Mevlana Jalal’uddin Rumi: His Life and Poetry

by Mark W. Muesse

In the land where he spent the greater portion of his life, the country we today call Turkey, the mystic poet Rumi is scarcely known by that name. The Turks call him Mevlana, or “our master.” “Rumi” is more of nickname than a surname, and it simply means the “Roman” or more accurately, the “Byzantine,” since this part of the world was once the Byzantine Empire, the successor of the East Roman Empire.

But this “Rumi” was not a Roman, or a Byzantine, or even a Turk. He was born in the area of Balkh in present-day Afghanistan, then known as Khorasan, a place bustling with Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and Zoroastrians. Jalal’uddin Rumi was born into this religiously diverse place on 30 September 1207, making him the contemporary of two other great mystics, Francis of Assisi (c. 1182-1226) and Meister Eckhart (c. 1260-1328). Jalal’uddin’s father, Baha’uddin Walad, was an expert in Islamic law and a preacher who tended toward mysticism. Jalal’uddin’s mother died early in his life. He himself was the only one of his father’s several children to survive childhood.

Rumi’s early life was characterized by frequent dislocation. When he was five, the family moved to Samarqand to escape invasion by the Mongols led by Genghis Khan. As the Mongols continued to encroach, Baha’uddin Walad took his family westward. They traveled in this general direction for about a decade, but their precise whereabouts are uncertain. When they reached the Middle East, they likely went on pilgrimage in the holy city of Makkah, to fulfill the requirement incumbent on all Muslims. But if so, Rumi never mentions the pilgrimage in his writings. In fact he seems rather skeptical about traveling for religious purposes.

Oh you who’ve gone on pilgrimage—
where are you, where, oh where?
Here, here is the Beloved!
Oh come now, come, oh come!
Your friend, he is your neighbor,
he is next to your wall—
You erring in the desert—
what air of love is this?
If you’d see the Beloved’s
form without any form—
You are the house, the master,
You are the Kaaba, you!
Where is a bunch of roses,
if you would be this garden?
Where, one soul’s pearly essence
when you’re the Sea of God?
That’s true—and yet your troubles
may turn to treasures rich—
How sad that you yourself veil
the treasure that is yours! 1

Rumi and his family settled for a while in Damascus, a great center of Arabic learning, where Jalal’uddin studied with eminent scholars and poets. The family’s sojourn did not end in Damascus but eventually continued to central Anatolia, in present-day Turkey, where they stayed in Laranda, then part of the Seljukid kingdom. In Laranda, Jalal’uddin married at age 18 and fathered his first child, a son.

Rumi’s early travels would certainly have made him familiar with the caravanserai, the guest house where weary travelers stayed and refreshed, often for months during winter, before proceeding on their journey. In his later poetry, the caravanserai becomes an image encouraging
hospitality toward all life, all experiences:

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond. 2

Eventually, Rumi’s family settled in Konya, the Anatolian capital, once called Iconium when it was part of the Roman Empire. In the 13th century, Konya was becoming a center for refugee scholars and artists under the patronage of the sultan. Konya was also center for Islamic piety, and it still is today. There is a decidedly different atmosphere in Konya than in other parts of Turkey, which are far more secularized.

In Konya, Rumi’s father taught traditional Islamic theology at a madrasa, or seminary. When Baha’uddin died, Rumi assumed his father’s post as a theologian and jurist. Apparently, Jalal’uddin had little or no inkling of his father’s mystical bent, which Baha’uddin may have kept secret from his son.

It also seems that Jalal’uddin himself had no interest in mysticism as a young man. Sufism was rather suspect among orthodox Muslims, and Rumi seems in his early life to have been every bit a conventional Muslim. During this period, in the 1230’s and 1240’s, he led a normal life for a religious scholar, teaching, praying, and helping the poor.

But in October 1244, when he was 37 years old, Rumi had an encounter that would forever change his life. There are several conflicting accounts of this event. One story maintains that on his way home from the madrasa, Rumi met a wandering dervish (Sufi) who asked him a question that impacted him like a Zen koan. There are even different versions of this question, and today we are not certain of its actual content. But it stirred Rumi profoundly.

In another account, Rumi was teaching by a fountain in a square in Konya. The wandering stranger pushed through crowd and tossed into the fountain the books from which Rumi was teaching. When Rumi demanded to know who this stranger was and why he did this, the stranger replied: “You must now live what you have been reading about.” The stranger then turned to the books at the bottom of the fountain and said “We can retrieve them. They’ll be as dry as they were.” He picked one up from the bottom of the fountain, and it was dry. Rumi said “leave them.”
From that moment, Rumi and the stranger, whose name was Shams’uddin of Tabriz, became inseparable companions. Rumi writes, “What I had thought of before as God I met today in a human being.” Rumi and Shams were literally inseparable for the next several months.

What took place between them during this time is not altogether clear; later, Rumi would speak of that time as being transported into sphere of Divine Love. They isolated themselves from the rest of the world to enjoy this deep communion (sohbet), much to the consternation of Rumi’s family and students. Rumi was so rapt in this experience with Shams that he totally neglected his teaching and family responsibilities.

Shams, apparently, was not such an easy person to get along with. He was reputedly rather arrogant with a sharp tongue. He even said himself that he prayed to find a single person who could bear his company and was thus “directed to Anatolia.” In spite of Shams personal qualities, it is clear that Rumi encountered in him the very embodiment of the divine itself. Rumi writes:

It is not right that I should call you human [banda, servant]
But I am afraid to call you God [khuda]! (Diwan-i 2768).

Shamsulhaqq [Sun of Divine Truth],
if I see in your clear mirrorNothing but God,
I am worse than an infidel! (Diwan-i 1027).

Whether it be infidelity or Islam, listen:
You are either the light of God or God,
[khuda]! (Diwan-i 2711). 3

To understand the scandalous nature of these verses, one needs to know that idolatry is the highest sin in Islam. To Muslims idolatry is shirk, associating God with something that is not God. When Rumi compares Shams to God, he could commit no greater sin from the conventional point of view.

Thus it is not surprising that Rumi’s family and students were extremely suspicious of the mysterious Shams. He was probably not very likeable, and he seemed to be leading Rumi towards heresy. Shams must have caught drift of their suspicion because one day he simply disappeared without warning, after about a year with Rumi. Rumi was devastated by the loss.

Yet, it is at this point that his transformation began to accelerate. Rumi became a poet. He began spontaneously to sing and whirl, and he himself did not understand why this happened. He maintained that he was not the author of the verses that began pouring forth from his mouth.

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