The Hidden

بِسۡمِ ٱللهِ ٱلرَّحۡمَـٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ

The following is adapted from Signs on the Horizons by Shaykh Harun Michael Sugich.

“The Holy Mosque was an ocean of humanity during the days before the haj, the annual pilgrimage to Makkah.  As daylight faded, I joined thousands of worshippers and pilgrims making the thawaf, the seven circuits around the Ka’bah, calling out His Divine Names.  As time approached for the sunset prayer, circular prayer lines formed around the House of God, rank by rank, closing around the vast mathaf, the white marble floor surrounding the House all the way to the raised arcades designed by Sinan Pasha in the 16^th century.  The mathaf was reduced, line-by-prayer-line, as individual worshippers peeled off from the shrinking thawaf to take their places in the encroaching ranks.  I completed my seven circuits only moments before the call to prayer.

In a state of exaltation and hope, I knew that within this ocean there were deep seas of light and knowledge.  I knew that among the hundreds of thousands of worshippers filling the Holy Mosque on every level there were the Close Friends of God, the awliya’ullah, God’s saints.  I also knew that I would never be able to recognise these men on my own.  They were hidden by their humanity from ordinary souls like me.  As I completed my thawaf, I asked God from the depths of my heart to show me one of His saints.  Exhilarated by the light of the Holy Mosque, I prayed over and over again to meet one of His people.  At that moment in time, intoxicated by the light that permeated the vast, roiling assembly, I yearned to meet at least one of the saints hidden in this tidal wave of pilgrims.

Caught in the slow-moving crush, each soul searching for a tiny space to join the prayer lines, I was pushed along a line of seated worshippers until the flow of the crowd abruptly stopped.  Sitting before me in the prayer line was an old white-bearded man.  I could not tell where he was from.  I looked into his face.  Tears were streaming down his cheeks.  But they were not ordinary tears; he was weeping tears of blood.  Blood was streaming from his eyes into his beard.  There was no discernible emotion in his features, only an overwhelming serenity.

I leaned over and took his hand to kiss it.  When he took my hand, a powerful electrical jolt passed through my arm straight to my heart.  I kissed his forehead, looked into his weeping eyes again, and was swept away with the crowd.”