The Lamp-Bearer of Konya

A Parable

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Cover by Winston Malone

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The eye and the lamp were separate lights,
But together they became indistinguishable.
                (From Dīvān-ī Shams Tabrīzī by Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s)

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The Lamp-Bearer of Konya

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Sitting cross-legged on a carpet in the Sufi lodge of the Mevlevi Order of the Whirling Dervishes, Sheikh Hüsamettin smiled at little Mehmet. The boy was bent over the Qur’an, mouthing the words quietly to himself. Beyond the door, the white-robed members of the order performed the sema dance to the languorous tune of a flute, drum, and stringed kemane. The music was composed in the classical mode known as the maqām bayātī. 

Illustration by Winston Malone

“Recite what is engraved on your heart,” Sheikh Hüsamettin said. Little Mehmet spoke from memory:

Allah is the light of the heavens and the earth. A parable of His light is as a lamp in a niche. The lamp is in a glass, the glass is like a gleaming star lit from a blessed tree—oil not from the east or the west, oil self-luminous, for the flame touches it not. Light upon light, Allah guides to His light whom He will, and sets forth parables for men. For all things are known to Allah. (Qur’an 24:35)

“Good,” Sheikh Hüsamettin said, rising from his seat. Mehmet laid the Qur’an on the stand in the corner of the room. The old man entered the semahane (the ritual hall) and made his way slowly to the center of the room to stand in the midst of his disciples. The dervishes continued their dance, orbiting him in a strange ecstasy, one hand raised to the heavens, the other pointing to the earth. At one end of the hall stood the sarcophagus of Mavlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī covered in brocade cloth. The mausoleum lay under the drum tower of the turquoise-tiled dome.

Sheikh Hüsamettin faced the tomb of Rūmī and lifted his palms to pray. 

Mehmet lifted the chain of the glass-covered lamp that hung on a hook by the door. The flame still flickered inside of it. He exited the tekke (the Sufi lodge) at dusk. 

The orphan boy spent the evenings and predawn hours of each day lighting the way for the poor people of Konya. He accepted no money. He kissed the hand of the maim and received the tender blessings of the elderly. The women who feared the evils lurking in the city’s shadows breathed a sigh when little Mehmet walked in front of them. 

Illustration by Winston Malone

He seemed to be an angel. For angels in Islam are creatures of light.

The boy was proud of his lamp. And when he was alone, he would sit with the lamp on his knees, so that he could admire the intricacy of its craftsmanship. It was a special lamp with supernatural properties: the oil was inexhaustible and the flame never went out.

Early one morning, an hour before the fajr (dawn) prayer, Mehmet stood alone on the brow of a hill near the dung heaps of Konya. He was looking up at the sky and was perplexed, because the morning star was missing. 

As he stood there, a boy his age approached. The boy looked much like Mehmet.

“I, too, was a light-bearer,” he said. “But I’ve lost my way. Will you guide me?”

Mehmet smiled kindly at the boy. He took him by the sleeve and with his free hand held the lamp high. They descended the hill and wandered through the alleys and byways of Konya until they came to the ṣadirvan, the covered ablution fountain that stood in front of the tekke.

“What’s your name?” Mehmet asked the boy.

“Iblīs!” the boy said and hissed. Then he slapped the lamp from Mehmet’s hand and ran off into the dark, growling like a ravening dog. 

Mehmet fell to his knees and wept. The glass was broken, the flame was extinguished. The lamp was unusable.

“Iblīs!” Mehmet cried out in anguish and despair. He had been visited by the Whisperer, whom the Jesuits in the French Quarter called Lucifer, the Light-Bearer, Son of the Morning. Konya was sacred to the Christians. For did not their dāʿī (proselytizer) Paul of Tarsus come to the city long, long ago when it was called Iconium?

Mehmet rose and walked into the tekke. He entered semahane and kept to the wall, downcast—his head bowed. He was ashamed of what had happened to him; and he was inconsolable because he had lost his lamp.

The members of the order were awake, having dreamed collectively that something miraculous would happen that morning that they would be obliged to bear witness to. They whirled around Sheikh Hüsamettin who stood in the middle of the hall. Mehmet had no sooner entered, than the music stopped. The dervishes turned and looked at the boy in amazement. One man gasped and covered his mouth with his hand. 

Sheikh Hüsamettin smiled at the orphan boy and went to him. He reached down, put his hands under Mehmet’s arms, and lifted him up into the air. He carried him to the other end of the hall and placed him in the marble niche opposite the tomb of Mavlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī. 

Then Sheikh Hüsamettin spoke: “Did not the Master say in his Masnavi:

Allah’s light kindles the senses’ light,
Thus is the meaning of ‘Light upon light.’
The senses’ light binds us to earth,
As Allah’s light lifts us to heaven.”

The music resumed, the dervishes whirled, and the mausoleum was bathed in an intensifying glow that emanated from the niche where Mehmet sat. Then the voice of the muezzin summoned the faithful to the morning prayer. Suddenly, the dervishes, Sheikh Hüsamettin, and the orphan boy Mehmet vanished in the pale light of dawn. And all that remained were hundreds of luminous dust motes whirling before the Master’s tomb.

A few hours later, the folding doors of the semahane opened. The curator of the Mavlānā Museum entered and switched on the electric lights. He walked to the middle of the semahane and looked around to make sure no one saw him, since the superstitious rituals of the dervishes were frowned upon in the republic. The curator, who was an old man, faced the tomb of Rūmī and lifted his palms to pray. When he had finished, he left the mausoleum, whispering two lines from the Dīvān-ī Shams Tabrīzī:

You are the light that spoke to Moses:
“I am Allah! I am Allah! I am Allah!”

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