“It’s very hard to grow a tree,” he said. “Just like it’s very hard to grow a person.”

“Well” my brother said, “if you and mom could grow me, I can grow a tree.” He was eleven at the time.

By the end of the summer, only one of his sprouts was still alive. He’d forgotten what kind of tree it was – in his enthusiasm, he hadn’t time for labels. On a Sunday in early September, after church, my family went out to our backyard with hand shovels and a rake. On our hands and knees, we took turns digging in the soft, wet earth. It was a warm day, and the late-season sun spilled like gold filigree through the leaves of our large oak tree. My brother and father, rich earth worked into the fissures of their hands, tenderly planted the sapling. I could tell, by my father’s face, that he didn’t give the tree a chance. But my brother believed completely, and when the planting was finished to his satisfaction, he stood and said a prayer, a brief benediction and blessing for our house.

He spent that autumn tending to the sapling. He would water it daily, and measure its progress with a ruler. Against all odds, it continued to grow.

So, too, did my brother. As the years passed, and the tree grew thicker, my brother grew taller. He fell in love, had his heart broken, lost his way. By the time he left home, seven years later, the tree had grown into a healthy, albeit small, tree. It had claimed its unceremonious space in our backyard. But it hadn’t borne fruit, and we had mostly forgotten to notice that the tree was there. We still had no idea what kind of tree it was.

“A defective tree,” my father said one night, bitterly. “A tree incapable of growing fruit.” My brother had been gone a year then, and we heard word of him sparingly – a postcard from Louisiana, or a phone call from a hotel in Oklahoma. I left home the next year. I took my first trip to Paris, where I fell in love with the city, and a woman, my future wife. Another year passed, and my brother and I did not speak.

When I received word that my brother had died in a car crash in Texas, I was living in the south of Spain with my wife. She was pregnant by then, a small sapling growing inside her, and when I hung up the phone on my father, the first thing I thought of was what my brother had said all those years before: There’s a whole tree in this little seed. I looked at her and thought: There’s a whole person in this little seed. Then, naturally, I cried.

It was late June. We arrived in Philadelphia just in time for the funeral. It was a small affair at a church outside the city, on a small plot of land overlooking a creek. The grave had already been dug, the fresh earth piled high beside it. I remembered my brother’s small hands, their crevices grooved with dirt. Afterwards we returned to our house. It had grown quiet in the years since my brother and I had left, and my parents would soon sell it.

That night at dusk, my father took me out to the backyard. “I have something to show you,” he said. We walked barefoot through the grass, the cicadas murmuring in the dense, sultry summer air. When we got to my brother’s tree, I noticed something moist and wet beneath my foot. I knelt down. It was a plum. There were plums all over the ground, and more on the tree.

“It’s the first year it blossomed,” my father said. “I couldn’t believe it.”

We roamed through the gloaming, prospecting the luscious, purple globes from the low branches, biting into the soft flesh, the juices spilling down our chins. They tasted good. As I ate, I picked out the seeds, put a few of them in my pocket. They came with me on the plane back to Spain. I planted them in cups all over our house, much to my wife’s amusement. I watered them diligently, checked them daily for growth. When we planted one of the seedlings at the end of the summer, my wife’s stomach was already large, and while I worked in the earth, she sat on our porch and watched. “It will never grow,” she called out to me. “Seedlings never grow.”

As I write this, our son is playing in our backyard, his small, growing body shaded by the small, growing branches of a plum sapling.

The Fountain was being published in German as Die Fontäne, in Russian as Noviye Grani, in Arabic as Hira, and in Turkish as Sızıntı for quite many years, and now two major languages—Spanish and French-spoken by large populations of the world are coming into scope (Both magazines were released a year ago; Revista Cascada started online, it is now available in print).

Ebru started off this year with a remarkable gala followed by a symposium early February in Dakar, Senegal. Honored by the Prime Minister Abdoul Mbaye, the gala featured several ministers, academics, and community leaders, not only from Senegal but all over from thirty countries, who came to witness yet another initiative inspired by Fethullah Gülen. Most of the participants were already familiar with this name either through successful schools that are run in partnership with Turkish entrepreneurs and educators or through dialogue activities by foundations like ATSA, (Atlantique Turquie-Sénégal Association Pour le Dialogue Culturelle Entre Les Civilisations) which was one of the organizers of the event. This was not the first time Senegal met the Hizmet / Gülen Movement; Yavuz Selim Colleges have been open in this country since 1997 with a well-deserved reputation for academic excellence. We congratulate Ebru for this great start, and hope Revista Cascada will soon carry the banner to the expansive territories of Cervantes.

The Fountain features in this issue contributors from India, Pakistan, Turkey, Italy, and United States. Mohammad Aleem from India reviews Fethullah Gülen’s masterpiece “The Messenger of God: Muhammad.” Aleem, who also translated the book into Hindi, praises the work as follows: “Any person who enjoys reading would not be able to keep himself or herself unmoved if he or she gets the chance to go through such an emphasis made in this book encouraging readers to try their best to emulate the Prophet in every possible way and guide them to become a human as God has envisaged for them so that they can understand the intricacies of this world and the next.”

Seema Arif from Pakistan takes us on a thoughtful journey into the challenges of the present conditions of life. She questions on what modernism and post-modernism have brought into our lives when she says, “In search of the “theory of everything,” we have almost forgotten all good and great theories and ideas about everything, leading us to skepticism and unbelief.”

Rev. Dr. Pachomius Okogie from Italy presents a wonderful metaphor of the “horizon” as an endless opportunity for liberation: “Because the horizon has power to liberate us from the present, the immediate, the obvious. … With the horizon, there are no closed doors, no human being is a finished project, no done deal, no finished once-and-for-all discussions, no insurmountable barriers. The horizon’s open field stretches into infinity.”

Finally, Katharine Branning from USA sets on our table a delicious and beautifully garnished salad from the wise server of a local deli she frequents for lunch. In this thoughtful memoir from an ordinary working day in New York, you will find a feast of wisdom, as healthy a nourishment for the heart as a freshly mixed green salad.

How generous of us. How condescending, actually! It implies that I can bear up under the difference which is exemplified in the other: I won’t criticize you openly or make comments, but deep down, I know you to be “different” and myself to be virtuous and probably superior. I may catch myself, when speaking of someone I actually do not like, saying politely: “Well, she’s different.” With that comment, I am off the hook. I refrain from telling you I reject this person. But “different” here may support a polite tolerance, yet it harbors an inner rejection.

So can we count tolerance a virtue? Perhaps developing tolerance is a stepping stone to something deeper? It might be the beginning of wisdom and exemplify a necessary patience with what feels painful, uncomfortable, unfamiliar, possibly frightening, in fact “foreign” to us. “Unfamiliar,” literally means: Not of my family. I am ill at ease with this because I do not know it. It is not part of my family, my tribe, my beliefs, my language, my religion, my race. In the spirit of tolerance, I might begin to open myself to tasting, hearing, learning something about that which is not “ours.” It is a beginning, but it still holds fast to the comfort of what it knows and only tolerates what it cannot fully accept.

Still, we have all had the expansive experience of traveling outside our zones of comfort and making a new relationship. We have launched a friendship with someone who seems unlike us.

An obviously poor man has taken charge of the garden plot next to mine in our neighborhood community garden. Perhaps he is homeless? He rattles up to the garden on a dilapidated bicycle. His clothes are worn and he has a scruffy look. His nails are dirty and that might be because he has been working his plot. I sense a certain unease in myself as we scratch the soil in our plots. Part of me fears him. That might be because I feel guilty about the growing number of homeless who make camps under the overpasses in my neighborhood. I can let my mind race with objections: They might bring disease. They certainly clutter the surroundings with litter. What if, in their need, they take what they want from yards and sheds? And the police told us recently they found a cache of machetes, sticks and knives in the park behind us. Oh, I can build dungeons in the sky as fast as anyone.

But to be honest, deep down, I would dread being homeless myself and in this economy… my mind races. How much of this is all our responsibility? Other members of the community garden, I notice, walk well out of his way. Sometimes they whisper to one another making comments about their discomfort.

But this is, after all, a Community garden! What does that really mean. If you sign up and pay the nominal fee to tend a plot and use the garden tools, this man has a right to be here. So the gardeners put up a front of tolerance. “We shall see. We’ll give him a chance.”

Tolerance invites us to stand before the unfamiliar and allow-but it still has no relationship to the ability to be empathic. Empathy is a vulnerable frame of being. It is to feel with what is “other” or different. Tolerance does not yet stand in the shoes of the other, knowing exactly what it feels like to be that person, living into a sense of that person’s culture, situation, history, biology, with those talents, bearing those wounds or offering those gifts.

Empathy would be the greater quality to embrace and cultivate in ourselves if we want to conduct real dialogue. Empathy is a quality that comes with maturity, practice, humility, a vulnerable openness and, of course, prayer. There is nothing guarded, “tolerant” or superior about it.

“Hey!” Two of us greet the man one morning as we hoe our plants. What’s your name? What have you just planted there? I make a point of walking over there and taking responsibility for my own feelings, I try to make contact with the fellow devoid of my prejudices. I am not an extroverted, chatty person to begin with, so it takes a concerted effort on my part to walk over there, discuss our gardens, and share our experiences.

Dempsey is his name. He does indeed live at the homeless shelter downtown and bikes up hill here to work his plot. He has lost the place he once lived. There is a story hiding in him. Turns out he knows quite a bit about the soil and gardening. He introduces me to his beloved collards. I show him my chard and spinach. Eventually we share some of our produce and though I do not take a shine to his collards, no matter how I try, I feel somehow honored by his generosity.

He has a plan. Even a vision. If he can grow enough produce, he will bring it to the kitchens at his shelter. As a kid, he had gardens which he and his mom tended. When everything in a row turns ripe and ready at once, it is quite an armful and he would like to make a contribution to his shelter. He has more plans. There is some land at the back of the shelter that, if he can convince them, he would like to turn into gardens that the homeless can help cultivate. Right now it is just a dumping ground for old bottles and litter.

“Of course, we’d need to contain the kitchen waste for compost first to get some soil. Gardening is more about making good soil than about growing plants!”

Before long, I am hearing amazing things from Dempsey. What if I had avoided him in my fear, guilt, and prejudice?

I think about my feelings against his reality. When we were young and growing up, we all made choices: We chose this over that, we chose right over wrong. We chose right over left and light over dark. We learned not to talk to strangers or to walk in certain neighborhoods. All the world is split in halves and with our choices we made judgments to match. We learned to define ourselves in a certain way, convinced that we have chosen the better part and have left “the other,” the misguided, the sinful, the messy, and unenlightened behind. This is how we formed our identity. With this we were approved of by our families and accepted by our tribe. It was, perhaps, a necessary developmental process.

In time, we may become so comfortable in this identity that it takes wisdom and maturity to discover that the world isn’t so black and white as we would like to define it. Our “black and white mentality” is often acted out literally. Here in America, we have suffered and visited great suffering on people of color deeming white to be more worthy than black. Getting stuck at this stage of development has literally given advantage, education and wealth to whites and this on the backs of those we first imported as slaves to our country and then continued to enslave in our intolerance, injustice and rejection.

Everywhere in the world, we have seen these simplistic conflicts bloom and fester causing injustice, war, and dreadful human misery. Tolerance, then, might be the first step to healing an unjust society but then, it has to develop further, into a true virtue.

Empathy-that true virtue-allows us to viscerally feel with the other and learn a third way which stands over and above the simplicity of a merely “black and white” mentality. Perhaps fundamental rights and wrongs may well be necessary to growing up and learning to become someone.

But fundamentalism is essentially an unripe process in becoming whole, holy, and healthy. It is a spiritual and psychological immaturity. Becoming whole, empathic with “the other” and more than merely “tolerant” of the other requires that we make friends with the deepest part of our own inner selves first. The dark aspects of our own unconscious, which lie under our conscious choices and awareness, are alive and well and sometimes pop out in actions, prejudices, paranoia, and selfish behaviors that actually shock us, surprising ourselves! Where did THAT come from? The impromptu snub? That slip-of-the-tongue? Getting to know what you’d rather repress in yourself takes that washing, even symbolic washing, which takes off the accretions of only “looking good.” To reach into our depth we ask for the graces of God and the courage to know ourselves.

Dempsey proves to be a gifted gardener. Unlike many of us city-slickers who find the idea of gardening a nice, romantic concept, Dempsey knows how to lean into his work and stick with it. He puts a hand to our compost pile and gives me information on the chemistry of compost. He LOVES the compost. And I begin to be enamored with the beauty of this transforming pile of brush and leaves as they become mulch and then good, black earth. It takes time. It takes patience. The vegetable scraps and brush, the kitchen scraps that we reject and find, in fact, revolting as they mold and decompose, become, in time, something so rich and beautiful that I hold a palm full in my hand and run it through my fingers. Dempsey laughs at me. He knows that I have come around. I encourage him to share his knowledge at our garden meetings. Dempsey becomes a valuable member of the garden. And he becomes a friend.

Like the compost, I dig deep into my own unconscious and all that I have deemed objectionable, I take into my awareness. I get to know myself a little more. I get to appreciate what I otherwise throw out and bury out of sight-out of my consciousness-and I find it necessary as the very “ground of my being.” It is a spiritual, a holy exercise. Also the parts of society that I might only tolerate, I take into my awareness and with prayer and God’s grace, I watch the rejected become a valuable source and a piece of God’s holy plan and puzzle.

Richard Rohr, OFM put it this way:

With prayer we change sides from the inside-from a power position to the position of vulnerability and solidarity, which gradually changes everything. Because now we are allowing ourselves to change and grow!
Once we are freed from our paranoia, from the narcissism that thinks we are the center of the world, or from our belief that thinks our rights and dignity have to be defended before other people’s rights and dignity, only then can we finally live and act with any justice or truth. Once these blockages are taken away from us-and that is what prayer does-then we just have to be offered a few guiding statements on social justice or other thorny issues-and we tend to get it for ourselves. We start being drawn by love…

For it is common practice in the human condition to take everything we fear, hate, deny about ourselves and “throw it in the waste bin.” We have, unwittingly, put “the other” in that same place of rejection and waste.

On the other hand, we also project everything we admire onto “the hero” as well. The adolescent makes heroes of the athlete, the rock star, the film star, the super model and decorates her bedroom with their posters. Meanwhile, the adults lean on their gurus, their preachers, their wise men, their favorite politicians and hope to vote in their hero as president and savior-of-the-nation. Our heroes, just like our shadow figures about whom we are passionate, are really aspects of ourselves which we are invited to come to know. These are abilities, virtues, talents, beauties, braveries, and wisdoms that we have not yet met in our own deepest selves but have “found” by projecting them on our heroes. What national leader can be the savior that delivers us from debt, from our enemies, from hunger? Over and over and at every election, we project on “the man who would be king,” and within months, because he is merely human, the populace has become disenchanted if not duped!

Samuel, in Hebrew Scripture, warns of turning away from God in favor of a king (1 Samuel 8). Israel wanted a leader like the other nations. But Samuel issues a final warning (1 Samuel 12:14) “If God’s people will remain faithful to God’s Commandments” and keep God as their ruler.

When our loves and our hates are visceral and passionate, we must take these deep emotions as invitations to examine our SELVES first. By truly “knowing ourselves” deeply, we are able to develop empathy-knowing “the other.” Then we learn to accept the dark and light aspect of our deepest self. We learn to embrace everyone. Our tolerance becomes empathy, even love! Rumi’s teaching often showed that love and empathy is the very path to spiritual growth and insight. Broadly tolerant of every person and all faiths he says:

Whoever you may be, come
Even though you may be
An infidel, a pagan, or a fire-worshipper, come
Our brotherhood is not one of despair
Even though you have broken
Your vows of repentance a hundred times, come.

Life is certain to dish up for us, family members, neighbors, people, situations, religions, countries-myriad experiences that are really invitations to rattle us out of our cozy dualistic and judgmental lives. May we grow surely and bravely from being merely tolerant into fully human beings who are steeped in empathy. Every dualist split that rends us apart personally and tears us one from the other would be healed. The same God reigns over and above us all. The same God guides us. The same God loves us all. The same God is the very ground of our being. Tolerance is only a start on the path to love and empathy.

Gertrud Mueller Nelson is an author, artist and retired teacher. She has illustrated and written nine books. She lives in California.

Gulen’s book promises to show that Path by describing it and through the example of a teacher who personifies the human struggle for perfection. It is no ordinary path that the book under review describes. It is the Sufi path that leads an aspirant to the goal of perfecting oneself by conquering the lower self and orienting it toward the Self: God. Sufism teaches a moral process that must be undertaken by all who seek to be purified and admitted into the state of perfected personhood. Gulen takes the aspirant through this journey of self-discipline to attain the self- hood, in which God reflects His own attributes. This is the journey that is willingly undertaken to become a mirror that reflects Divine qualities as they are lived in human society-compassion and love, forgiveness and magnanimity.

In the chapter on the origins of Sufism, Gulen does not simply delineate the historical development of the spiritual movement in Islam. He also engages the reader, in a style that befits his own position as a practicing master, by anchoring Sufism appropriately in the Qur’an and Sunna and showing the indispensable connection between the Sufism and the Shari’ah. The goals of the Sufi path and the Shari’ah are identical in the sense that Islam, as a religion, inculcates virtues that lead to obedience of the Merciful Creator, with a deeper spiritual and intellectual awareness and commitment. There is a realistic assessment of human religiosity in the section in which Gulen states that Sufis divide people into three groups: perfected ones, aspirants, and lay believers who “cling heavily to the earth.”

The Sufi path, that begins with “turning toward God,” lists all the states and stages in the psychological and spiritual development of the God-loving and human-caring personality of a novice. Whether it is a virtue or a state, Gulen describes it in detail to make it accessible for the one who wishes to understand these stations directly derived from the teachings of the Qur’an and the Sunna. The relevance of each state is underscored by the poems of some Sufi masters, especially those of Rumi, that have captured the essential meaning of these states in human spiritual and moral development.

The arrangement of these stations is not hierarchical, in that they do not require the aspirant to go through the path in the order adopted by Gulen. Rather, the author seeks to provide each station and stage as a point of entry on the path, which resembles a river that can be entered from any point and journeyed to reach the Final Source: God. In a way, Gulen follows Mawlana Rumi in inviting the aspirant at any stage of his or her spiritual development to join the travelers on the path of God’s Love through love for God’s creation and creatures-the life of harmony and peace. The book is a welcome, original addition to the growing literature on the Islamic Sufi tradition.

Abdulaziz Sachedina
Department of Religious Studies
University of Virginia

In this issue, we address the effect of rapid technological development on our society. One of the most recent and unexpected examples is the phenomenal spread of the Internet. We are becoming even more of a global village than we were in the 1960s, when Marshall McLuhan first coined the term. From the comfort of our living room or office, we can click a button and read foreign newspapers and magazines, study languages, and learn about other cultures.

But such access has its disadvantages: sexually explicit Web sites, chat rooms where people are not what they seen, and violent and ultra-violent video games that can be downloaded. Thus, a still hotly debated issue concerning the entertainment industry now includes the Internet.

With all the talk in Washington about censoring or somehow controlling the Internet’s content, one wonders if one day we will have an equivalent of Breen’s Code, one of the few successful attempts to force Hollywood to produce ‘socially acceptable’ entertainment. Demands for such codes are growing, as more people become fed up with rap and gangsta rap music, ultra-violent video games, the use of sex to sell everything, and programs ridiculing traditional social and moral values.

As our world becomes smaller, we must deal with people who are not like us. To do this to everyone’s benefit, we need to understand other people’s worldviews, religions, histories, cultures, role models, and so on. As Islam is the fastest growing religion in America today, we offer an Islamic perspective on several core Christian beliefs.

Such technological progress has given us increased opportunities for arm-chair travelling. No longer do we have to spend years travelling, as did Ibn Battuta and Marco Polo. We can simply turn on the Travel Channel or the Internet and find whatever we want. But many people are actually travelling, whether as migrants or refugees, with the intention of settling somewhere else. As pointed out in our book review, such a phenomenon simultaneously represents a cultural homogenization and a cultural heterogenization.

Technological developments also have proliferated in science. Humanity has landed on the moon, sent unmanned probes to study other planets and asteroids, and continues to add to our knowledge of our own planet and its inhabitants. This has all been accomplished in the name of objective and value-free science.

But, as one of our authors reminds us, science is as not as ‘objective’ as it seems, for scientists are human. For example, when asked to explain why he had not considered the possibility that God could use evolution to create diverse life forms, Darwin replied that he had problems reconciling suffering with a merciful God. And so we learned that the scientists are subject to human weaknesses, just like the rest of us. This article explains what the scientific process is, how it works, and how it can be applied to religious beliefs.

Also included are three articles for the spiritual edification of our readers.

The winner of our writing contest will be announced in the next issue.

We hope that you enjoy this issue and, as always, look forward to your comments.