The meat of the sandwich is comprised of three related forms of sadness. I am overwhelmed with grief and a sense of mourning, for the loss of someone so precious and the understanding that there will be no further opportunities to stand or sit in his presence, converse with him, and to feel emanating from his being the intensity of intelligence, compassion, concern for others rather than for himself, genuine and profound humility, and, simply put, charisma that I have had the privilege of experiencing a handful of times within the past decade. 

That sense of personal grief and sadness is accompanied by my sense of empathy for all of the tens of thousands of individuals beyond myself, near and far, who have been swept up by the wonder of Fethullah Gülen—his words, his actions, his vision—who like me will be bereft of the chance to feel his concrete presence nearby again. More subtle is the sense of mourning for all of those younger people who are drawn to the values, principles, and teachings associated with Hocaefendi who had not yet met him in person and who will be deprived of that opportunity. Who can calculate the numbers of these, going into the future?

This treble sense of grief is, however, sandwiched between two joyful outer slices of fresh, sweet-smelling and -tasting emotional bread. I am joyful on Hocaefendi’s behalf that he has returned to the Beloved Source. His is a return that—in the manner in which he was his own kind of Sufi—has been his ultimate goal; it is a return yearned for as a terminus of and reward for accomplishing his divinely-appointed task: of shaping and shepherding hizmet within our human realm. That yearning and return—and the tears he so often shed in this world of ours—make me think of the words from the Mesnevi (Bk I) of Jelaluddin Rumi, which resonate, together with so many other words and concepts, from that wondrous 13^th-century Sufi poet with whom Hocaefendi shared such a unique spiritual relationship:

Listen to the story told by the reed,
of being separated:
“Since I was cut from the reedbed,
I have made this crying sound.
Anyone apart from someone he loves
understands what I say.
Anyone pulled from a source,
longs to go back…”

Like Rumi and other Sufis, Hocaefendi is that reed, pulled as we all are at birth from the divine reedbed—and longing to return to it. The Sufi who longs for being reunited in Love with God believes that God longs to be reunited with the Sufi: the lover and the beloved are the beloved and the lover….

If joy on his behalf for his happy return to the reedbed is one outer part of my emotional sandwich, the other is both drawn from the same words of Rumi and transcends them. For we who have sought to further Hocaefendi’s work and his vision are the reed bereft of him: he is the loving and beloved reedbed from which we have been forcibly cut off—but we are also the ongoing fulfillment of his vision. I rejoice when I consider all around me—in the Washington, DC area where I live and out to the four corners of the world that I have visited—the countless members of the Hizmet Movement who are engaged in good works inspired by him and by his vision. These extend from shaping exemplary schools in thousands of locations, often (even in the United States) where schools, much less fine schools, are not easily established; to helping provide clean water in remote African villages where clean water is not easily found nearby; to an ever-expanding number of interfaith and multicultural programs that bring people “of diverse tribes” together so that they “can get to know one another.”

The broken-off reed that is silent begins to make beautiful music when the breath of life is breathed into it: it is at once God’s spirit animating the hizmet-filled life of Hocaefendi and also his myriad followers, inspirited by his ideas, whose lives have been animated by the breath of his, Hocaefendi’s, teachings, to bring musical harmony into the world. I rejoice as I consider the splendid role that the Hizmet Movement is playing—and how, in the immediate aftermath of Hocaefendi’s Transition, its members were drawn together more warmly than ever—and I smile with a sense of the extraordinary and beautiful future of hizmet that will make him smile as he observes us moving forward to be part of the process of helping to perfect the world in an ongoing and loving partnership with the Beloved Source to which he has himself just returned.

September 25, 2013 – I am heartbroken by the senseless terrorist attack in Kenya and the loss of lives and horrific injuries to so many innocent people. In the eyes of God, every life is sacred and every person has dignity. The taking of a single human life is an attack on all humankind.

I deplore these revolting acts of terrorism, which serve no purpose but to bring about destruction, sorrow and grief. I reiterate my condemnation of all forms of terror regardless of its perpetrators and their stated purposes. The criminals must be brought to justice even though that will do little to mitigate the cruelty inflicted on victims and their families.

I extend my heartfelt prayers to the injured, the families of the deceased and all of the people of Kenya. I ask God the Merciful to guide us all expediently into a world of mutual respect and peace. (read full statement: http://www.afsv.org/press-releases/)

A mysterious program
Far beyond our reasoning,
The ones open to mysteries
Never fall on their knees.
Do have the faith, then,
Never be felled by confusion!

Close not your eyes to the beauty
Do not be stuck in the ugly!
Behold Him as mountains do the sun!
Watch ever for His Holy Light,
Put the darkness aside!

Keep whirling within the phenomena
As the sage do!
Glimpse the good sides of both
pleasure and grief

Relinquish gloom and worry
If your willpower is bustling
Become the spring of hope for all,
If you can!

Till the seekers of a tranquil corner
Shall run to you;
And those joining your aura
Shall overflow with fervent happiness.

Certainly, the future must never be forgotten; we should always accept it as the basis for projects of construction and revival in accordance with the pattern of our shared spirit, and we should respect it. Our great past too must be remembered in a positive way; it should be considered as a reference for the sake of spiritual roots. Alongside all of this, however, we must value most highly the time in which we find ourselves and use it scrupulously. To my mind, this is the right way for some to escape the feeling of constriction which is compressing and suffocating them. For, seeking refuge in tales of the past in a pessimistic mood and cherishing inconsistent dreams about the future while ignoring facts will lead us nowhere at all. Until now, such dreams have served no purpose other than worsening our longings, our grief, and disappointment.

How bitter it is that some just waste away their lives in a tide of vain fancies, instead of overcoming the constriction and tedium of their situation by strengthening their faith and relationship with God. This life is so short and limited for people like that; it has neither width nor depth enough to satisfy their aspirations, nor does it promise any hope in terms of the immensity of human feelings. Life is extremely unreliable; it can neither be quenched, nor does it consent to feed others till they are satisfied. It is not clear whether you can really possess it. You carry it on your shoulders for a lifetime, and then it just departs at an unknown turn without bidding farewell. Yes, no one holds a promissory note showing how long they will spend in this world. It is uncertain whether we can really rely on that term we all know, “average life expectancy.” Any morning or evening, or any other time of the day, while minding our own business, or preoccupied with something, unaware of the surprise to come, while walking down the street, without being given a chance to organize ourselves, we can suddenly just be dismissed from this world. As Yunus Emre, the Sufi poet, says,

They will put you in a coffin,
And lower it into darkness,
Without anybody going along with you,
You will be committed to the ground.

Everything finishes for us as we go into the grave; we make a break with what we have left behind, everything, including all our belongings and our children. Those who are still alive, crying out in their grief or running to the funeral, are faced with nothingness.

Oddly enough, we never take this end into account. In this respect, a particular life, a combination of a thousand factors, which has continued up to a certain day and which was expected to come to a result, is never possible again. Now, the book of personal accounts is closed, and a new stage in the accounting procedures, over and above all others, begins. We can call it the farewell to everything: to life, to beauty, to what we enjoy so much, to all the hopes and expectations which are now setting.

In this state, where all desires fade away, where all dreams vanish, where all hopes subside, where all sadness grows darker, and where all ideals turn into a broken dream, any person-no matter who-will feel thoroughly shaken. Maybe they fall to their knees, but there is not much that can be done anymore. As they see themselves topple over and be buried under the ground, they become gloomily pensive, moaning in desperation and sweating with the thought that they too will perish like everything else; they moan as their crystal palaces shatter, as their dreams are overturned and as joyful laughter, loving and being loved, and enjoyment of life all come to an end. Now the winds of autumn moan within their soul, and to them, every gusting wind sounds out the emptying of life everywhere. With such a feeling of emptiness, all the philosophies, civilizations, and cultures which we can describe as the order that is woven from common feelings, thoughts and the experiences of millions-maybe billions-of people, merely flow into the same vague and indefinite void. Newcomers are no more than shadows and those departing disappear into disordered dreams. Hollow frames, blurry lines, and cold absence replace all vital activities and all that which once seemed rose-colored.

The beauties which were always enwrapped in colors no longer shine, neither is there a sign of the brilliant faces, nor a trace of the tempting attractions he or she once knew; now the end of this fleeting world is apparent, and the most lovely faces are like autumn leaves on the path that has been stamped out by non-existence.

To some, the cavities opened in a person’s soul by death are so deep that, just as all souls who set off to such a void quake at their own non-existence, they too are startled by other people, nations, and even all existences and universes that pour into nothingness; they go through horrors. These people always play tunes of longing and grief; woeful sighs are heard around them all the time. Their dark atmosphere echoes with complaints about having come to this wilderness.

Be they young or old, such grief and disappointment are inevitable for those who lead a life confined to the limits of the body and the material world. Alcohol, gambling, entertainment, and leading a heedless life may provide some with temporary comfort in a state of oblivion, but they hold absolutely nothing to offer in the name of happiness. On the contrary, the usual condition of those who are addicted to such activities is nothing but stress, madness, misery, and frenzy. They writhe in successive afflictions every moment; they constantly suffer the darkest moods and enter delirious states.

Faith, hope, and breadth of conscience are what free people from their own constraints and carry them round the comforting and spacious realms of the soul; they enable everybody to take a relieving breath by dispersing the haze and clouds of heresy, unbelief, doubt, and hesitation; they turn dungeons into palaces and make one aware of the heavenly breezes; they elevate petty humankind to an expanse equal to and even transcending universes.

Whether it will be possible to explain this to those who are entangled in bodily existence and unable to see the vastness within their souls, I do not know.

expressing joy and grief, hope and despair.

When consumed with pangs of separation, melting like candle,

man breathes in tears and speaks in tears.

A time comes when man rejoices child-like with tears of joy,

as he sees dawn begin to break all over the world.

At another time he burns with inward sorrow, like a furnace,

when his horizons are clouded over with grief.

Tears are water of life putting out fires,

A membrane protective against the fire of Hell.

By tears ideals find their realization in the outer world;

by tears the arid world changes into gardens.

An eye sincerely tearful is like an eye vigilant at the front.

Eyes shedding tears for god’s sake do not see Hellfire.

The shedding of tears sounds the depths of desire.

Only they perceive this who sense god inwardly.

I am always gloomy with sorrowful tidings;

My loved ones are ‘flying away’ one after another.

My feelings are hurt, my eyes filled with tears,

Springs come only to terminate in autumn!

Life means hardship, and when you reach fifty-five,

desires are no more; ambitions fall like yellow leaves;

limbs and organs become enfeebled for the unknown end,

and you feel the last stop is only a little way ahead.

On the horizon is either blood or an eternal light,

towards which believing souls walk without pausing;

whatever is promised-happy or unhappy-will be revealed:

some faces pitch-dark, and others bright with joy.

I am utterly at a loss, my head between my hands,

for fear that my flowers of hope should be frost-bitten;

I do not know how near I am to the final end,

but feel my spirit whispering to the Angel of Death.

We are, all together, on a way surrendered

to the music of eternity, with our spirits

like butterflies flying upward to eternity,

and yielding to the most pleasant of declines.

The spirit, like a flute, weeps bitterly a whole lifetime;

neither its exile nor period of vanishing comes to an end….

It travels ceaselessly in crazy pursuit of Him, with eyes

strained by sorrows of separation and a heart beating fast.

***

Shed tears, O eyes, so that the sun may rise and set

over the streams formed of the tears you let fall!

Weep so that ‘Niles’ may flow in valleys, and fires enveloping Abraham

may be put out, and spells broken with the Staff of truth!

Weep so that the mountain said to surround the world may sunder

and water of life gush therefrom, and the dead be revived;

Weep so that the chains around the will may be broken,

and the cavalry of dawn come galloping one after the other!

Grief of separation consumes the lover, and yet

even in gloomiest hours, he never despairs of ‘spring’;

journeying from desert to desert amid bitter tears

in ever-constant hope of the union he desires.

He weeps from deep within a heart like embers,

always alert and on the move as if chasing gazelle,

drunk upon hope of the beloved who eludes him

and whom he finds again in his nightly dreams.

Phantoms of anxiety beset his spirit, on his face

now joy shines like sunrise, now sunset gloom;

at times the door is ajar on a far landscape just

perceptible, it’s colours and tones hinting Paradise.

A moment comes when despair overwhelms and hope

seems unrecoverable, and then another when dawn breaks

in perfumed brightness. At times he withers like leaves,

melts like candles, and his sobbing his heard from afar.

Even then, in never-ending autumn, the root of his desire

flowers in hope, he transforms the grief of separation

into longing music, makes deepest wells of sorrow

brim with joy, celebrating the immortality of Love.

In the deep wells of his eyes a meaning settles

from the eternal life and is present in his looks and smile;

his feelings sound the depths of eternity, then flow out

like soil-enriching river floods or fertile winds.

Whoever truly loves understands love is everything;

that it may be either fatal poison or elixir of life;

but whoever loves the Truth and pursues the ways

to the Eternal Being knows it as inspiration, as life.

***

The nightingale sings in gardens secluded.

Each of its tunes sounds like the whistling wind

To those seen as foreigners in their native land.

It cries, like my ceaseless wails and laments,

Each resonates, high and low through the slopes

It bemoans all night until the sun rises,

Each breath comes out as a burning sigh.

On virgin trees untouched by man’s hand

It groans unceasingly for a lifetime,

And shed tears, full of grief; but who is there

To appreciate it, to sympathize with its pains?