV was, per Cheyne, composed in northern Arabia; Ezechiel suffered imprisonment and prophesied there; and hundreds of personal and geographical names in the Old Testament are intentional or accidental corruptions of Jerameel, Arabia, and Nejeb. Despite appreciation of Winckler’s and Cheyne’s ingenuity, these theories have received little support from the majority of biblical scholars and critics; in some applications they give satisfactory results, but in extreme form they are premature and ultra-radical.
Arabia’s Earliest History and the Ancient Kingdoms
To the historian, Arabia’s earliest history is a blank page. Little is known of the Arabian nation’s origins, migrations, and political vicissitudes. Mohammedan traditions are mostly legendary and highly coloured, though partly based on biblical data and rabbinical traditions; Greek and Latin references are hardly less unsatisfactory. Arab tribes appear in Assyrian inscriptions as Arabi, Arubu, Aribi, and possibly Urbi as early as the ninth century B.C.; their country is described as seldom or never traversed by conquerors and inhabited by wild, independent tribes. In 854 B.C., Shalmanezer II met in battle a confederation including Gindibu the Arab with a hundred camels. A few years later Tiglathpileser III undertook an expedition into Arabia; in the latter half of the eighth century B.C., Assyrian influence extended over the north-west and east of the peninsula. A century later, Arabian tribes of inner Arabia were defeated by Esarhaddon at Bazu. Assurbanipal repeatedly speaks of successful expeditions and conquests in Musri, Magan, Meluhha, and Chush in Arabia. In the Behistun inscription of Darius, Arabia (Arabaya) is mentioned as a subject land. South-Arabian inscriptions deciphered by Halévy, Winckler, D. H. Mueller, Hommel, and Ed. Glaser do not much illuminate early history, but epigraphic evidence and ruins show that a highly developed civilization existed among the ancient Arabs at a very early age.
The two most important ancient Arabian kingdoms are the Mineans—the m‘dbzm of the Old Testament—and the Sabeans, whence came the Queen of Saba to pay homage to Solomon. A third was Kataban; a fourth, Hadramaut; also Lihyan, Raidan, Habashah, and others.
The Nabataean and Palmyrene Kingdoms
The Nabataean Kingdom included the Sinaitic peninsula, the coast to the Gulf of Akaba, Al-Haura, and territory reaching Damascus and the Hijaz. It was annexed to the Roman Empire in A.D. 105 and contained many Arab tribes long governed by their own sheikhs and princes, whose stronghold lay around Bosra and Damascus. Roman emperors acknowledged these sheikhs with the title “phylarch.” As these tribes and those in Ghassanide territory grew, in 531, with the consent of Emperor Justinian, a real Arab-Roman kingdom formed under the kings of Ghassan, whose authority extended over Arabs of Syria, Palestine, Phoenicia, and north-western Arabia. A second Syro-Arabian kingdom, Palmyra, long retained independence; it flourished under Odenathus and peaked under his wife and successor Zenobia, but after her defeat by Aurelian in 272, Palmyra and its dependencies became a Roman province.
Christianity Among the Syrian Arabs
Christianity entered among the Syrian Arabs early, at least among tribes in continuous contact with Syria. Rufinus reports an Arabian queen, Mavia, who fought the Romans repeatedly, then accepted peace on condition that the monk Moses be made bishop over her tribe. This occurred under Valens, about 374, who favoured Arianism. Moses, a hermit in the Egyptian desert, was brought to Alexandria for ordination; the Bishop of Alexandria, Lucius, was accused of Arianism, and Moses refused ordination by a heretical bishop so obstinately that the emperor had to bring a Catholic bishop from exile and send him to the queen.
Caussin de Perceval affirms that near the beginning of the fourth century, under Djabala I, Christianity was again preached and accepted by another Arab tribe. Sozomenus relates that before Valens, an Arab prince called Zacome, having obtained a son through a Syrian hermit’s prayers, embraced Christianity with his whole tribe. Le Quien calls him Zaracome and places him under Constantine or one of his sons; no such prince appears in Arabic historians, though Caussin de Perceval suggests identifying him with Arcan of the tribe of Giafnah, likely a chief of Ghassan.
Hermits and monks in the Syro-Arabian desert were another source of Christian propaganda, respected by Arab tribes who made pilgrimages to them. Jerome and Theodoret affirm that the lives and miracles of St. Hilarion and St. Simeon the Stylite deeply impressed Bedouin Arabs; many tribes accepted Christianity through the latter, and others were baptized by Syrian priests and bishops. Cyrillus of Scythopolis, in his life of Saint Euthymius, tells of an entire Arab tribe that migrated around 420 from the Euphrates into Palestine; their chief Aspebaetos had a paralyzed son who recovered at the saint’s prayers, and Aspebaetos was later ordained bishop over his own tribe by the Patriarch of Jerusalem. These facts indicate that during the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries many Arabs embraced Christianity, especially the tribe of Ghassan, celebrated by Arab historians and poets as devotedly Christian from early times; of this tribe arose the proverb: “They were lords in the days of ignorance and stars of Islam.”
Inscriptions collected in northern Syria by Waddington, de Vogue, Clermont Ganneau, and others indicate Christian elements in the Syro-Arabian population, especially around Bosra. In Origen’s days there were numerous bishoprics south of the Hauran, once grouped in a single synod. By the third century this part of Syro-Arabia was known as the “mother of heresies.” Around 244 Origen converted to orthodoxy Beryllus, Bishop of Bosra, a confessed anti-Trinitarian; two years earlier a provincial synod of Arabia concerning proceedings against Origen decided in his favour. About 215 Origen had travelled to Arabia at the Roman governor’s request, laying his views before him. In 250 he went to Arabia a second time to combat heretics teaching that the soul died with the body but would rise with it on the Judgment Day.
Eusebius’s “Onomasticon” and the Acts of the Council of Nicaea in 325 indicate Christians in Arabia, along the Dead Sea, and around Qariathaim near Madaba. At Nicaea six bishops of the province of Arabia were present: of Bosra, Philadelphia, Jabrudi, Sodom, Betharma, and Dionysias. One tradition makes an Arabian bishop of Zanaatha attend Nicaea. The sheikh-bishop Aspebaetos attended the Council of Ephesus in 431, and his successor Valens became, in 518, a suffragan bishop of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem.
Hira and Its Christian Sects
The Christians of Hira professed both the Nestorian and Monophysite heresies, each sect having its own bishops, churches, and monasteries within the same city. Bishops of Hira—Syriac: Hirtha de Tayyaye, “Hira of the Arabs”—are recorded at councils held in 410, 430, 485, 499, and 588. Around 730 the Diocese of Hira was subdivided into three dioceses with three distinct bishops: of Akula, of Kufa, and of the Arabs or the tribe of Ta‘lab. From 686 to 724, Georgius, the famous Bishop of the Arabs, was still titled Bishop of the Tanukhites, the Tayyaites, and the Akulites—that is, of the tribes of Tanoukh, Tay, and the district of Akula.
South-Arabian Christianity: Himyar, Yemen, and Najran
According to Eusebius, Rufinus, Nicephorus, Theodoret, and others, the Apostle Bartholomew, on his way to India—that is, Ethiopia—preached in Arabia Felix or Yemen, then a commercial country known to the Romans, especially after the expedition of Aelius Gallus, and in constant communication with Abyssinia. Eusebius states that in the second century Pantaenus, master of the Alexandrian school, instructed the Indians; Jerome adds that he was sent by Demetrius, Bishop of Alexandria, at their request for a Christian teacher. Because Greek and Latin writers applied “India” and “Indians” indiscriminately to Parthia, Persia, Media, Ethiopia, Libya, and Arabia, the tradition is at least vague, though the India in question is universally admitted to be Ethiopia, whence the Apostle could easily cross to Yemen, since Ethiopians and Himyarites are linguistically and ethnographically the same race.
According to Nicephorus, Pantaenus’s mission field was among the Jews of Yemen, who had settled in southern Arabia after the ruin of the second Temple to escape Roman persecution. Jerome adds that Pantaenus found among them the Hebrew Gospel of St. Matthew, received from their first Apostle, St. Bartholomew.
Meropius, Ædesius, and Frumentius
Rufinus, Theodoret, and Eusebius assert that under Constantine the Great a Tyrian philosopher, Meropius, set out to visit the Himyarites in Arabia Felix, accompanied by two kinsmen and other disciples. On return they were captured as enemies and slain or made captives, the Himyarites being at war. Two members, Ædesius and Frumentius, were brought before the King of Himyar, who favoured them, appointing the first his cup-bearer and the other custodian of his treasures. At the king’s death the two Christian Tyrians wished to return home but were prevented by the queen regent, who asked them to guard her infant son until he came of age. They obeyed; Frumentius, using his power, sought out scattered Christians in the Himyarite Kingdom, treated them kindly, and built churches and places of worship for them.
When the young king ascended the throne, the two disciples returned to Tyre, where Aedesius was ordained priest. Frumentius went to Alexandria to inform the newly elected bishop Athanasius of Christianity’s condition in Himyar and begged him to send a bishop and priests. Frumentius himself was consecrated bishop and sent with several priests to the Himyarites, where, with the king’s aid and favour, he increased the number of Christians and brought prosperity to the Church. Duchesne remarks that Frumentius’s elevation must have occurred under Constantius, either shortly before 340 or shortly after 346, since Athanasius was then absent from Alexandria; and as the two Tyrians’ stay at the Himyarite court cannot have lasted less than fifteen years, Meropius’s journey must have taken place between 320 and 325. The legend, however, seems to refer to the evangelization of Ethiopia rather than Himyar; if to Himyar, its conversion was only indirect and transitory. Two Arabic writers quoted by Ouseley refer to Frumentius’s mission, saying the Arabs of Najran in Yemen were first converted by a Syrian Christian captured by Arab robbers and taken to their country.
Theophilus’s Embassy and the Close of the Pagan Era
Another mission to Himyar occurred under Constantius, who around 356 chose Bishop Theophilus, the famous deacon of Nicomedia and a zealous Arian, to conduct an embassy to the Himyarite court. Theophilus’s eloquence so impressed the king that he became favourably disposed toward the Christians of his realm and built three churches: one at Dhafar, another at Aden or at Sanaa, and the third at Hormuz, near the Persian Gulf. Since the embassy’s aim was to ask the King of Himyar to grant freedom of worship to Roman citizens in his kingdom, Christianity must have attained a certain importance there. According to Philostorgius, the king himself became a Christian, but this is improbable. Whether Theophilus converted more Himyarites or, as Assemani believes, merely perverted the existing Christian population to Arianism cannot be determined. The latest pagan royal Himyarite inscription bears the date 281.
The Abyssinian Revenge and the Fall of Dhu Nuwas
The news of the Najran massacre settled heavily on Elesbaan, King of Abyssinia, now a fervent Christian who could not let the slaughter of his fellow believers go unanswered. He resolved to avenge the Christian Najranites, to punish the Yemenite Jews, and to exact retribution from Dhu Nuwas himself. With seventy thousand men and a powerful flotilla, he descended on Himyar, invaded Yemen, and put thousands of Jews to the sword. Dhu Nuwas, after a brave fight, was defeated and slain, his army routed, and the fertile land turned into a scene of bloodshed and devastation. Churches that had stood before Dhu Nuwas were rebuilt upon their ruins, and new bishops and priests replaced the martyrs. Esimephaeus, an Abyssinian general, was installed as King of Himyar. During his reign a certain Dhu Giadan, of Dhu Nuwas’s family, attempted a revolt but was defeated. Later the Himyarites, under Abramos—Abraha, a Christian Abyssinian—rose against Esimephaeus. The King of Abyssinia sent an army under his relative Arethas, who was slain by his own soldiers when they went over to Abramos; a second Abyssinian army was likewise destroyed. Abramos became King of Himyar, and from Procopius it is known that after Elesbaan’s death he made peace with the Emperor of Abyssinia and acknowledged his sovereignty.
The Golden Age of South Arabian Christianity
Under Abramos, Christianity in South Arabia enjoyed a season of peace and prosperity. Paying tribute only to the Abyssinian crown and at peace with the Arab tribes, Abraha was loved for his justice and moderation and idolized by Christians for his zeal. Many Jews were baptized, said to have been converted through a public dispute with St. Gregentius, the Arabian Bishop of Dhafar; the Jews were represented by Herban, a learned rabbi, and Christ is said to have appeared in Heaven. Many idolaters sought admission to the Church, benevolent schemes were inaugurated, and foundations were laid for a magnificent cathedral at Sanaa, where a picture of the Madonna is said to have existed, later moved by the Quraishites to the Caaba at Mecca. South-Arabian Christianity in Abramos’s reign, in the first half of the sixth century, seemed on the eve of its Golden Age. The king is said to have framed, with Bishop Gregentius, a code of laws for Himyar, extant in Greek in twenty-three sections; its authenticity is doubted, being more ascetic and monastic than social. The career of St. Gregentius and his relations with Elesbaan, Abramos, and Herban are interwoven with legend. In 550 Abramos’s reign ended disastrously. Arab historians place the event in 570, the year of Mohammed’s birth, but Noeldeke shows this is an ingenious arrangement connecting Islam’s rise with the overthrow of Christian rule in Yemen, which must have occurred at least twenty years earlier. Abramos’s defeat is reported by Mohammedan historians with joy as the “Day of the Elephant,” and Mohammed devoted an entire surah of the Koran to it. This defeat is the last chapter of South-Arabian Christianity and the preface to Mohammed and Islam.
The Caaba, the Church of Sanaa, and the Desecration
Towards the first half of the sixth century the Caaba in Mecca had become the Eleusis of Arabia, visited annually by thousands of Arabs and enriched with presents. Its custodians were of the tribe of Quraish, to which Mohammed belonged, then the most powerful in Hijaz. Abramos beheld with grief the pilgrims worshipping heathen deities at the Caaba and resolved to build a magnificent church at Sanaa to divert their worship. The edifice surpassed the Caaba in splendour. Abramos proclaimed that pilgrims should take the shorter journey to the Christian church of Sanaa. The Quraish were reduced to a precarious financial and politico-religious condition. To avenge themselves and depreciate the church, they hired a man of the Kenanah tribe to defile it with dung, causing Arabs to view the place with horror. The desecration succeeded; the agent fled, spreading news of the profanation. Abramos determined to destroy the tribes of Kenanah and Quraish and to demolish the Caaba. With a powerful army and numerous elephants he invaded Hijaz, defeated hostile tribes, and approached Mecca.
The Day of the Elephant and the Death of Abramos
The chief of Quraish and guardian of the Caaba was Abdul-Muttalib ibn Hashim, Mohammed’s grandfather. He sought peace with Abramos, offering a third of the wealth of Hijaz as ransom for the Caaba; Abramos was inflexible. The inhabitants of Mecca, led by Abdul-Muttalib, took refuge in the neighbouring mountains overhanging the narrow pass. Abramos and his army, entering by the narrow valley and not knowing the heights were occupied by the Quraishites, fell beneath rocks and missiles poured on them and their elephants. Abramos was defeated and retreated; his army was almost annihilated; he returned a fugitive to Sanaa and died soon after of vexation and wounds. Mohammedan writers attribute the defeat to supernatural intervention, like that which defeated Sennacherib’s army at Jerusalem. By this defeat Quraish became supreme. Yaksoum and Masrouq, sons of Abramos, succeeded him in turn, but their power declined so much that they sought alliance with the Sassanian kings of Persia, causing general revolt in southern and central Arabia. In 568, two years before Mohammed’s birth, a Persian expedition invaded Yemen and Oman, ending the Christian Abyssinian rule in South Arabia and clearing the ground for the rise of Islam.
Main Arguments
The central argument that runs through the letters and messages is that the spiritual life is not a matter of abstract theory but of concrete practice, and that the practice of the spiritual life is inseparable from the ordinary circumstances of human existence. Ibn Arabi insists, again and again, that the seeker must not withdraw from the world but must engage with it, finding in the events and relationships of daily life the raw material of spiritual transformation. This is the meaning of his constant emphasis on the “situation” or “occasion” of each letter: the particular circumstances that prompted the writing are not incidental but essential, for it is precisely in those circumstances that the spiritual work is to be done.
A second argument, closely related to the first, is that the spiritual path is a path of knowledge, and that knowledge is not merely intellectual but existential. Ibn Arabi distinguishes between the knowledge that comes from study and the knowledge that comes from direct experience, and he insists that the latter is the goal of the spiritual life. This does not mean that he disparages learning; on the contrary, he is deeply learned himself and expects his correspondents to be learned as well. But he insists that learning is a means, not an end, and that the ultimate goal is a direct encounter with reality that transforms the knower.
A third argument concerns the nature of authority in the spiritual life. Ibn Arabi is often described as a master, and he does exercise authority over his disciples, but he is careful to distinguish between the authority of a teacher and the authority of the truth. The teacher’s role is to guide, to correct, and to encourage, but the teacher cannot compel the disciple to see what he does not see. Ultimately, Ibn Arabi argues, the disciple must rely on his own experience and his own understanding, and the teacher’s authority is legitimate only insofar as it serves the disciple’s growth toward independence.
A fourth argument concerns the relationship between the spiritual life and the religious law. Ibn Arabi is a faithful Muslim, and he insists that the spiritual path is not a departure from the law but a deepening of it. The law, he argues, is the framework within which the spiritual life is lived, and the seeker who neglects the law is not advancing but falling back. At the same time, he recognizes that the law has an outer and an inner dimension, and that the spiritual seeker is called to penetrate from the outer to the inner, discovering the meaning that lies beneath the surface of the legal prescriptions.
A fifth argument concerns the universality of the spiritual path. Ibn Arabi writes to Muslims, and his letters and messages are steeped in the language of the Quran and the Islamic tradition, but he also insists that the truth he is communicating is not confined to Muslims. He recognizes the presence of wisdom in other traditions, and he argues that the seeker should be open to truth wherever it is found. This openness is not a relativism; Ibn Arabi does not believe that all paths are equally valid. But he does believe that the truth is one, and that it manifests itself in different forms according to the capacity of the seeker.
A sixth argument concerns the nature of the self. Ibn Arabi’s spiritual psychology is complex, but one of its central claims is that the self is not a fixed entity but a process, and that the goal of the spiritual life is not to strengthen the self but to transcend it. This transcendence is not annihilation, however; it is a transformation in which the self discovers its true nature as a manifestation of the divine. The letters and messages are full of practical advice on how to achieve this transformation, and they reveal Ibn Arabi’s deep understanding of the psychological obstacles that stand in the way.
A seventh argument concerns the relationship between the spiritual life and the community. Ibn Arabi is not an individualist; he insists that the spiritual path is lived in community, and that the seeker has obligations to others. These obligations include not only the ordinary duties of charity and justice but also the duty to share what one has learned, to teach and to guide others. The letters and messages are themselves an expression of this duty, and they show Ibn Arabi fulfilling it with generosity and patience.
Key Concepts
Several key concepts recur throughout the letters and messages, providing a framework for understanding Ibn Arabi’s teaching. The first is the concept of the “heart” (qalb), which in Ibn Arabi’s usage does not refer to the physical organ or to the emotions but to the center of the human being, the organ of spiritual perception. The heart, he says, is the locus of knowledge, the place where the divine is encountered, and the goal of the spiritual life is to purify the heart so that it can receive this encounter. The heart is also, in Ibn Arabi’s understanding, a kind of mirror, which reflects whatever is placed before it; the task of the seeker is to polish the mirror so that it reflects the divine without distortion.
The second concept is that of the “moment” (waqt), which Ibn Arabi uses to describe the present instant as the locus of spiritual opportunity. The past is gone and the future is not yet; only the present is real, and it is in the present that the seeker must act. This emphasis on the present is one of the most characteristic features of Ibn Arabi’s teaching, and it explains his insistence on the importance of the particular circumstances of each letter. The moment is not an abstract concept but a concrete reality, and the seeker who is attentive to the moment will find in it the guidance he needs.
The third concept is that of the “name” (ism), which in Ibn Arabi’s thought refers to the divine names that are the archetypes of all existence. Each thing in the world is a manifestation of one or more of the divine names, and the seeker’s task is to recognize the name that is manifest in each thing and to respond appropriately. The letters and messages are full of references to the divine names, and they show Ibn Arabi using them as a tool for understanding both the world and the self.
The fourth concept is that of the “imagination” (khayal), which Ibn Arabi understands as the faculty that mediates between the spiritual and the material. The imagination is not, for Ibn Arabi, a source of illusion; it is the faculty that allows the seeker to perceive the spiritual dimension of the material world. Dreams, visions, and symbolic images are all products of the imagination, and they are all, for Ibn Arabi, sources of knowledge. The letters and messages frequently interpret dreams and visions, and they show Ibn Arabi’s skill in reading the symbolic language of the imagination.
The fifth concept is that of the “station” (maqam) and the “state” (hal), which are the two basic categories of spiritual experience in Sufi thought. A station is a permanent achievement, a level of spiritual development that the seeker has attained; a state is a temporary experience, a moment of illumination or consolation that comes and goes. Ibn Arabi uses these concepts to describe the trajectory of the spiritual path, and he warns against confusing the two—against mistaking a temporary state for a permanent station, or against assuming that a station, once attained, cannot be lost.
The sixth concept is that of the “pole” (qutb), which in Ibn Arabi’s thought refers to the spiritual axis of the world, the human being who is the center of the spiritual hierarchy. Ibn Arabi himself was sometimes identified as a pole, and his letters and messages contain references to the pole and to the hierarchy of saints that surrounds him. This concept is important because it shows Ibn Arabi’s understanding of the spiritual life as a cosmic reality, not merely a personal one; the seeker is not alone but is part of a vast network of spiritual beings.
The seventh concept is that of the “union” (ittihad) or “realization” (tahqiq), which is the goal of the spiritual path. Ibn Arabi is careful to distinguish between union and identity; the seeker does not become God, but realizes that he was never separate from God. This realization is not a matter of intellectual understanding but of direct experience, and it transforms the seeker’s relationship to everything in the world. The letters and messages are full of descriptions of this realization, and they show Ibn Arabi’s skill in communicating what is, by its nature, incommunicable.
Themes
The most pervasive theme in the collection is the theme of love. Ibn Arabi is often called the “doctor of love,” and the letters and messages show why. Love, for Ibn Arabi, is not merely an emotion but a cosmic force, the force that binds the world together and draws all things back to their source. The seeker’s task is to cultivate love, to purify it of selfishness and possessiveness, and to allow it to become the motive force of his life. The letters to friends and disciples are full of expressions of affection, and they show Ibn Arabi’s conviction that love is the bond that unites the spiritual community.
A second theme is the theme of longing (shawq), which is closely related to love. Longing is the pain of separation, the desire for union with the beloved, and Ibn Arabi sees it as a necessary stage on the spiritual path. The seeker must feel the pain of separation before he can experience the joy of union, and the letters and messages are full of expressions of longing—for God, for the Prophet, for the friends and places that the author has left behind. This longing is not a weakness but a strength; it is the sign of a heart that has been touched by love.
A third theme is the theme of exile and homesickness. Ibn Arabi spent much of his life away from his native al-Andalus, and the letters and messages are marked by a deep sense of displacement. He writes of his longing for the friends and places of his youth, of his sense of being a stranger in a strange land, and of his hope for a final return. This theme is not merely biographical; it is also spiritual, for Ibn Arabi sees the soul itself as an exile, separated from its true home and longing to return. The letters and messages are thus a meditation on the meaning of exile and the possibility of return.
A fourth theme is the theme of death and resurrection. Ibn Arabi writes frequently of death, both the physical death that awaits every human being and the spiritual death that is the goal of the spiritual path. He sees death not as an end but as a transition, a passage from one form of existence to another, and he urges his correspondents to prepare for it by dying to themselves while they are still alive. The letters and messages are full of consolations for the bereaved, and they show Ibn Arabi’s deep understanding of the grief that accompanies loss.
A fifth theme is the theme of the Prophet Muhammad as the model of the spiritual life. Ibn Arabi was a devoted follower of the Prophet, and his letters and messages are full of references to the Prophet’s life and teachings. He sees the Prophet as the perfect human being, the model that every seeker should imitate, and he urges his correspondents to study the Prophet’s life and to follow his example. The Prophet is also, for Ibn Arabi, the source of the spiritual knowledge that he himself transmits; his authority as a teacher derives from his connection to the Prophet.
A sixth theme is the theme of the community of saints. Ibn Arabi believes that the spiritual life is not a solitary pursuit but a communal one, and he sees himself as part of a vast network of spiritual beings that stretches across time and space. The letters and messages are full of references to other masters and seekers, and they show Ibn Arabi’s sense of connection to a tradition that extends back to the Prophet and forward to the end of time. This theme is important because it shows that Ibn Arabi’s teaching is not a private philosophy but a communal tradition, and that his letters and messages are contributions to that tradition.
A seventh theme is the theme of the relationship between the spiritual and the political. Ibn Arabi lived in a time of political turmoil, and his letters to rulers show that he did not believe the spiritual life could be separated from the political order. He urges rulers to govern with justice and mercy, warns them of the consequences of tyranny, and reminds them of their obligations to the scholars and saints within their domains. This theme is important because it shows that Ibn Arabi’s mysticism is not a withdrawal from the world but an engagement with it, and that his letters and messages are meant to have an effect not only on individuals but on society as a whole.
The Author’s Conclusions
The letters and messages do not culminate in a single conclusion, but they do reveal a consistent set of convictions that Ibn Arabi held throughout his life. The first of these is that the spiritual path is a path of transformation, and that transformation is possible for anyone who undertakes it with sincerity and perseverance. Ibn Arabi does not believe that sanctity is reserved for a spiritual elite; he believes that every human being is called to the spiritual life, and that the differences between people are differences of degree, not of kind.
