Interiority and Law Bahya Ibn Paquda and the Concept of Inner Commandments (Stanford Studies in Jewish Mysticism) 9781503637467, 9781503636613

Table of contents :
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. Duties and Supererogatory Acts
2. Inner Duties
3. Proximity
4. The World to Come
5. Bāṭin and Tradition
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Back Cover

Citation preview

Interiority and Law

Stanford Studies in Jewish Mysticism Clémence Boulouque & Ariel Evan Mayse, editors

I NT ER IOR IT Y A N D L AW Bahya ibn Paquda and the Concept of Inner Commandments

 Omer Michaelis

Stanford University Press Stanford, California

Stanford University Press Stanford, California © 2024 by Omer Michaelis. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free, archival-­quality paper Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Michaelis, Omer, author. Title: Interiority and law : Bahya ibn Paquda and the concept of inner commandments / Omer Michaelis. Other titles: Stanford studies in Jewish mysticism. Description: Stanford, California : Stanford University Press, 2023. | Series: Stanford studies in Jewish mysticism | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023006425 (print) | LCCN 2023006426 (ebook) | ISBN 9781503636613 (cloth) | ISBN 9781503637467 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Baḥya ben Joseph ibn Paḳuda, active 11th century. Hidāyah ilá farāʼiḍ al-qulūb. | Commandments (Judaism)—Early works to 1800. | Jewish law—Early works to 1800. | Mysticism—Judaism. | Philosophy, Medieval. Classification: LCC BJ1287.B23 M53 2023 (print) | LCC BJ1287.B23 (ebook) | DDC 296.3/83—dc23/eng/20230621 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023006425 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023006426 Cover design: George Kirkpatrick Cover art: First folio of the Guide to the Duties of the Hearts, Ms. Paris BnF hebr. 756

Each and every one With God’s candle in his heart H. N. BI A LIK

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Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction

ix 1



1 Duties and Supererogatory Acts

15



2 Inner Duties

45



3 Proximity

77



4 The World to Come

97



5 Bāṭin and Tradition

125

Notes

139

Bibliography

183

Index

203

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Acknowledgments

This book was written during my first years as a faculty member at Tel Aviv University, mostly in the room—­a bāṭin of sorts—­where I sat throughout the days of the pandemic. The withdrawal into oneself suits the study of the Duties of the Hearts, and it afforded me the right kind of mindset for exerting the effort presented in the pages of this book. The commitment of the Faculty of Humanities, headed by Dean Rachel Gali Cinamon, to providing young faculty members with the time and peace of mind required to pursue their research was a crucial factor in making this book possible. I owe Dean Cinamon, as well as the heads of the School of Jewish Studies and Archeology, Youval Rotman and Yoram Cohen, and the heads of the Department of Jewish Philosophy and Talmud, Adam Afterman and Ishay Rosen-­Zvi, special thanks for their consistent and scrupulous attention to this matter. The Israel Science Foundation, via grant no. 2201/21, provided the necessary financial backing for this study. Throughout my work on the book, I was fortunate to have generous and critical partners for conversation and for thinking through questions that emerged from my research. I thank Adam Afterman, Michael Fishbane, Ehud Krinis, Menachem Lorberbaum, Orit Malka, Idan Pinto, Ori Rotlevy, Sabine Schmidtke, Sarah Stroumsa, and Ariel Zinder for their wise comments and helpful advice. Two anonymous readers for Stanford University Press also helped me greatly with their illuminating comments. And my thanks also to Yotam Schremer for his diligent assistance in preparing the manuscript for print and for his insights throughout the process. ix

Acknowledgments ­— x

I owe a great deal of gratitude to the efforts of Clémence Boulouque and Ariel Evan Mayse, the editors of the series Stanford Studies in Jewish Mysticism. Their guidance significantly contributed to this work. My sincere thanks also go to Caroline McKusick, the SUP Associate Editor, for navigating the complexities of this project and shepherding the process with dedication. Sincere acknowledgment goes to Aviva Arad, who meticulously copyedited the manuscript, offering critical input to the finalization of the manuscript. Early versions of two of the chapters of this book were originally published as articles: The book’s opening chapter was published in Hebrew: “Duties and Supererogatory Acts in Duties of the Hearts,” Shenaton ha-­mishpat ha-­ivri: Jewish Law Annual 31 (2021–­2022): 141–­78. The closing chapter was published in English: “Fashioning the ‘Inner’ (Bāṭin) in Baḥya ibn Paqūda’s Duties of the Hearts,” Harvard Theological Review 116, no. 4 (2023): 552–74. And as for my duties of the heart, this book is dedicated to Zohar, Avigail, and Amalia, who are forever in mine. TEL AV I V, 2023

Interiority and Law

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Introduction

The work of the Jewish Andalusi thinker Baḥya ibn Paquda—­who most likely lived in Saragossa, Spain, in the second half of the eleventh century 1—­is among the most enigmatic in the long history of Jewish thought.2 Yet it is a riddle that does not present itself as such and which needs to be stirred and shaken from its dormant state in order for it to appear before us and demand our inquiry, since on the face of it, nothing is too hidden in Baḥya’s thought. His major, and to the best of our knowledge, only book, The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts (Kitāb al-­hidāya ila farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb), was printed in many editions.3 Among them are complexly layered editions, in which meticulous commentaries are adjoined to the original contents, as well as pocket editions that allow readers to recite the book’s chapters wherever they go.4 Furthermore, the work’s wide circulation is not a late phenomenon. Soon after it was first written, the Duties of the Hearts was translated into Hebrew from the Judeo-­A rabic original, and discoveries from the Cairo Geniza attest that it was one of the most broadly copied works of Jewish thought in the Middle Ages, apparently already in the first hundred years after it was set in ink.5 It retained an important status in Jewish religious life throughout the Middle Ages and found its way to wider circles of readers in early modern times with the rise of print. The Hebrew editions of the work were printed in the centers of learning and knowledge dissemination in Naples, Istanbul, Hamburg, and Korzec, and it was translated between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries into many of the numerous languages of the Jews, from Italian, Portuguese, and Ladino to Judeo-­ German, Yiddish, and Dutch.6 1

Introduction ­— 2

However, over the eras, despite its widespread circulation, and, as we shall see, in a process that began with the initial translation of the work and among its very first readers, the work’s edge became blunted. On the one hand, its revolutionary proposal came to seem self-­evident, and was perceived as part and parcel of Judaism from time immemorial, as if the author had offered no innovation. On the other hand, and in a complementary manner, Baḥya’s approach was significantly softened by his readers: it was interpreted as less daring, less demanding, and far less contentious vis-­à-­vis other versions of Jewish religiosity, both those that prevailed in Baḥya’s own time and those that have predominated since. What did this softening consist of? For generations, Baḥya was considered to have distilled a pious form of life that called not only for a high regard for the fulfillment of commandments but also for the enrichment of religious life through special attention to what was termed the “spiritual,” inner dimension of worship. This perception was consistent with the two appellations by which Baḥya came to be known: dayan (rabbinical judge), presumably in reference to his occupation, and ḥasid (pious), as he was described by some of the first generations of copiers of his book.7 Moreover, Baḥya’s approach was regarded as providing a systematic logic to the principles of religious life that stem from the canonical rabbinic literature—­both biblical and talmudic. According to this view, Baḥya essentially echoed a voice that originates in the depths of the Jewish tradition, rather than aimed to break new ground. Indeed, it seems that Baḥya himself contributed immensely to this impression—­though for a different reason, as will be discussed—­in his decision to integrate hundreds of citations from both biblical and midrashic literature into his work, and to absorb his innovations in the familiar language of the sources. The basic argument of this study is that careful attention to Baḥya’s own arguments and rhetorical gestures in his work, beginning with its very title, reveals that his outlook on Jewish religious life proposed to transform it radically. God, in this outlook, is to be worshipped not entirely or even primarily on the basis of the 613 commandments enumerated in the various lists of commandments that were available in Baḥya’s time and were based on the tradition of Rabbanite Halakhah, but rather through an extensive—­indeed infinitely broad, as Baḥya argues—­set of activities that take place in one’s inner life.

Introduction ­— 3

Baḥya could have constructed this “inner” religious activity in different ways, and he chose the most audacious and strict of these possibilities. He could have conceptualized this realm of “inner” activities as a step beyond the prevailing religious norms, by using the category of middat ḥasidut (attribute of piety) that was developed in earlier talmudic literature and appeared in the writings of some of the Geonim, or alternatively, employed a category that was in ubiquitous use in his time, namely, supererogatory deeds, or miṣvot nedavah. Moreover, Baḥya could have opted to identify this activity with the category of kavvanah (intention) in the performance of the miṣvah, that is, as reflecting an inner dimension of the external deed. Instead, in his work he decided to explicitly reject the identification of the duties of the heart with supererogatory deeds and to marginalize the concept of kavvanah. He declares that the deeds that are to be performed in one’s inner recesses are indeed full-­blown commandments. The duties of the heart are in fact superior to the performance of the duties of the members, as they reflect an obedience to God—­and indeed, no word appears more frequently in the book than the Arabic term ṭāʿā, meaning obedience—­in what Baḥya views as the superior realm of human life, namely, the inner dimension. Not at the enrichment of religious life nor at the enhancement or deepening of the attribute of ḥasidut did Baḥya aim, but at a reconceptualization of the concept of miṣvah in Judaism. Now, he argues in the book, it must include not only what one is obligated to perform in one’s body, but also the entire realm of one’s mental activity. This entails not only statements about the required mental or rational attitude toward God, put in the form of principles of faith or an abstract call for the love and awe of God. It consists mostly of the formulation of a new grammar of internal activity, which Baḥya put forward in ten “gates,” or a few hundred smaller sections, that lay down a broad and rich foundation for the different patterns of these inner actions. Baḥya regarded these internal acts as religious obligations that surpass any of the better-­k nown commandments; fulfilling them gains one both proximity to God and the reward of the World to Come and failing to fulfill them is severely punished. Baḥya’s mode of intervention in the system of Jewish commandments differs significantly from two more common approaches to the commandments in the realm of Jewish thought. The first, characteristic predominantly in the

Introduction ­— 4

field known as “Jewish philosophy,” entails adherence to the already-­familiar halakhic edicts along with a reconceptualization of the system of Halakhah according to principles that were not formerly part of it, thereby effectively changing the meaning of these commandments—­without changing the commandments themselves. In the second approach, prevalent in works written in Kabbalist circles, authors whose works are not specifically halakhic in nature nevertheless intervened in matters of disputed halakhic rulings, and ruled not only with regard to past disagreements but also in relation to contemporaneous quarrels. In his work, Baḥya departs from both of these more familiar patterns and establishes a novel system of commandments that was hitherto unknown in the realm of Halakhah. Thus, unlike the previous scholarly treatments of the Duties of the Hearts as a work of musar, as a “spiritual” guide, or as a systematic “ethico-­psychological” treatise, I will analyze Baḥya’s work in light of the discourse with which the author himself identifies his work—­the discourse on commandments. Investigating this discourse will yield a remarkably paradoxical portrait. On the one hand, it will show Baḥya to be among the strictest and most demanding thinkers in his halakhic orientation. On the other hand, he will emerge as a revolutionary thinker in terms of his conception of Halakhah. This kind of study of Baḥya’s halakhic orientation, which has thus far been only preliminary and has not noted its centrality, is the first task of my study. I will address this task through three interrelated methods: a systematic analytic study—­the first of its kind as far as I am aware—­of Baḥya’s halakhic system, based on everything he states explicitly in this regard throughout his work; a contextualization of this discourse in light of other Jewish and Muslim sources, some of them previously unattended to in relation to Baḥya; and an examination of the broad hermeneutic strategies and specific exegetical choices through which Baḥya adapts his sources to his own proclivities and to the effort of fashioning a new halakhic discourse aimed at transforming the character of Jewish religiosity. One of the most basic insights that emerges from exploring Baḥya’s discourse on commandments is that his outlook is founded on the distinction between “outer” and “inner”—­respectively, commandments that are termed “duties of the members,” which are imposed on the body, and commandments termed “duties of the heart,” imposed on one’s interiority. But this distinc-

Introduction ­— 5

tion between “inner” and “outer,” which serves as an organizing principle for Baḥya’s notion of the commandments, is not exhausted within the confines of this particular discourse: it is fundamental to his overall system as well as to his more general outlook. According to Baḥya, the whole of Being is to be interpreted on the basis of a pair of concepts that are connected through relations of association and tension, namely, in the Arabic terminology of the book: bāṭin and ẓāhir. What do these words signify? First, a translation: bāṭin in English is the “inner,” “internal,” or “hidden,” while ẓāhir is the “outer,” “external,” or “manifest,” which can be superficially recognized. As I will argue in this study, the pair bāṭin-­ẓāhir serves as a kind of backbone or axis that supports the structure of Baḥya’s work. It is this axis that grants the different dimensions of the work the coherency of a system of thought, and that continuously feeds the work’s halakhic center of gravity. Very briefly, as befits an introduction, I will note that this pair of terms is presented in a multiplicity of ways throughout the work. Among the most significant of these is the anthropological outlook advanced by Baḥya, according to which being human is defined by two spheres: the bodily and the inner. The body is a network of interrelated organs that functions as a system and whose actions are visible and readily available to behold. By contrast, the inner realm of each human being, consisting of a complex of one’s intellect, heart, and soul, is an internal system. Though the activities of this internal system can produce outer actions performed by the external organs, most of its existence is characterized by a life lived in another realm: an undisclosed inner space that is not observed by anyone but the person whose interiority it is, and by the divine gaze. Baḥya does not merely define and delimit these two dimensions, but adds a judgment regarding their relative value. The external, in his view, reflects a derivative and secondary aspect of human life, whereas the internal is the primary, superior locus of human existence. These two dimensions are not entirely disjointed from each other—­they are interrelated as well as struggle with each other. Thus, every action performed by the body is the outcome of one’s inner life. This action can echo one’s refined interiority, it can reflect one’s vileness, or most severely, in Baḥya’s view, it can be an expression of hypocrisy and deception, a corrupt interiority masquerading as external piety. Conversely, the body impacts the soul in its own ways, above all in the ongo-

Introduction ­— 6

ing effort to incite it to yield to the desires of the inclination, manifested in the human senses that incessantly seek gratification. The human eyes have an insatiable desire to take pleasure in the beauty of the world, the human mouth seeks nourishment, and the whole of one’s body expresses unbridled desire. This can harness the soul in such a way that one’s own interiority, too, becomes a realm of constant engagement with such passions and the possibilities of their realization; or, alternatively, the passions aroused by the world can be restrained by the soul. This anthropological outlook is not Baḥya’s own invention. It is based to a large extent on ascetic discourses that were prevalent in the Muslim world, both Eastern and Western, and had begun to shape Jewish discourse in different ways, as well as on a Neoplatonic trend that was partially adopted by Baḥya. However, what distinguishes Baḥya from contemporaneous or preceding Neoplatonically or ascetically inclined thinkers is that, in his case, the emphasis on the distinction between body ( jism; jasad; badan) and soul (nafs) is designed to establish and strengthen his fundamental assertion that just as it is halakhically mandated to worship God with one’s body, so it is imperative—­ and indeed even more important—­to do so also with the soul, within. The basic distinction between body and soul does not exhaust the gamut of Baḥya’s distinction between the “inner” and the “outer.” A second mode in which this distinction is expressed is Baḥya’s theory of contemplation or careful consideration (iʿtibār), which serves as the phenomenological interpretative key to the Duties of the Hearts and which considers the human gaze on each and every phenomenon to be a religious challenge of crucial importance. According to Baḥya’s idea of contemplation, all phenomena—­those that we consider to be positive, those that we see as ominous, those that indicate a well-­ordered world, and those that show a disruption of the familiar order—­ contain, beyond their immediate appearance, “traces” (āthār, sing. athar), or are in themselves “traces,” that when deciphered, indicate, in ways that differ from case to case, the divine source of the phenomenon and its partaking in the overall abundance of creation. These traces also indicate—­and here lies a serious hermeneutical challenge—­how each phenomenon expresses a divine grace that is entailed by the very fact of its being. The traces or signs are not necessarily hidden, or better put, are not hidden in a simple sense, and a proper

Introduction ­— 7

mode of contemplation may expose them even in the most visible dimension of the phenomenon. But in order for them to be revealed, the observer must know how to seek them, that is, to search even in the manifest dimension of reality after expressions that point at a reality not limited by the phenomenon itself, nor by the interconnections between different phenomena, but that in some way connect the phenomenon to the Creator and express divine grace. How does the theory of contemplation contribute to the idea of the “duties” imposed upon the heart? As we will see, consciousness of divine grace, according to Baḥya, is closely related to consciousness of debt. The more one recognizes the continuous and endless graces of creation, the more one understands the unfathomable depth of one’s duty, making it possible to break through the normative framework that confines the commandments to a finite, fixed, and predetermined number. Another dimension of the distinction between “inner” and “outer” is related to Baḥya’s sociological perspective. Here, Baḥya does not entirely adhere to the common medieval distinction between an elite (khāṣṣa) and the masses (ʿāmma). In a sense, Baḥya marginalizes this distinction and instead posits a different basic distinction that colors the social sphere: between the people of the “manifest” and those of the “inner.” Interestingly, the category of the people of the “manifest” as it is portrayed in the Duties of the Hearts is not purely of Baḥya’s own innovation, and is not only a category that Baḥya inherited from earlier sources. In addition, it is possible, as was already noted in scholarship, that this category reflects a specific Jewish elite of Baḥya’s own time.8 This elite partook in the cultural life of al-­A ndalus and shared the values of Muslim Spain’s courtly culture—­its gardens with their beds of spices, its banquets and fondness for wine, its admiration of and passion for beautiful bodies.9 Contra this culture, Baḥya proposes—­and perhaps aims to create—­ another category, the people of the “inner.” These people do not gather together to form a community of the “inner” that establishes a collective life, rather, they mostly remain in their individual inner-­solitude, each alienating themselves from the “outer” sphere in their own way and according to their own capacity, and devote their lives to the bāṭin, the interiority of their souls, the primary locus of sincere divine worship. Here, too, Baḥya’s distinction is not only analytic but also value laden: the inner is superior to the external. It

Introduction ­— 8

reflects the highest good to which one ought to aspire, and makes possible a greater intimacy with the divine, as opposed to the exile from divine proximity that is imposed by a life lived in the “external” realm. A fourth dimension closely related to the distinction between the “inner” and the “external” is Baḥya’s theory of divine reward, which we may also describe as the book’s soteriological interpretative key. According to this theory, human deeds that take place in a sphere that is—­in principle—­visible to others, namely, the duties imposed on the bodies, will be rewarded “visibly.” This reward is externally manifest, and it is granted already in one’s lifetime. It is also as ephemeral and transient as life in this world is. In contrast with this reward, there is another kind of reward, which is “hidden” and will be granted—­in an unforeseeable future—­for acts done in the nonvisible sphere, that is, in one’s interiority, between man and God alone. It will be given only in the undisclosed hour of one’s death; the nature of this reward—­what exactly will be granted—­is enigmatically not disclosed by Baḥya. Indeed, Baḥya remains reticent regarding the final recompense awaiting one who fulfilled the duties of the heart—­in other words, regarding the highest reward, which expresses the superiority of the “inner” over the “manifest”—­a choice that demands explanation and will be discussed later in this study. A final dimension in which the distinction between the “inner” and the “manifest” is reflected in Baḥya’s Duties is his attitude toward Scripture and its proper mode of interpretation, or in other words, the work’s hermeneutical theory. Just as it is, according to Baḥya, with the manifold other dimensions of Being, so too Scripture, in his view, does not consist solely of the manifest meaning that can be superficially attained. The senses of Scripture include both ẓāhir and bāṭin. Just as Scripture reveals and speaks explicitly, it also conceals “signs” and speaks clandestinely. This mode of conveying meaning is not intended for the general public, and will not be exposed by the people of the “outer” sphere or by those who are led by the needs and passions of their bodies. It is a dimension of Scripture open to those who seek the path of the “inner,” whose intellect is qualified for the task, who know how to reign over their passions, and who estrange themselves from the pleasures of this world in pursuit of complete obedience and worship of God, which will lead them to divine proximity and to the World to Come. What are the contents of the

Introduction ­— 9

hidden depths of Scripture and of the Jewish tradition, which according to Baḥya, had been neglected to such an extent that by his time were almost completely forgotten? In Baḥya’s view, the inner layer of Scripture consists of none other than the teachings of the proper mode of divine worship and the proper mode of human conduct, namely, the teachings of the duties of the heart that he elaborates in his own work. Acknowledging the apparatus of fundamental distinctions and essential homology employed by Baḥya also sets the ground for a reassessment and new answer to a question that had been addressed in previous studies of Baḥya, namely: To what extent can mystical elements be found in the Duties of the Hearts? Attempts to properly answer this question have followed one of two problematic tracks, both of which have made a resolution difficult: on the one hand, attempts to derive Baḥya’s mystical “model” from the various configurations and specific emphases of Neoplatonic mysticism or models of Christian mysticism; and on the other, a rejection of the presence of any mystical element in the Duties of the Hearts because of the disparity between Baḥya’s approach and that of some of the radical mystics associated with early Sufism.10 As I will argue, the term “mysticism” may indeed apply to Baḥya’s teachings, but differently from what has thus far been suggested by scholars, and in two distinct senses, which at this stage can only be presented in very preliminary form. One sense in which mysticism is present in Duties of the Hearts has to do with Baḥya’s incessant interest in and meticulous discussion of a hidden dimension of Being, which grounds and conditions the visible aspects of reality and is more precious than they are. Granted, for Baḥya, the focus of the study of this hidden dimension lies in human interiority, and the main areas in which it is developed are the inner workings of the intellect, heart, and soul and the theory of internal commandments—­and not in a theosophic, cosmologic, or cosmogenic study, as in other works of mysticism in both Judaism and Islam;11 still, Baḥya insists on conceptualizing human interiority in terms of a hidden dimension. And in principle, Baḥya’s highlighting the relations between the inner and the external in all aspects of Being—­even when it is not developed into a full-­fledged and elaborately detailed view of the cosmos—­and his introduction of the notion of an inner layer of scriptural meaning—­even when it is not realized in the writing of a systematic work of biblical exegesis—­

Introduction ­— 10

both bring his work closer to the realm of mysticism. Another sense in which the term “mysticism” may be applied to Baḥya’s work is his elaborate theory of coming near to God, that is, of the interrelations between man and the most hidden of all hidden things. Here, Baḥya argues for the possibility of an ever-­growing nearness to God, which is based on a process of increasing discovery of the duties incumbent upon the heart and an intensification in the realization of these duties. An analysis of this idea, and the technical terms Baḥya uses to discuss it, allows us to acknowledge a specific mystical model of proximity to God—­that is closely related to and an outcome of Baḥya’s notion of “commandment”—­and the correlation between this model and an Islamic mystical discourse that has yet to be considered and studied. The main task I set myself in this study, then, is to explore a set of principles—­first and foremost, Baḥya’s notion of “commandment” and its analysis in light of the various aspects of the distinction between “inner” and “external”—­that together grant the Duties of the Hearts its grounding as a system of thought, provide the framework for the manifold arguments and rhetorical gestures presented in the work, and unite its various “gates” into a coherent whole. Thus, this study addresses only a limited number of foci, but I hope that exploring these will elucidate the foundations of Baḥya’s work. In this sense, this study is not a comprehensive introduction to the Duties of the Hearts, nor a study that progresses according to Baḥya’s own ordering of the different “gates” of his work. There are a couple of reasons for this. First, a study of this kind has already been written, if in French, more than seventy years ago, by Georges Vajda. Vajda’s work continues to be an illuminating introduction and a rich study that captures the multifarity of the Duties of the Hearts, even if it requires some updating, as Vajda himself had noted.12 But this is not the only reason. The other is that Baḥya’s work, for reasons that are not yet—­and may never be—­entirely clarified, is only apparently arranged systematically.13 It appears to progress from gate to gate, that is, from one religious category to the next, according to some internal logic, and the work’s thematics and basic terms and distinctions seem to be expressed by and reflected in the names and titles that Baḥya gave to its ten gates.14 However, a careful study of the work reveals that this is not so: the scope, character, and focus of each gate do not necessarily cohere with its title, and in some cases, the gates are only

Introduction ­— 11

loosely interconnected. In my opinion, Baḥya’s work can be described much more accurately in one of the following two ways, though it is difficult to determine which one is more fitting. One way is to see the work as comprising ten discrete gates (though it may be that the first gate, dedicated to the purification of God’s unity, is exceptional in this regard) that develop different thematic variations on the basis of a system of more fundamental distinctions that cuts across all the book’s gates—­and that grounds the very discourse on commandments imposed on the heart. This system of distinctions, even if partially mentioned in the introduction to the work, is not sufficiently elaborated upon and elucidated there. Thus, according to this option, beyond the categories that give the gates their titles, for example, “contemplation,” “humility,” “repentance,” and others, there lies a more basic network of categories that includes Baḥya’s notion of the relations between the inner and external, the character of the commandments, the role of the intellect and the interrelations between God and man. It is this more fundamental network that ties the different gates together, and only by attending to it can Baḥya’s thought be properly elucidated. The second way to describe the book is to see it as unevenly structured. According to this option, the book’s ten gates are not, on the one hand, equivalent in their importance or their orientation, but on the other hand, they also do not show a gradual progression from one gate to the next, climaxing in the tenth gate of true love of God that concludes the book, even though Baḥya himself seems at some point to hint at the validity of such a reading.15 Instead, it appears that Baḥya has different aims for different gates: in some, most especially in the gate of contemplation (2), the gate of the obligation to adhere to obedience of God (3), and possibly also in the gate of purification of God’s unity (1), he lays the groundwork for his system; in others, he develops religious categories that are based upon the foundations of the former gates; and in still others, especially the gate of self-­accounting (8) and maybe also in the gate of true love of God (10), he offers a kind of overall summary of his religious outlook.16 In any case, it seems that studying the work by adhering closely to the order set by Baḥya and attempting to consider each gate as a self-­standing unit, or alternatively reading the whole of the work as a ten-­stationed path to the summit of religious experience, are strategies that risk missing the core of the Duties of the Hearts.

Introduction ­— 12

In line with this understanding, the present study does not treat each of the work’s gates equally. Instead, after first identifying and offering a preliminary description of a network of categories and a complex of distinctions that I see as fundamental to the Duties of the Hearts, I try to locate the sections and passages in which these elements are most substantially elaborated upon in the Duties of the Hearts, offer an analysis of these sections, and consider how Baḥya fashions them, both rhetorically and argumentatively. A study of this kind is bound to fail to give proper attention to some aspects, religious categories, themes, and additional areas of interest that deserve careful and extensive consideration. So, for instance, Baḥya’s notion of contemplation (iʿtibār) is explored in this study only inasmuch as it contributes to an understanding of the consequences of contemplation for the concept of miṣvah; whereas a full account of the notion of iʿtibār requires a far wider consideration of the important role of this category in Muslim writings in al-­A ndalus, paying attention to points of convergence and of difference between the variety of approaches to this concept.17 In the same vein, a more comprehensive understanding of Baḥya’s hermeneutical approach demands not only an introduction of the exegetical principles presented by Baḥya and their coherence with the tenets of his religious approach, but also a consideration of the prevalent exegetical trends in al-­A ndalus in his time, on the one hand, and of the challenge posed by the notion of multilayered exegesis that was present in both Muslim and Jewish contexts, on the other. Another major task that has yet to be entirely realized—­ and that will hopefully be accomplished in a study that is now in progress by Ehud Krinis—­is a full account of the notion of “asceticism” (zuhd) in Baḥya, which can shed light on various other aspects of the work as well as on its interrelations with earlier and contemporaneous Muslim sources.18 It is to be hoped that such studies will take into account Baḥya’s Jewish sources and the relevant scholarly literature, and no less seriously, the Muslim sources and the vast scholarly output in this field, including the many sources that were previously unavailable to scholars who studied the Duties of the Hearts. Another important aspect that is only scantly addressed in this study is the wide corpus of literature—­translations of the Duties of the Hearts, commentaries on it, and a variety of texts in which parts of the book were integrated—­ that together form the reception history of Baḥya’s work, and that attest to

Introduction ­— 13

the different meanings that were ascribed to the work in medieval times and beyond. Indeed, the exploration of this field—­even the initial stage of mapping the various sources—­has barely begun.19 To some extent, we are still in too early a stage in the study of the book itself to be able to properly initiate a study of the history of its reception, however crucial such a study is. Until we get a better understanding of Baḥya’s work itself, on its own unique terms—­ which, of course, can only be clarified by exploring the different contexts with which the work was engaged—­it will be difficult to gauge the different modes in which it was interpreted by those readers who took part in its reception and to identify the various layers of meaning it accrued throughout the ages. An effort at such an understanding of the Duties of the Hearts is made in this study. I hope it will reveal new facets in the daring religious outlook of its medieval subject and in Baḥya’s attempt to forge a new path, even though this path was not the one taken by Jewish culture before his time or after. It will also shed light on the complexity of the interrelations between his work and three contexts with which he engaged: the preceding Jewish bodies of literature, both Rabbanite—­to which Baḥya explicitly expressed his normative commitment, even when he sought to significantly reform its normative patterns, and Karaite—­to which Baḥya only rarely refers, even though the challenges posed by this literature, and possibly some of its sources, are still present in his work; and Muslim thought in some of its stripes, most especially the branch that includes early Muslim mysticism. We will discover that even as Baḥya drew from this Muslim tradition some of its terms, emphases, and sensitivities regarding religious life, and although he, too, was caught up in some of its internal tensions and contradictions, he did so while effectively diverting all of these elements to his own ends, applying them to the canonical sources of Judaism and integrating them into a coherent framework of thought of his own making that was designed to intervene in one of the core issues of Jewish life.

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ON E Duties a nd Supererogator y Acts

At the very outset of The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts Baḥya introduces the category of the “duties of the heart,” which he claims, has yet to be adequately and comprehensively addressed in any book. He then presents the first of a series of questions: I said to myself, maybe these kind of duties (al-­ṣunf min al-­sharāʾiʿ hādha [namely, the duties of the heart]) are not obligatory upon us as a miṣvah, but are commanded rather by way of proper conduct (adab) and of prompting one to follow the better and the straighter path. This is like performing supererogatory acts (nawāfil),1 for whose neglect we are neither questioned nor punished. This may be the reason why the ancients have left this kind [of miṣvot] unnoted. Therefore I have examined the duties of the heart [. . . in order to find out] whether or not they obligate us (tulazzemnā) as a miṣvah2 ( farḍ).3

Baḥya distinguishes in this passage between “duties” ( farāʾiḍ), and “supererogatory acts” (nawāfil), which are not considered religious obligations, and asks to which of the two categories the duties of the heart belong. To answer this, Baḥya presents another distinction, which he considers evident from rational inference, according to which “man is composed of a soul and a body—­both are God’s graces given to us, one exterior (ẓāhir), one interior (bāṭin). Accordingly, we are obliged to obey God both outwardly and inwardly. Outward obedience in the duties of the members. . . . Inward obedience, however, is the duties of the heart.”4 Seeing man as a compound of both a manifest, visible 15

Chapter One ­— 16

dimension, which is one’s body, and an inner, invisible dimension, which is the mental realm of human activity, here termed “soul” (and throughout the work also “heart”), allows Baḥya to formulate his understanding of the obligations incumbent upon a person. Just as there are duties obligating the body, which is but one dimension or part of human life (Baḥya calls these the “duties of the members”), so it is only fitting that there should be duties incumbent upon the other dimension as well. These are the “duties of the heart.” Moreover, since the soul is not just the “other part” of the human being, but the better part, it is implausible that complete and proper obedience to God would exclude man’s superior dimension: Since it is true that our Creator commanded our members to perform his duties, it is improbable that He overlooked our hearts and souls, our noblest parts, and did not command them to worship Him, for they constitute the crown of obedience and the very perfection of worship. For this reason, we were commanded both outward duties ( farāʾiḍ ẓāhira) and inward duties ( farāʾiḍ bāṭina), so that our obedience to our glorious Creator might be complete, perfect, and all-­embracing, comprising both our outer and inner parts.5

As for the question Baḥya posed at the opening of his discussion, then, his answer is to reject the option that the “duties of the heart” are but another form of supererogatory acts, that is, voluntary acts that are beyond the norm. Instead, he sees them as a set of “duties” whose fulfillment is a significant part of obedience to God, not a supplement to a halakhic life or a step beyond religious obligation, but rather part and parcel of it. In The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts, Baḥya thus aims only to broaden the realm of duty and introduce his own religious propensities into its core, as I will show in this chapter and the next. Furthermore, as Baḥya consistently emphasizes the idea of the preeminence of the “inner” or “hidden” (bāṭin) over the “external” or “manifest” (ẓāhir)—­he considers the duties of the heart as in fact the more significant part of worship.6 What caused Baḥya to distance the “duties of the heart” from the realm of nawāfil, supererogatory acts, and to do so in the very first question posed about the status of these duties? So far, this issue has not been addressed, and

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 17

indeed, scholars have tended to interpret the status of the duties of the heart as expressing some form of voluntaristic supererogation or supplementary mode of action that is not part of the framework of religious obligation. For example, Joseph Dan assertively states that “the entirety of the ‘duties of the heart’ set by Baḥya is a non-­halakhic system, a higher spiritual system beyond the halakha.”7 This statement aligns with the broader interpretative trend—­which Dan participated in establishing—­that sees Baḥya’s work as a cornerstone in the formation of Jewish musar literature. In the language of Dan and Isaiah Tishby, The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts is “the foremost, most influential and most important musar work of the entirety of philosophical musar literature,”8 and indeed they assert it exemplifies this genre of literature as they define it in their introduction. Musar authors are generally not satisfied with the demands of the Halakha. The Halakha cuts to the necessary minimum that the servant of God is required to do in order to fulfill his obligations to his Creator. . . . The musar literature seeks not the minimum but the maximum—­the path by which man will reach the apex of religious life. . . . Musar aims to add to the halakha and to seek the further traits and deeds required of man ex gratia (lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din).9

Amos Goldreich expounds a similar view in his study of the “Possible Arabic Sources of the Distinction between ‘Duties of the Heart’ and ‘Duties of the Limbs.’ ”10 Addressing the question of whether the duties of the heart are constituted in the quality of intention that accompanies the fulfillment of the 613 commandments or alternatively, are deeds that exceed the 613 commandments, Goldreich notes that the latter is more probable: “That is, the duties of the heart are not part of the 613 (TaRYaG) but are a supplement that the ‘lovers of God’ volunteered to take upon themselves.”11 In this statement, Goldreich paraphrases Baḥya’s words in the Gate of True Love, chapter 7, a passage I will discuss below and interpret differently. But in any case, Goldreich’s reading is not compatible with Baḥya’s explicit statement, quoted above, that the “duties of the heart” are obligatory and his rejection of the view that they are voluntary “supererogatory acts.” Patrick B. Koch took a similar interpretive approach in his study of Kabbalistic musar literature.12 Koch applies the category of “hy-

Chapter One ­— 18

pernomianism,” coined in another context by Elliot Wolfson, to Baḥya’s approach.13 In discussing the first source I quoted above from the Duties of the Hearts, he presents Baḥya’s interpretation of the Arabic term adab as “a hypernomian endorsement of non-­obligatory behavioral patterns, an auxiliary to the legal system.”14 However, Koch suggests that “at the same time, Baḥya promotes them [nonobligatory behavioral patterns] as integral to the fulfillment of a sincere religious life.”15 Thus, even though Baḥya generally rejects the equation of “duties of the heart” and “supererogatory acts,” Koch proposes that these “non-­obligatory behavioral patterns” are, in Baḥya’s thought, essential to religious life. Moreover, Koch adds that “in fact, he [Baḥya] continues, . . . that the interior aspects of divine service are by no means volitional, but rather obligatory.”16 Thus, Koch ultimately presents the contrast introduced by Baḥya between adab and the “duties of the heart” as somehow integrative or complementary, and not as oppositional, but with no further explanation. In this chapter, I aim to highlight an essential feature of the “duties of the heart,” taking a different view from previous scholarship regarding the status of these duties. I will do so by examining the technical term nawāfil and the variety of its translations to Hebrew, as well as analyzing the relationship between this term and the idea of the obligatory religious act in both Jewish and Muslim sources preceding Baḥya. I will examine the notion of supererogatory acts in two different contexts: one is the rise in discussions of nawāfil in Jewish halakhic writings preceding Baḥya—­itself a hitherto unexplored terrain in scholarship—­which I will explore primarily through the writings of Saʿadya Gaon (d. 942), Samuel ben Ḥofni (d. 1013), and several Karaite authors of the tenth and the eleventh centuries;17 and the second is the ambivalent attitude toward nawāfil in the realm of ascetically inclined Muslim thinkers, which I will consider with an emphasis on the writings of an author whose approach is close to Baḥya’s, Ḥārith al-­Muḥāsibī (d. 857).18 After these discussions and the presentation of the different cultural contexts of these ideas, I will elaborate further on Baḥya’s own position regarding the obligatory status of the “duties of the heart,” as well as his conception of the category of “supererogatory acts” and the status of such acts in his overall system.

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 19

Supererogatory Acts (nawāfil) and Duties ( farāʾiḍ) in Tenth-­and Eleventh-­Century Rabbanite and Karaite Sources The term nawāfil, which comes from Muslim uṣūl al-­fiqh (foundations of jurisprudence) discourse, appears in both Rabbanite and Karaite Jewish sources, attesting to the integration and adaption of Muslim legal categories to the Jewish context, where they became vital to Jewish religious life.19 The earliest use of the term nawāfil by Jewish authors can be found in the writings of Saʿadya Gaon.20 Thus, for instance, in the Gaon’s commentary on Proverbs 30–­34, he writes that “religion is divided into supererogatory acts (al-­nawāfil), commandments of revelation (al-­samʿiyya [lit., auditory]), and commandments of reason (al-­ʿaqliyya).”21 In this source, Saʿadya introduces the three categories according to the degree of severity of neglecting to fulfill them; but more important to the present concern is how naturally Saʿadya uses the category of nawāfil—­mentioning it alongside two more dominant categories in his thought (samʿiyya and ʿaqliyya) without seeing any need to explicate or elaborate the term. The nature of this use of the term suggests that it is integral to his thought, even if he does not frequently employ it in his surviving oeuvre, and no less importantly, that it is a term he expects readers of his work to understand without any further explanation. A more detailed use of the term is found in Samuel ben Ḥofni’s Ten Questions (ʿAshar masāʾil), a large part of which addresses questions from the realm of uṣūl al-­fiqh, that is, concerning the sources of the law and the method of extrapolating rules from revelation.22 The fragments remaining from the work include the “ninth question,” in which the author addresses the role and status of supererogatory acts (nawāfil). Ben Ḥofni first presents the question: “I desire that he inform me about the supererogatory acts which the nation performs voluntarily and which are not based on their being commanded in Scripture. Did the Prophet teach these to the people in detail, or in a different fashion?”23 Only part of Ben Ḥofni’s response to this question survived, but the outline of the response is indicated by the main points he enumerates as he begins addressing the notion of supererogatory acts. Our answer to him involves the clarification of five issues. The first is the true essence of the supererogatory act. The second concerns the scope of

Chapter One ­— 20 the supererogatory act. The third is concerned with the (kinds of) obligatory acts for which supererogation is [considered to be] proper. The fourth is concerned with the rules for supererogatory acts. The fifth is concerned with the good aspects of supererogation.24

With regard to the first article, Ben Ḥofni asserts that the essence of a supererogatory act is the self-­commitment a person assumes, voluntarily, to perform a certain deed. One’s volitional decision alone is what makes this deed obligatory, or in the author’s formulation: “When someone takes something on as an obligation (iyyulazzimuhu) something which, were it not for this [self-­obligation], would not obligate him and which only obligates him after he enters into it.”25 Further on, in addressing the third article, regarding the specific kind of deeds that befit supererogation, Ben Ḥofni describes supererogatory acts as an intensification or amplification of the performance of certain commandments. These types of commandments are obligatory to begin with, but only in specific times and circumstances. Such intensification is not appropriate for every commandment; those that are suitable include acts such as fasting, prayer, alms giving, mourning over the destruction of Jerusalem, sacrifice, and a category of “special deeds.” Ben Ḥofni states that “we will make these the basis (aṣl) for religious practice, and all other supererogatory acts will derive ( furūʿa) from them so that our performance of these will be in a manner which merits reward.”26 Ben Ḥofni’s brief remarks can teach us several important points about his understanding of supererogatory acts, but on a more basic level they demonstrate that he considers “supererogatory acts” as a distinct category of religious activity beyond the norm. Ben Ḥofni states that this activity becomes obligatory only from the moment one commits oneself to it. As we saw earlier, these actions do not involve a heteronomous imposition, and in the same way that one takes upon oneself to commit them, one can relieve oneself of their burden. In addition, Ben Ḥofni sees a relationship of root-­branch or source-­derivation (uṣūl-­furūʿ) between obligatory commandments and supererogatory acts, with the obligatory commandments being the baseline upon which supererogatory acts are superstructured, in two respects. The first is the hierarchical sense, namely, he conceptualizes the commandments as more essential to religious

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 21

life than supererogatory acts; second, he construes supererogatory acts as identical in type to actions performed as commandments (e.g., fasting, prayer, etc.) but different in terms of how frequently they are performed. In addition, Ben Ḥofni remarks that not every supererogatory act deserves to be rewarded, but the relevant section that elaborates on this idea did not survive. It is also worth noting that in this text Samuel ben Ḥofni presents the Hebrew biblical term neder as equivalent to the Arabic term nawāfil. As he notes, “In our language nafl and tabarruʿ [voluntary acts] are expressed by the two words neder and nedavah, as in the verse: ‘If, however, the sacrifice he offers is a votive (neder) or [freewill offering (nedavah)]’ (Lev 7:16).”27 Interestingly, Ben Ḥofni deviates here from Saʿadya Gaon’s translation, which renders Leviticus 22:21 (“as an explicit vow [neder] or as a freewill offering [nedavah])” as taswwīgh nidhr aw tabarruʿ.28 In another work attributed to Samuel ben Ḥofni, Kitāb al-­asmāʾ wal-­ṣifāt (Treatise on divine names and attributes), dealing with the question of which names and attributes ascribed to God can also be applied to human beings, the author sheds light on another aspect of a person who fulfills supererogatory acts.29 According to Ben Ḥofni, a person who performs such actions may be referred to by the biblical attribute ḥasid (pious).30 This attribute refers to both human beings and God, even though according to Ben Ḥofni there is no “equality, similarity, proximity or resemblance” between the two uses.31 With regard to human beings, he states that a ḥasid is “he who has done everything imposed upon him (wājib) and has taken upon himself supererogatory acts (nawāfil) not imposed upon him. Of such a man our first sages said: The attribute of piety is taught here (bShabbat 119b).”32 The distinction between supererogatory acts and duties appears not only in writings of Rabbanite authors, like Saʿadya and Samuel ben Ḥofni, but also in a number of Karaite works. First, it can be found in the biblical commentaries of Yefet ben ʿEli (active in the second half of the tenth century). In his commentary on Hosea 14:5 (“I will heal their affliction. Generously will I take them back in love; For My anger has turned away from them”), Yefet writes that this verse can be interpreted as referring to the “remnants of Jacob, the knowledgeable who turn back from sin,” who are “performing supererogatory acts following their performance of the commandment ( farḍ) and the obligations

Chapter One ­— 22

(wājibāt), such as: fasts; [the wearing of] rough clothes; abstaining from permitted pleasures and delights; who continue to pray during nights. . . . All this is a supplement to the duties (ziyāda ʿalī al-­farḍ). [Thus] He said: I demanded from the fathers that they do the mandatory obligations (al-­farḍ al-­wājib) to no avail; [however] they did both obligations (wājib) and supererogatory acts (nawāfil), therefore I love them as I loved their roots: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”33 Yefet praises the Karaites of his time who settled in Jerusalem, calling them “the remnants of Jacob” (she’erit Yaʿaqov), “those who turn back from sin” (shavey peshaʿ), and the “knowledgeable” (maskilim).34 For our purposes, it is important to note that Yefet explicitly distinguishes supererogatory acts here from duties, in this case not only by use of the pair of technical terms nāfila and wājib, but also by referring to duties with a term that Baḥya also employs: farḍ.35 Moreover, Yefet, too, gives precedence to duties over supererogatory acts, expressed in his positive judgment of the “knowledgeable” who perform supererogatory acts after (baʿad) their performance of duties. The merit of the Karaites, according to Yefet, lies not only in their turning back from “sin”—­ that is, abandoning the Rabbanite Oral Torah, correctly interpreting the commandments of the Torah and fulfilling them—­but also in going beyond the obligatory norm, to the realm of supererogatory acts. Together, these two elements earned the Karaite congregation the love of God that had formerly belonged to the patriarchs. Another source in which Yefet addresses nawāfil is his commentary to Song of Songs 2:5 (“Sustain me with raisin cakes, Refresh me with apples”), where he uses the term in the context of an accusation of the Rabbanites. In defiance of the Rabbanites whose Torah is the Oral Torah that was put into writing in Talmudic literature, Yefet asserts that religious activity is to be directed to another path, namely repentance, which includes (a) all the commandments that the Karaites now perform after a long era of neglect caused by the adherence of Israel to the Rabbanite Oral Torah; (b) supererogatory acts, which are the special mourning customs of the Karaite “Mourners of Zion.” Yefet sees these supererogatory acts as a substitute for the sacrifices that can no longer be brought, and a supplement that compensates for this absence. He writes: Know that the people of exile are obligated by two things from which there is no escape: The first is repentance, which is shunning sin and doing

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 23 the commandments (al-­miṣvot). . . . The second is performing supererogatory acts (nawāfil). . . . He informed them that their duty is to repent to God by doing the commandments, and then to fast so their hearts will be contrite and they will submit to the Lord, and this instead of bringing sacrifices, for it is said: “Sacrifice to God is a contrite spirit. [God, You will not despise a contrite and crushed heart]” (Ps 51:19). . . . Supererogatory acts (nawāfil) are numerous, as we have mentioned [in the verse]: “[Turn back to Me with all your heart, and] with fasting, weeping, and lamenting” (Joel 2:12).36

We see that here, too, though in a different way, supererogatory acts are considered secondary to the performance of obligatory commandments. In this case, their lower rank is expressed in their being a substitute that becomes significant only in light of the inability to bring sacrifices. But although supererogatory acts are secondary to duties, it is worth noting the dialectic relationship between these two categories: when some of the duties are unrealizable, supererogatory acts stand as a substitute to which the congregation is after all obligated to turn, according to Yefet, in order to compensate for the unfulfilled duties. Moreover, to a degree, the unique and multifaceted Karaite ethos of mourning over Zion is expressed especially in the performance of supererogatory acts. In other words, the activity that sets the Mourners of Zion apart, and which is aimed at arousing and heralding redemption, is precisely the intensified performance of supererogatory acts. Another source that ties together the issues of sacrifices and supererogatory acts is Yefet’s commentary on Proverbs 21:3 (“To do what is right and just is more desired by the Lord than sacrifice”): In the era of sacrifices, supererogatory acts do not precede sacrifices. . . . Know that if one follows the law (anṣaf ), and if he does not bring sacrifices and does no supererogatory action (nāfila), he is considered by God as better than the one who is doing supererogatory acts (nawāfil) but not according to the law. In this, people are divided into three: Among them those who do both the obligatory duty ( farḍ) and supererogatory acts (nawāfil), and they certainly please God; and those who do the obligatory duty ( farḍ) but are not concerned with supererogatory acts (nawāfil), and

Chapter One ­— 24 they are not punished, but they are not of the rank of the former; and those who are enticed to perform supererogatory acts (nawāfil) and lose many of their obligations (wājibāt) and most importantly—­they do not act according to the law, and they do wrong, and it was said with regard to them: “To do what is right and just (ṣedaqah u-­mishpat) [is more desired by God than sacrifice]” (Prov 21:3), enticing these people to do the obligatory duty ( farḍ) and to act according to the law (inṣāf ).37

Yefet’s point of departure is the implicit exegetical difficulty: How is it possible that Scripture argues that doing the right and just (ṣedaqah u-­mishpat) is more desired by God than bringing sacrifice? In order to respond, Yefet divides this issue into three components, which are: (a) the fulfillment of religious duty, which is unattainable for the duty of sacrifice, even though Yefet is careful to point out that this is a top priority; (b) performing supererogatory acts; and (c) acting according to “what is right and just.” Yefet argues that it is preferable to act only according to what is dutiful while not committing any supererogatory acts than to do supererogatory acts while neglecting what is dutiful (wājibāt). He adds that those who perform both duties (mishpat) and supererogatory acts (ṣedaqah) are doing what is most desirable, though he does warn against pursuing supererogatory acts that may lead a person to be negligent in his duties.38 He also remarks, in contrast to the other sources examined above, that those who perform only their duties without adding any supererogatory acts, although not subject to punishment, are still of a lower rank than those who do both ṣedaqah and mishpat. In any case, this source, too, reflects Yefet’s stance regarding the precedence of obligatory duties over supererogatory acts. Yefet’s views on the issue of supererogatory acts, written in the framework of his biblical commentaries, were further developed in the large Book of Commandments written by his son, Levi ben Yefet (active in the late tenth century and the eleventh century). This work, which was originally written in Judeo-­ Arabic, has reached us almost in its entirety only in its Hebrew translation.39 Examining this translation allows us to assess Levi ben Yefet’s approach to nawāfil, owing to the unique Karaite method of translation. When medieval Karaite translators believed that a Hebrew term inadequately covered the original Arabic meaning, or when they wished for some other reason to relate

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 25

the Hebrew term to its Arabic source, they added the original Arabic terms to their translation.40 This method was used in the translation of Levi’s Book of Commandments in some of the cases in which the term nawāfil—­usually translated with the Hebrew term nedavot—­was employed. Thus, Levi writes the following programmatic statement, which concludes his “discussion” (Ar. al-­kalām, as can be learned from Arabic fragments that preserve other parts of the work) on vows and oaths, which he sees as “a conclusion to the commandments in their entirety”: If you persevere in worshipping and awing me I will bring you greatness and glory and my sacred name will be upon you and my eyes will turn to you favorably and I will be on your side as I was on the side of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob of blessed memory, whom my name was upon, and who had greatness and glory and fame in their generations and after their generations. And this discussion is a conclusion to the commandments in their entirety, all that was positively commanded and all that was negatively commanded; all that was first commanded by God and all that we first take upon ourselves such as the nedavot which are nawāfil41 for they subsequently turn into dutiful commandments.42

Levi both connects and distinguishes obligatory commandments and supererogatory acts—­here referred to by the Hebrew term nedavot, to which the translator adds: “which are nawāfil.” The two modes of action are connected as both are subsumed under the category of divine worship. Moreover, Levi sees nedavot as a mode of action that becomes obligatory in a process that begins with a commitment a person takes upon oneself to perform an action and ends with this commitment becoming obligatory. Nevertheless, Levi also differentiates between supererogatory acts and the rest of the commandments by explicitly stating that the source of the commandments is an imposition from God, while the source of supererogatory acts is the person who determines to bind himself to commit them.43 Thus, an action that was first performed as a supererogatory act is not defined now as obligatory because of the specific nature of the action itself. Instead, the action becomes obligatory in a different order, which has to do with a person’s duty to fulfill a commitment he has taken upon himself before God. In other words, it can be said that while

Chapter One ­— 26

the commandments are unconditional, supererogatory acts are an outcome of man’s will; even when they turn obligatory, the obligation is conditioned by the commitment to perform them. This distinction is further emphasized by Levi’s statement earlier in his Discussion on Vows and Oaths: “Know that we will not infer from these vows and oaths on obligatory duties imposed upon us by God, for He did not allow to avoid them nor to absolve them . . . because the duties are not like nedavot which are al-­nawāfil.”44 Levi highlights the possibility of dissolving a supererogatory commitment that one takes upon oneself, and thus indicates the difference between this type of commitment and the obligatory duties. Since obligatory duties are heteronomically imposed—­that is, imposed by God upon man and not a product of human initiative—­there is no possibility of any change in the status of commitment to them. Why did Levi choose to address the issue of supererogatory acts in the specific framework of his Discussion of Vows and Oaths? First, we ought to recall the connection that Samuel ben Ḥofni drew between neder and nawāfil, and, following the biblical verses (e.g., Lev 7:16), between the terms neder and nedavah. But this still does not sufficiently answer the question, nor does it explain Levi’s approach.45 In order to understand Levi’s stance regarding the relations between neder and nedavah we need to examine it both in terms of the affinity and in terms of the difference that Levi sees between these two kinds of acts. In some cases, Levi presents these two acts as equivalent—­for instance, when he writes in his Discussion of Vows and Oaths: “Every neder is in essence nedavah, as it is said: ‘What you have voluntarily vowed (nadarta) to the Lord your God, having made the promise (nedavah) with your own mouth’ (Deut 23:24)”;46 or in his Discussion of Forbidden Sexual Relations: “For nedavot are markedly pronounced, as it is said: ‘When you make a vow to the Lord your God [do not put off fulfilling it, for the Lord your God will require it of you, and you will have incurred guilt]’ (Deut 23:22) etc.”47 However, in other cases, Levi insists on a difference of degree between nedavot, which he considers as less binding, and nedarim, which are more binding. Thus, Levi states succinctly in his Discussion of Vows and Oaths: “For the judgment of nedarim is more severe,”48 and in his Discussion of Marital Relations: “Know that neder is median between the obligatory commandment (miṣvat ḥovah) which is su-

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 27

perior, and the nedavah which is inferior, as it is said: ‘[It] may be presented as a freewill offering (nedavah) but it will not be accepted for a vow (neder)’ (Lev 22:23).”49 How can this difference in degree be accounted for? It seems that an answer can be found in Levi’s subsequent statement in his Discussion of Vows and Oaths: For neder is what one commits oneself to, to the degree of being culpable to death (mitḥayev be-­nafsho) from what is permitted and can be subject to abstinence; and when uttered50 as such it is called neder, and if it is not uttered as such but [merely] performed it is called nedavah. And if one commits oneself to do an act without vowing (be-­loʾ she-­yiddor) to do it, such commitment is only a reinforcement, because it is not considered a neder if one does not take it to the degree of being mortally guilty as a pledge to God . . . as it is said: “I enter Your house with burnt offerings, I pay my vows (nedaray) to You. [Vows] that my lips pronounced” (Ps 66:13–­14), and it is said: “Sacrifice a thanks offering to God, [and pay your vows (nedareykha) to the Most High.] Call upon Me in times of trouble” (Ps 50:14–­15).51

According to Levi, the difference between nedavah (which he identified with the Arabic term nāfila, supererogatory act) and neder is not in the nature of the specific action, but rather, the uttered commitment of the neder—­in which one’s life is put on the line—­to perform an act. Even if the religious act performed is identical in the two cases, nedavah involves a commitment of a lesser degree. This sheds light on Levi’s remark in his Discussion on Prayer regarding Daniel, “who did not risk his soul for nedavah.”52 Moreover, Levi describes the nature of the act of nedavah as related to “what is permitted and can be subject to abstinence (ʿinnuy).” Levi thus limits the range of religious acts that can be considered nedavah—­which can become a neder when one utters a commitment that makes one culpable to death—­to what is permitted but can be abstained from.53 On the significance of this nature of supererogatory acts Levi elaborates: All that one commits (yitnaddev) or vows (yiddor) to [give to] God, he will not know that it was permitted [to begin with] but from the Torah; for

Chapter One ­— 28 they [all men] are His creatures, and how will they give Him from what is [already] His own? For without the Torah decreeing [something] permitted, it would not have been permitted (kasher), and man would not know to what he could commit himself. It is evident that the Torah referred to al-­nawāfil, which are the nedavot.54

Scripture, according to Levi, not only decreed what is obligatory and what is prohibited, that is, the realm of duties, but also determined the limits of permissible acts of nedavah. Even though the commitment to perform a supererogatory act is a human initiative, the nature of the act itself is derived from scriptural definitions of what is permitted and prohibited (what is kasher), and is not to be determined by man. This stance seems to be noticeably different from Samuel ben Ḥofni’s notion of supererogatory acts as entailing only an intensification of religious activity that was already defined, in specific circumstances and times, as obligatory. A final Karaite source that deals with the issue of supererogatory acts and employs the technical term nawāfil in this regard is from Kitāb al-­tamyīz (The book of discernment) by Yūsuf al-­Baṣīr (d. between 1037–­1039), Levi ben Yefet’s contemporary.55 It is a short compendium (compared with the far more comprehensive Kitāb al-­muḥtawī [The comprehensive book]) on the first principles of religion, which was translated into Hebrew by Ṭovia ben Moshe as Sefer maḥkimat peti, and survived only in part in its Arabic original.56 In a passage that has been preserved both in Hebrew translation and (partly) in a Geniza fragment of the Arabic original, al-­Baṣīr writes: Know that God blessed be His name has imposed upon us duties and distinguished between them and supererogatory acts (nedavot) that are being performed due to one’s determination (Heb. Ba-­ʾasher yiggosh yimshekhenu ʾelav). . . . When God, blessed be His name, informed the imposition of duties (wujūb al-­wājib), he obligated us to them and we are not permitted to dissolve [this obligation]; it is different with respect to supererogatory acts (Heb. nedavot/Ar. nawāfil), even if they are beneficial and merit reward (istiḥqāq al-­thawāb). . . . As it is known that nedavot are a matter of our own choice (Heb. be-­mivḥar nafshenu).57

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 29

Thus, al-­Baṣīr, too, draws the distinction between duties, which are obligatory because they were imposed by God, and supererogatory acts (nedavot/nawāfil), which arise from one’s commitment to perform them. This is made clear both in his remark that nedavot involve a human commitment, expressed in the verb yiggosh (simple derived stem, future tense, from the verb n-­g-­sh, meaning to commit), and in his statement that “nedavot are a matter of our own choice (be-­mivḥar nafshenu),” namely, that one is bound to perform a supererogatory act by committing oneself and not by a heteronomic imposition. Even if nawāfil can yield reward, and in this respect are similar to the commandments, they differ from them in a crucial aspect: they are the product of a human initiative, which creates the obligation that, in turn, if fulfilled, may grant the reward. Examining these Rabbanite and Karaite sources thus enables us, first, to indicate the wide spread of the discourse on supererogatory acts in the writings of Jewish authors, Rabbanite as well as Karaite, in the tenth and eleventh centuries. This is not a case of random, minor references that somehow found their way into the works of one author or another, but rather a distinct and rather stable discursive category that became part of a broader, systematic discourse on the rules of religious conduct, and that was acknowledged as a viable form of religious activity. We saw that the authors emphasized that the most salient characteristic of supererogatory acts is the human initiative to perform them. These acts are not part of God’s imposed duties on man, and do not bind man a priori. However, we also saw that according to some of the sources, such supererogatory acts may become obligatory because of the commitment one takes upon oneself. The decision to commit oneself, and not the nature of the performed act itself, is the basis for the transformation of supererogatory acts into obligations. In addition, we saw that the different sources are consistent in considering supererogatory acts as secondary to the obligatory duties, and this in two respects: both because supererogatory acts are not allowed until after the fulfillment of one’s obligatory duties, and because it is possible, in some circumstances, even when one has committed oneself to perform them, to dissolve this commitment. Lastly, we examined both Arabic and Hebrew terms used to refer to and to characterize supererogatory acts—­nawāfil in Arabic, neder and nedavah in Hebrew—­and noted that Samuel ben Ḥofni attributed the Hebrew term ḥasid (pious) to the doer of supererogatory acts.

Chapter One ­— 30

The Merits and Faults of Supererogatory Acts in Early Muslim Ascetic Thought Another possible context for Baḥya’s rejection of supererogatory acts as an axial category for the discourse of the duties of the heart is the critique that was consistently leveled at supererogatory acts in the large corpus of writings of the ascetically inclined Muslim thinker Ḥārith al-­Muḥāsibī. Thus far, al-­ Muḥāsibī has been mentioned in scholarship as a possible source for the very distinction between the “duties of the members” and the “duties of the heart” in Baḥya’s book, as well as for his general affinities to Baḥya’s religious outlook. However, this major issue of a critique of nawāfil, its reasons and consequences, has not yet been discussed in relation to the Duties of the Hearts and has not yet been considered as a possible source for the latter. Al-­Muḥāsibī’s critique should be examined not only in itself but also in light of the paramount importance attributed to supererogatory acts as establishing an ethos of drawing near to God, and as a vehicle for such rapprochement. Thus, a ḥadīth qudsī (a non-­Qurʾanic tradition that gives words spoken by God) cited frequently from the ninth century onwards states: Allah has said: Whoever treats a friend (walī) of mine with enmity, I declare war on him. There is nothing by which my servant draws close to me that is dearer to me than that which I have imposed upon him (iftaraḍtu); and my servant does not cease to draw close to me by supererogatory works (nawāfil) until I love him, and when I love him, I become his hearing by which he hears, his sight by which he sees, his hand by which he forcibly seizes, and his leg by which he walks. If he asks me, I give him, and if he seeks my refuge, I grant it to him.58

On the one hand, this hadith can be read as pronouncing a complementary relationship between obligatory duties and supererogatory acts for the purpose of drawing near to and gaining God’s love. According to such a reading, supererogatory acts are essential to a life of religious excellence and should not be considered secondary.59 Moreover, it also posits that achieving this goal and gaining God’s love brings a kind of unification with the divine, since, by way of His love, God now becomes active in man’s actions. On the other hand, the hadith can also be read differently, as saying that the performance

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 31

of obligatory duties yields God’s protection and an initial nearness to God, but that in order to be as near to God as possible, and to gain divine love, one has to perform supererogatory acts. Even if such a reading in no way cancels the importance of performing obligatory duties, it grants supererogation a superior status in terms of its religious value, since through the performance of supererogatory acts man can reach a stage that is unattainable by the mere performance of duties. This idea was echoed among ascetically and mystically inclined Muslim thinkers, and indeed was highlighted in more than one source. Thus, for example, Louis Massignon showed that according to one of the traditions in the name of Ḥasan al-­Baṣrī, supererogatory action (nāfila) is superior to the performance of an obligatory duty ( farḍ) because supererogation brings man to a proximity to God that cannot be attained by acting lawfully alone.60 In another instance, attributed to a relatively early thinker, Sara Sviri demonstrated that according to Shaqīq al-­Balkhī (d. 810), the nafs (one’s “ ‘ lower’ self”) must be restrained as part of a process of internal transformation that leads to a heightened experience of being immersed in divine love; this process is achieved not through the performance of obligatory acts but through voluntary religious activity beyond the prescriptions of the law.61 The writings of al-­Muḥāsibī betray a certain ambivalence toward supererogatory acts. He does not in any way reject supererogatory acts; indeed he sees them as valuable and provides the rationale for their importance. Yet he also sees them as problematic, in that they can manifest human presumptuousness. In his Masāʾil fī al-zuhd (Questions on renunciation), al-­Muḥāsibī posits the principle that for every obligatory duty there is an analogous supererogatory act, since the latter is an intensification of an already existing and familiar duty (the same argument expressed by Samuel ben Ḥofni),62 such as fasting and prayer. In his Masāʾil fī aʿmāl al-­qulūb (Questions concerning the actions of hearts) he states that the purpose of supererogation is “atonement for wrongdoing (takfīr) and a complementing (takmīl) of religious duties [improperly performed].”63 In this regard he cites a hadith about a prayer that was performed without due attention to the details of this duty and was recompensed for by supererogatory prayer. Nawāfil thus serve as a kind of compensation apparatus available to rectify situations where one has been negligent in the performance of one’s duties. In addition, al-­Muḥāsibī mentions five further

Chapter One ­— 32

aspects that give supererogatory acts their value: (a) supererogatory acts are an expression of gratitude to God whose grace knows no bounds; (b) performing them revivifies the heart; (c) performing supererogatory acts is a proper use of the passing time for the purpose of activity that pleases God and whose reward will be preserved until the Day of Judgment; (d) performing supererogatory acts expresses one’s will to submit to God alone, even in times that are not designated for obligatory duties; (e) supererogatory acts bring one to experience the Day of Judgment as less intimidating and raise one to a higher spiritual rank.64 But al-­Muḥāsibī also expresses reservations about supererogatory acts, in two different respects. First, he argues on more than one occasion that obligatory duties precede supererogatory acts. In his view, an unfulfilled duty (unlike a duty improperly performed) is not rectifiable by supererogation; moreover, abstaining from certain acts to avoid violating a prohibition is more valuable than exerting effort to perform an exceptional supererogatory act.65 He also claims that the unconditional obligatory duties are both more beneficial and more rewarding than supererogatory acts; indeed, he sees the former as the root or source from which the latter are derived.66 Second, al-­Muḥāsibī explicates that supererogatory acts are in fact inferior since they may lead to vanity, because unlike obligatory duties, which are incumbent upon man, supererogatory acts are grounded in human initiative, and as such, instead of reflecting submission or obedience they can become an expression of power and lead to excessive self-­esteem in those who take upon themselves more than the share of others.67 This sense of superiority is not only illusory, according to al-­Muḥāsibī, but is also a manifestation of being defeated by one’s nafs (soul), a guileful inner power that lurks within man, continuously threatening to fail him and obstructing his ability to turn a critical gaze upon himself—­which is an essential part of divine worship. Therefore, al-­Muḥāsibī sees a possibility that supererogatory acts will turn from an activity of religious excellence to an activity that yields the contrary result, namely, negligence in one’s stringency and suspicion regarding one’s own conduct. As he writes: “One must perform inward accounting (muḥāsaba), know one’s soul and reject all its temptations.” And he adds: “Not knowing your soul, your power and God, you may fall prey to your nightly vigil keepings, your long fasts or any [of your] other super-

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 33

erogatory acts (nawāfil).”68 It is evident, then, that for al-­Muḥāsibī the inner activity that keeps a close watch on the movements of one’s soul is more important than supererogatory acts. Only utter and unremitting strictness in this inner watchfulness renders one’s worship sincere and complete. Moreover, this type of activity is part of an obligatory mode of religious action, “inner commandments” imposed on the heart and the intellect that complement the duties imposed on one’s bodily members, not as a supererogatory act but as an obligatory duty.69 Al-­Muḥāsibī’s intention is not merely to intensify religious life by augmenting it with supererogatory acts, but to divert the focus from activities performed by the body or expressed by one’s various bodily organs, to the realm of interior activity. To summarize al-­Muḥāsibī’s stance, we can see that in comparison to the line of thought that regarded supererogatory acts as a unique medium for gaining nearness to God, one that opens up a distinctive path to religious excellence, al-­Muḥāsibī relegates supererogatory acts to a more marginal place in his religious outlook, and regards them as possessing only auxiliary value as accompaniments to the obligatory duties. But beyond the question of their place in religious life, al-­Muḥāsibī expresses wariness about the temptation inherent in supererogatory acts because of their nature as acts that stem from human initiative that express one’s will to surpass the norm, unlike obligatory duties, which highlight submission and obedience—­both inner and external—­to the divine law.70 Duties of the Heart: Expanding the Realm of Duty Thus far I have analyzed two forms in which the legal category of nawāfil (supererogatory acts) appeared in the works of Jewish and Muslim authors between the ninth and eleventh centuries. The category of nawāfil was not limited to the writings of a single Jewish author, nor was it marginal in either Rabbanite or Karaite discourse. Instead, it is repeatedly referenced in the works of multiple central figures in Rabbanite and Karaite halakhic thought, who conceptualize nawāfil as interrelated with, although secondary to, the halakhic category of obligatory duties. Several early Muslim mystically and ascetically inclined thinkers expressed the idea, which was not introduced by any of the Jewish authors, that supererogatory acts are not secondary to the obliga-

Chapter One ­— 34

tory duties, but rather function as a special way of drawing near to God, a path unavailable to those who only perform their duties. Adopting a more ambivalent stance, al-­Muḥāsibī, a central early Muslim mystic, expressed a critique of the values that supererogation represents. Instead of seeing supererogation as the path toward God’s nearness, al-­Muḥāsibī proposes a different path by opening a new medium at the very core of the realm of duties: duties that are imposed on one’s interiority. This analysis of the conceptual grid of the realms of duty and supererogation in both Jewish and Muslim religious life affords us a new perspective on Baḥya’s thought. First, the selection of the authors examined thus far was not arbitrary. As I mentioned above, it is possible that Baḥya himself asserts the centrality of Samuel ben Ḥofni in the introduction to his work.71 And as scholars have noted, Baḥya was attentive to and to some extent also used the argumentative patterns of the Muʿtazila, a religious system of thought whose prominent representative in Rabbanite Judaism was Samuel ben Ḥofni.72 Moreover, beyond a Karaite presence in al-­A ndalus and Andalusi Rabbanite interest in Karaism, scholars have also demonstrated, in a preliminary way, certain interrelations between Baḥya’s Duties of the Hearts and the writings of Karaite authors.73 As for the Muslim context, it is well attested in scholarship that, among medieval Jewish authors, Baḥya was one of the most deeply steeped in the discourses of early Muslim mysticism, and that he drew on these frequently. Furthermore, several scholars (first and foremost, Goldreich) have noted a special relationship between Baḥya’s thought and al-­Muḥāsibī’s; it is thus valuable to examine issues raised in the Duties of the Hearts in light of the available oeuvre of this Muslim thinker.74 Let us return, then, to Baḥya’s statement quoted at the top of this chapter, or more precisely, to the question that he answered in the negative, whether performing the special kind of duties that are at the center of his work—­“the duties of the heart”—­is analogous to “performing supererogatory acts (nawāfil).”75 In view of the discussion in the previous sections, we are now in a better position to understand why Baḥya raises this question in the first place, why it is central to his overall outlook, and why he answers it in the negative. First, recall that this question is not marginal in Baḥya’s work, but rather that it is the very first query he raises about the duties of the heart and their religious

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 35

status. We can better understand this choice now that we recognize that supererogatory acts were a stable category in continuous use in Jewish religious thought leading to and during Baḥya’s lifetime. Raising this question immediately after introducing the duties of the heart testifies to Baḥya’s concern that the central religious notion he introduces in his work might be conceptualized as no more than supererogatory acts designed to enrich one’s religious life or to gain greater reward in the World to Come. This was most certainly not his intention. We can plausibly surmise that Baḥya seeks to differentiate the duties of the heart from each of the criteria of supererogatory acts we considered above. First, Baḥya does not wish to conceptualize them as “permissible acts” but as “duties,” as made plain by their name, farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb. Second, he does not want to present them as obligatory only as an outcome of human initiative but instead seeks to establish them as central to the formation of the heteronomic obligations incumbent upon man. Third, he does not want them to be regarded as secondary to the widely known commandments but as commandments in themselves that are indeed more essential and condition the performance of the better-­k nown obligations, that is, “the duties of the members.” Lastly, he does not want to introduce them as intensifying or adding to the frequency of an already familiar religious activity, such as fasting or prayer, but argues instead that the “duties of the heart” are a different type of activity than the one known from the framework of the “duties of the members.” Baḥya therefore seeks to remove at the very outset the option of understanding the “duties of the heart” as analogous to the known category of “supererogatory acts” (even if seen as obligatory because of a man-­made commitment to perform them). The examination of al-­Muḥāsibī’s approach enables us to understand not only this rejection of the “duties of the heart” as “supererogatory acts” but also the positive articulation of the “duties of the heart” as indeed, “duties” that are imposed on one’s interiority. Like al-­Muḥāsibī before him, Baḥya wants to redefine the idea of religious duty and the scope of activity it covers; the bulk of his work is dedicated to the inner grammar of the ways in which he goes about this task. For the purposes of this chapter, the main point is that he does not want to discuss the category of the duties of the heart under the banner of “supererogation.” However, Baḥya does not reject the performance of all supererogatory acts

Chapter One ­— 36

as part of religious life. Like al-­Muḥāsibī, and even as he emphasizes the disparity between duties of the heart and supererogatory acts, Baḥya acknowledges the relative value of such acts. He dedicates a discussion in the Gate of Purification of the Acts (ikhlāṣ) to this issue, as part of his elaborate treatment of the struggle against the inclination (hawā). In this discussion, Baḥya mentions the general positive value of supererogatory acts, surveys their nature, grounds them in traditional Jewish sources, and also adds relevant Muslim sources. He writes: If, for the sake of virtue ( faḍal), you see fit to take upon yourself (ilzām) additional supererogatory acts of the duties (nawāfil al-­sharāʾiʿ),76 after you have performed the duties imposed on you (wājabāt farāʾiḍak), with the agreement of your intellect and the disagreement of your instinct, it is well indeed. You are rewarded for it and at the same time you are not deviating from the opinion of the sages concerning this, for they have said: “Make a fence round the Torah” (mAvot 1:1); and they have said: “Why was Jerusalem destroyed? Because its inhabitants kept strictly to the Torah alone and never did more than their duty (lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din)”; and when [others] spoke against these, they have said: Said R. Huna: “He who only studies the Torah, is like a man who is without a God, as it is said: ‘Now for long seasons Israel was without the true God’ (2 Chr 15: 3), study must be combined with the practice of charity” (bAvodah Zarah 17b). A virtuous man also said, “Whoever does not perform supererogatory acts, does not perform his obligatory duties; but supererogatory acts are not accepted without the previous fulfillment of the obligatory duties.”77 They have permitted us, or rather obliged us, to perform additional supererogatory acts apart from our duties, as it is said: “The sacred should be increased by additions from the profane” (bYoma 81b), in such acts as fasting during the day, prayer and almsgiving, and by abstaining from overindulgence in permitted food.78

Unlike the yoke of duties that one is necessarily obligated to perform, Baḥya here notes the possibility that one must take on a further burden of performing supererogatory acts. But beyond generally approving of such acts, and even acknowledging them meriting reward, Baḥya is careful not to obscure the categorical distinction between them and obligatory duties, in the two

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 37

senses he gives to the latter, namely, both duties of the members and duties of the heart. Moreover, Baḥya states explicitly that performing supererogatory acts is of value only after the performance of one’s religious duties, a position that also appears in the hadith quoted above, even though the first part of this quotation also highlights the crucial value of performing supererogatory acts. Based on Baḥya’s chosen examples of nawāfil, namely, fasting, prayer, almsgiving, and abstaining from overindulgent eating, it is evident that these types of actions are in any case not identified as “duties of the heart.” Rather, they are acts performed (either by doing something or by abstaining from doing something) by the members, or at least acts that take place in the intermediate realm that Baḥya describes in another passage as “duties of the heart and members together” ( farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb wa-­al-­ajsām maʿ)—­which is not the realm, so he argues, on which his work is centered.79 All this illustrates how Baḥya distinguishes supererogation from the main focus of his work, the duties imposed on one’s interiority, as well as from its main theoretical move—­which he shares with al-­Muḥāsibī—­namely, expanding the realm of duties to include “inner” activity within its scope. In this proposed framework, nawāfil still has a place, but of only qualified importance, reserved for acts done beyond the realm of duty, or in the Hebrew terminology of the Talmudic sources adduced by Baḥya: lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din. Interestingly, Baḥya’s view of supererogatory acts is close to al-­Muḥāsibī’s approach also in the notion that the performance of such acts atones for duties improperly performed. As mentioned above, according to al-­Muḥāsibī, nawāfil may prove beneficial in their use for “atonement for wrongdoing (takfīr) and complementing (takmīl) religious duties [improperly performed].”80 Baḥya, too, in the Gate of Repentance, mentions supererogatory acts as part of the process of repentance, and specifically, as part of the stage of repentance he terms “atonement” or “forgiveness seeking” (istighfār), one of the conditions for the completion of which is “performing supererogatory works of obedience, like fasting by day and praying by night.”81 Here, too, supererogation involves acts performed by the body, unlike the “duties of the heart.” The praxis in which these acts are performed is not the fulfillment of one’s religious obligations but rather the process of renouncing sin. Further, Baḥya sees supererogatory acts not only as a mode of repentance, but also, as he notes in the Gate of True Love, indicators (dalāʾil) of the love of God: “These [indicators]

Chapter One ­— 38

include performing supererogatory fasts during the day, if the body is able, and supererogatory prayers at night continually.”82 The final statement I will analyze in this chapter is from the seventh chapter of the last gate of the Duties of the Hearts, the Gate of True Love, in which Baḥya enumerates in poetic language the “practices of those who love God” (sīr al-­muhibbīn fi Allāh) and their merits. Among the merits, Baḥya describes how these people are not satisfied with performing solely the duties of the members, and continues: All these were trifle in their eyes, since they had discovered their great obligation of obedience to and worship of their Lord. So they worshipped Him by way of the rational duties, particular manners and spiritual virtues ( farāʾiḍ ʿaqliyya wa-­ādāb khāṣṣiyya wa-­faḍāʾil rūḥāniyya); and they volunteered in adding (wa-­tanaffalū bi-­ziyyādatihim) to the known commandments by purifying their hearts to God.83

The three Hebrew translators, as well as the English translator of the work, chose to translate the clause that opens with the Arabic word wa-­tanaffalū as referring to the previous sentence, and specifically to the triad rational duties, particular manners, and spiritual virtues ( farāʾiḍ ʿaqliyya wa-­ādāb khāṣṣiyya wa-­faḍāʾil rūḥāniyya).84 Thus, for instance, Mansoor translates the second clause as: “All these [referring to the triad] they added to the habitual commandments as supererogatory duties (tanaffalū bi-­ziyyādatihim).”85 Such a translation conveys an implicit interpretation that is inaccurate because syntactically, the latter clause in the compound sentence is not derivative of the previous clause (which begins with taʿabadū). A more accurate translation of the second clause is thus: “and they volunteered in adding [or, less literally: voluntarily added] to the known commandments by purifying their hearts to God.” Two exegetical options should thus be considered: the first, which is syntactically weaker, is that the voluntary addition indeed refers to the abovementioned triad, whether in the form of a construct state or through parallelism; the second is that in addition to the triad and separately from it, Baḥya remarks that the lovers of God augmented the known duties with supererogatory acts. In either case, there is no complete overlap between the “duties of the heart” and the voluntary acts he mentions. According to the first option,

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 39

it is likely that “voluntary acts” refers to a specific type of supplement: rational duties that are not the duties of the members (since he states that the lovers of God were not satisfied with these duties alone). In other words, the duties of the heart were augmented by “particular manners and spiritual virtues,” that is, by other acts and modes of attuning the soul that cannot be reduced to the category of the duties of the heart. Indeed, in this reading, only the first part of the triad is considered “duties,” while the two other parts are not. According to the second exegetical option, the clause about the “addition” reiterates the guiding principle of this whole paragraph: discontent with the duties of the members alone, to which Baḥya now adds the issue of the purification of the heart (ikhlāṣ), that is, the dedication of one’s activity to no other purpose but to God alone. According to this reading, too—­assuming that the compound “the known commandments” (al-­farāʾiḍ al-­maʿahūda) refers to the duties of the members—­the additional activity does not necessarily consist solely of the complementary “duties,” namely, the duties of the heart, but can also include supererogatory acts, like the additional fasts and voluntary prayers that Baḥya previously discussed in the same gate. Thus, according to these two exegetical options, there is no reason to assume that Baḥya saw the “duties of the heart” as nawāfil—­a reading that is in any case inconsistent with (a) Baḥya’s references to the technical term nawāfil throughout his work and its distinction from the term farāʾiḍ; (b) his explicit rejection of the analogy between the duties of the heart and the category of nawāfil in the introduction; and (c) his consistent insistence throughout the work on treating the “duties” of the heart as just that: religious duties incumbent upon man.86 Goldreich’s remark regarding this source that the “duties of the heart are not part of the 613 (TaRYaG) but are a supplement that the ‘lovers of God’ volunteered to take upon themselves” is correct in its first part, but incorrect in its latter part.87 Duties of the Heart as Commandments: Beyond the Attribute of Piety In light of our preceding discussion, we must reject the interpretation that views Baḥya’s religious outlook as essentially related to religious excellence that transcends duty. Instead, we should understand it as establishing a new criterion for the very concept of religious duty. Where Tishby and Dan described the Duties of the Hearts as “the foremost . . . musar work of the entirety of phil-

Chapter One ­— 40

osophical musar literature,”88 which they saw as aiming to “add to the halakha and to seek the further traits and deeds required of man ex gratia (lifnim mi-­ shurat ha-­din)”89—­ Baḥya’s work in fact undermines the very definition they proposed for the genre. However, beyond the issue of genres, it remains to be asked: What has made the idea that the duties of the heart are voluntary—­supererogatory acts that one takes upon oneself to perform interiorly—­so compelling to scholars, and possibly also to other readers, even though Baḥya explicitly rejects this option in the very introduction to his work? To conclude this chapter, I will suggest an answer to this question. It is possible that the beginning of this shift in the understanding of the work lies already in two decisive translational choices made by its renowned translator, Judah ibn Tibbon:90 the first decision was to translate the Arabic walī—­a pivotal term for Baḥya, as I will show in the third chapter of this study—­with the Hebrew work ḥasid (pious); and the second was to omit altogether many of the appearances of this Arabic term. To understand Ibn Tibbon’s decision we should acknowledge, if only preliminarily, the importance of the term walī, which appears in different declensions around 150 times throughout the work, in two different uses. For Baḥya, this term is the focal point around which he shapes the figure that embodies his notion of religious excellence, one who achieves inner knowledge, who acknowledges the utmost importance of the duties of the heart, who fulfills them to the best of his ability, and who gains recognition from God and reward in the World to Come for his inner conduct. In Muslim thought, the walī does not necessarily stand out for outdoing the norm, and in many cases he is even presented as the paragon of a faithful realization of the religious norm.91 The choice of the Hebrew term ḥasid to translate this term is not obvious. It also imbues the figure of the walī with very particular colors, namely those of ḥasidut (piety) as it was conceptualized before and during Baḥya’s lifetime, above all with its most salient characteristic: going beyond the norm and committing oneself to acts that are not otherwise imposed.92 Ibn Tibbon’s translation decision had the effect that this specific trait—­which we encountered above in Samuel ben Ḥofni’s writing, whose definition of the ḥasid was based on the performance of supererogatory acts and conducting oneself according to middat ḥasidut—­now came to

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 41

be associated, suggestively, with the figure of the walī, thereby uprooting the radical meaning Baḥya gave it and charging it with a different religious sense.93 Moreover, in addition to the term walī, Ibn Tibbon opted to use the term ḥasidim (pl. of ḥasid), alternately rather than consistently in this case, to translate five other Arabic terms that Baḥya uses to connote religious excellence (whose foremost feature is adherence to committing the duties of the heart), namely: ṣāliḥīn, faḍāʾil, abrār, akhyā, and aṣfiyāʾ.94 Furthermore, Ibn Tibbon intervenes in another pattern of Baḥya’s use of the term walī. Throughout his work, Baḥya not only cast the walī as the genuine representative of his religious approach; he also retrojected this ideal type into the Jewish canon. In particular, Baḥya used this term to refer to a biblical figure—­the paradigmatic walī, according to Baḥya—­namely, the Psalmist. Approximately one hundred times throughout the work, Baḥya presented the Psalmist as walī, by preceding the quotations from the Psalter with the following phrase: qāla al-­walī or qawl al-­walī. In eighteen more cases, Baḥya appended the term walī to Solomon before quotations from Proverbs, and in two other cases before quotations from Ecclesiastes. In addition, he used walī to refer to Jeremiah, Job, Nehemiah, Daniel, Isaiah, and even Jacob. Ibn Tibbon chose to omit all of these instances (except for one, referring to Job). Instead, he used the indefinite pronoun, which is foreign to Baḥya: “said Scripture” (ʾamar ha-­katuv).95 Ibn Tibbon’s two translation choices not only sterilized the use of the term walī, but also significantly diluted it. In place of this term arose a new term, which appears approximately one hundred times, and which now stood at the core of Baḥya’s work in Ibn Tibbon’s translation: ḥasid. Ibn Tibbon’s move appears to have affected the reception of the Duties of the Hearts, and even to have caused later readers and interpreters to identify its author as a ḥasid. A dramatic example of this is the Summary of the Book of the Duties of the Hearts, which was written by Asher ben Shelamya of Lunel in the second half of the twelfth century, that is, only a short period after Ibn Tibbon’s translation, and has survived in twenty manuscripts.96 In the introduction to the Summary, Asher ben Shelamya introduces Baḥya using the attributes “the ascetic (parush), pious (ḥasid), and wise (ḥakham) R. Baḥya the Sefaradi may he rest in Eden,” and describes him as one who “greatly spoke of piousness (ḥasidut) and

Chapter One ­— 42

asceticism (perishut), and brought together the words of our sages of blessed memory that were scattered across the Talmud, and fitly arranged them.”97 He repeats this observation later in his introduction: I’ve observed this book [the Duties of the Hearts], and I have neither seen nor heard someone who so greatly spoke, wrote and directed to the ways of the pious (ḥasidim) and ascetics (perushim), as this ḥasid [Baḥya] had done, gathering the words of our sages of blessed memory, who greatly spoke on issues of piety (ḥasidut), but because these were scattered across the Talmud, most people did not pay attention to it, and he [Baḥya] gathered them and fitly arranged them.98

Thus, using the term ḥasid, Asher ben Shelamya builds an uninterrupted bridge between the religious outlook of the Duties of the Hearts and the figure of the ḥasid as it was portrayed in earlier Rabbinic literature, despite the fact that Baḥya himself makes no such connection, and more importantly, as we have seen, does not tie the “duties of the heart” to the “attribute of piousness” (middat ḥasidut) nor to the category of lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din.99 Besides Asher ben Shelamya’s Summary, Baḥya is also described as a ḥasid in the anonymous work Sefer Ha-­yashar (thirteenth century) attributed to Zeraḥya the Byzantine. In the introduction to this work, its author writes: “I begin, with the aid of God, by saying: I have seen many respectful books on the issue of the worship of God, such as The Book of the Duties of the Hearts, written by the pious (ḥasid) R. Baḥya ibn Baquda of blessed memory, and many other respectful books.”100 This attribute was also employed by Baḥya ben Asher in his commentary on the Torah, when referring to the issue of reliance on God: “Thus wrote the great pious (ḥasid) teacher Rabbi Baḥya ibn Paquda of blessed memory in his Book of the Duties of the Hearts.”101 Additionally, in manuscripts of Ibn Tibbon’s translations of Duties of the Hearts and in manuscripts of the Summary, the attribute ḥasid frequently appears before Baḥya’s name, as in: “The Book of the Duties of the Hearts written by our teacher Baḥya the ḥasid of blessed memory”; and “Summary of the Book of the Duties of the Hearts written by the wise ḥasid R. Baḥya of blessed memory.”102 We can see, then, how ḥasidut (piety), in its various declensions, became tied to the Duties of the Hearts and its author following Ibn Tibbon’s translation, possibly causing

Duties and Supererogatory Acts ­— 43

readers and commentators of the work to understand its tenets as relating to the path of ḥasidut. This dynamic invites reflection on another translational choice by Ibn Tibbon that may have had decisive influence on the reluctance to acknowledge the imperative religious status of the duties of the heart. I am referring to Ibn Tibbon’s decision to translate the Arabic term farāʾiḍ—­in most cases, and most prominently in the book’s title—­as ḥovot, and not miṣvot.103 This decision may reflect an assumption—­and in any case opens up the interpretative possibility—­that there is a distinction between miṣvot (a biblical lexeme) and ḥovot (a Rabbinic lexeme), and thus that miṣvah is to be understood differently from ḥovah.104 It may be that Ibn Tibbon’s translational decision stemmed from his attempt to distinguish between the Arabic terms sharāʾiʿ and farāʾiḍ in Baḥya’s religious discourse, for indeed he does not even once translate sharāʾiʿ as ḥovot.105 But even if this is the case, the terminological distinction between sharāʾiʿ and farāʾiḍ carries no substantial theoretical significance in Baḥya’s discourse. Indeed, in some cases, Baḥya himself replaces the term farāʾiḍ with the term sharāʾiʿ, for instance, when he distinguishes between commandments of reason and commandments of revelation (as did Saʿadya with the same terminology), and a few places where he uses sharāʾiʿ instead of farāʾiḍ in distinguishing between the duties (or commandments) of the heart and those of the members.106 Alternatively, it is possible that Ibn Tibbon sought to retain the principal use of the Hebrew term miṣvot for the more familiar commandments in order to uphold the conventional compound TaRYaG miṣvot, and not to undermine it by a translational choice that would force him to highlight the notion of innumerable miṣvot incumbent upon the heart.107 If so, we can regard this translational decision as another case in which Ibn Tibbon dulled the radicality of Baḥya’s approach. As we have seen, Baḥya sought to impart a categorically obligatory status to the farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb, a matter that warrants greater emphasis, which would have been achieved by translating the phrase as miṣvot ha-­levavot, or commandments of the heart.108 Now that we have established that Baḥya was not content to define his innovation as supererogatory acts or a mode of ex gratia worship but instead sought to reshape the realm of obligations or miṣvot in Jewish life through the novel category (in the Jewish context) of farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb, a series of questions

Chapter One ­— 44

arises about the exact nature of this new concept of duty, what it entails, and how it relates to preexisting notions of “duty” in the Jewish tradition. How does one become aware of the scope, and nature, of the “duties of the heart” imposed upon him? What is the relation between the grace of God and the sum of duties incumbent upon the human? Is one obligated to the entirety of the “duties” of the heart from the outset, or is there some other criterion, which is not one’s own will (which was the defining feature of supererogatory acts), that renders them obligatory? These questions will be explored in the next chapter, which will reveal a novel concept of law, miṣvah, and religious obligation.

T WO Inner Duties

What are the duties that are incumbent upon the heart, what sets them apart from other types of duties and what kind of religious life do they shape? First, it must be noted that the very definition and distinction of this category of “duties of the heart” from another category, “duties of the members” is not self-­evident. As I will show, it amounts to a radical taxonomical move that seeks to reframe the whole realm of duties—­or, as we have seen, of commandments (miṣvot)—­with far-­reaching consequences for religious life. The taxonomical move involves demarcating two independent realms of activity that were not previously differentiated and separated in this fashion, and utilizing these two realms as the foundation for the whole system of commandments. What Is the Heart? On Internal Activity Before we turn to the nature of the distinction between duties imposed on the heart and those imposed upon the members, we must seek to understand the very idea of a duty that is to be fulfilled in the heart. Answering this question requires an analysis of Baḥya’s use of the term “heart” (qalb).1 Surprisingly, Baḥya himself does not address this issue systematically. However, in the few passages he did write on this matter, there are enough indications to allow us to pursue this exploration and to attempt to fill in some of the missing parts, even if the complete picture will remain speculative to some extent. It is clear that Baḥya considered the heart the focal point of the “internal” dimension of a person, situated beyond the manifest realm of his actions, and as such, apparent only to himself and to God, who sees through the person into his 45

Chapter Two ­— 46

heart. What else can be said about this realm? Baḥya elaborates on the heart, if scantly, in his discussion in the Gate of Renunciation on restraining the senses (ḥawāss). He first enumerates six bodily members: tongue, eyes, ears, taste (Baḥya does not explicitly refer to the mouth), hands, and legs, and then adds a further, seventh member: The Sage [Solomon] has summed it up, adding the heart to it in his saying: “Six things God hates [Seven are an abomination to Him]” etc.; “Haughty eyes, a lying tongue” etc.; “A heart that hatches evil plots” etc.; “A false witness testifying lies” etc. (Prov 6:16–­19). You may also find them if you study the Psalm: “God, who may sojourn in Your tent” etc.; “He who lives without blame, who does what is right, and in his heart acknowledges the truth” etc. (Ps 15:1–­2)2

The heart, then, is added to the list of members, and as such, it, too, is regarded as a kind of member, but an “inner” one. Like any member, the heart, too, has a range of possible activities and can undertake an act or abstain from it. What kind of inner activity is associated with the heart? Here we must distinguish between two types of discourse Baḥya uses in different parts of his work. The first is a discourse shared with some of the Muslim philosophers, which draws a distinction between internal senses (ḥawāss al-­bāṭina) and external senses (ḥawāss al-­ẓāhira), or in a different terminology, between spiritual senses (rūḥāniyya) and bodily senses ( jismāniyya).3 This discourse centers on the question of the mental processing of sense data, that is, of the impressions of the “external” senses. The inner senses receive these impressions, separate them from each other, assess their value, make judgments about them, gather them into new configurations, and discern according to these impressions the attributes of the objects of perception. Baḥya employs this discourse in the book’s first gate, the Gate of Purification of God’s Unity, in order to explain the limitations of the human ability to know the essence of God. He notes that in addition to the bodily senses, each human also has senses “of the soul” (al-­nafsiyya)—­or in another phrasing, “spiritual senses”—­that include five epistemic functions: recollection (dhikr), thought ( fikr), reflection (khāṭir), conjecture (ẓann), and discrimination (tamyīz). The external senses and the inner senses together converge in the intellect (ʿaql), which coordinates the ap-

Inner Duties ­— 47

prehension of the senses. The role of the senses, both external and internal, is the “perception of things” (idrāk al-­maʿānī). However, each one of these senses, and the human intellect as a whole, is limited with regard to the objects it can perceive or comprehend. In Baḥya’s words: “Each sense can reach its object only up to a certain limited distance that it reaches, and then when it reaches the end of this range the ability ceases.”4 Thus, for instance, the sense of sight can perceive only an object that has visible attributes and is positioned at a distance from which it can be seen; beyond this distance, the sense of sight will fail to perceive the object. According to Baḥya, this limitation does not apply solely to the external senses, but also to the internal senses. Because the intellect’s activity is the comprehension—­by means of the operations of the inner senses—­of a mental object using the method of inference (istiḍlāl), its capacities, too, are limited.5 Baḥya argues that there are certain objects whose reality (ḥaqīqa) the intellect can perceive, likely referring to the objects of the external senses, and other objects, farther away epistemically, that it reaches via a series of interlinked inferences.6 God, “the most hidden and the farthest from us with respect to His essence,” presents the intellect with the greatest epistemic challenge. Indeed, Baḥya determines that “our intellect can conceive only of God’s existence,” through “signs upon God’s creations,” the reflection on which makes it possible to infer the existence of God. The intellect cannot fathom the “truth of His essence,” nor can it liken God to anything else because of the disparity between God and any other existent.7 Like the object that is too distant for the eye to perceive, so God is too distant for the intellect to comprehend. The discourse of internal senses that Baḥya uses in the Gate of Purification of God’s Unity aims, then, to indicate the distance of God, the inability to gain the kind of nearness to God or the extent and type of knowledge of God that man has with respect to other objects in the world. By contrast, in the above-­cited source on the heart as a seventh member added to the six bodily members, Baḥya uses a different type of discourse, which originated in circles of early Muslim ascetics and mystics, and which circulated and developed in Sufi writings. Its emphasis is not at all on the epistemic function of the heart, but rather on the ethical, psychological, and religious dimensions. The heart, in this system of thought, is the seat of human wisdom and self-­k nowledge, where a life lived in acknowledgment (or else in

Chapter Two ­— 48

denial) of God is shaped. In contrast to the discourse on the “inner members” that describes the heart as able only to reach knowledge of the existence of God through intermediaries, while remaining far from God’s essence, this discourse on the heart points to a mental space where intimacy with and nearness to God is possible. It describes the nature of the heart as an undisclosed realm, that is, a realm that is not exposed to the gaze of any other human being. Acts performed in the heart are revealed only to one’s own self-­consciousness, as well as to God, who observes all acts, including activities that lie beyond the realm of visible phenomena.8 This second type of discourse also outlines the special religious value of acts performed in the confines of the heart, which have a more direct relationship with God. While Baḥya does not elaborate on the specific traits of the heart, it is possible to further explore this topic using a source discussed by Goldreich, who identified a probable origin for the enumeration of six elements with the heart as a seventh in al-­Muḥāsibī’s writings.9 In Risālat al-­mustarshidīn, al-­Muḥāsibī includes a near-­identical enumeration; such an enumeration of seven members has not been found in almost any other source.10 The similarity between Baḥya’s and al-­Muḥāsibī’s discourses on the heart enables us to gain further insight into Baḥya’s discourse through a study of al-­Muḥāsibī’s approach, which more significantly elaborated on the idea of the heart.11 First, al-­Muḥāsibī sees the heart as a site of activity.12 Just as actions are performed by each one of the members, so the heart performs actions that are unique to it. Thus, for instance, it is in the heart that God is unified; the heart trusts or fails to trust, desires an existing or absent object. The heart assesses the activities of all other members and provokes or accompanies them by means of an “intention” that underlies or coincides with any such activity. But it is also an autonomous realm of activity that involves acts that are not manifest externally.13 Baḥya also expresses this idea, for instance, in in a passage in his introduction in which he addresses the external obedience to God that is realized in activities of the members, for example, in the construction of a sukkah, in contrast with obedience that takes place in one’s interiority (ṭāʿa al-­bāṭina), for example, contemplating God’s graces.14 These latter acts will be performed by one’s “inner convictions (al-­iʿtiqād) and inward realm (al-­ḍamīr) and not by our external bodily members.”15 A second characteristic of the heart in al-­ Muḥāsibī’s thought is as a site of struggle, which is an outcome of the different

Inner Duties ­— 49

constituents that together form one’s interiority, each of them seeking to guide the heart in its activity. Al-­Muḥāsibī refers to the inner element that seduces a person to disregard his duties and that keeps him away from God, which he calls “soul” (nafs). He specifically highlights two of the soul’s attributes: its appetites (shahawāt) and its desire (or inclination, Ar. hawā).16 The nafs may misguide the heart and corrupt the works of man—­both externally and internally. Externally, because the heart leads the acts of the members, and internally, because such corruption may be realized in unprincipled activity in the mental sphere, in desiring improper objects, or aiming to achieve inappropriate ends. From another perspective, al-­Muḥāsibī describes this struggle in terms of a trial (ikhtibār, miḥna, or balwā) that the heart undergoes simply by virtue of the fact that man exists in the world and thus is exposed to its stimuli, to objects that tempt the heart, and to aberrant thoughts. Withstanding these difficulties is no trivial matter, and requires overcoming and conquering one’s desires for the world and the nafs that commands one to adhere to its unruliness.17 The process of overcoming this possible corruption is described by al-­ Muḥāsibī as the purification (ikhlāṣ) or rectification (taṣfīya) of the heart.18 It safeguards the heart from evil thoughts, leads one to proper inner and external conduct, and ensures that one’s activities are aimed at appropriate goals. In Baḥya’s work, this discourse undergoes several modifications but retains its basic structural elements. First, the inner struggle is not described as taking place mainly in the realm of the heart but instead is relocated, at least terminologically, to the realm of the soul, which Baḥya sees as the inner element that one’s desire threatens to lead astray.19 In this context, it is hard to determine whether “soul” (nafs) becomes synonymous with “heart” (qalb), as seems to be the case in some sections of the book, or whether Baḥya uses “soul” as an overarching term for the inner realm, which consists of a number of elements of which the heart is one.20 Baḥya, like al-­Muḥāsibī, describes the soul as having to undergo a trial (ikhtibār) due to being situated in a material body.21 In addition, although not frequently, Baḥya, too, uses the technical term “purification of the heart” (ikhlāṣ al-­qalb), as well as two other compounds that seem to parallel it: purification of the inward realm (ikhlāṣ al-­ḍamīr) and purification of the soul (ikhlāṣ al-­nafs).22 The significance of all three compounds is mainly the quality of performing a given action, internal or external, in a way that is

Chapter Two ­— 50

unalloyed by any external motivations dictated by the desirous inclination. A third trait of the heart in al-­Muḥāsibī is its need to be guided by the intellect in order to identify proper conduct and to reject the implorations of the inclination.23 The intellect, which is situated in the heart according to al-­Muḥāsibī, is one’s innate capacity to establish an ordered array of inferences, to guide one’s actions according to reasoned evaluations, and to distinguish between the beneficial and the harmful.24 This capacity uproots man from his immediate surroundings and from the primary connectedness to sense objects, opening up a space for reflection, which in turn allows him to infer the nonmaterial from the material, that is, to comprehend objects that are not directly present to the senses. This distance also enables the cultivation of a proper attitude toward any object, based on considerations broader than the wish for immediate pleasure or the threat of immediate pain. In this regard, the intellect “guards” the heart from the inclination. Baḥya thoroughly adopts this conception of the intellect as the basis for his notion of the “admonition of the intellect and path of inference” (tanbīh al-­ʿaql wa-­ṭarīq al-­istiḍlāl), which is the way in which the intellect guides one toward proper conduct.25 He defines the “admonition of the intellect,” or “calling to attention by the intellect,” as an innate capacity of human beings that protects them against the temptations of lust, making the soul obedient after “bodily desires have been destroyed and the intellect has been victorious over them to the point where it can manage them according to its wisdom and its will.”26 The intellect reveals to the heart how it ought to act, and endows it with the rationale for acting in such a way. The heart is thus a member of internal activity, characterized by an incessant struggle against the lure of desire, and aided by the guidance of the intellect to choose the proper conduct. Duties of the Heart as a Separate System of Commandments According to Baḥya, one of the lessons drawn from the intellect concerns a person’s duty to worship God as a mode of acknowledging the graces bestowed upon him in the very fact of his existence.27 This lesson comes up already in the opening words of the work, in which Baḥya praises God for the graces He has granted to all beings, and most especially to human beings:

Inner Duties ­— 51 Praised be God, the Lord of Israel, the true one, for He is of unique truth, eternal existence, and perpetual benevolence. He created the beings . . . and formed nothingness into beings to indicate his wisdom (ḥikmatihi) and grace (niʿmatihi) upon all beings. . . . Among the most noble graces He has benefitted mankind with—­after He endowed them with qualities that make their discernment (tamyyīzuhum) complete and their understanding ( fahmuhum) perfect—­is [giving them] knowledge (ʿilm) that enlivens their hearts, enlightens their intellects, guiding them to the favor of God, glory and praise be unto Him, guarding them from His anger in this world and in the World to Come.28

Every being, by its sheer existence and createdness, is subject to God’s grace. Human beings, however, are endowed with special graces, their capacities for discernment and understanding, cognitive powers that allow them to acquire the noblest of God’s graces, knowledge.29 Baḥya defines knowledge as aimed at enlivening the heart, enlightening the soul, guiding toward pleasing God, avoiding harm in this world, and toward the World to Come.30 These terms, as becomes clear throughout Baḥya’s work, refer to the capacity of the intellect to gain knowledge and insight into man, world, and God, and their relations, and to guide a person toward conduct that will benefit him in the course of his life in this world, and after death when his final judgment is determined. One of the fundamental insights that the intellect reaches is an understanding of the requirement to acknowledge an endless debt to God for the graces bestowed upon man, and to return these special favors through obedience to God (ṭāʿa)—­a key term that appears hundreds of times in the book and which can also be interpreted as worship of God.31 Thus, Baḥya declares that “reason (ʿaql) requires the beneficiary to obey the benefactor.”32 He also states that man has to account for “God’s ample grace in endowing him with intellect and power of discernment . . . by which he [man] is distinguished from the animals.”33 Just as man would be indebted to any benefactor other than God had that benefactor endowed him with such skills—­that immeasurably improve his condition—­so he must acknowledge his indebtedness to God; the size of the debt is as great as the magnitude of the advantage bestowed upon man. Acknowledging this debt leads one to try to repay it through acts of obedience.34

Chapter Two ­— 52

As for the nature of obedience, Baḥya determines in the introduction to the work that because man is composed of body and soul, both expressing graces bestowed upon man by God, he must worship God with both the body and the soul: We have shown that man is composed of a soul and a body—­both are God’s graces given to us, one external, one internal. Accordingly, we are obliged to obey God both outwardly and inwardly. Outward obedience is [expressed] in the duties of the members . . . all of which can be wholly performed by man’s outer senses. Inward obedience, however, is in the duties of the heart  .  .  . performed by inner convictions (al-­iʿtiqād) and [the] inward realm (al-­ḍamīr) and not by our external bodily members.35

The first thing to note in this passage is that it demonstrates the aforementioned equivalence, or at least, partial overlap, between the terms “soul” and “heart” in Baḥya’s work. Thus, in view of the heart’s nature as an autonomous sphere of activity, as shown above, the radicality of this passage stands out: man is to worship God in two different modes: the first, by performing the duties of the members, that is, obeying God in one’s external limbs in a manifest way; and the second, by performing the duties of the heart, that is, obeying God with acts that are unique to the inner member and undiscernible to an outside observer. This is the moment in which a taxonomical principle is born that rearranges the entire realm of duties and redefines the concept of miṣvah. Miṣvot are now divided into two independent spheres—­one is determined by the activity of the members, and the other by the inner activity that takes place in the heart. How are these two realms different from each other? Baḥya’s response to this question is no less audacious than the act of setting up these categories. The first major distinction between the two frameworks is one of value. Clarification of this issue requires some prudence, because the relation between the duties of the members and the duties of the heart in Baḥya’s overall system is a field rife with inner tensions. In some cases, Baḥya presents the duties of the heart as a realm of conduct that merely complements the duties of the members, with no added value judgment, a realm whose aim is to bring into congruity the manifest aspect of human conduct and the conduct that is not

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apparent to external gaze, in a process of balancing the acts of the body and the heart. Thus, for instance, Baḥya writes in the introduction: “You must know that the purpose and advantage of the duties of the heart is to make our outer and inner worship of God equal and balanced, so that the heart, the tongue, and the other members are all witnesses to our obedience, each one confirming the other and giving testimony in its favor, not opposing the other by disagreement.”36 This is not a unique statement; Baḥya repeats it in the work’s concluding gate, where he interprets the words of Deuteronomy, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might,” in the same vein, arguing that this verse refers to “adherence to interior love of God and its open manifestation, so that love for the Lord may be complete and true, hidden and manifest, [the love being] internal and external, both parts even, equal, proportionate, and balanced.”37 This depiction of the relations between the duties of the members and the duties of the heart in itself lacks any hierarchy, though it does not preclude the possibility of a hierarchical framing of the two realms. In other places, a hierarchical conception of the relationship between the two types of duties is implied, for instance, in Baḥya’s presentation of the duties of the members as a vehicle for human initiation, that is, a preliminary mode of worship that befits the first stages of one’s development, before one matures and advances to also worship God in the heart. This preliminary stage is necessary because man cannot at first worship God without involving the body. Baḥya likens this to the process of learning and internalizing the sciences, using the example of initiation into the science of geometry, which advances from the concrete, designed to serve as a primary substrate of knowledge, to more abstract and theoretical knowledge.38 Analogously, Baḥya argues: You should understand that the main purpose of the laws which pertain to the members is to arouse us (tanbīh)39 to the commandments (sharāʾiʿ) that are performed in the heart and in one’s inwardness, which are the pillar of obedience (ʿimād al-­ ṭāʿa) and the root of the Law (uṣūl al-­ sharīʿa). . . . Since this is beyond man’s capability, and since it cannot be accomplished, unless he has freed himself of his beastly desires, has trained his nature and controlled all his movements, a man must worship God with his body and

Chapter Two ­— 54 members as far as he is able, until it becomes possible for him to perform them [the duties of the heart].40

Here, the duties of the heart are presented as more difficult to carry out, and as posterior, since they are conditioned upon a preliminary process of conquering one’s desires that is made possible by the performance of the duties of the members. In other words, training and preparation are needed before one can accomplish them. In this respect, the duties of the heart depend upon the duties of the members. However, this dependence is related only to the way one becomes able to fulfill the duties of the heart, and is not an essential dependence. This point is highlighted by Baḥya in his claim that the duties of the heart are “the pillar of obedience and the root of the Law.” In other words, what is temporally posterior and made possible only after practicing the duties of the members is actually prior in terms of religious status, as is stressed by the rhetorical doubling in Baḥya’s phrase—­describing the duties of the heart with the two overlapping adjectives, “pillar” and “root.”41 What makes the heart more religiously significant and more essential to the worship of God? While Baḥya does not elaborate in this passage, he does offer some observations in other passages that address the differences between the duties of the members and those of the heart. One such observation is found already in the introduction to the work: The duties of the members will not be accomplished unless our hearts choose [to do them] and our souls aim for their performance.42 Since, then, our members cannot perform an act unless our souls have chosen it first, our members could free themselves from all duties and obligations if it should occur to us that our hearts were not obliged to choose obedience to God.43

According to this passage, executing the duties of the members, too, is conditioned on the decision of the heart, which activates the members to act in ways that are congruent with one’s duties. Thus, two distinct functions that take place in one’s heart or soul become clear: first, the decision to perform an act, whether internal or external; and second, the performance of inner acts that are independent of the activity of the external bodily members. Essentially, then, the duties of the members are dependent on the determination of the

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heart, which is the agent that directs the actions of the body. But the acts of the heart are not conditioned on any external cause; they exist only in one’s interiority. Moreover, the deeds of the heart are internal to the cause that directs these deeds, in contrast with the deeds of the body, which take place in a different, exterior realm. Immediately following this passage, Baḥya adds more explicitly: Since it is clear that our Creator commanded the members to perform his duties, it is improbable that He overlooked our hearts and souls, our noblest parts (ashraf ajzāʾina), not commanding them to worship Him as far as possible.44

Not only is the performance of the duties of the members conditioned on the heart commanding the members to act, but this type of duties is in any case related only to the less noble part of a man’s constitution. In fact, duties are also imposed on one’s nobler part, one’s interiority. This is the deeper rationale for the superiority of the duties of the heart, and it reflects Baḥya’s consistent position—­regarding not only his conception of duties but his whole conception of Being—­that the inner is superior to the external, the hidden superior to the manifest. Indeed, it is no surprise to find that Baḥya explicitly remarks in several other sections as well on the higher value of the duties of the heart in comparison with the duties of the members.45 Thus, for instance, he notes in the introduction that “since the foundation and the pillar of action is the intention of the heart and the inward realm [of man], it is necessary that the knowledge of the duties of the heart should come before and stand above the knowledge of the duties of the members.”46 And again later, in an analogy with which Baḥya concludes the introduction, he likens the relations between the knowledge of the duties of the heart and the knowledge of the duties of the members to the relations between two grades of silk, reflecting on what can be produced from each type. The more refined silk is analogous with “knowledge of the subtle spiritual meanings which constitute the inner knowledge to whose practice he should devote himself constantly—­the duties of the heart and the obligations of the soul.” The silk of lesser quality, by contrast, is regarded as analogous with “knowledge of the duties of the members in the appropriate times and places [in which one is obligated to perform them].”47

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In another way that reflects the superiority of the duties of the heart, Baḥya asserts that from a hermeneutic perspective, the knowledge of the duties of the heart requires an understanding of the inner meanings of Scripture, whereas the knowledge of the duties of the members is associated with studying only the external facet of Scripture.48 And in the same vein, in a passage discussing the theory of reward, Baḥya remarks that fulfilling the duties of the members will only grant one reward in this world, and the duties of the heart may grant one the nobler reward of the World to Come.49 The higher value of the duties of the heart over the duties of the members turns out, then, to be part of the broad conceptual network by which Baḥya defines the myriad aspects of Being. Just as God is the hidden foundation of Being, which is expressed only distantly and dimmer in the manifest aspects of Being; just as the soul is the hidden foundation of man, which is only subsequently and secondarily expressed in the activity of the members; just as the inner interpretation, which is transmitted in Scripture only implicitly, is its essence, and is superior to the manifest meanings that are available to every reader; and just as the World to Come is loftier than this world, and the reward of the World to Come is far worthier and nonephemeral compared to any reward in this world—­so too the duties of the heart are superior in value to the duties imposed upon the members.50 This difference in value is the necessary result and an inevitable projection of Baḥya’s overall system. A second difference between the duties of the heart and the duties of the members is in their quantity. According to Baḥya, the duties of the members add up to 613 commandments. By contrast, the duties of the heart are infinite in number. The first reference to the innumerability of the duties of the heart is found already in the introduction, where Baḥya asserts that innumerable branches extend from the roots of the duties of the heart. When I began to count and to elaborate upon its branches (tafrīʿiha) [of the duties of the heart], I found them very numerous, and I understood that the saying of the friend [of God] “I have seen an end to every purpose; But Thy Commandment is exceedingly broad” (Ps 119:96) was indeed meant for the duties of the heart. For the duties of the members are limited in number, about 613 commandments in all,51 while the duties of the heart are many and their branches innumerable.52

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The basic idea is that the duties of the heart have ten roots or sources (uṣūl), archetypical commandments to which the book’s ten gates are dedicated, and these form the substratum from which the infinite entirety of the duties of the heart is derived.53 A different formulation that posits the 613 commandments against the infinity of commandments of the heart is located in Baḥya’s comprehensive discussion of inner worship in the Gate of Obedience. After drawing a comparison between obedience by means of Scripture—­essentially, the fulfillment of the duties of the members—­and obedience by means of the intellect—­realized in the duties of the heart, he writes: The duties based on the Law (sharīʿah) are limited and finite in number (al-­ʿadad maḥṣura), being six hundred and thirteen altogether, while the duties imposed by the intellect [the duties of the heart] are almost (yakād) infinite . . . as it is said [by the friend (of God)]: “I have seen an end to every purpose; But Thy Commandment is exceedingly broad” (Ps 119:96).54

Here, on the basis of an exegesis of the same verse from Psalms, the innumerability of the duties of the heart is tied to their rational status (that is, as commandments of the intellect), an idea to which I will return below. For our present concern, it is important to note the repetition of the principle of 613 commandments versus an infinity of commandments, and the fact that it appears in two different contexts, which may indicate that the principle itself antecedes its integration into the various discussions in which it is mentioned. It is plausible that because the first quotation, above, appears as part of Baḥya’s presentation of the structure of the ten gates in the introduction he refers to the branching of the entirety of the duties of the heart from the ten roots that he is about to introduce in a systematic fashion throughout the work. Indeed, the conceptual framework of roots and branches is not repeated in any other discussion. An additional difficulty is the use of the term yakād in the second quotation. A likely translation of this term is the English term “almost.” This was Mansoor’s choice in his translation, and a similar semantic choice, reflected in the Hebrew term kimʿat, was made already by Ibn Tibbon and repeated by Qāfiḥ and Abrahamov.55 It is possible that this qualification of infinity has to do with a general critique of the possibility of an unlimited measure that was articulated by a number of thinkers in the Islamicate world, who employed it to prove some of their religious tenets.56 “Almost infinite,” in this regard, does

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not mean a lesser quantity, but instead means the highest possible number. Another translational possibility is suggested by a different translation of khūd, which is “to be supposed.”57 Accordingly, the clause can be translated thus: “while the duties imposed by the intellect—­it is not to be supposed that they are numbered.” In any case, the idea itself remains the same, and relates to an essential attribute of the duties of the heart, namely, their innumerability, which distinguishes them from the duties of the members, which are limited in number. The infinity or near infinity of the duties of the heart is also explained by the inner logic of Baḥya’s system, and specifically, by the principle that man must worship God for the graces bestowed upon him by God. Since the graces of God are infinite, man’s indebtedness to God is immeasurable and the duties that derive from this debt are unlimited, as Baḥya asserts in the passage immediately following the one quoted above: “Our obligation to obey Thee for Thy perpetual graces is infinite, for there is no limit to the kinds of Thy graces done to us.”58 But the quantity of duties is not the only respect in which the duties of the heart are immeasurable. For Baḥya, they are also unlimited in terms of the times in which they are to be performed, and unlimited in the measure that would be considered the required minimum for fulfilling these duties. With regard to the former, Baḥya remarks in the introduction: I said, maybe this kind of duty is not obligatory upon us everywhere and at all times, [and it is] like the commandments concerning cancellation of debts and the fallowness of the soil in the Sabbatical year, Jubilee, and sacrifices, that we are not obligated to do everywhere and in all times? Considering them [the duties of the heart] carefully, I found, however, that they are always obligatory upon us, as long as we live, without a break or possibility of excuse [not to perform them]. . . . All these [duties] obligate us constantly and unceasingly, everywhere and at all times, at every hour and every minute and every state (ḥāl),59 as long as our intellect is sturdy (thabāt ʿuqūlna)60 and our souls are yet with us.61

The particular duties Baḥya mentions here in order to distinguish between them and the duties of the heart may seem, at first glance, to cast doubt on the very obligatory status of the duties of the heart (given that sacrifice is no longer

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valid without a temple), or at least as to raise questions about the required frequency of execution (since the duties of the Sabbatical year or of Jubilee are not only obligatory in a limited, infrequent timeframe). However, this would be mistaken, as Baḥya argues immediately afterward that not only do the duties of the heart differ from those commandments that apply to infrequent periods, like the Sabbatical year or Jubilee, but that they exceed even the most frequent of duties, such as prayer or blessings, which one must perform several times every day. Indeed, Baḥya asserts that the duties of the heart obligate one “constantly and unceasingly . . . at every hour and every minute.” In other words, to the infinite abundance of the duties Baḥya now adds a temporal stress, arguing that the duties of the heart are relentlessly obligatory, demanding an unremitting execution. This situation creates an all but impossible halakhic burden on every single moment, and it is not a marginal feature but an essential attribute and systematic aspect of this type of duty. The other sense in which the duties of the heart are immeasurable is the absence of a criterion that would determine what action would count as fulfilling such a duty. Thus, in addition to the infinite number of duties and to their perpetual obligatory status, there is also an infinite spectrum of understanding the depth of each duty, which in turn conditions the quality of its execution.62 Immediately after arguing for the unlimitedness of the duties of the heart in the Gate of Obedience, Baḥya asserts: It is told of some devotees that they spent their lifetime doing repentance. Every day they used to find a new way of repentance, as they increased their discernment (liziyyādat tamyyīzihim) of their God’s greatness and their neglect of their obligation to obey Him in the past (taqṣīrihim fi-­ma iyyulazzimuhum), as it is said by the friend [of God]: “Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night revealeth knowledge” (Ps 19:3); and it is said: “Mine eyes run down with rivers of water, because they observe not Thy law” (Ps 119:136).63

According to Baḥya, an understanding of God’s greatness, which is a function of an increased power of discernment, has consequences not only for one’s general understanding of the duties of the heart but also for the understanding of every particular duty, and in this case, repentance. For our present concern,

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the main point is that understanding the depth of the commandment yields a further understanding that performing the commandment as it was performed up to that point is insufficient for it to count as fulfilled. Understanding opens up a gap between current mental modes for executing the duty of repentance and the possible modes of its proper execution. To this idea, Baḥya adds another statement, which introduces a slightly different reason for the absence of a criterion for the fulfillment of the duties of the heart: “The intellect does not define the obligatory works of obedience to God (la iyyuhhidu wājibāt ʿamāl al-­ṭāʿa).”64 Baḥya’s intention here, which follows Saʿadya’s argument in his Doctrines and Beliefs, is that the intellect alone cannot determine the standards for the execution of each commandment, or ascertain the specific criteria for its fulfillment.65 Since the duties of the heart in their entirety are, according to Baḥya, commandments of reason, whose details were not elaborated until his time (as he argues in his introduction), the criteria for their execution are immeasurable.66 This predicament turns out to be even graver because the specificities of the duties of the heart are not elaborated in Scripture (or for that matter, in any of the subsequent canonical texts), and even their very existence is only indicated. Their status, nature, and character as duties are merely hinted at for those who are on the lookout for “inner knowledge”: “The Scriptures are concise in their explanation of this matter [inner knowledge, ʿilm al-­ bāṭin]. Only hints and indications are used . . . for the Scriptures rely on the intelligence of the wise to be inspired to search and inquire about the matter as much as possible, until it is grasped and understood.”67 Thus, Scripture itself does not enumerate the entirety of the duties of the heart, an impossible task in any case because of their infinitude, and does not set the criteria for their fulfillment, a task that may also be impossible because of the ever-­growing spectrum of modes in which they can be fulfilled. The Acquisition of the Duties of the Heart: Grace, Contemplation, and Intellect How, then, does one acquire the knowledge of the duties of the heart? Baḥya’s answer to this question has two main components. The first involves contemplation of the graces of God, through careful attention to them, which in turn yields an understanding that there is no limit to the duties of the heart and

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a further comprehension that there is no end to the task of studying inner knowledge. The second is the effort of the intellect to realize this never-­ending task to the best of its capacities and to infer what duties are imposed upon the heart, how to define them, and how to carry them out. Here, too, Baḥya is both systematic and nuanced in his formulation of the interconnections between these two components and their mutual reinforcement. Baḥya defines the act of contemplation (iʿtibār), to which he dedicates the second gate of the Duties of the Hearts, as follows: “The nature of contemplation consists in trying to understand the traces (āthār) of God’s wisdom in creation and in inwardly appreciating them in proportion to the observer’s power of discrimination (tamyīz).”68 The notion that underlies this mode of activity—­which Baḥya defines as a religious duty—­is consistent with the entirety of Baḥya’s system of thought, for it is the idea that every phenomenon has both manifest and inner facets and that its greatest value inheres in its interior aspects and not in what is externally manifest. Thus, each being attests to its independent existence, but it does more than that, because it also includes another type of testimony, a trace (athar) that is not self-­evident and whose discernment requires a specific type of attention. This trace indicates the absolute dependence of each being—­be it the astronomical bodies, human beings, or any animal or plant—­on a divine grace that enabled its very existence. In order to discern such traces, one must pay attention to the unique attributes of each type of being, from the abstract to the particular, or in Baḥya’s formulation: “the study of the construction and use of every compound existent and the traces of wisdom manifested in its creation—­its form and shape, its usage, and the final purpose for which it has been created.”69 But this does not suffice. Contemplation must go beyond any specific “being” and observe what surrounds it, and how its surroundings enable this being to endure in its existence and to find its proper place in the multifarious system that is the cosmos. Thus, for instance, one must contemplate the “means of subsistence of all the animals and plants of the earth, like the rains that come when they are needed and their falling at appropriate times.”70 Only a gaze that can penetrate deep enough and that can look far enough to see the complex system of circumstances that allow each being to endure will be able to discern the graces that are involved in the existence of each being. Indeed, that the aim of contemplation is acknowledg-

Chapter Two ­— 62

ing the multitude of graces can be gleaned from the full title of the second gate: “Explanation of the ways to contemplate created beings and God’s graces upon them.”71 What is then accomplished by acknowledging the abundance of graces? Here, the notion of “grace” is bound up with that of “duty,” for, as we saw earlier, one’s consciousness of duty is rooted in an understanding of the graces bestowed by God and the necessity to reciprocate by acts of obedience to the best of one’s capacities.72 As Baḥya remarks: “As for the outcomes of contemplation, they are man’s understanding of God’s graces and his undertaking to obey Him for them.”73 This state of understanding is not a given, for “although God’s graces to His creatures are general and all-­embracing . . . most people are too blind to discern them and too ignorant to appreciate their magnitude.”74 Several factors cause and increase this blindness, in Baḥya’s analysis. The first is the innate human tendency to look toward the future and to work to realize present or past desires. This causes an overfixation on what one aims to achieve or what one has not yet achieved—­or in other words, on the absent instead of the existing. In addition, man’s gratefulness is typically lacking, because he takes for granted most of what enables his existence—­from the air he breathes to the food available for his sustenance—­since he has not, for the most part, experienced its absence. All these copious graces recur over and over again “until they [all people] become accustomed to them. They take them for granted, as if they were something pertaining to their own essence, inseparable and undetachable from them as long as they live.”75 Furthermore, human existence is characterized by a specific paradox that has to do with the human possession of intellect, or, in the technical term used by Baḥya to designate this specific aspect of the intellect: the power of discernment (tamyīz). The intellect turns the human being into a creature that is at once: (1) the being who must acknowledge the greatest debt to God for the special grace of having an intellect, which is the noblest element in creation since it makes proximity to God possible; (2) the only being who has the capacity to acknowledge the depth of his debt, for he has an intellect and is thus able to understand this matter; but also (3) the being who precisely because of his fundamental structure, which includes the unique capacity to plan and project future undertakings, resulting in a tendency to focus on what has yet to happen, fails to acknowledge the abundance that has allowed for his very existence, and thus fails to acknowledge the enormous debt that he already owes to God.

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Thus, a deficient consciousness of grace leads to a deficient consciousness of debt and duty. The former, and subsequently also the latter, can be rectified by raising awareness to the graces of God through proper contemplation of the world.76 From such contemplation one learns, first, about the debt that one always already has toward the conferrer of grace—­God. But this lesson leads to further understanding. For a consciousness that awakens to the multitude of graces conferred in order for anyone to exist at all; that inquires into the immensity of the natural order from which man draws sustenance; that learns the infinite chains of causality that are involved in the existence of each particular being; and that understands the unique power—­the intellect—­with which it was itself endowed and that it does not share with any nonhuman being, is a consciousness that has grasped the infinity of God’s graces.77 And from this principle, the intellect is led to understand that to the extent that graces are infinite, duty is also infinite. The general notion of the infinity of duties is thus learned by means of contemplation. This is a crucial step, but it is not a sufficient condition for the performance of the duties of the heart to become possible. Knowing that one is infinitely obligated does not suffice; one has to know what, specifically, one is obligated to do. It is thus necessary to fill in the mosaic with tiles of the specific duties that will pave the infinite space that opens up before man when he understands the depth of his obligation. This knowledge has to be gained by use of the intellect, for two different reasons. The first reason, discussed above, is that the canonical sources, both Scripture and the Talmudic literature, do not suffice to teach the duties of the heart, for even when the sources mention these duties, they only partially or implicitly remark on them, and never enumerate them or elaborate in detail.78 The second reason indicates the possibility of filling in the blanks of this picture, because the duties of the heart, unlike the duties of the members, are in their entirety commandments of reason, defined by Baḥya as “duties imposed (iyyuwwajibuha) by the intellect even if they are not imposed by Scripture.”79 The distinction between commandments of reason (al-­ʿaqliyya), imposed by the intellect, and commandments of revelation (al-­samʿiyya [lit. auditory]), which were decreed by God and are “neither imposed nor rejected by the intellect,” originates in this context from Saʿadya’s Doctrines and Beliefs.80 However, while Saʿadya sees it as an internal subdistinction within the

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613 commandments that were revealed in Sinai and transmitted through the ages—­Baḥya uproots this distinction from the Saʿadian context in which it was first presented (in Jewish writings) and employs it in a way very much foreign to Saʿadya. According to Baḥya, Saʿadya’s distinction is only analytically valid: indeed, there are commandments of reason and commandments of revelation.81 But the sum of the commandments of reason is not at all exhausted by the 613 commandments.82 Six hundred and thirteen is merely the number of the duties of the members. Beyond these, there are infinite additional commandments of reason that are not part of the 613—­commandments that were not explicitly stated but are the domain of the wise who seek inner knowledge. These are the duties of the heart. As Baḥya states: The sources of the duties of the heart are all intelligible, as I shall explain, with the help of God. All duties ( farāʾiḍ) are either positive or negative. There is no need to explain this in connection with the duties of the members, because they are well known and clear (shahratuha wa-­wuḍuḥuha), but I shall explain what occurs to me (ḥaḍirni) concerning the positive and negative duties of the heart, as a guide to those that I shall not mention.83

In contrast to the “well known and clear” commandments of the members, the duties of the heart can only be learned by means of the intellect. This is what Baḥya aims to do in his own work, but at the same time, he asserts that the field of inquiry has not been exhausted, and is infinitely open ended.84 This conceptualization of the duties of the heart generates a powerful tension. Baḥya introduces a system of commandments that are unlimited in number, which are not entirely revealed to man and require the use of the intellect to be known. How is one to know precisely what he is obligated to at any given time? Is the entirety of the duties of the heart always already obligatory? And if so, how can one be obligated by duties of which one has no knowledge? We will now turn to reflect upon Baḥya’s proposed solution to this tension. How Do the Duties of the Heart Become Obligatory? The question of whether one is infinitely obligated—­from the outset—­by the duties of the heart is answered by Baḥya in the negative. His reason constitutes one of the most original elements in his thought. According to Baḥya, the

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degree of obligations imposed upon a person is determined by the degree of obligations one has acquired using one’s intellect. This degree not only distinguishes one person from another, putting each in a different position in terms of the scope of duties that apply to them, but also changes over the course of a single individual’s lifetime, according to the degree of knowledge that individual has attained. This notion comes up in several discussions in the Gate of Obedience. It is mentioned already in the passage quoted above in the context of the immeasurability of the commandments: The duties based on the Law (sharīʿah) are limited and finite in number, being six hundred and thirteen altogether, while the duties imposed by the intellect are almost infinite. This is because in every passing day man increases in knowledge of them, and the more he understands and discriminates of God’s graces done to him, of His omnipotence and sovereignty, the more submissive and humble he grows before Him. For this reason you see the friend [of God] beseeching God to arouse his attention and thus rid him of his ignorance, as in his saying: “Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things (niflaʾot) out of Thy law” (Ps 119:18); “Teach me, Lord, the way of Thy statutes. . . . Make me to tread in the path of Thy commandments. . . . Incline my heart unto Thy testimonies” (Ps 119:33–­36); and it is said: “I have seen an end to every purpose; But Thy Commandment is exceedingly broad” (Ps 119:96).85

As we saw in the previous discussion of this passage, two notions of infinity apply here to the realm described by Baḥya as “duties imposed by the intellect” ( farāʾiḍ al-­ʿaqliyya), which refers in this case to the duties of the heart. The first has to do with the quantity of these duties, which is contrasted with the finite 613 commandments decreed by Scripture, the bulk of which is made up of the duties of the members. The second notion of infinity is related to the depth of each duty. Every duty of the heart can be deepened without limit, and as one understands its depth, one also realizes that one has performed it insufficiently up to that moment, and this process can be repeated infinitely. A human being suffers at any given moment from two kinds of ignorance that cast a shadow over any knowledge he may have: the first involves not knowing

Chapter Two ­— 66

which duties are imposed upon him; the second is not knowing what each duty entails. In other words, in terms of the duties that obligate man, at every given moment he is positioned at the precise point he has reached by his intellect. Man’s continuous struggle is thus not only to fulfill a set of already-­k nown duties, but also an intellectual effort aimed at reaching the very knowledge of the commandments. This is also reflected in the parts that Baḥya quotes from the first two verses of Psalm 119: both indicate a speaker entreating God for guidance and illumination, intended here in the sense of gaining an essential acquaintance with the commandments.86 In a subsequent passage in the Gate of Obedience, as part of the distinction Baḥya draws between the nature of obedience achieved by following Scripture and that achieved by the arousal to attention by the intellect, he asserts: The arousal to attention by the intellect does not include all those obliged to obey God, because of the different levels of their intellects and discrimination. On the other hand, the exhortation of Scripture is common to all those obliged to obey God, equally, although they perceive it in different ways. . . . Sometimes man fails to understand and at other times he understands better, so the arousal of attention by the intellect varies according to the changes in his discriminative powers. But the exhortation of Scripture is unvarying in its essence, with the same form for all, child and youth, mature and old, intelligent and ignorant.87

Baḥya introduces two types of imperatives: the first consists of the duties commanded by Scripture; the second consists of the commandments acquired by the intellect. The former, which includes the 613 commandments, is applied according to the specific criteria laid out for each commandment. Its obligatory status has no relation to the intellectual capacities of each person, and does not change during one’s lifetime (beginning from the age at which one first becomes obligated). The rule of these commandments is equally binding for all.88 By contrast, the duties that necessitate intellectual achievement and an arousal by the intellect will not be equally acquired by everyone: some will excel in knowing them, while others will gain very little knowledge of them, if at all. What, then, will be the status of those who do not know the duties of the heart because they did not reach them with their intellects? According to

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Baḥya, the law will not apply to those whose intellect is too frail to know the duties of the heart. Already in the introduction to the work Baḥya states that a person with impaired intellect and poor power of discernment is not to be persecuted for not fulfilling his duty when he does not know it.89 But his most elaborate discussion of this issue takes place in the Gate of Self-­Accounting, in two consecutive subsections. In the first, Baḥya implores his reader to acquire as much knowledge as he can of the sciences—­of which the most important is “knowledge of the inner,” that is, knowledge of the duties of the heart—­and to abandon his excessive affection for the world: You must distinguish, O my brother, between these two [implicitly, body and soul] and you must discern the differences between the two. Keep away from the luxuries of this world and dedicate yourself to what pertains to the World to Come.90 Do not say, “I can undertake [only] what an ignorant can,” for you will be charged according to the superiority of your knowledge over his, as he will be judged only according to his discernment (tamyyīzihi). Therefore, your punishment will be greater and the judgment for your aberration will be more exacting. . . . Indeed, encompassing this matter will take much time, but I am only obliged to urge and direct you toward it (tanbīhak wa-­irshādak), according to your understanding.91

The principle articulated in this passage posits that a person’s final judgment will be decided based on his intellectual capacity and the actualization of this potential. This creates a differential system of obligations, which overturns the inner logic of the 613 commandments: these are no longer commandments applied to all and manifest for everyone to know, but instead—­commandments acquired by the intellect, whose application depends on the acquisition of knowledge. Still, will one’s judgment be decided based on one’s potential for knowledge, or on one’s actual knowledge? It is unclear from Baḥya’s statements whether someone endowed with sufficient intellectual powers is obligated from the outset by the commandments of reason, or whether he becomes obligated only when this capacity is actualized and his knowledge in fact becomes superior to the knowledge of those who did not attain it. For our present concern it is also important to note a rhetorical gesture that Baḥya employs in writing that elaboration on this matter “will take much time,” which on the

Chapter Two ­— 68

one hand, draws special attention to this point in the text, highlighting it in a way that interrupts the flow of the reading, and on the other, covers up more than he discloses here, leaving it to the reader to complete the picture. Another way in which Baḥya explains the idea of differential imposition of duties is by reference to the notion of “special grace.” We have already seen this notion appear in relation to Baḥya’s idea of the special grace that God endowed on human beings by giving them the intellect and discernment that distinguishes them from all other living things. However, the degrees of grace are not equal even among members of the same species, and human beings, too, differ from one another in the amount of grace bestowed upon them. Specifically, some are endowed with a superior power of discernment, leading them to higher achievements of the intellect. Therefore, according to Baḥya, man is not judged according to a general standard of obedience. Instead, each person is judged on the degree of accordance between the achievements of his intellect and the ways in which these achievements are realized in obeying God by performing duties. Baḥya expresses this point in the subsequent subsection in the Gate of Self-­Accounting, as follows: [A man must engage in] self-­accounting concerning the superiority of his knowledge (ʿilmihi) over his action (ʿamalihi), of his discernment (tamyyīzihi) over his efforts at obedience to God, and of his ability to do so over his actual fulfillment of the obligation that he has toward God for the graces He has done him. . . . You should engage in self-­accounting concerning the understanding He gave you of Himself and His Law, and the power and ability He gave you to fulfill your obligations toward Him. Compare your potentialities with what you have actually done, for you will be charged with everything and judged accordingly, especially for God’s continual special graces conferred upon you (al-­niʿm al-­khāṣiyya min Allāh ʿalayka). You must therefore exert all your efforts and endeavor to fulfill your duties, to make your actions as great as your knowledge, and your discernment the equal of your efforts. Spend all your powers in doing what you have understood [to be your obligation]. Do not waste your powers on the luxuries of this world, or you will be unable to perform the duties of your religion ( farāʾiḍ dīnak). For God has endowed man with the powers he needs for this world and for his religion.92

Inner Duties ­— 69

Two issues are interlocked here. The first is the special graces of God that result in a situation in which one person has better discernment than another. The second is the way in which these achievements of the intellect are realized in the performance of religious duties, which in this case refer implicitly to the duties of the heart. (These are the duties that require one’s superior power of the intellect; the rest of the commandments are already openly and elaborately transmitted by Scripture and tradition, and with respect to them there is no difference between different persons.) The picture that emerges from this passage is remarkable. On the one hand, a person with impaired intellect is excluded from the most significant site of religious life—­the performance of the duties of the heart.93 On the other hand, a deficiency in the power of the intellect exempts a person from a whole system of commandments. These commandments never even “appear” as a legal demand in the lives of those who cannot achieve knowledge of them, and therefore do not apply to such persons. The intellect becomes the central function that determines the principle of imposition: Baḥya defines the person of superior intellect, first, as subject to special graces by virtue of the unique power of discernment he was given, thus making him accordingly more indebted to God; and second, as one who knows more duties by virtue of actualizing his intellect and probing the field of religious duties. The activation of the intellect thus binds him to the duties whose knowledge he acquired, and he becomes obligated by them from the moment he grasps them. In order words, every act of understanding in the realm of “inner knowledge” deepens the scope of one’s debt, as it exposes more and more of the infinity of duties. This is by no means a case of supererogation initiated by human beings—­as was already explicated in the previous chapter—­but instead, it is an incrementation of obligations. To the discussion of incremental duties that are added by means of the intellect, and which reflect the “special grace” conferred on those with a more potent power of discernment, Baḥya adds what seems to be a new perspective on the issue of special graces that result in a differential imposition of duties.94 This issue is discussed as part of the dialogue between the intellect and the soul, which is an independent segment in the Gate of Obedience. The guiding principle in this discussion is that “additional obedience varies among those obliged to it according to the general and the special graces they have

Chapter Two ­— 70

been given.”95 In his interrogation of the notion of a differential imposition of duties, Baḥya appears to introduce a different logic from the one presented in the preceding part of the Gate of Obedience (which was analyzed above), where he defined his approach more systematically and laid out the principles concerning the different modes of worship. In the current section, Baḥya presents an account of gradually growing religious excellence—­yielding an ever-­increasing number of duties—­surveyed from the beginning of mankind all the way to particular outstanding individuals. First, he introduces a basic stratum of duties acquired by means of the intellect that obligated mankind from the days of Adam to the “generation of Moses,” that is, to the revelation in Sinai.96 In what is likely an allusion to the seven Noahide commandments, Baḥya mentions “Noah and his sons” among those obligated by these duties, though it is not entirely clear whether Baḥya intends here to refer to the entirety of the rational commandments that were subsequently included in the 613 commandments.97 Second, from all mankind God distinguished the people of Israel, preserving and protecting their existence, which resulted in special duties befitting this special grace. These are not commandments of reason, but commandments of revelation. Third, from among those Israelites who excelled in worship, God singled out with special graces a few subgroups, making them, subsequently, subject to additional special duties. Baḥya does not explicitly refer to these duties as commandments of revelation, but only remarks that they are “well known (maʾlūma) and made clear (bayyanahu) in Scripture,” meaning that they form part of the 613 commandments.98 To these three categories Baḥya adds a fourth, which both continues and deviates from the inner logic of the first three. What distinguishes this category is: Grace given to an individual man and not to others, by which he is distinguished from among the rest of his tribe, nation, and mankind. For instance, a chosen prophet (nabī), or a friend [of God] (walī) appointed to lead his nation, or a sage (ḥakīm) inspired with knowledge (ʿilm), understanding, prudence, and the like. For each of these graces one is obliged to pay an additional obedience to God.99

Common to this type of people and the previous two is an additional layer of duties beyond the last group. But the difference in this case is greater than the

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similarity. First, in contrast with the other categories of people whose organizing principle was collective, here, in what seems to be an implicit turn toward addressing the duties of the heart, the discussion focuses on individuals. But do these individuals belong to the specific collective discussed in the previous category? Put otherwise, is the guiding principle of all four categories one of increasing particularity? One indication that this may be so appears in Baḥya’s description of the third category, when he asserts that from among this type of people, “whoever performs these [additional] duties in full, desiring to satisfy God, is singled out by God’s special graces . . . then he will be a chosen prophet (nabī muṣṭafa) or an inspired friend [of God] (walī murshid).” He uses the same terminology employed in his definition of the fourth type as “a chosen prophet (nabī muṣṭafa), or a friend [of God] (walī) appointed to lead his nation, or a sage (ḥakīm) inspired with knowledge (ʿilm).” Here, “sage” is the only subcategory that was not included in the third category. However, it seems that in describing the fourth category Baḥya also breaks the logic of singling out a subgroup from among the previous, larger group, since the description of the fourth category, interestingly, makes no reference to the Israelite nation nor to any particular figure. Further support for this interpretation can be found in the fact that within the first category, which encompassed all mankind, Baḥya appears to single out Abraham as an individual who already adhered to God and was subject to additional duties.100 Thus, it is possible that at each and every stage there were exceptional individuals who departed from the collective logic that determined which duties were incumbent upon them, and whose individual excellence brought them into the realm of the duties of the heart. In any case, this interpretation is more consistent with the broader ethos of the work, in which references to a special status accorded to a specific group, or any kind of particularistic tendencies, are extremely rare and are incongruent with Baḥya’s general principles. Moreover, when considered in relation to Baḥya’s other discussions on the issue of the differential imposition of duties, it seems that two principles converge here: that of individual excellence, presented as the fourth category, and that of duties not included in the 613 commandments, namely, the duties of the heart. The domain of the individual is the realm in which exceeding the 613 commandments becomes possible. In this open-­ended spectrum of duties that are not part of the 613, each person

Chapter Two ­— 72

is individually and differently positioned, according to the degree of special graces bestowed upon him. At this point the question arises of whether the special graces Baḥya refers to in the final part of these passages is none other than the unique achievements of the intellect. Baḥya remains vague on this point. If the answer is positive, then the description of the fourth category accords, to a great extent, with previous discussions, in which the power of the individual intellect was similarly described as determining the additional duties imposed on each person. It is possible, however, that the answer to this question is negative, and that there are special kinds of graces bestowed upon man—­such as wealth—­which result in special duties.101 This interpretative possibility creates a serious difficulty in terms of Baḥya’s systematic thought, because even if a person were to acknowledge a special debt that results from special graces conferred on him, it remains unclear how he would know what exactly those special duties are if not through intellectual inquiry, and in any case such a person would not necessarily have sufficient power of discernment to conduct this kind of inquiry. At any rate, both interpretative possibilities indicate a general principle of differential imposition of duties, affected by two factors which may converge or alternatively may be treated separately: the degree of grace, and the power of discernment that each person was endowed with. Even if it is not possible to resolve the question of whether the causes converge or split, the question itself is nonetheless related to an inner tension at the core of Baḥya’s approach to the principle of grace: Is every person always already infinitely indebted for the continual and endless graces that were conferred upon him by the very fact of his creation, or are certain people obligated to perform supplementary duties specifically because of special graces conferred upon them? If the former is the case, one must uncover, in an arduous effort of the intellect, the duties he is to perform, other than those imposed explicitly by Scripture and tradition. The additional duties (that can increase ad infinitum) are in this case not an outcome of graces conferred upon a specific individual, but rather result from the fundamental human condition. The only thing that separates one individual from another, in this regard, is the extent to which one has unveiled knowledge of these duties. In the second case, each individual is obligated only according to the specific amount of grace that is his lot in life. Baḥya’s systematic analysis

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of the principles of worship in the Gate of Obedience tends toward the first interpretation. The treatment of this issue in the dialogue between the intellect and the soul seems to gravitate toward the second. Both discussions, however, are unanimous that an increase in graces, as well as a more competent intellect, entails a high risk, since failing to fulfill the additional duties thereby imposed upon man will result in a severe punishment. Thus, it is not only the principle of imposition of duties that is differential, but also the principle of punishment. The final judgment of each person will not be determined by a general standard, but according to a personal yardstick: the more knowledge one gained about one’s duties, the more one will be punished for not realizing them; the more graces one was given, the more duties one has to reciprocate. This is why Baḥya says that “the ancient men of merit were frightened and terrified whenever God accorded them a grace in this world,” for the fear that they “they would fail to pay Him His due obedience and thanks, which might have caused their destruction in the other world.”102 Religion and Its Discontents The analysis of the concept of commandment in the Duties of the Hearts exposed a proposal to reshape religion that Baḥya set before Judaism. The establishment of a category of commandments imposed on the heart alone, and the construction of the duties of the heart as a system with its own internal and systematic logic that differs from the logic of the duties of the members have several far-­reaching ramifications and consequences. I will focus on four: individualism, universalism, the status of religious community, and the existential import of the commandment. At the core of his conception of duty, Baḥya establishes a radical religious individualism and shifts the center of gravity of religiosity to one’s interior life. This stems from two causes indicated above. The first is that the central site for the performance of the commandments is no longer the body, and not even the person as a holistic being composed of both body and soul. Instead, the performance of the majority of the commandments is transposed from the body and its external limbs to a unique internal member, namely, the heart. The foundations for this transformation lie in the distinction between external and

Chapter Two ­— 74

inner acts and the independence of the latter from the former. For Baḥya, it is not enough to aim at activities that have both external and inner manifestations (as described in Talmudic literature), or to demand sincere intention in the performance of commandments. Instead, he requires man to engage in an extensive activity that takes place solely in his interiority and which does not show outwardly; he defines such activity as a commandment, or more precisely, as a domain of infinite commandments; and he even asserts that these commandments are superior in value to the 613 commandments. Further, according to Baḥya, every individual—­owing to his specific intellectual capacity and possibly other sorts of special graces conferred upon him—­is subject to a different scope of duties. Baḥya thus breaks not only with the traditional view—­according to which there is a limited set of commandments imposed on the entirety of the religious community, on the basis of predetermined criteria of applicability—­but also with the logic that guided some Sufi thinkers, who regarded religious life as divided into different, predetermined, ranks that one may reach.103 According to Baḥya, there is no general hierarchy that can serve as a yardstick for measuring one’s religious rank, and the extent of obligations cannot be shared across individuals. A peculiar ramification of the pivotal role accorded to the individual in Baḥya’s thought is that the more religiosity focuses on the realm of the individual, the more it becomes, in a sense, universal. The central drama of religious life, in Baḥya’s account, emerges as one that pertains to every human being: man stands in it alone, battling his instincts and appetites, aided by his intellect, in an ongoing arduous effort to approach God. All of these elements are the lot of all mankind. The great quest man embarks upon throughout his life involves continuously exploring his religious obligations by means of his intellect, choosing to abide by them and not to surrender to the luxuries of the world, and persisting without compromise in realizing these duties. This does not mean that Baḥya wrote his work for a universal audience. Its mode of address is particular to a Jewish audience, and Baḥya expended enormous effort into calibrating it to the sources, traditions, and sometimes also sensitivities of its particular addressees.104 Nonetheless, within this work, the boundary that sets the religion of a Jew apart, in any essential sense, from that of his neighbor, is significantly undermined in view of the systematic principles of Baḥya’s thought. This may also be the reason why Baḥya remarked in his introduction

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that throughout the book he will make use of traditions concerning outstanding individuals from other religions. It is true that there emerges in the work a certain internal tension regarding universalism, for, as we have seen, in the vast fabric of the Duties of the Hearts a particularistic thread does show up on rare occasions. But this thread should be assessed in view of its marginality in Baḥya’s complete system of thought, which places its center of gravity squarely on the individual and highlights religious excellence that neither pertains to one’s communal belonging nor involves collective activity. The issue of the religious community deserves a few more words, because here, too, lies a daring move on Baḥya’s part, with noteworthy ramifications. In fact, the idea of a differential imposition of duties—­according to which, beyond the 613 commandments, each individual is subject to a different degree of duties—­has a potentially disintegrative force on the religious community. First, it poses a threat by the mere relocation of the focus of devotional activity away from community to one’s inner, mental space, and by the ascription of higher value to inner deeds over manifest activities (or over conduct that involves both inner and outer aspects). In itself, this transposition of the central axis of religious life already weakens the role of the religious community: what takes place in the communal sphere becomes by definition inferior in value to what takes place in the private domain of the heart. But beyond that, and more importantly, the cohesion of the community is undermined when the law that pertains to it no longer applies equally to all of its members and each member is judged by a set of duties tailored to this individual attributes. The result, speaking figuratively, is that the same synagogue (whose significance has itself already been undermined) now hosts a congregation of individuals who are each subject to a different scope of obligatory duties. Finally, Baḥya’s idea of inner duties also creates a substantial ambivalence and an acute conflict regarding the existential approach to religious law. On the one hand, the open-­endedness of the system of the duties of the heart enables the realm of duties to become an inexhaustible source for exploration, and an endless medium of inquiry. This kind of halakhic exploration involves not just the work of determining the composition of the 613 commandments, deciding on an already existing halakhic issue, specifying the details or classifying predetermined commandments (the enterprise of previous and later Jewish thinkers). Instead, the inquiry in the realm of Halakhah as understood

Chapter Two ­— 76

by Baḥya is the effort to find out, literally, what the commandments are. Yet trailing this facet like a shadow is the threat that discovering the commandments renders them obligatory, bringing the inquirer to accumulate more and more duties that he will have to fulfill. Moreover, not knowing in advance what one is obligated to, and realizing that there are limitless duties lurking beyond those that one has already discovered, transforms commitment to religious law into a haunting experience. The resulting mode of religiosity involves extreme anxiety, as every inner gesture, at any given moment, may turn out to be transgressive. A person who acknowledges the general category of the duties of the heart is in a perpetual state of uncertainty, not only about whether he is dutifully performing his obligations, but also about the more basic question—­ what is he commanded to do?

THREE Proximit y

In the previous chapter I showed how the scope of duties imposed on each person is individually determined by the degree of graces conferred upon him and by the capacities of his intellect, and thus how duties of the heart are an incrementally growing burden. In this chapter, I will explore how this “personal” dimension is further elaborated in the Duties of the Hearts. The notion of a differential scope of duties, determined on a personal basis, allows Baḥya to establish one of the crucial principles of his work, namely, that the scope of one’s duties determines the degree of one’s nearness (Ar. qurb) to God. The result of ever-­expanding duties is not just an overwhelming normative load and an ever-­heavier weight on the judgment scale, it is, at the same time, the means by which a person can attain proximity to God and become a “friend of God” (Ar. walī), a new ideal of religious life, which is central to Baḥya’s thought.1 Thus, in what follows, I will first inquire into Baḥya’s idea of “proximity”: What does it consist of, how is it tied to the discourse on duties that is so fundamental to the work, where does it stand in relation to the work’s central categories, and what type of relationship between man and God does it convey? Then I will analyze Baḥya’s use of the term walī, and probe the similarities and differences between his use of the term and that of a few Muslim thinkers. This comparative analysis will shed some further light both on Baḥya’s possible sources and on the special features that distinguish his own thought.

77

Chapter Three ­— 78

“Proximity” Discourse in the Duties of the Hearts How Is Nearness Possible? Just as the heart becomes for Baḥya the pivotal realm of duties and their execution, so he also identifies man’s interiority, or innermost core (sirr), as the primary locus for connection with God, and as the realm in which such connection can be intensified. This issue has two interrelated facets. The first can be described as a mode of correlation on God’s part, related to Baḥya’s definition of human interiority as a realm from which all other human beings but oneself are excluded but which is nonetheless not entirely “private,” for it is constantly observed by the divine gaze.2 In his innermost being, man does not stand alone but is always already there with God, who inspects him (Ar. muṭālaʿa).3 This point is noticeably highlighted by Baḥya. He restates it numerous times, in different contexts, repeating the same principle: what is hidden in one’s interiority (ma iyyan ṭawā ʿalayhi ḍamīr al-­insān) is what no one sees but God (la iyyuṭalaʿ ʿalayhi ghayri al-­khāliq taʿālā).4 So, for instance, Baḥya notes God’s unique attentiveness to man’s inwardness when he discusses the state of the sinner: Do not rejoice that people do not know of your evil inwardness, but rather be grieved by God’s knowledge of your interiority, that He inspects (iṭlāʿahu) both your hidden and your open acts and has memory of you greater than your own, for sometimes you forget, while He never forgets anything, and some things you overlook, while nothing is overlooked by Him.5

Here Baḥya employs the metaphor of the gaze, which he expresses by using the root ṭ-­l-­ʿ .6 The condition of being observed indicates an a priori state of relatedness. In other words, God is closely interconnected with man from the outset, whether or not man wishes this to be the case, and whether or not he attends to God’s heart-­piercing presence. In his presentation of this predicament, Baḥya maintains a tension between two aspects of this imposed intimacy between God and man. On the one hand, God’s gaze is portrayed as unrelenting and scrupulous, minutely observing all of one’s deeds, for which one will either be punished or rewarded. On the other hand, this watchful gaze also attests to an intimate state of interrelation. As a close companion,

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God remembers even what man himself forgets, and knows him better than he knows himself. Ambiguity is also maintained with regard to the nature of God’s gaze. It is impersonal, aimed at all created beings, or at least at all human beings, but at the same time also utterly personal—­directed particularly at each individual person. Moreover, in some cases, God’s gaze is described not only as addressing each person individually, but also as summoning nearness, calling one to respond: Have constantly in your thoughts God’s observation of your inwardness (sirrak) and outward appearance, of your interiority (bāṭinak) and exteriority, how God directs and aids (laṭfahu)7 you, knowing your deeds and thoughts, both inner and manifest, in the past as in the future. Nevertheless, He is gracious toward you and drawing you near (taqrībahu) to Him.8

God’s inner presence thus signifies relatedness and calls for further proximity. Whether this presence will be hostile and threatening or gratifying and beneficent depends largely on the way one responds to it. How will one meet the fact that God’s gaze is always already directed at one’s innermost being? Addressing this question reveals the second sense in which man’s interiority proves to be a significant locus of nearness to God: Baḥya characterizes inwardness as a realm in which one can commune solely with God. Man must therefore first shift the center of gravity of his existence toward his interior life—­that is, focus foremost on internal activity performed in the realm of the heart—­ and second, purify his heart, in not letting worldly matters infiltrate and take hold of his inner life. One must resist the temptations posed by the world and abstain from devoting oneself to aims related to any other aspect of one’s existence. Baḥya continues the previous paragraph: Considering all these, you cannot but incline to Him, with your heart and inwardness, with pure intention and in true certainty. Then, your soul will steadfastly love Him, rejoice in His mercy and great compassion toward you. Do not associate with your love for Him the love of anything other than Him. . . . Have God be your friend in solitude and your companion in loneliness. A multitude will seem to you as a void; their commands will not frighten and their importance will not dismay you. The absence of

Chapter Three ­— 80 people will seem to you like a fullness, so that their absence will not make you feel loneliness and sorrow. Rather you shall be constantly happy with your Lord, your Creator, pursuing and aiming to please Him.9

The process of deepening one’s solitude reveals a unique attribute of the heart: it can be vacated of any other presence but that of God. In fact, as Baḥya points out, attaining solitude is not essentially related to any physical retreat to a place of seclusion. Man’s inwardness, whether it be defined in terms of ḍamīr, bāṭin, or sirr, is already such a “place,” a site of seclusion to which one can withdraw by dutifully relating only to God and properly handling one’s desires. This is how Baḥya concludes the Gate of Reliance upon God Alone: When man’s discernment strengthens, he comes to understand God’s purpose in creating him and bringing him into this perishable world, and comes to distinguish the superiority of the eternal world. He then renounces this world and its affairs, and devotes his thought, his soul, and his body solely to God. He is then accompanied in his solitude by his memory of God, and he becomes lonely without the thought of His greatness. When he is among people, he aims only at His satisfaction, pursuing only Him; his joy in his love for Him [God] keeps him from the joy of the people of this world in this world, and from the joy of the people of the World to Come in the World to Come.10 This is the highest stage of those who rely on God: the prophets (anbiyā), the friends [of God] (awliyāʾ), and the chosen favorites (khāṣṣat Allāh aṣfiyāʾ).11

So far, we have analyzed the reasons that man’s inner realm is a special locus for the encounter with God. The first reason is that God—­by means of the divine gaze, and even if only preliminarily and to a limited extent—­is there from the outset, watching man even in his most private of spheres. The second reason is that man’s interior is an arena in which he can be with God alone, where he can distance himself from the world and all its affairs. It is secluded enough from the world to make such a withdrawal possible, and affords one the opportunity to wholly devote oneself (inqiṭāʿ) to God.12 But how can a person achieve this nearness, and intensify his devotion?13 Herein lies one of Baḥya’s central ideas. Interior devotion to God is attained by means of obedience. It is expressed in

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executing one’s duties, and most especially the duties of the heart. Nearness is conceptualized as part of the discourse of miṣvot. Dutiful Proximity Man realizes that his inwardness is the keystone to God’s nearness, and that the world and its affairs threaten to keep God away from him. From this realization, he is moved to seek to maintain and intensify this proximity. The way to do so, according to Baḥya, is by obedience, which he also refers to as the effort to please God’s will. Thus, Baḥya states in the Gate of True Love: Having understood His omnipotence and lofty greatness, the soul bows to Him in submission and fear, in reverence and respect, in awe and veneration before His power and greatness. It perseveres in this state until the Creator accompanies it (iyyuwannisuha) and assuages its fear and its awe. Then it is filled with the love of God and devotes itself to Him alone (tanfaridu), loving Him, relying upon Him, and desiring only Him. It has no business other than obedience to Him (ṭāʿatihi), thinks of nothing but Him, remembers nothing but Him, moves not one member of its body unless for the sake of pleasing Him (riḍāʾihi), and utters only His name and glory, its thanks and gratitude to Him, all as an expression of its love for Him and of its desire to please Him (riḍāʾihi).14

The process described here begins with an acknowledgment of divine greatness, which inspires a fear of God. The God reflected in this realization is awe-­striking, and the soul that obeys Him does so out of fear. This fear implies distance, which characterizes the relationship between man and God, at least at the first stage. This condition is transformed by what Baḥya refers to as God’s companionship, His coming to the aid of the soul, which parallels the previously discussed notion of “drawing the soul near.” The relationship between God and man is a function not only of God’s loftiness, but also of God’s closeness, which allows for a far more intimate relationship. This mode of relationship impels man to become more than subject to God’s decrees, but rather to seek to please God’s will, that is, to transform his former state of mind in which he aimed to please the will of another human being or to realize some other humanly set goal.15 God’s will, according to Baḥya, is pleased by acts of

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obedience, which he also refers to as efforts to achieve God’s nearness. In this vein, he makes the following remarks in one of the sections that addresses the modes of self-­accounting: A man must make a reckoning with himself concerning the conditions of his worship of the Lord (al-­ʿ ubūdiyya) and his undertaking to fulfill his obligations to Him. . . . When the servant becomes aware of the marks of his Master’s ample graces which He has bestowed on his soul and body and all his movements, His constant watch over him, His observing of both his inwardness and his exteriority, and His care for all his actions . . . he must employ all the parts of his body and all the powers of his soul in gaining his Lord’s favor, drawing near to Him (wa-­iyyuqarribahu ʾilayhi), removing the veil of ignorance, and lifting the curtain of the instinct, which obstructs his view of the truth of things. He shall wear the robe of fear and shame before Him, of love of Him and the desire to do what pleases Him (iyyrḍayhi).16

Obedience, then, is not only the execution of an obligation incumbent upon man, an acknowledgment that God’s ample graces are to be reciprocated infinitely, or an understanding that in view of God’s inspecting presence and eventual retribution, one would do well to acquiesce to divine decree. Rather, it is also conceptualized as an effort at drawing near.17 This notion calls for analysis and clarification, as it can be understood in more than one way, and because the idea that Baḥya introduces here is bolder than it appears at first sight. According to Baḥya, the miṣvot are not instruments for achieving proximity to God as a future reward, a form of payment for their execution. Rather, they are, in themselves and immediately, a mode of drawing near to God. They are the medium through which one comes into contact with God, and the “language” in which man encounters the God who is always-­already present within him. In other words, proximity is achieved by the very fact of intensifying one’s relatedness to God, which is enabled the performance of a miṣvah. It is actualized in acts directed at God alone, uncontaminated by any other interests related to man’s worldly life and affairs. Baḥya expresses this in the opening words of the dialogue between the intellect and the soul in the Gate of Obedience:

Proximity ­— 83 When God inspires one to follow the righteous path, he then moves his soul to meditation and reflection, so that he may understand God’s graces upon him and discern them. When a man tries to come to understand it properly by means of his intellect, he is unable to do so because of its generality, abundance, continuance, and perpetuality. [Therefore] he requires of himself to follow what has been made obligatory upon him by his intellect, namely, reciprocating benefaction with beneficence, preferring justice, and choosing to pay God back manifoldly for the great favors bestowed upon him. When a man sees with his heart that he is too weak to do that, and when he sees that the Creator does not stand in need of him, he binds his soul to submission, humility, and self-­loathing. Then he requires of his intellect to do those acts (al-­aʾ ʿamāl) by means of which his nearness (al-­zulfā)18 and closeness (al-­taqarrub) to God will be a return for the reward he deserves (ʿawḍ ʿan al-­mukhāfāh lahu).19 Then his intellect will direct him to the path of guidance in this manner.20

In this passage, too, Baḥya describes a transformation that the soul undergoes, which begins with an understanding of something that threatens it. According to this understanding, no matter what man does, his actions will not suffice to reciprocate the unique favors God bestowed on him in the form of the general, abundant, and perpetual graces to which man owes his existence. And since he cannot properly benefit God, there is apparently no reason for God to reward him for his deeds. However, the soul comes to perceive a way out of this impasse: the proximity gained in the very performance of acts to which the intellect guides (that is, the duties learned by way of the intellect) is itself the reward. Drawing near to God, according to Baḥya, does not entail going beyond one’s duties, whether in the form of supererogatory acts (nedavah) that are added onto but are similar in nature to practices considered obligatory in other contexts, or through various nonhalakhic practices.21 Rather, proximity to God is maintained by the very performance of obligations. Instead of a notion of the essence of religious excellence as outside the realm of duty, Baḥya presents the whole range of religious excellence as dependent on the execution of miṣvot. This mode of “drawing near” to God is consistent with the structure of the notion of miṣvot developed by Baḥya throughout the work: they are not a predetermined, limited, common denominator that forms the basis of reli-

Chapter Three ­— 84

gious life. The infinite number of commandments—­acquired by use of the intellect—­attests to an infinitely broad spectrum of proximity to God. Moreover, it is possible that part of Baḥya’s conception of dutiful proximity is related to his notion that the commandments, to begin with, are not structured as general prototypes that impersonally obligate each individual. Rather, as we saw, they are particularized according to the graces conferred upon each individual and according to his intellectual capacities. One’s duties are thus the particular path each person takes toward God throughout his life. This transformation in the understanding of miṣvot from viewing them as the discharge of an obligation to viewing them as a mode of devotion and proximity also entails a dramatic shift in one’s consciousness. Here, too, Baḥya remarks that the nobler reward for the performance of miṣvot in this world—­ the reward for commandments whose performance is guided by the intellect, as is the case with all the duties of the heart—­is not extrinsic to the act of obedience, but integral to it: Whoever performs the commandments of the Law without fail reaches the merit of the pious and the righteous, deserving reward in this world and the World to Come. Whoever ascends from this stage to obedience (ṭāʿa) by way of the arousal of the intellect (tanbīh al-­ʿaqlī)22 reaches the merit of the prophets (anbiyā) and the chosen friends of God (ṣafwat Allāh al-­ʾawliyāʾ), and his reward in this world is delight (iltidhādh)23 in obedience to God.24

A person can draw nearer to God in one’s own lifetime, but this closeness also pertains to the World to Come, regarding which Baḥya remarks immediately following the quoted paragraph: “[The] reward [of the one who fulfilled his commandments] in the World to Come is his attachment to the supernal light, which is indescribable and even unimaginable by us.” In another context, Baḥya adds that this involves coming into greater proximity and communion: “The highest goal of the reward in the World to Come is to belong to God alone and to draw near to His supreme light.”25 In any case, the performance of duties gains a person proximity to God and generates a transformation in man’s consciousness from seeing duties as externally imposed and performed out of necessity, to viewing them as acts that are guided by the intellect and convert the yoke of obedience into the delight of coming near to God. In this

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way, Baḥya aims to show that what was described in the previous chapter as a potentially anxiety-­laden religious experience is in fact an inexhaustible source of joy. Proximity and Divine Assistance The attempt to fulfill the duties of the heart is exceedingly difficult. As we have seen, the duties of the heart are neither readily available nor easily executed. They demand an extreme effort, at the limits of man’s ability, involving both a continuous struggle with his instincts and desires and an ever-­growing burden of duties. In view of such difficulty, Baḥya describes how God responds to man’s efforts by offering assistance to those who seek to draw near Him. This notion of divine assistance fits within Baḥya’s depiction of the relationship between God and man as highly personal and intimate in tone. In this formulation, Baḥya distances himself from the patterns of proximity to God typical to authors of a Neoplatonic or Neoaristotelian inclination, and steers much closer to Muslim ascetic and early mystical ideas, though not to the more radical manifestations of these discourses.26 In contradistinction to the notion of an impersonal deity that allows nearness only insofar as any personal trait or particular attribute is removed from man, and to the radical trend in Sufism that sees the annihilation of one’s subjectivity as a prerequisite for unification with divine unicity, Baḥya develops a notion of proximity that is characterized by a relationship between God and the interiority of each particular person, and which grows out of the specific difficulties that arise when one seeks to devote oneself to God. The very offering of divine assistance testifies, according to Baḥya, to a growing nearness between God and man. It is, in itself, a sign of propinquity, which increases as one intensifies one’s devotion to God. In this context, Baḥya discusses a person willing to sacrifice himself and his belongings, that is, to withdraw from his entire earthly life, out of “the purity of his love for God and his sincere obedience to Him (al-­khalāṣa fi-­ṭāʿatihi).”27 These are contrasted with man’s natural propensities and with the proclivities of the instincts. These efforts on the part of man are met with God’s assistance: This is the highest stage of the love of God, and it is not within the ability of every human, as it is beyond human (al-­bashariyya)28 capacities, and

Chapter Three ­— 86 our nature opposes it, and even rejects it. Whenever it is found among the elite (al-­khawaṣṣ), it comes only with God’s aid and support (ta’ayīd),29 by His helping (wa-­naṣratihi) them to overcome their instinct, as a reward ( juz’)30 for their efforts to obey Him (ijtihādihim fi-­taʿatihi) and perform the commandments of His Law ( farāʾiḍ sharīʿatihi) with a pure soul, a sincere heart, and a clear inwardness, as in the case of God’s prophets (anbiyāʾ Allāh), His chosen ones (ṣafwatihi), and favorites (khāliṣitihi).31

Devotion to God is beyond human powers, and therefore man requires help in order to realize it. God responds to man’s endeavor to wholeheartedly devote himself by offering His assistance, described here as a “reward” for this human effort, which Baḥya associates with man’s attempt to obey God and perform the commandments with a “sincere heart,” as required by the duties of the heart.32 Here, too, the reward is neither detached from the performance of the commandment nor given after its execution, but is rather realized in its very performance. The movement of drawing near God is not extrinsic to the miṣvah—­it happens within it. The notion of the need for divine assistance also serves Baḥya to distinguish between obedience by way of following Scripture (or traditional sources), which he associates with the duties of the members, and obedience guided by the intellect, which is associated mainly with the duties of the heart (but can also apply to the performance of the duties of the members).33 Here, too, Baḥya differentiates between that which one can achieve by one’s own powers and that which exceeds human powers and poses an exceptional challenge: An obedience (ṭāʿa) based on Scripture is in man’s power. Once he directs himself to it and prepares himself, it is possible for him to achieve it. On the other hand, obedience (ṭāʿa) based on the arousal of the intellect cannot be accomplished by man, unless with heavenly succor (taʾyīd) and power granted by God, for by his own ability he would fail to achieve it.34

Interestingly, Baḥya’s notion of taʾyīd in this passage shares some features with that of the Epistles of the Brethren of Purity (Rasāʾil al-ikhwān al-­ṣafāʾ), an encyclopedic corpus originating most probably in the city of Basra in southern Iraq, that exerted an influence in al-­A ndalus from the tenth century onward.

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First, as in the Epistles, Baḥya associates taʾyīd with the intellect, though he employs neither the hypostatic terminology nor the hypostatic outlook of the Epistles’ Neoplatonic discourse. In other words, whereas the Epistles present assistance as originating from the General Intellect and moving through the General Soul, Baḥya regards it as divine assistance that provides the intellect with guidance. But even more remarkable is the fact that in the Epistles, too, divine assistance is associated with commandments and prohibitions that descend on those who seek them.35 It is also notable that the Epistles tie the term taʾyīd to the hermeneutical capacities of a specific elite to extract from Scripture, by way of taʾwīl, the knowledge required for leading a proper religious life. This issue, as we shall see, is important to Baḥya as well.36 Baḥya also discusses the association of divine assistance with guidance toward religious excellence, the achievement of supernal knowledge, and overcoming of one’s instincts in the Gate of Self-­Accounting, in a section that begins with the notion of the divine gaze directed toward man: A man should make a reckoning with his soul concerning God’s inspection (iṭlāʿ) of both his interiority and exteriority (ẓāhirihi wa-­bāṭinihi). God observes him, remembering all his acts and all the thoughts that occur to him, good as well as evil. Therefore, man feels that God is watching him and he wishes to improve his interiority and exteriority for God’s sake. . . . When the believer thinks of this matter frequently and makes a reckoning with his soul about it, God will be present in his inwardness ( fi ḍamīrihi) and he will see Him with the eye of the intellect (ʿayn ʿaqlihi). He will unceasingly fear Him, glorifying Him, contemplating the traces, and reflecting upon His deeds in managing His creatures, all of which are proof of His greatness, omnipotence, wisdom, and actualized ability. When a man perseveres in this, God soothes him and assuages his fear, revealing to him the secrets of His wisdom (isrār ḥikmatihi), opening up for him the gate to His knowledge (bāb maʿrifatihi), undertaking to guide and direct him, and He does not desert him to his own powers and ruses. As it is said in the Psalm (23): “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Thus this man reaches the highest stage of the friends (of God), and of the loftiest position among God’s favorites.37

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Baḥya describes a process that begins with an acknowledgment of the divine gaze, continues with the fear induced by being exposed to this gaze, and ends with the divine aid that assuages the fear and transforms it into a sense of proximity. This description reinforces the characteristics discussed above and adds two new elements. The first is the “eye of the intellect,” a rather rare compound in Baḥya’s work, which refers here to the inner eye that is opened to meet the divine gaze.38 The second element is the claim that gaining nearness also involves exposure to knowledge, which is here termed “secrets” and “wisdom.”39 I return later to an analysis of the nature of the knowledge that Baḥya refers to as “secrets,” but even at this point we can see that this knowledge is tied to God’s guidance and direction and to the overcoming of one’s instincts and desires—­in other words, it is associated with the conditions required to lead a life of religious excellence.40 Moreover, from the general context of the appearance of these terms in other sections of the work, it appears likely that Baḥya is referring here to directions concerning the “inner knowledge” (ʿilm al-­bāṭin), which is the knowledge of the duties of the heart.41 Another consequence of drawing near to God is the expansion of grace. In effect, Baḥya envisions a kind of feedback loop of graces: the more graces conferred upon man, the more duties he is obligated by, and the more devoted he becomes to fulfilling these duties, the more graces he will receive. This loop also highlights the significance of the aspect of intimacy (between man and God) in the work’s discourse on duties and proximity. The duties are tailored to each specific person according to his capacities and the graces he was given, and realizing them leads each person to the particular degree of nearness to God that is available to him: Whoever has been endowed by God with a special grace that others have not been endowed with must bind himself to obey (ṭāʿa) God in a special way, that differs from the obedience of others. This is in addition to the efforts he devotes to the general obedience that is common to him and the rest of the people. He should endeavor to do this to the utmost of his ability and power, as an expression of his gratitude to God for the special graces given him. In this way he will cause the continued and increasing bestowing of grace, and will be rewarded in the World to Come for his obedience.42

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Baḥya calls the followers of this path, who draw near to God, each in his own particular way, “friends of God,” awliyāʾ (sing. walī) in Arabic, a religious category that is central to Baḥya’s work and has yet to be studied. On the “Friends of God” Thus far, Baḥya’s use of the term walī has been discussed in scholarship only in relation to the levels of prophecy, and specifically to a level described by scholars as “sub-­prophetic inspiration.” In his study of this issue, Daniel Lasker considered Baḥya’s use of the term in light of a prevalent distinction in some Islamic sources between prophets by definition, who are subject to an actual experience of prophecy, referred to by such terms as nubuwwa (lit. prophecy) or waḥy (revelation), and a subprophetic level, which involves ilhām (inspiration) but is inferior to prophecy.43 Lasker notes that Baḥya uses the term ilhām rarely, and does not make it central to his theory. He also remarks on what he considers to be an inconsistency on Baḥya’s part, namely that he uses walī to refer to several prophets. Still, because Baḥya in some cases uses the term rasūl (lit. messenger) with regard to Moses and nabī with regard to some of the prophets, Lasker holds that it is possible that Baḥya believed “the books of David and Solomon were written by sub-­prophetic inspiration, not as an actual prophecy.”44 Binyamin Abrahamov, in his translation of Duties of the Hearts, also noted regarding the first occurrence of the prevalent formula qawl al-­walī (which recurs hundreds of times) that “it is possible . . . [that] Baḥya intended this word to designate prophecy, but I am uncertain.”45 The fact that Baḥya employs the term walī in relation to prophecy is not surprising in itself, for indeed, the status of walī as possessing divine inspiration is a central issue in several Muslim sources. The context of this discussion is the well-­k nown claim that Muhammad was the seal of prophecy or of the prophets (khatm al-­ nubuwwa or khātm al-­anbiyāʾ), and as such, the last of them.46 The absence of mediation between God and man was filled, in the accounts of various thinkers and authors, by the term wilāya (or walāya, in another common pronunciation; lit. “friendship”), and by the notion of the friends of God (awliyāʾ), who were considered the heirs of the prophet, even though they were not regarded, theoretically, as prophets.47 However, this idea does not reflect the full range of the use of this term in Islamic medieval sources nor in Jewish sources that

Chapter Three ­— 90

precede Baḥya.48 As Abrahamov has already noted, in early Muslim mysticism, prophecy was not necessarily differentiated from wilāya, and in some cases wilāya, designating one’s closeness to God, was considered the essential trait of both the nabī and the walī, allowing for prophetic experiences even after the death of Muhammad.49 Note that here, too, Abrahamov refers to the term walī in relation to the issue of prophecy, even if to challenge the notion of the end of prophecy. But, as I will argue, for a proper understanding of Baḥya’s use of the term it is not only possible but indeed necessary to move beyond the context of the levels of prophecy and study it more broadly in relation to Baḥya’s discourse on proximity. Admittedly, the Duties of the Hearts features discussions that juxtapose the prophets and the awliyāʾ and in this sense raise the question about the meaning of the distinction that earlier sources drew between them. For instance, in his discussion of the methods of addressing Scripture, Baḥya lists ten ranks of the “People of Scripture” (ahl al-­sharīʿa), asserting that the noblest level is that of: People who consider Scripture as true and all reward and punishment both in this world and the World to Come as binding . . . [who] acknowledge their obligations to God for all the favors and graces He has showered upon them. Therefore they consider neither reward nor punishment, but rather hasten to obey the Lord their God . . . desiring (shawq) Him and purifying (ikhlāṣ) their knowledge of Him and their discernment. This is the highest level of the People of the Book, the rank of the prophets and friends (murtabāt al-­anbiyā wa-­al-­awliyāʾ) who submitted themselves to God. 50

This passage is indeed part of a hierarchical presentation of the ten ranks (marātib) of relation to Scripture and adherence to God by its means. However, within the tenth rank, it does not establish any internal hierarchy between prophets and awliyāʾ, but rather explicitly refers to them together and on the same footing.51 It could be argued that while no distinction is drawn between the two categories with regard to the quality of obedience to God (the issue discussed in this paragraph) or with regard to the approach to Scripture and adherence to God—­the pertinent issues discussed in the list of ten ranks—­some distinction does exist in relation to other issues. It could also be argued that

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the order in which the terms are presented here—­first the prophets, then the awliyāʾ—­expresses the superiority of the former over the latter. With respect to the first argument, even if there are some aspects in which Baḥya maintains a difference between prophets and friends of God (e.g., the issue of prophecy, even though in rare cases he does refer to prophets as awliyāʾ), they share certain key features associated with the quality of religious life and the performance of religious duties—­both of which are topics of crucial importance in Duties of the Hearts, unlike prophecy and its conditions of possibility, which are marginal in Baḥya’s discourse. The second argument, too, cannot stand as proof of the superiority of the prophets because of several counterexamples in which Baḥya reverses the order and lists the “friends” before the “prophets.” For instance, when Baḥya discusses two types of reward, one achieved by virtue of man’s deeds and the other conferred by God as a grace, he states that the latter is the “reward through which the friends (awliyāʾ) and prophets (anbiyā) were favored in the World to Come.”52 Thus, I see no reason to determine that a fundamental hierarchy holds between these two categories. Hence, even if prophetic experience is not available to the walī, an issue that is difficult to determine in this source, he is still presented as the epitome of religious life and nearness to God. Indeed, walī is developed in Baḥya’s discourse as an independent term that expresses the ideals of religious life, regardless of any differences from the term nabī. We should be wary, therefore, of immediately bringing the question of prophecy and the category of the prophets to bear on the category of walī. What, then, are the central characteristics of Baḥya’s conception of walī? A survey of several Muslim sources may help to answer this question by shedding light on different modes by which they conceptualized the term, since they may have informed Baḥya’s thought, allowing us to highlight certain significant differences between his use of the term and that of various other thinkers. The term itself is a verbal adjective of the root w-­l-­y, designating “to be near” someone or something.53 An autonomous development of the idea of wilāya, beyond its appearances in the Qurʾan, can be found already in the foundational stratum of the hadith, in several sayings regarding wilāya and awliyāʾ among early Muslim ascetics and mystics beginning in the eighth century, and in sources belonging to different Muslim schools and trends from the ninth to

Chapter Three ­— 92

eleventh centuries that were available in al-­A ndalus. In this framework, I will not dwell on the concept of awliyāʾ in the Ismāʿīlī-­oriented Epistles of the Brethren of Purity, or in the works of several Sufi writers from the formative period, both of which emphasize, in different ways, the divine source of the awliyāʾ, their miraculous modes of operation, eschatological role, and cosmic status, nestling these elements within elaborate ontological schemes.54 Such emphases situate these authors far from Baḥya’s outlook and discourse. As was the case with other aspects of his work discussed in previous chapters, here, too, Baḥya’s conceptualization seems closer to that of al-­Muḥāsibī.55 I shall therefore briefly review some of al-­Muḥāsibī’s treatments of the idea of the awliyāʾ, which, taken together, attest to the rather stable position he retained on this matter.56 In Kitāb al-­waṣāyā (Book of counsels), al-­Muḥāsibī narrates his search for God’s friends and fearers (awliyāʾ and atqiyā), whom he could follow and be guided by, and his eventual meeting with a group of people who were uniquely diligent in fulfilling God’s commandment and preferred the World to Come over this world. Al-­Muḥāsibī notes a series of characteristics of the members of this group, among them the tendency to account for their soul (muḥāsibīna li anfusihim); a rejection of the soul’s whims and desires; an unwavering resolution to obey God; the quality of being undistracted by the world’s pleasures and luxuries; a hope for God’s reward in the World to Come; and fear of His punishment.57 The characteristic of relinquishing the pursuit of pleasure in this world is also mentioned in the Kitāb al-­khalwa wa ‘ l-­tanaqqul fī ‘ l-­ʿibāda wa darajāt al-­ʿābidīn (Book of seclusion and progression in worship and ranks of the worshippers), where al-­Muḥāsibī ranks different states of internal worship. The highest rank is that of the awliyāʾ, who “converse intimately” (munājāt)58 with God and set their gaze on the World to Come, alienating themselves from those who are dedicated to this world and its affairs: The friends [of God] . . . do not belong to them [the people of this world]. They do not have houses in which they will find peace. Their houses and mansions and relatives are [still] to come [in the hereafter]. The world lies heavy on their breath. If they had not found comfort in their intimate conversation with God, they would have to bear much hardship from the world and its people.59

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The stark emphasis on the hereafter—­which is presented as the final purpose of the unrelenting demand to inspect one’s inwardness in one’s worship of God—­is typical of all of al-­Muḥāsibī’s writings, and we find it once again tied to the concept of the “friends of God” in his most renowned work, Kitāb al-­riʿāya li ḥuqūq Allāh (Book of watching out for the claims of God).60 Referring to the Qurʾanic verses that are commonly associated with the notion of the “friends of God” (Q 10:62–­64, “Surely God’s friends—­there will be no fear on them nor will they grieve. Those who believe and fear God they have good tidings in the life of this world and in the World to Come”), al-­Muḥāsibī links the category of awliyāʾ with the special quality of their worship of God: “[God] prepares the garden of Eden for those [who fear Him]. He gives confidence in the hereafter to those who practice it and assures their worship will be accepted. He calls them ‘his friends,’ removing their fear and agony in the day of dread and menace.”61 Al-­Muḥāsibī distinguishes the awliyāʾ from the rest of the worshippers (let alone from the infidels) based on a series of transpositions and transformations they effect in the foundations of their religious life: from worship that is manifest outwardly to worship practiced in one’s interiority, and from an investment in this world to preparation for the hereafter. This mode of existence, which is the culmination of the religious path, brings the “friends” into a unique nearness to God, who repays them by conferring graces upon them. This is expressed by al-­Muḥāsibī in the following succinct comment about the figure of the “friend of God”: “God is gracious to him and is to him a loved one and a friend. Now, a friend does not forsake a friend, nor does the loved one deliver his lover over to destruction.”62 Baḥya’s concept of wilāya retains the characteristics described above in al-­Muḥāsibī’s approach. Thus, in his discussion in the Gate of Reliance (4) of the reward of the World to Come that is conferred as a special grace upon the “chosen few and friends” (khaṣatihi wa-­awliyāʾihi),63 contrasted with the World to Come that is achieved by means of proper deeds, Baḥya refers to the means “by which one can attain the level of the friends [of God] (awliyāʾ).” Man should imitate the way of the ascetics, driving away from one’s heart love and preference for this world, substituting for it a love of God, a devotion and gaining nearness to Him, and at the same time cultivating a dislike for this world, its inhabitants, and their behavior, as did the prophets

Chapter Three ­— 94 and the chosen ones. Finally, man should hope that God will confer grace upon him in the World to Come.64

Here, too, “friendship” is associated with the love of God, devotion is linked to an alienation from this world and its inhabitants, and a hope is pronounced that God will confer graces upon his friend, endowing him with the World to Come. Although the “friends” are referred to by the third person plural form, it is worth noting that friendship, here and elsewhere in the work, is not presented as an accomplishment of a collective or an achievement brought about by the efforts of a group. Rather, it is attained by individuals, who can only eventually and cumulatively be considered awliyāʾ in the plural. It is also notable that although Baḥya refers to the “ranks of the friends,” in this work, he neither presents any catalog of different stages of friendship nor mentions any specific levels in this regard. As I already mentioned, while Baḥya does not explicitly say as much, it seems that he assumed a wide—­indeed infinite—­spectrum of nearness to God, one that reflects the infinitely broad spectrum of knowing and practicing the limitless duties of the heart. While this view does not establish any formal criteria for achieving different “levels” of friendship or closeness, it clarifies what Baḥya may have meant by the notion of “ranks of friendship.”65 Another instance in which Baḥya refers to the walī is found in the second chapter of the Gate of Self-­Accounting.66 As part of an analogy between the way one prepares oneself to meet a human ruler and the way one appears before the “ever-­watching” God, Baḥya stresses that whereas in the former case, one pays great attention to one’s outward appearance, “it is more appropriate, more obligatory and more certain that we adorn ourselves by obeying God in our inwardness, our hearts and our members.”67 Baḥya thus begins by presenting “inner” obedience as complementing the “outer,” but as he continues, he moves to reflect exclusively upon the “inner obedience.” It is this mode of obedience, aimed at gaining God’s nearness, that is reciprocated by God, who indeed draws man close. Thus, writes Baḥya, “Man reaches the rank of the highest of God’s friends (awliyāʾ), and of the loftiest position among God’s favorites (aṣfiyāʾ).”68 Obedience and proximity are the two elements that together define the idea of being a “friend” of God. Another reference to the merits of the “friends” is found in a testament

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written by “one of the pious men (afāḍil)” with which Baḥya chose to conclude the Gate of Asceticism (9), asking his reader to recite it until it is “established in the heart.” This “testament,” whose source has yet to be discovered, is written in a poetic language replete with rhymes, and includes various elements that echo al-­Muḥāsibī’s outlook, terminology, and figurative language. Even if it was not written by al-­Muḥāsibī himself, it is likely that it was written by a later author with some connection to his teachings. It also attests—­if only indirectly and through the mediation of a third party—­to an affinity between Baḥya’s spiritual outlook and that of al-­Muḥāsibī. The testament emphasizes a principle that Baḥya highlights throughout his work, namely, the importance of purifying one’s “inwardness” to enable a series of inner acts that bind man to God. In the words of the testament: How great is the difference between people who follow their desires until they are overtaken by them, adhere to them until they become miserable, and the people whose inwardness (ḍamāʾīrihim)69 is pure and sincere. . . . Therefore their company in their solitude is the memory of God, and wherever they are, they thank Him for His graces to them. They seek study (naẓar) and thought (tafkīr), reflection (ʿibar) and remembrance (tadhkīr), tearing the veil (ḥijāb) that hides from their eyes the ways of inwardness (ṭuruq al-­ḍamāʾir), to attain the seat of substantial certainty (al-­yaḳīn).70

The distinction between those who follow their instincts and those who purify their inwardness is then used by Baḥya to characterize the work of renouncing this world, and to present those who overcome it and win God’s favor as “friends” of God: This world tried to disguise itself, but they recognized it, considered it and described it. Its deceit was obvious to them, and its treachery not hidden. . . . It tried to seduce them, but they turned away. They saw its evil frauds and observed its condemnable operations. It has no authority over them and no way of approaching them. These are the righteous friends of God (awliyāʾ Allāh) and His favourite chosen ones (aṣfiyāʾ), men of clear inner vision and noble pursuits, of deeds that please to God and souls that fear Him . . . they traded with Him71 and gained their profit.72

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Considering the above-­quoted sources, we can now trace the general features of Baḥya’s concept of the walī. First, we can now determine that it is neither exclusively nor even principally concerned with the relative status of the awliyāʾ in comparison with the prophets, or more generally with placing the awliyāʾ in any type of hierarchy of religious excellence. Instead, we can say that even if the walī does not experience prophecy, he represents the very apex of the realization of religious life in attaining the ideal of divine nearness. The walī brings to the fullest the efforts that can be made in worshiping God. Such efforts involve first and foremost a transformation in one’s approach to the world, or, more precisely, no longer seeing the world as a site in which one’s vocation may be realized. Withdrawal from this world enables man to free up the inner realm—­ though not once and for all but in the form of a constant inner struggle with his inclinations and instincts—­for the “inner” worship of God, that is, the nobler form of worship. The walī is an individual who maximizes these efforts, and indeed, is distinguished as his efforts are acknowledged by God and reciprocated by drawing the walī near, both in his own lifetime and in the World to Come.

FOU R T he World to Come

Various terms and linguistic compounds referring to the idea of the “World to Come”—­most prominently the Arabic term al-­ākhira—­are strung throughout the Duties of the Hearts.1 In fact, the prevalence of al-­ākhira, which Baḥya uses in approximately one hundred cases out of a total of one hundred and eighty references to the idea of the World to Come, surpasses even that of the phrase “duties of the heart.” Yet the prominence of this theme runs deeper than mere quantity. Baḥya’s doctrine of the World to Come, as we will see in this chapter, touches upon some of the most cardinal issues and crosscuts some of the most central distinctions of the Duties of the Hearts. It is structured as an analogue to the very distinction between the duties of the members and the duties of the heart; lays the foundation for the fundamental distinction between the “two worlds,” that is, this world and the next world; lies at the heart of the work’s theory of reward; and serves as a principal example of Baḥya’s hermeneutic strategy. Moreover, the discussions concerning the World to Come raise some of the most fundamental tensions in Baḥya’s work, among them the question of whether religiosity based on the performance of the duties of the heart is undertaken for the sake of reward or aims to go beyond the notion of reward; the question of the identity of the addressee of the doctrine of the duties of the heart; and the essential tension between the hidden and the manifest in Baḥya’s system. Despite this centrality, Baḥya’s theory of the World to Come has yet to be systematically researched, even in the most comprehensive studies of the Duties of the Hearts. The only treatments of this theme appear in brief remarks 97

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made by the way of discussing other issues that pertain to the work.2 Indeed, in numerous cases, scholars cite passages that explicitly mention the World to Come, but they do not address it or engage with it. The lack of scholarly engagement with the notion of the World to Come in the Duties of the Hearts can be explained in two ways. First, a certain enigmatic tension looms over Baḥya’s idea of the World to Come: despite many references to it and numerous cardinal discussions that touch upon it in one way or another, the World to Come itself is never substantially described throughout the work. What is the specific reward that awaits those who are granted entrance to it? How are those who are rewarded with the World to Come different from those who are not? Among those who are granted entrance, are there any internal distinctions, such as different levels? Is there any dynamic, substantial process of entering it? What is the nature of the experience of the World to Come? Baḥya answers none of these questions, except for a few short and sometimes rather obscure remarks. This may give the impression that he uses the “World to Come” merely as a common term or some kind of traditional trope, and is not seriously committed to it as a substantial notion in his system of thought, or alternatively, that the category’s sole aim is to designate the importance of transforming man’s conduct in this world, and that it carries no significance of its own. As we will see, this impression is false. The absence of a “thick” description of the World to Come is not accidental. On the contrary, this absence is itself a significant facet of Baḥya’s theory of the World to Come, which he specifically explains, and which can be further clarified by a broader outlook on his whole system. A second explanation for the scholarly neglect of the question of the World to Come in Baḥya’s thought is that it stems from the aversion of modern scholars toward the category of the World to Come as a central feature of Jewish medieval thought, an aversion that is especially pronounced in studies in the subfield of medieval Jewish philosophy, broadly defined. Even though modern scholars have not denied the existence of the World to Come as an effective category in the works of medieval authors, they present it almost as a constraint imposed upon these authors. So, for instance, Shlomo Pines argues regarding Halevi’s Kuzari: “Judah ha-­Levi cannot deny the World to Come or the immortality of the soul, and we find a similar admission also in other medieval

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thinkers,”3 as if acknowledging these ideas is in itself a contemptible business and was extracted from the authors by force. Pines continues: “Still, ha-­Levi does not state these matters explicitly, but it can be deduced from what he says that Jews, indeed, believe in the life of the World to Come.”4 The World to Come is presented not as a substantial principle in the systematic thought of the authors who use it, but only as a trope that they employ because of the widespread belief in it. It is rarely considered as a term that deserves its own study, and when it is referred to, in most cases, it is as part of an attempt to clarify other theological, philosophical, or cultural issues: the belief in resurrection, the metaphysical trajectory of the soul, the problem of evil or theodicy.5 In order to acknowledge the importance of the World to Come in Baḥya’s thought it is therefore necessary, first, to overcome the prevalent tendency to repress the category of the World to Come, and to see it instead as a significant element in need of scholarly attention. Second, it is necessary to explain why Baḥya remains silent about the nature of the experience that awaits those who will be rewarded with the World to Come. The Status of the World to Come One of Baḥya’s most significant discussions of the World to Come appears in the final part of the fourth chapter of the Gate of Reliance on God. Central to this unit is a multifaceted analogy, which begins with a distinction Baḥya draws between two types of righteous (ṣalāḥ) human deeds: “one hidden and known to God alone, like the duties of the heart, and the other apparent in the members and manifest to all men, such as the commandments whose performance is apparent in the members.”6 This distinction is fundamental to the work as a whole, and it touches on the recurring emphasis on the “duties of the heart” as activity that is invisible to the inspecting eye of any other person and apparent only to God’s heart-­observing gaze. These acts are contrasted with the activity of the members, which is visible and principally available for all to see. Each of these two modes of conduct will receive a respective reward: “The Creator requites the deeds apparent in the members with a reward apparent (thawāb al-­ẓāhir) in this world; the inner, hidden deeds (ʿamal al-­bāṭin al-­khafī) He requites with a hidden reward (thawāb khafī), the reward in the other world (thawāb al-­ākhira).”7 Baḥya adds that this holds true not only of

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one’s reward but also of one’s punishment. He thus creates an analogy, which is founded on the more basic distinction between the hidden and the manifest. An outwardly conducted righteous deed—­that is, an act performed in the apparent realm—­will be reciprocated with a reward that is outwardly manifest for all to see, but that is also ephemeral and impermanent, as it is of this world. By contrast, the inwardly conducted act will not be rewarded in any manifest manner in this world. Its reward will only be given in the World to Come.8 But Baḥya’s analogy reveals more than just his position on the issue of reward and punishment and his division of human conduct into acts that are to be rewarded in this world and acts rewarded with the World to Come. It also exposes another significant difference between the “duties of the heart” and the “duties of the members.” The duties of the members involve performing acts that are apparent not only to God but also to every person in sight, and in this sense are carried out in what is seemingly an “open” medium. However, these acts are actually confined within the limited, closed circle of this world. They are detached from that dimension of Being—­the World to Come—­that is opened only by the duties of the heart. Ironically, it is precisely these duties, which belong only to the “inward” realm, that is, to one’s mental sphere, that are correlated with a dimension that exceeds this world, and that allows a nearness to God that is otherwise unattainable.9 What takes place in one’s “inwardness”—­in other words, that which is seemingly confined solely to the heart—­turns out to be infinitely open, reaching beyond a person’s mortal life, beyond any interpersonal relationship and beyond whatever high and low points one may reach during one’s lifetime in this world. The relationship between the two “worlds” is a reflection of the relationship between the two types of activity. In the aforementioned passage, Baḥya not only asserts his approach to the World to Come, but also connects it to one of the verses he most frequently cites, Psalm 31:20: “Oh how abundant is Thy goodness that You have in store for those who fear You, that take refuge in You in the stead of all men.”10 Baḥya’s exegesis focuses on the Hebrew verb ṣafanta (root ṣ-­p-­n, “to keep hidden”), interpreting it to mean that the World to Come is “stored,” or “kept hidden,” for those who fulfill the duties of the heart, and is not revealed in the realm of this world. It is also possible that Baḥya interprets this verse to bolster his distinc-

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tion between the two types of reward, distinguishing between the undisclosed reward (the World to Come) that waits in store for “those who fear you,” and a mundane reward, already given in this world, which is associated with the latter part of the verse: neged beney ʾadam, which can either mean “in the stead of,” or, more befitting this interpretation, “in view of” all men.11 Another important analogy that clarifies to role and status of the World to Come in Baḥya’s system is introduced in the third chapter of the Gate of Self-­Accounting, in a subsection that focuses on the self-­reckoning required of man for his “love for this world (ḥubb al-­dunyā) and his preference of his desires . . . over love of the World to Come (ḥubb al-­ākhira).”12 To elaborate on how this mode of self-­reckoning may be accomplished, Baḥya employs another of the work’s fundamental distinctions: between the body and the soul. This distinction, like the one between the “duties of the members” and the “duties of the heart” (and analogous to them), was already discussed in the work’s introduction: Man is composed of a soul (nafs) and a body ( jasad)—­both are God’s graces given to us, one exterior (ẓāhir), one interior (bāṭin). Accordingly, we are obliged to obey God both outwardly and inwardly. Outward obedience in the duties of the members. . . . Inward obedience, however, is the duties of the heart. . . . Since it is clear that our Creator commanded the members to perform His duties, it is inconceivable that He overlooked our hearts and souls, our noblest parts, and did not command them to worship Him.13

The two signifiers—­body and soul—­maintain a complementary (though conflictual) interrelation. They are associated here with another set of signifiers: the duties of the members and the duties of the heart; and both sets of signifiers are associated with two additional signifiers: exterior and interior, or manifest and hidden. The very rationale for the existence of the duties of the heart is explained in this paragraph by the distinction between the body and the soul, and by the soul’s nobler status. Because duties were imposed on the members (a matter on which there is a general agreement), it is inevitable that God also imposed duties on the soul, for it does not stand to reason that one’s nobler part should be exempt from duties to God and that one’s relationship

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with God should be maintained solely through one’s inferior part. Because the conduct of the body is manifest outwardly, the worship executed by its members is termed “external obedience,” in contrast with the worship of the soul—­“ inner obedience.” Baḥya returns to this chain of signifiers in the Gate of Self Accounting, in the following passage: One of the sages has said regarding this matter, “Just as fire and water cannot dwell together in one vessel, so the love of the world and the love of the World to Come cannot dwell together in the heart of the believer.”14 It has also been said, “This world and the next are like two fellow-­wives: when you please one you necessarily anger the other.” . . . If you devote all your interest to the improvement of your body, and turn all your attention to it, you become remiss in the care of your soul. In the same way, when you devote your attention to the upkeep of your living soul and to caring for its interests, you necessarily neglect many of your bodily needs. You should [therefore] prefer your eternal soul to your perishable body, to devote your attention to it and to care for it.15

Baḥya portrays a mutually exclusive relation between the body and the soul, as well as between this world and the World to Come, an issue that I will return to below. But for our present concern, the main point is to note the sets of terms that are put in analogy. In the introduction to the work, Baḥya linked the dyads duties of the heart / duties of the members and soul/body, and both of them together to the dyad hidden/manifest. Here, he adds another link to the chain of dyads, expanding the internal grammar of the work: the preference of the soul over the body, an important issue for Baḥya, turns out to be analogous to preferring the World to Come over this world. Based on the notion of the “hidden” or “inner” and its distinction from the “manifest,” Baḥya fashions the notion of the World to Come as intimately tied to the idea of the “duties of the heart” and thus as a coherent and vital element of his system rather than a traditional trope incidentally and casually mentioned in the work. Further, integrating the distinction between “this world” and the “World to Come,” he expands the internal grammar for discussing the “duties of the heart,” a crucial step in creating a system of thought that

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will revolve around this category. In addition, Baḥya exegetically connects his theory of the World to Come to scriptural verses (most prominently Ps 31:20) to prove his programmatic statement that Scripture alludes to issue pertaining to the duties of the heart, and to further demonstrate that Scripture indeed includes the “inner” dimension that is substantial to his overall scheme of Being. Lastly, Baḥya uses the theory of the World to Come to deepen the understanding of the very idea of the “duties of the heart.” Arguing that “interiority” and “exteriority” do not exist on the same “level” or “rank” of being, he aims to show that inside and outside are not distinguished only “horizontally”—­like the inside and outside of a building, or like two distinct geographical areas—­ but also “vertically.” Turning inward, most pronouncedly by engaging in the duties of the heart, opens one to a dimension that exceeds one’s life in this world. This dimension will remain undisclosed as long as one directs one’s attention toward this world as the exclusive center of one’s existence. The Repression of the World to Come So far, we have seen Baḥya’s careful construction of the “World to Come” as a central category in his discourse. However, as he argues repeatedly, maintaining the “World to Come” as an effective category in a person’s religious life is a difficult path, which runs into various challenges. These challenges form a state of mind, a world view, a way of life that result in the repression—­the denial, even—­of the World to Come. The first and most decisive challenge was already mentioned above: the “love of this world” (ḥubb al-­dunyā). This motif recurs repeatedly throughout the work, gaining its significance not only from each occurrence but especially from their cumulative effect. It is depicted as the tendency of the soul to be attracted to the vibrant contact with all that is in its immediate experiential vicinity. This situation, which from a certain perspective can be seen as a sharp attunement to the world, is a state of entrancement by a mirage. It involves an obscuring of the dimension of Being that transcends one’s transient life—­that is, the World to Come—­and a denial of the only path that leads to it, namely, identifying this world as a site of fulfilling duty and not of satisfying desire or seeking pleasure. The temptation posed by this world is likened repeatedly by Baḥya to an intoxicating drink. This image consists of an element of indulging in delight, but Baḥya broadens

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it to include also an element of dangerous addiction and the sense of oblivion and lethargy that characterize the state of intoxication. Thus, already in the introduction to the work, he remarks that man will not be able to assert the unity of God sincerely “so long as his heart is intoxicated by the drink of love for this world and inclined to its beastly lusts.”16 Likewise, in the concluding section of the work, he asserts that man cannot expect his soul to be redeemed without first releasing himself from the devotion to this world, which Baḥya likens to curing the drunkard of his craving for wine, citing a saying by “one of the pious” that “if we were not ashamed before God, we would not remember our love for Him, for we are drunk with the wine of love for this world.”17 Baḥya specifically emphasizes that preferring this world, or more precisely, that being thoroughly invested in this world in a way that neglects the World to Come, is not only a conscious choice that man makes, but also, in a way, a default or a preselected option of the soul, that is, a primary inclination that takes root in one’s life from the very fact of one’s being in the world, and that makes one a servant of this world. For this reason, Baḥya remarks that a constant self-­ reckoning is required to remedy “sinking into love for this world” and preferring it over the World to Come.18 The soul must be weaned from its stubborn habit in order to awaken it by thorough, persistent, and decisive activities. As Baḥya argues in his discussion on the ranks of adherence to Scripture, even those who have been successfully convinced of the existence of the World to Come may be defeated by the intense power of the love of the world. These are “people who believe [. . . the] reward and punishment in the World to Come, but who are driven by their soul to the love of this world.”19 The lurking temptation of the love of the world is both highlighted and clarified by juxtaposing the notion of love of the world with two other terms. The first pairing involves the relationship between “love of the world” and “ignorance.” Baḥya describes both as constant hindrances to devotion to the realm of the “duties of the heart,” which ought to be always at the forefront of one’s consciousness, for they “obligate us constantly and unceasingly, everywhere and at all times, at every hour and every minute and every state.”20 Love of this world, which is the unremitting agitator, and ignorance of God pose this incessant challenge: “O my brother, the duties of the heart are [constantly] binding upon us without any excuse, and nothing really hinders us from per-

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forming them except the love of this world and our ignorance of God.”21 However, whereas ignorance may be overcome gradually, “from day to day,” that is, in a process of ongoing progression, love of the world is a constant temptation that man has to face as long as he lives.22 The second—­and for our concern, the more important—­term that Baḥya pairs with “love of the world” is the diametrically opposite “love of the World to Come.” These are oppositional terms: even when the World to Come is not explicitly mentioned, it is always present at the opposite pole, and in this sense always at stake, when the recurring motif of “love of the world” is discussed. They are also mutually exclusive. The love of the world dwells in the very same place that the love of the World to Come should occupy. It must be uprooted in order for one’s heart to be inclined toward the World to Come. These two loves cannot coexist, for each of them is tied to a different set of goals. In order to pass from one to the other, one must engage in constant self-­reckoning (muḥāsaba) and in reflection on the purpose of human life. As mentioned earlier, Baḥya asserts that man must “make a reckoning with himself concerning his sinking into love for this world and his preference of his desires . . . over love of the World to Come.” To this he adds: He should make an effort to uproot the love of this world from his heart, replacing it with love of the World to Come by means of understanding the consequences of [the love of] each of these places and the end of his affairs in both of them. Therefore, he should aim to drive away from his heart the love of this world and establish in it forever the love of the World to Come.23

The main challenge that one must undertake is to prevent the heart from gravitating toward the existential element of life in this world, that is, from investing one’s efforts, vigor, and attentiveness in this world. The beginning of such transformation lies in understanding that this world, for all its vibrant totality which continuously attracts one’s consciousness, does not exhaust the possibilities of existence. One must realize that this world presents only an appearance, a mirage, of totality, and in fact, one must constantly see it in its full relativity, that is, in light of its significant other, the World to Come. Breaching the totality of the world, and fracturing the basic structure of the soul’s en-

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chantment, allows one’s existence to tilt toward the World to Come. Toward the end of his work, Baḥya describes this process in terms of an emptying out and refilling, and also calls it “love of God.” It is impossible for us to establish true love of God in our heart while love of the world is still settled therein. When the believer’s heart is free of love of this world and void of desire for it, as a result of understanding and discrimination, then the love of God may be established and installed in his heart, according to his longing for Him and his understanding of Him.24

The heart—­the medium for intimacy between God and man—­is routinely filled with love of the world. This love, that is, the relation of desire toward the world, is to be uprooted, Baḥya argues, foremost by understanding that one is entrapped in these relations of desire, whose satisfaction is only ephemeral. Only a heart void of the love of the world, that does not strive for any objects to be achieved in this world, may allow for a reversal in the structure of desire and its redirection toward God. The second cause for the repression of the World to Come is, like the first, related to the structure of human desire, but emphasizes a different facet of it. It concerns the basic human difficulty in delaying gratification, that is, forgoing an immediately available gain for the sake of achieving some future, more valuable aim or obtaining a later reward. This matter becomes even more pronounced in relation to the reward of the World to Come, which is, by definition, nonimmediate, and for the sake of which one must accept an unmeasurable postponement and look beyond one’s life in this world.25 This inner force of restraint, Baḥya notes, is not characteristic of the public at large, which Baḥya describes using the prevalent medieval term jumhūr (masses or crowd). The masses, or more precisely, each disparate member of them, are bound to an elementary mechanism that is entirely focused on what may cause it either pleasure or pain, even if only momentarily. This is the reason, Baḥya argues, that already at the time of the revelation of the Torah, the prophet refrained from speaking to the people about the reward of the World to Come, for the people were “in a state of ignorance and little understanding,” a condition likened to that of a youth who in order to be motivated needs to be promised “immediate pleasures, like food and drink, clothing and a carriage, and the like”

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or else to be threatened with “immediate discomforts, like hunger, nakedness, whippings, and the like.”26 Moreover, this description of the grim condition of the generation of Moses, then, does not reflect only some ancient stage that has since been overcome, but rather is an enduring condition. Elsewhere, Baḥya remarks, “the masses of the people ( jumhūr al-­umma) are only concerned with external deeds, not with inner ones,” an observation that does not seem to be timebound. This tendency to seek immediate gratification desensitizes one to an entire undisclosed dimension of Being, ranging from the inner activity that takes place outside the purview of the gaze of the other, to the undisclosed reward that is neither achieved nor revealed in one’s lifetime. Moreover, as Baḥya notes in this passage, this problem created a significant lacuna in the very content that was transmitted by the prophet, for it caused the prophet “not to explain anything at all regarding the reward and punishment in the World to Come.”27 In order not to present the people with a notion of reward that they cannot abide by, Scripture is silent, or almost silent, with regard to the World to Come.28 This predicament thus created a third cause for the repression of the World to Come, namely, the hermeneutical cause; for how is man to direct his actions to lead him eventually to achieve the World to Come, if the latter is left unmentioned, or is mentioned only implicitly, in Scripture?29 What is needed in order to overcome the tendency to seek immediate gratification, then, is not only a mental effort but also a hermeneutical effort aimed at exposing a crucial element of one’s religious outlook that is indicated only between the lines. A fourth reason for the repression of the World to Come is the difficulty of acknowledging the most petrifying element of human existence—­death.30 The denial or repression of death is related, according to Baḥya, to man’s fundamental focus on the manifest dimension of Being and, in particular, the manifest dimension of his own existence, that is, his body, on which he prides himself throughout his life. Acknowledging death forces man to consider his body from the other side of life, and to see how, with death, “his face darkens, his body blackens and becomes full of worms, stench, and putrefaction, the traces of his bodily beauty all effaced, the smell of his corpse is acute, as if he had never washed, never cleaned himself or exuded perfumed scents.”31 For this reason, for as long as he is able, man tends to repress the issue of his eventual death. This repression involves a profound denial of the transient nature of

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existence in “this world” and of the ephemerality of life, or at least of the life of one’s body. Such a denial, in turn, leads man to develop a domineering and condescending attitude toward the world, to see himself as its master rather than a guest who comes into the world and is bound eventually to leave it, maybe even abruptly. It also brings about a diminished sense of obligation, for if life is not transitory, there is nothing urging man to execute a task before it is too late to do so. This attitude is fractured only when death draws near. Then, the entire edifice of repression may collapse, allowing for the return of the repressed: “When a man feels that his life is ending and his death approaching, he reflects on the dread of death and on the day of judgment, whereupon he becomes humble and submissive, degrading himself and repenting for the waste of his life and the loss of his days, gone without his having prepared any store of good deeds to serve him on his journey.”32 In order to avoid such a late acknowledgment of the fact of death, Baḥya calls on man to engage in self-­ reckoning throughout his life, and to remind himself by means of this spiritual exercise that death is always near and may strike at any given moment: Man must make a reckoning with himself concerning the period of his stay in this world. He should reflect upon the haste with which death comes and upon the approaching end of his life whenever he witnesses the sudden death of another living creature, whether man or animal, without that creature’s foreknowledge of it, without a warning, without any safe period when it is immune from death. Indeed, death may strike in any month of the year, on any day of the month, at any hour of the day.33

An acknowledgment of death is not only and not primarily an awareness of finitude and termination. Rather, it awakens one to perceive that life in this world does not exhaust the whole of existence. Death itself is a transition, a crossing to another dimension of existence that is not previously familiar to man, or in Baḥya’s terminology, a journey (riḥla). Moreover, the crossing itself involves dread and anxiety, which make it difficult for man to see and contemplate it properly, for when death approaches, man must account for the life that he has lived and for all of his deeds. In this sense, the crossing of death involves, ontologically speaking, a juridical position of standing trial, but also, epistemologically, a reflective position of looking back and surveying life in

The World to Come ­— 109

its entirety in light of what is to come after its end. Worldly affairs that once, while one was in denial of death, had appeared to be exhaustive of existence and worthy of one’s full attention, are suddenly revealed to be relative, even negligible, in view of the afterlife. Thus, according to Baḥya, whenever man engages in self-­reckoning about this matter, “he is bound to limit his hopes for this world and to concentrate his hopes on the World to Come. He is bound to think of his provisions for the journey and to make a reckoning with himself before the Day of Reckoning comes.”34 A readiness to acknowledge death is key to awakening awareness of the World to Come, and conversely, ignoring death is the source of the denial of the World to Come. In addition, a proper attitude toward death involves an understanding that it may take place at any given moment. This realization, along with understanding that life in this world does not exhaust existence, develops into a fierce demand to immediately withdraw one’s investment in this world, and to engage only in what may properly provide one for one’s journey to the hereafter. Baḥya highlights this issue in another discussion in the Gate of Reliance on God, where he reflects on the man who “tries to fulfill the commandments as much as he can, inwardly and externally.”35 He does this, Baḥya states, because he is Thinking always of the coming of death and the end of his days. This fear of death increases his firm urge to prepare himself for the World to Come, and it decreases his interest in preparing for this world, as said the ancients: “Repent one day before thy death” (mAvot 2:10), which they interpreted as “Repent to-­day, lest you die to-­morrow; then all your days will be days of repentance,” as it is said: “Let thy garments be always white” (Eccl 9:8).36

Acknowledging death is thus crucial for injecting a sense of urgency into one’s life. Instead of eradicating the presence of death from the course of life, whether by utterly denying it or by dismissing it as a thing of some distant future, Baḥya calls on man to awaken to the fact that death always lurks closer than he thinks, to understand the transience of his life, and without delay to transform his concern for his worldly existence into an urgent concern for the World to Come. A person who continuously cares for his worldly affairs, asserts Baḥya,

Chapter Four ­— 110 Prepares great quantities of goods of this world, as if he were safe from death and free of the fear of it, as if his days will never end, his time never come, and he will never cease to be. Forgetting about the World to Come, he is too occupied with the affairs of this world to pay attention to the affairs of his religion and preparation for the World to Come. His confidence in his longevity in this world causes him to be very hopeful about it and completely hopeless about the World to Come. Therefore, when he is warned and directed in the right way by somebody who says to him, “How long will you neglect the preparations for your afterlife?” he answers, “When I have enough for my sustenance and that of my dependents, family, and children till the end of our days—­then my soul will be free from the worries of this world and I shall have the time to pay God what is due to Him and to think of how to prepare myself for the World to Come.”37

Different causes thus converge to repress awareness of the World to Come: excessive love of this world, an innate disinclination to delay gratification, Scripture’s lack of guidance, and the dismissal of death. Baḥya regularly returns to all of these causes—­in different contexts in the work and not just in one specific section—­which demonstrates the centrality of stirring consciousness to the World to Come in his thought. It clarifies that the category of the World to Come is fundamental to his religious outlook and that the challenge it poses is significant and worthy of special attention. Moreover, as Baḥya emphasizes in many of the discussions in which the World to Come is mentioned, acknowledging the significance of the next world demands not only resurfacing what had been repressed, and not only projecting one’s consciousness beyond this world and its affairs, but also poses a far greater challenge: transforming one’s approach to this world already in one’s lifetime. This transformation would leave its mark on three main aspects of one’s life. The first, mentioned above, involves seeing life in the world as only a part of a greater whole of one’s existence that will outlast one’s numbered days in this world. In this sense, the very entry of the World to Come into one’s considerations can help to dispel the enchanting power of this world, to loosen its grip on man, and to call into question the priority routinely accorded by consciousness to the affairs of this

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world. A consciousness acutely alert to the World to Come will no longer see this world as its main point of reference for existence. Instead, it will come to understand that its tendency to focus on this world is not inevitable, but an acquired habit that is to be uprooted. Another necessary change in view of a vigilant awareness of the World to Come involves cultivating a significant dimension of asceticism in one’s life. The notion of asceticism—­which is one of the more complex in Baḥya’s thought, and will be presented here only from a rather narrow perspective—­ consists of the demand that one remove the desire from any object whatsoever in the world, withdraw attachment to objects with which one is in contact, and eradicate the fear of losing what one has already achieved and acquired. All these objects, argues Baḥya, are part of the realm of the transitory and ephemeral, and are revealed as such when one acknowledges the relativeness of this world in contrast with the permanence of the World to Come. Asceticism, in this sense, is not a matter of negating the world and all there is in it, or of radically abstaining from any meaningful contact with it. Rather, it involves a transformation of one’s modes of engagement with the beings of the world. In other words, a proper ascetic approach to the world is not expressed by thoroughly changing one’s manifest modes of conduct in the world—­which in any case would amount only to a transformation in the “external” realm of the acts of the members; rather, it is an inner change in the structure of one’s life of desire. Instead of accepting the desire for objects in the world as a given and then struggling to overcome this desire by abstention, Baḥya proposes another path. He calls for a redirection of one’s desires in response to the challenge of understanding that every achievement accomplished in the realm of this world is transient. Such an understanding will lead to what Baḥya terms the “evacuation” of the heart from its attachments to this world, which is a necessary condition for the establishment of a desire that ultimately aims for what is not of this world, that is, for the life of the World to Come. Seeking the World to Come leads to a third mode of transformation, which is related to the nature of the path that one must take to attain the World to Come. This is the path of duty, and specifically, as Baḥya emphasizes, the duties of the heart. Baḥya considers the attitude that regards this world as a realm of duties whose fulfillment may allow one to delight in their reward al-

Chapter Four ­— 112

ready in one’s lifetime a conception entrapped in the logic of the duties of the members. As such, it is not only incomplete but also obscures an altogether different and more profound approach.38 According to this approach, the very striving for delight in this world must be uprooted from the heart and replaced by a consciousness of duties that will know no rest for as long as one lives.39 This mode of consciousness, which identifies reward as belonging not to this world but to the World to Come, and that sees reward not as transient but as absolute and lasting, is necessary for ensuring the ongoing activity in the realm of the duties of the heart. The World to Come as a Reward or Beyond the Principle of Reward Thus far we have seen how Baḥya shaped the idea of the World to Come as a reward for man’s diligent fulfillment of the duties of the heart. Baḥya is explicit on this point, as can be seen most clearly in the recurrence of the compound thawāb al-­ākhira (reward of the World to Come), which unequivocally expresses the notion of reciprocation.40 Moreover, this principle is clearly and more elaborately pronounced in the passage that was cited earlier in a slightly different context: “Righteous deeds are divided into two: ones hidden and known to God alone, like the duties of the heart, and the other apparent in the members and manifest to all men, such as the commandments whose performance is apparent in the members. The Creator requites the deeds apparent in the members with a reward apparent in this world; the inner, hidden deeds He requites with a hidden reward, the reward in the other world.” To this, Baḥya adds: God has shown us the kinds of obedience that will benefit us, both in this world and in the World to Come, as it is said concerning the reward in this world: “And the Lord commanded us to do all these statutes . . . for our lasting good (le-­tov lanu k̇ ol-­ha-­yamim)” (Deut 6:24), and concerning the reward in the World to Come: “It will be therefore to our merit before our Lord God to observe faithfully” (Deut 6:25).41

Here, too, it seems that the two “kinds” of obedience refer to the fulfillment of the duties of the members, on the one hand, and of the duties of the heart on the other, and they earn man a reward in this world and in the World to

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Come, respectively. Interestingly, in this case, too, Baḥya seems to imply that these principles were not explicitly stated in Scripture and that they can be understood only by deciphering an implied inner layer of scriptural meaning.42 In addition, in more than one case Baḥya uses the economic metaphor of a successful transaction with God to express the idea of the reward of the World to Come. Thus, for instance, when Baḥya discusses—­following “one of the pious men (afāḍil)”—­those who turned away from this world, strove for the World to Come, and achieved their aim, he states: “They acted in a pure manner with God, and thus he acted with them, they traded with Him and gained their profit (taʾajjarūruhu fa-­rabbaḥu).”43 Unexpectedly, even though Baḥya states so unequivocally that the World to Come is given as a reward, he grapples with significant tension related to this point. In several other passages, Baḥya appears to undermine the principle that undisclosed acts of duty will be answered by God with the undisclosed reward of the World to Come. This tension is found, for instance, in a passage in which Baḥya again uses the metaphor of trade, this time in a way whose meaning is far less clear. In this passage, he discusses the highest level of the ‘‘People of Scripture” (ahl al-­sharīʿa), which includes those who “consider Scripture as true and all reward and punishment both in this world and the World to Come as binding.”44 They arise from their lack of attention and acknowledge their obligations to God for all the favors and graces He has showered upon them. Therefore they consider neither reward nor punishment, but hasten rather to obey the Lord their God . . . desiring Him and purifying their knowledge of Him and their discernment. This is the highest level of the People of the Book, the rank of the prophets and friends who submitted themselves to God,45 made a covenant with Him, entered into a contract and a treaty with Him (taʾajjarūruhu).46

Here already a certain gap can be sensed between the metaphor of trade, with its implication of a conscious exchange of one thing for another—­in this case, fulfilling duties for their reward—­and the statement that directly precedes this metaphor, that people of this rank “consider (iyyaḥfilu) neither reward nor punishment,” suggesting that they make no calculations of profit and loss

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when they engage in duties but rather fulfill them simply because they are duties before God.47 Moreover, the special status of those who stand beyond considerations of gain and loss, who fulfill the duties of the heart noninstrumentally, is contrasted with the mindsets of the (lower-­ranked) seventh and eighth levels of the “People of Scripture”: [Seventh rank:] People  .  .  . who obey God only with the intention and wish of gaining His reward in this world and the next, ignoring the way of God’s obedience for His own sake; by this I mean obeying Him only because of the glory, honor, and high esteem due to Him only. These people are referred to in the saying of our ancient sages: “Be not like servants who serve the master upon the condition of receiving a reward; but be like servants who serve the master without any condition of receiving a reward; and let the fear of Heaven be upon you” (mAvot 1:3).48 [Eighth rank:] People . . . who obey God out of fear of His punishment in this world and the next.49

Baḥya thus not only distinguishes between those who fulfill the duties of the heart as part of an exchange with God—­either in the hope of a reward or out of fear of punishment—­and those who fulfill their duties expecting nothing in return, but he also grounds this distinction in a hierarchical structure that emphasizes the superiority of the latter over the former. Moreover, he indicates that the latter, whose obedience goes beyond the principle of reward, are of the highest rank in the worship of God. The World to Come, which Baḥya has carefully and systematically constructed as a reward for inward obedience, is presented from the perspective of the summit of religious excellence as unrelated to or exceeding the whole reciprocal system of reward and punishment.50 It is not given to man as a reward for his deeds. Rather, it is a special grace whose conferral lies beyond the logic of reward and punishment, as Baḥya expresses in his statement that the reward of the World to Come “is not earned by one’s actions, but rather it is a grace conferred by God.”51 Whence does the tension between the two modes of presenting the World to Come arise? Thus far we have seen the principles that led Baḥya to present the World to Come as a special reward for the fulfillment of the duties of the heart, but what led him to depict it as beyond the principle of reward?

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Here we can point first and foremost to the fundamental faultiness Baḥya sees in a consciousness that understands duties in terms of the idea of reward. At the basis of this critique is the idea that a person who worships God in order to gain a reward is ultimately acting, in Baḥya’s view, for his own sake. An effort to fulfill the duties of the heart in order to be rewarded with the World to Come may ultimately be self-­serving: it is an attempt to benefit oneself, even if not with the goods of this world.52 Thus, when Baḥya presents the temptations of the inclination (hawā), he writes about one of its special strategies: The inclination will try to mislead you with something . . . subtle, namely, [the notion of] reward and punishment in this world and the World to Come, saying: You are one of God’s chosen, one of His favorite devotees. People like you deserve a reward both in this world and the World to Come. Therefore, you should exert all your efforts so that you may reach it through your deeds and your perfect devotion to God’s obedience. Keep this reward always before your eyes and try as hard as you can to reach it, for it is the goal of your happiness and the highest bliss, as it is said: “Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart” (Ps 97:11). [However,] If you obey it [the instinct] and listen to its words, it will throw you into a kind of secret association (al-­shirk al-­khafī), because the object you worship will be yourself. For you strive [to achieve] something which gives pleasure and happiness to your soul, and you try to avoid what grieves and worries.53

This mode of worship fails to overcome the inner logic of self-­centeredness, and only shifts the focus from one kind of reward (reward in this world) to another kind (the reward in the World to Come) without any significant transformation of the basic structure of one’s desires and aims. In both cases, man is spellbound by a specific object of consciousness and directs his intentions and actions to the possibility of achieving it in the future. In the case of the reward in this world the object is success and comfort or at the very least avoidance of pain, while in the case of the reward of the World to Come the object is comfort or joy that exceeds one’s life in this world and is actualized only when one’s earthly life ceases. Yet in both cases, one’s consciousness is attuned to an aim and an object that is not God. Thus, according to Baḥya, a person who focuses on any kind of reward cannot be described as having “obedience to

Chapter Four ­— 116

God established in the heart purely for God’s sake, and not out of fear or wish for reward.”54 Moreover, obedience that stems from a consciousness that seeks reward involves, in itself, a violation of one of the fundamental duties of the heart listed by Baḥya—­the duty to purify one’s acts (both inner and external), whose basic condition is that “one must never have for his action any purpose other than God” and must not act “in order to draw some benefit from his deed or to avoid misfortune, either in this world or the World to Come.”55 However, there is another reason for the need to understand the World to Come as beyond the principle of reward, which relates not to a violation of a specific duty of the heart, but to the special nature of the entire category of duties of the heart. As our earlier discussion demonstrated, a distinctive characteristic of the duties of the heart is that they are limitless—­man can understand only part of them throughout his life, and even this not immediately but through a long process; in addition, the quality of their fulfillment ranges in an infinite spectrum, which casts doubt on the very possibility of completely fulfilling a duty.56 Thus this is a debt that is, by definition, impossible to pay off fully. For even if one fully executes what one has understood to be the duties of the heart from the moment of such an understanding onward, still a shadow is cast on the preceding times in which one knew only of fewer duties. In a similar vein, given that the performance of any duty of the heart is not limited to a specific, measurable degree but rather demands an ever-­deepening mode of execution, it remains unclear at what point one will be worthy of the World to Come. Man’s fulfillment of the duties of the heart is, in principle, incomplete, and he can always be judged unfavorably. Therefore, the World to Come cannot be granted as a commensurate wage for his deeds, but rather always involves an element of abundant, excessive grace—­that is, a transcendence of straightforward relations of exchange. This is the meaning of Baḥya’s statement, quoted earlier, that God’s reward to man “is not earned by one’s actions but rather it is a grace conferred by God,” and of his remark that God’s graces “encompass the two worlds,” namely, this world and the World to Come.57 Similarly, Baḥya cites “one of the righteous men” as arguing that58 When a man makes an accounting of what he owes God for the graces He has bestowed upon him, he comes to the conclusion that no one can get

The World to Come ­— 117 the reward in the World to Come (thawāb al-­ākhira) for his actions, except through God’s grace toward him.” So do not be seduced by your actions, as the friend [of God] said: “Also unto Thee, O Lord, belongeth grace; for Thou renderest to every man according to his work” (Ps 62:13).59

The very term “reward” (thawāb) here loses its literal signification and no longer denotes a deserved return for one’s proper conduct throughout one’s life or a fitting recompense for the fulfillment of one’s duties. In order to acknowledge the World to Come as a grace conferred by God, one must understand it as existing beyond the economics of punishment and reward. We have thus considered the different arguments that together amount to an overall critique of regarding the World to Come as a reward. First, we considered the religious problem inherent in the very notion of a reward (in this world or the World to Come), a notion that Baḥya identified as simply replacing pleasure in this world as the object of one’s desire with pleasure in the World to Come, without changing the structure of desire itself. In both cases, one’s desires are not directed toward God and one’s consciousness does not acknowledge the idea of duty that is unrelated to any reward it may yield. Second, Baḥya critiques the person who assumes that he has done enough to be entitled to the reward of the World to Come as beholden to false consciousness. No one has ever done enough to be entitled to the World to Come; because of the limitlessness and immeasurability of the duties of the heart, a person will in principle always be blameworthy at the end of his life. Thus, the World to Come can only be received as a special favor from God, who confers it regardless of the debt that has yet to be paid off. Third, regarding the World to Come as a reward will lead man to fail to acknowledge divine grace in one of its most important manifestations and thus to violate the duty to acknowledge the grace of God. At the core of the Duties of the Hearts, then, lies an acute and unresolved tension regarding the essential category of the World to Come. On the one hand, Baḥya systematically establishes the idea of the World to Come as a concealed reward—­in the sense that it will be realized in one’s unforeseeable future—­for concealed conduct, namely, activity in the inner confines of one’s heart. On the other hand, Baḥya argues that the World to Come exceeds every

Chapter Four ­— 118

type of economic relationship, and lies beyond the very principle of reward. This tension is not accidental. It results from two competing tendencies that are essential to Baḥya’s system. The first involves Baḥya’s attempt to fashion the realm of the duties of the heart as analogous to the better-­k nown system of commandments, which Baḥya relegates to the status of “duties of the members.” In order to establish a significant structure for this analogy, Baḥya must find a parallel in the realm of the duties of the heart to the idea that the fulfillment of the duties of the members yields reward. The other tendency, which pushes the “World to Come” beyond the principle of reward, is Baḥya’s understanding of man as indebted beyond the possibility of repayment, due to the limitless nature of the duties of the heart. Unlike the duties of the members, whose calculus of reward and punishment is far clearer because there are definite criteria for their completion, the duties of the heart are not defined in a way that allows for a clear understanding of how man could ever be rightfully eligible for a reward based on their execution. To this is added Baḥya’s fundamental critique of any consciousness whose inner conduct is guided by the notion of reward. This critique calls on man to release himself of the very conception of reward on which Baḥya constructed his own system in the Duties of the Hearts. The Unknowability of the World to Come Whether one is granted the World to Come as a reward for one’s deeds or as a grace beyond any reward, the question remains as to what it is that one is granted: How does Baḥya understand the life in the World to Come that awaits those who are granted it? On this issue, surprisingly, Baḥya says very little. In stark contrast with the category of the World to Come, which Baḥya turns into a crucial element in his complex system and which he mentions extensively, the World to Come itself receives no substantial or “thick” description in the work. This adds yet another kind of tension to the role and status of the World to Come in Baḥya’s Duties of the Hearts. One possible interpretational key for accounting for this tension lies in the fact that Baḥya does not merely say little about the exact nature of the World to Come, but in fact appears to choose, explicitly, to leave this question unresolved, not even attempting to answer it. Several remarks throughout the work

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suggest this interpretation. In the Gate of Obedience, Baḥya asserts that those who achieve the highest religious rank will be granted the reward of the World to Come, that is “contact (ittiṣāl) with the supreme light, which we can neither describe (la yaṣiḥḥu lanā) nor compare with anything (la iyyusawighu lanā tamthīluhu).”60 In another instance, Baḥya states, regarding the possibility of knowing the nature of reward after the departure of the soul from the body, that “we cannot even conceive of the form of the soul without the body, nor speak of the reward that gives it pleasure or the punishment that torments it in that state.”61 In a third, Baḥya associates the biblical verse that he regards as implicitly attesting to the existence of the World to Come (Ps 31:20) with another verse that he seems to interpret as attesting to a lack of knowledge, or foresight, regarding the World to Come: “No eye has seen God beside Thee, who worketh for him that waiteth for Him” (Isa 64:3).62 This assertion of an absence of knowledge about the nature of the World to Come interestingly puts Baḥya in polar opposition to one of the thinkers who in many other respects is closest to him, Ḥārith al-­Muḥāsibī.63 The stark opposition stems from al-­Muḥāsibī’s decision to dedicate a whole work, The Book of Imagining (Kitāb al-­tawahhum), to describing the day of judgment before God, the torments of hell, and the delights of the World to Come.64 The bulk of this work is dedicated to the sensual joys of the hereafter, including a dramatic description of crossing the threshold to paradise, a detailed elaboration of the pleasures that await man there, and a vision of a procession in which the friends of God who have entered paradise are called to behold the glory of God.65 The minute details related by al-­Muḥāsibī are extraordinary on any scale, providing a lush description of the happenings of the World to Come.66 This, for instance, is how he opens his description of the procession that leads to God, which begins with the call of an angel and continues with the convoy that accompanies the friends of God on their way: “God commands that you visit Him, go to visit Him.” . . . At once angels will appear, leading majestic camels made of ruby stones into which life has been breathed, their reins golden, the beauty of their visage and its glimmer resembling torches. They do not excrete, they are winged, a weave of red silk cloaks them, red silk of paradise, yarn of paradise, a white yarn

Chapter Four ­— 120 that shines with the glitter of the Orient. Two straps lie on their humps, red upon white, like the straps harnessed to these majestic beasts here below. No living creature has seen their like, or perceived such a beautiful garment. Behold! The beauty of these majestic beasts, the beauty of their appearance, majestic beasts, rubies from paradise  .  .  . their amble make them glitter. Behold! Their beauty, the beauty of the faces of the angels, the beauty of their reins, chains of gold. They lead them, they are advancing toward the friends [of God].67

The imperative “behold,” which appears approximately one hundred times throughout Kitāb al-­tawahhum, endows the work with its special character. Employing such an imperative presupposes that paradise can indeed be visualized; in other words, that representing paradise is something one can do. Rather than as an undisclosed or unknown dimension of Being, al-­Muḥāsibī presents paradise as utterly visible and dazzling in its appearance; its description is designed to engrave its image in the consciousness of the addressee. Moreover, at no point does al-­Muḥāsibī regard the act itself of presenting this vision as disclosing hidden knowledge or exposing a secret that was to be kept untold, nor as a revelation of something obtained miraculously or through some special effort. The vision is presented as immediately accessible; one need only turn one’s attention to it. However, the process of beholding the next world is not effortless. The effort involved is related not to the ability to visualize or to the accessibility of the image, but instead to al-­Muḥāsibī’s demand that the addressee hold these images in his consciousness continuously and unrelentingly. The imperative, then, is not only to behold, but also to steady the gaze and make it permanent—­that is, to saturate one’s consciousness continually with the image of the World to Come (as well as with the image of the suffering of those who are punished). Why does al-­Muḥāsibī present such a demand? Josef van Ess offered two explanations (not mutually exclusive). The first has to do with the phenomenology of the gaze. According to this explanation, the image is supposed to operate as a kind of screen that will continuously “hold” one’s attention and thereby prevent one’s consciousness from being tempted by objects of this world. In this sense, the image of the World to Come is put forward to replace one form of enchantment—­the enchantment with

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this world—­with another, enchantment with the hereafter.68 The other explanation is related to the ethical consequences of steadfastly holding to images of paradise and hell: a sustained acknowledgment and a sensual experience of both the pleasures and the torments that will come upon man in the hereafter as a result of his conduct in this world will evoke in him a persistent sense of anguish about his future judgment and thus will stimulate him to repent. This process, too, involves a kind of replacement, related in this case not to the field of vision but to another matter: one who fears the hereafter throughout his life will have to fear no more when the time of judgment comes.69 Al-­Muḥāsibī’s Kitāb al-­tawahhum brings into sharp relief Baḥya’s insistence on leaving the World to Come beyond the realm of possible knowledge and regarding it as an object of intention that remains largely devoid of content. Why did Baḥya choose this approach? The first possible reason is epistemological. It is indicated in a statement cited earlier in this chapter, and in the ensuing lines: We cannot even conceive of the form (ṣūra) of the soul without the body, nor speak of the reward that gives it pleasure or the punishment that torments it in that state. The explanation, for one who can understand this matter, is given by God in the saying: “[If you walk in My paths and keep My charge . . .] I will permit you to move about among these attendants” (Zech 3:7). It is impossible for this to be a state in which one’s soul is still attached (irtibāṭ) to one’s body. So it must imply the state of the soul after death, when it takes the form of the angels in its simplicity and subtlety (luṭfiha),70 for it is purified, illumined, and its acts in this world were all perfect.71

First, it is noteworthy that Baḥya characterizes the soul here—­unlike its prevalent descriptions in Muslim ascetic literature—­not as an unruly element to be disciplined, but in a far more Neoplatonic manner, as mediating between the earthly realm and the upper echelons of Being. This predicament divides human existence into two phases. In the more familiar and recognizable phase, the soul is attached to the body, a condition described by Baḥya in another context as a trial, wherein the soul is tested in this world to determine its fate in the hereafter.72 This trial of the soul involves the habitual pleasures and pains

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known to man, namely, the arousal of desires, their gratification and the attendant sense of pleasure (however momentary), or the sufferings caused by the inability to gratify these desires, by attempts to abstain from gratifying them, or by the sense of failure if such attempts prove unsuccessful. Alternatively, Baḥya remarks that already in this world, the soul may learn to replace the pleasures obtained by one’s instinctual desire with another type of pleasure, experienced simply by virtue of obeying divine commandments.73 But what is the nature of the pleasure of a soul that is detached from any body and no longer subject to any duties? This is the other “phase” of existence, namely, the existence of the soul without the body; it is unknown simply because it is not part of man’s experiential sphere. The difficulty here is different from the problem of not knowing the essence or quiddity of God because of the dissimilarity of God to everything that is not God. It is a problem of experience: because one has not experienced being a soul detached from a body, one has no knowledge regarding the World to Come, where the soul exists after it departs from the body. The second possible reason Baḥya does not disclose the nature of the World to Come is connected to the category’s ethical or motivational functions. In other words, one of the aims of the discourse on the World to Come is to provoke an ethical transformation in those for whom this category is meaningful. Thus, for instance, in the Gate of Repentance Baḥya beseeches his reader: If a man were to warn the inhabitants of a village or a town, saying, “O you people, prepare for the journey to the World to Come (raḥīl ila al-­ ākhira), for one among you is going to die this month, but I know not who he is,” would it not be right that each one of them should fear that he will be the one destined to die? How could we not prepare for death, when every month in every corner we see death killing so many creatures? Are we not obliged to fear for our souls each month and consider the matter of our provisions for the World to Come before there is need of it, even one day before? As said our ancient sages: “Repent one day before thy death” (mAvot 2:10), and as it is said: “Let your garments always be freshly washed [and your head never lack ointment]” (Eccl 9:8).74

The passage emphasizes that although death is imminent, life in this world does not exhaust a person’s existence, and that everyone is bound one day—­

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possibly sooner than one expects—­to embark on a journey that leads to the World to Come. With this emphasis Baḥya seeks not only, and not primarily, to describe the fate of every human being. Rather, he aims to establish a mentality of vigilant alertness, charged with a sense of urgency to fulfill one’s duties here, now and without delay, so as not to embark on the journey to the World to Come empty-­handed, that is, in a state in which one’s life in this world has ended but he lacks enough merits to attain the World to Come. On the basic level, Baḥya seems to share al-­Muḥāsibī’s attitude regarding the ethical implications of the discourse on the hereafter. But how will such a sense of urgency be instilled effectively? Here, al-­Muḥāsibī and Baḥya offer two polar responses. While for al-­Muḥāsibī the dread of this future journey will be most effectively addressed through a minute and graphic elaboration of the details of its destination, Baḥya takes a different track. It may be that in Baḥya’s view, it is not detailed knowledge or an animated image that will generate the most significant affective response but precisely the unknowability of the destination that can induce a stronger motivation. The greater the obscurity, the more space remains for the reader’s own projections, a space that will be filled by the hopes and fears, desires and feelings of guilt that each person brings to it. In other words, fashioning the World to Come as an unknown realm may bring about an even more effective transformation of the consciousness of the addressee than a detailed description of it. The third possible reason for Baḥya’s decision to emphasize the unknowability of the World to Come is related to a fundamental pattern in his thought. In Baḥya’s approach, the consistency of which was demonstrated throughout this study, Being in all of its multiple facets is divided into the realm of the manifest (the external; ẓāhir), and the realm of the concealed (the inner; bāṭin), where the concealed is superior to the manifest—­both in value and importance to religious life. However, throughout his work, Baḥya consistently undermines the obscurity of the inner, in explicating the basic structure of the human being, highlighting its composition of soul and body; elucidating the division of duties into duties of the members and duties of the heart; and even revealing the contents of the latter. In other words, Baḥya sheds much light on the realm of the “inner.” Moreover, it seems the realm of the “inner” as Baḥya constructs it, can in principle be elucidated. Following Baḥya’s own pattern

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of thinking, then, we may wonder whether there remains in his outlook any realm that is kept hidden and is not susceptible to illumination in the same way that he clarifies other “inner” matters discussed in the work. It seems that the answer is yes. In a work that exposes the inner dimension of human existence and of one’s relationship with the divine, there remains one sphere that cannot be brought to light, a sphere whose hiddenness cannot be dismantled. It is certainly possible to indicate its existence and awaken awareness to it, as Baḥya indeed does by foregrounding the “World to Come” as a vital, even crucial, category in his work. But from this side of Being, that is, so long as man lives in the world, the World to Come is a realm that “no eye has seen.” It is a bāṭin that remains bāṭin.

FIVE Bāṭin a nd Trad ition

Thus far, we have considered how Baḥya sought to rearrange Jewish religious life and halakhic discourse based on a fundamental distinction between the “duties of the members” ( farāʾiḍ al-­jawāriḥ) and the “duties of the heart” ( farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb). By using this distinction, and by employing a series of analogous subdistinctions, Baḥya attempted to effectuate an internalization of Jewish discourse on the commandments and shift its focus from the religious community to the individual. In this chapter, I will argue that Baḥya sought to generate such a revaluation of principles not only by shaping an ideational framework and a new set of distinctions that he aimed to integrate into Jewish life, but also by reconsidering the state of the Jewish tradition, its modes of transmission, its past, and its current predicament.1 As I will explicate throughout this concluding chapter, in order to realize this transformation, Baḥya used one of the fundamental distinctions he draws in the Duties of the Hearts, namely, between ẓāhir and bāṭin. As we have noted, he uses this distinction chiefly in the context of the relation between the manifest sphere of one’s actions and the activity that takes place only in one’s mental space.2 However, I argue, Baḥya applies it also to the realm of “tradition,” what it discloses and does not disclose, what it communicates and what it leaves untold, what it remembers and what it neglects. How did Baḥya employ his novel religious approach within the “medium” of the Jewish tradition, and apply it not only to his present time but also backward, depicting it as integral to Judaism’s own “inner history”?3 The essence 125

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of Baḥya’s argument is the claim that apart from a declaration of their centrality, the “duties of the heart,” which he also calls “inner knowledge” (ʿilm al-­bāṭin),4 were neither enumerated nor sufficiently clarified in the canonical sources of Judaism. In his words: The Scriptures are concise in their explanation of this matter [the inner knowledge]. Only hints and indications are used . . . for the Scriptures rely on the intellect of the wise to be inspired to search and inquire about the matter as much as possible, until it is grasped and understood.5

This argument, which resurfaces repeatedly starting with the work’s introduction, has received scant attention in scholarship, and has yet to be to the focus of discussion.6 Additionally, claims expanding on this argument that appear in other sections of the work have thus far not been identified as such, let alone discussed. Baḥya’s claim is intended to integrate the doctrine—­indeed the very category—­of the “duties of the heart” into a tradition that had not previously recognized it as a constitutive category. According to Baḥya, the canonical sources did not elaborate on the “duties of the heart” for several reasons: the first is an epistemological principle that is fundamental to the structure of the “duties of the heart”; the second concerns the sociology of the knowledge of these “duties”; and the third concerns a hermeneutical issue that stems from the very framework of distinctions that Baḥya develops in his book. The need to downplay the discussion of the “duties of the heart” is the reason, according to Baḥya, that up until his day they had not received the systematic study they deserve. Writing his book, he contends, changed this reality. Given this claim, could it be that Baḥya himself acted improperly in shedding too much light on that which was not meant to be fully disclosed? In the second part of the chapter, I discuss how Baḥya contends with this problem through a set of arguments that clarify the new balance that he seeks to establish in his book between partial disclosure and partial concealment.

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“Neglected, Not Contained in Any Book”: The Status of the Duties of the Heart in the Jewish Tradition In the introduction to his work, Baḥya writes: As the religious commandments are divided in two—­they have an exterior (ẓāhir) part and an interior (bāṭin) part—­I studied the books of our predecessors who composed many books on the religious commandments after the time of the Talmudic sages, so that I might learn from them the inner knowledge (ʿilm al-­bāṭin). . . . Having studied these books, I could not find among them even one dealing exclusively with the inner knowledge. When I found that this knowledge, the knowledge of the duties of the heart (ʿilm farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb), was neglected, not contained in any book comprising its origins, forsaken, with none of its chapters collected in one work, I was deeply astonished.7

According to Baḥya, until his day, including in the post-­Talmudic writings, there has never been a systematic or comprehensive study of the “science” or “wisdom” of the inner or internal knowledge (ʿilm al-­bāṭin). Moreover, the science (or wisdom, or knowledge) of the duties of the heart—­which is the most fundamental aspect of religious life as portrayed by Baḥya, the key to a proper relationship with the divine, and the portal to the World to Come—­had been “neglected,” with no one attending to it seriously.8 In a series of questions, in a mode of circulus in probando—­that is, presupposing the existence of a distinct realm of the duties of the heart—­Baḥya inquires whether these duties are superior in terms of religious validity to the rest of the commandments, as he assumes, or inferior to them, as may be assumed by the lack of their systematic treatment until his time. After attempting to resolve this question by examining “the reasoned (maʿqūl), the written (al-­ maqtūb), and the transmitted (al-­manqūl),”9 that is, by rational argumentation, by the written Torah, and by the Oral Torah, Baḥya concludes: “I found them to be the basis of all duties. Were they not, all the duties of the members would be of no avail.”10 According to Baḥya, therefore, the duties of the heart are not only superior to the duties of the members from a religious perspective, but, as was shown in the previous chapters, also condition the very realization of the duties of the members, or at least determine their validity.11

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However, what does Baḥya mean when he claims that a study of the written and the Oral Torah will expose the duties of the heart, which were neglected in post-­Talmudic Judaism, that is, by the Geonim as well as his own Andalusi cultural milieu? Here lies the beginning of a discursive strategy that Baḥya will use throughout the book, namely retrojecting his religious approach to the canonical sources of (Rabbanite) Judaism in order to instill the duties of the heart as part of the traditional medium. For our purposes, it will suffice to indicate the two central dimensions of Baḥya’s argument. Baḥya claims, on the one hand, that a study of the canonical sources will reveal that the duties of the heart already appear in them, but on the other hand, that they appear in such a manner that they can easily be neglected or forgotten and thus vanish without leaving their proper mark on the Jewish tradition, as indeed occurred, he argues, in his time. According to Baḥya, the reason for this is that the realm of the duties of the heart—­and the science involved in their clarification—­is not unpacked in the canonical sources but rather only attested to by way of indicating its existence and the obligation to follow it. Baḥya sets out to prove this point already in his introduction, by presenting a set of verses from the Torah, specifically from Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. This set of sources ground the very existence of the duties of the heart in Scripture’s most fundamental layer, though Baḥya asserts that this layer does not exhaust the biblical references, for the rest of the books of the Prophets “abound in this.”12 Moreover, Baḥya argues that the study of Talmudic literature, too, will attest that in the times of the early sages, the duties of the heart were not forgotten and still formed a constituent part of their religiosity, which left a mark on their way of life as it is recounted in their literature.13 We can therefore detect a tension between, on the one hand, an element that according to Baḥya is fundamental to Jewish life and that is present in its canonical sources, and on the other, its very mode of presentation in these sources that allowed this element to be forgotten and marginalized from the core of religious life in his time, an issue that began, as he argues, already in Geonic times.14 This tension stems from the fact that while the existence of the duties of the heart was indeed indicated, the details of the duties themselves were not explicated and their consequences were not spelled out in the corpora of traditional literature. Baḥya explores the reason—­or, as will be clarified below, reasons—­for

Bāṭin and Tradition ­— 129

this allusive treatment throughout his book, after initially mentioning them in the introduction. In these recurring discussions, Baḥya reiterates the principle that the lack of analysis of the duties of the heart in traditional sources is due not to their inferiority relative to other commandments but in fact to their lofty status and preeminence. The first reason for the sources’ lack of explanation of the duties of the heart is related to an epistemological principle that is integral to Baḥya’s work. According to this principle, the very essence of the duties of the heart is that they require the “arousal to attention by the intellect” (tanbīh al-­ʿaqlī),15 that is to say, the internal comprehension of these duties. Therefore, any external transmission fundamentally fails to capture the duties of the heart, and can serve only to urge, by way of intimation, an understanding that must be reached by the force of one’s own reason.16 Baḥya notes this principle in his discussion of whether and how Scripture refers to the duties of the heart, or whether they are too obvious to mention. As part of this discussion, Baḥya considers the example of the duty to “unify” (tawḥīd) God.17 In order to fulfill this obligation one must know how to truly unify the divine, and cannot be satisfied with solely reciting the verse that attests to God’s unity. What else, then, did Scripture provide besides the verse that attests to God’s unity? Alongside this explicit but insufficient verse, the Torah also declared an ethos, which Baḥya calls an “induction” (Ar. root ḥ-­ṯ-­ṯ), that calls for clarifying in a reasoned manner the heart’s duty to unify God.18 This ethos is proclaimed, according to Baḥya, in a verse from Deuteronomy (4:39): “Know therefore this day and keep in your heart that God [alone] is God.” With this example, Baḥya sought to present a general principle: although Scripture refers to the duties of the heart, it does not elaborate on them because their mode of conduct as duties of the heart cannot be realized merely by adhering to Scripture. In the words of Baḥya: The same is true for the rest of the duties of the heart ( farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb). . . . The believer’s faith will not be pure unless he studies and executes them. This is the inner knowledge (ʿilm al-­bāṭin), the light of the hearts and souls. This is meant by the friend (walī) when he says: “Indeed You desire truth about that which is hidden; teach me wisdom about secret things” (Ps 51:8).19

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Two points deserve to be emphasized in the general principle that Baḥya formulates. The first, discussed previously in this study, is that the duties of the heart are not exhausted by intellection and are not a theoretical field of knowledge. Their realization necessitates an act that follows comprehension, even if this act does not transcend one’s interiority.20 Second, and more importantly, is Baḥya’s claim that the comprehension of the duties of the heart requires an intellectual effort that exceeds passive reception. All that Scripture can offer, therefore, is a hint, an indication. The second reason Baḥya presents for Scripture’s silence on the details of the duties of the heart is political in nature, and he addresses it in a discussion on the question of divine retribution. As shown in the previous chapter, in a passage from the Gate of Reliance upon God Alone, Baḥya distinguishes between two types of divine reward for dutiful deeds.21 He asserts that the performance of the duties of the members is to be rewarded already during one’s lifetime, but that only the fulfillment of the duties of the heart may yield the more precious reward, that of the World to Come. Baḥya explains this based on the principle that manifest actions are fittingly requited with a reward that is apparent in this world, while inner (bāṭin) or hidden (khafī) deeds are requited with a hidden reward.22 To be able to reap this latter reward, one must have both perseverance and endurance, for it is only at the end of one’s lifetime that he will reach the World to Come. However, Baḥya claims, these character traits are rare. They were not to be found among the public at large ( jumhūr) at the time of revelation; neither are they prevalent in his own day.23 Given this fundamental moral weakness, there was no point in conveying to the public the duties whose reward is mostly deferred to the World to Come and which are characterized by their transcendence of the immediate. The general mental constitution of the jumhūr necessitated tilting most of the discussion toward commandments that yield a reward in this world and downplaying the discussion of duties rewarded in the World to Come, for “the multitude of the nation ( jumhūr al-­ʾāmma) has only the apparent deeds, not the hidden ones,” and therefore “Scripture treats only briefly the matter of reward in the World to Come,” including the duties that lead to it.24 The third reason for the lacuna in information on the “duties of the heart” in the traditional sources is more profound, and relates to the very framework

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of distinctions that is operative in Baḥya’s work, primarily the overarching distinction between the manifest (ẓāhir) and the inner (bāṭin) and the predilection for the latter. In Baḥya’s outlook, because the inner dimension is superior to the manifest, it is unfeasible that the Torah, kitāb Allāh, should be constituted of only the manifest.25 The Torah must include an inner dimension that requires transcending what is clearly manifest in the surface of the text. In other words, Baḥya’s basic episteme, which gives precedence to the inner, immediately renders problematic any contentment with or adherence to the manifest or external dimension only. Inner knowledge, ʿilm al-­bāṭin, is therefore also an interpretation of Scripture that exposes a realm of religious activity that is not apparent nor sufficiently clear in Scripture’s explicit statements.26 In this sense, the reward of the World to Come is not only a hidden reward (i.e., not apparent in this world) for an act done inwardly (i.e., in one’s mental space, invisible to the eyes of a spectator), but is also a reward for an act that is hidden (in the sense of being insufficiently spelled out) beneath the surface of Scripture. That the duties of the heart ought to be inferred from Scripture is hinted at already in Baḥya’s introduction, where he insists that no systematic interpretation had existed before his own. Following his claim, quoted above, that there are both inner and external commandments, Baḥya adds: As the religious commandments are divided in two—­they have an exterior (ẓāhir) part and an interior (bāṭin) part—­I studied the books of our predecessors who composed many books on the religious commandments after the time of the Talmudic sages. . . . I found that all their explanations and commentaries fall under one of the three following headings: (1) Interpreting the verses in the book of God and the works of the prophets . . . in one of these two modes: interpreting the words and their meaning [. . . or] interpreting grammatically the phrases, their metaphors, their declensions and conjugations and corrections. . . . (2) Summarizing the principal commandments . . . (3) Instilling the matters of religion in our hearts by way of rational demonstration and refutation of those who disagreed with us.27

This paragraph can be approached in two modes, which differ in the degree of contention they contain. The first way of reading it is as a schematic survey of the extant post-­Talmudic literature written in Jewish (Rabbanite)

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circles, possibly with reference to the prominence of the writings. This type of survey does not necessarily indicate any disputation with the mentioned literature, but can be interpreted as expressing a milder stance that only alludes to a lacuna: despite everything that the tradition has produced thus far, no book like The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts has been written. The second way this paragraph can be read is that each of the three enumerated categories harbors a major flaw and a misdirected religious path. While I cannot elaborate here on the three categories, for present purposes it will suffice to note how the second interpretation applies to the first category, which addresses the exegetical literature that focuses on lexical or grammatical aspects of Scripture.28 By this second and more critical reading, the exegetical literature since the times of the Geonim has been characterized by hypersensitivity to a register that is secondary in its importance, without noticing that the very exegetical act, when thus carried out, hides more than it reveals. It may yield some accomplishments in its own limited exegetical field, but it occludes a hermeneutical horizon that is vital to proper religious life, namely, inner knowledge. The idea of a layered hermeneutical approach is explicitly articulated in the Gate of the Obligation of Obedience, in Baḥya’s account of the ten ranks of the “knowledge of the Torah” (ʿilm al-­kitāb). This list is multivalent and contains several different threads, including the relation between the written Torah and the Oral Torah and the importance of learning from the reliable Rabbanite tradition.29 One of the axes of this list is the analysis of the different modes by which the verses gather their meaning. The lowest ranked mode, which Baḥya likens metaphorically to the Qurʾanic image of a “donkey carrying books,” is reciting the text without relating any meaning to it at all.30 The succeeding ranks include a progression in the degree of acquaintance with the text, beginning with a mastery of its grammatical forms, which is followed by an understanding of its palpable senses, including some degree of comprehension of the metaphorical language employed in it. This art of understanding forms the fifth rank and is termed “the science of the matters of Torah” (ʿilm maʿānī kitāb Allāh).31 Only in the ninth rank—­the highest rank from the perspective of hermeneutic excellence, which differs from the tenth rank only in the sources on which the exegesis relies—­does the exegete reach the level of proper understanding of the duties of the heart. This rank is achieved by those who

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have “made the effort to study the duties of the heart and of the members,” including that which distinguishes between these two categories and that which impairs each of them. The people of this rank are presented also as those who have “comprehended the manifest and inner meanings of the Torah.”32 Notably, Baḥya draws an analogy here between knowing the duties of the heart and comprehending the inner sense of the Torah. He typifies as inner (bāṭin) not only those acts done in a person’s interiority, but also the knowledge that exists in Scripture’s hidden layer from a hermeneutical perspective. This idea is reiterated in the Gate of Self-­Accounting, in Baḥya’s presentation of a passage of initiation that one must undergo in the course of one’s studies as a reader of Scripture and as a subject of tradition. The reader of Scripture must not be satisfied with what he gathers from the knowledge of the Torah and the books of the Prophets in the first stages of his learning. Moreover, it is better for him to forget the contents of his former stage of understanding, and as he develops his intellectual capacity (ʿaql) and faculty of discernment (tamyīz), to address Scripture anew, “as if he had never read a letter of it.” Only thus, claims Baḥya, may one know the verses according to different modalities, including the distinctions between verses whose sense is clearly established (muḥkam) and those that are ambiguous (mutashābih); those that can be understood by way of analogy and those that cannot be subject to the use of analogy; and most important to the issue at hand: those whose sense is manifest (ẓāhir) and those that have an inner (bāṭin) sense.33 We can see, therefore, that Baḥya’s central distinction between the inner (bāṭin) and the manifest (ẓāhir) has a significant hermeneutical dimension in his system. Two factors work in tandem here: (a) the elevation of the inner above the manifest as an organizing principle in Baḥya’s discourse; and (b) the assumption of the ultimate value of Scripture. Their combination leads Baḥya to argue that Scripture contains an inner dimension and a manifest one, and that its manifest dimension—­that is, the surface of the text and the plain sense that can be gathered at this level—­is fundamentally inferior to the inner. The exegete must abide by this hermeneutical principle, avoid being content with understanding only what can be gleaned from the manifest dimension of the book, and seek to uncover the inner knowledge that is kept hidden in it. Various exegetical trends in medieval Judaism until Baḥya’s day sought to

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interpret Scripture beyond its plain sense, a stance which emerged from various exegetical guiding principles. Such exegetes noted overt contradictions between different verses; an incongruity between knowledge validated by reason and various explicit scriptural statements; a mismatch between Scripture and other canonized texts of tradition; and other related problems.34 Common to all of their solutions to these difficulties is the assumption that an interpretation that exceeds the plain sense should be limited to specific locations in Scripture and is not a principle to be applied to the text as a whole. By contrast, Baḥya employs an overarching distinction that the inner is superior to the manifest, which leads to a comprehensive hermeneutic position—­which he clearly pronounces if not fully realizes as a commentarial enterprise—­ according to which the inner knowledge of Scripture is to be sought not only in cases of a local exegetical challenge but in principle, that is, as a general rule that applies to Scripture as a whole. The Duties of the Heart between Ẓāhir and Bāṭin Although Baḥya does not argue—­and in all likelihood did not suppose—­that a systematic study of the duties of the heart can completely exhaust the inner meaning of Scripture, some of his statements analyzed above clearly indicate that, for him, comprehending the duties of the heart forms at the very least a partial realization of the inner knowledge. But did Baḥya himself not act improperly by exposing the inner knowledge in the very act of writing his book, that is, by disclosing and thereby diminishing the hidden and noble meaning of Scripture? Put differently, should inner knowledge not be kept somewhat concealed? Though Baḥya does not raise this question explicitly with regard to his own work or dedicate a specific discussion to it, it is improbable that he was unaware of it, if only because of the centrality of his distinction between the inner and the manifest, and his strong condemnation, in other respects, of turning the inner into manifest.35 We can assume—­even if we cannot definitively verify—­that Baḥya does acknowledge this problem, or in a more cautious formulation: that the problem leaves its traces in his discourse even if it is not defined or diagnosed as such. This assumption is strengthened when we identify a line of argumentation that runs through his book and constitutes a kind of resolution of this problem.

Bāṭin and Tradition ­— 135

The first stage of this argument lies in Baḥya’s claim, in the introduction to his work, that the spiritual crisis of his time demands a change of attitude from that of the “ancient righteous fathers,” who transmitted the duties of the heart in a general manner or through a description of their own annals and modes of conduct. He notes that the crisis had already begun in the days of the sages who “followed the people of the Talmud (ahl al-­Talmud).”36 Admittedly, even in previous generations, knowledge of the duties of the heart was reserved for a select few and did not concern the general public; however, Baḥya laments that the “people of our own times . . . neglect even the knowledge and practice of the duties of the members, not to mention the duties of the heart,”37 or in another formulation, “our contemporaries overlook them [the duties of the heart] in both theory and practice.”38 This dire situation is reflected, according to Baḥya, in a twofold crisis: of a communal scope, in the condition of religious life and the worship of the divine; and of a personal nature, for even if Baḥya were to succeed in comprehending the duties of the heart to a certain degree, the fact that this knowledge is not public and is not disseminated widely enough would lead to an erosion of his knowledge over time and might even lead to its eventual loss. Baḥya’s crisis narrative enables him to argue that although the category of the duties of the heart (and all knowledge that partakes in it) is not an acknowledged part of the Jewish culture of his time or of the way in which its canonical sources are approached, the category is not foreign to Judaism. Instead, the foreignness of the category is a result of an age of negligence and forgetting. Moreover, this narrative allows Baḥya to explain why, although no book has been written that posits the duties of the heart at the core of Jewish religious life, such a book is timely and urgent. Where Baḥya may have been suspected of introducing the concept of the duties of the heart as an external influence that seeks to reshape the tradition in its own image, he argues for the utter necessity of writing the book and redeeming a dimension of religious life that had been integral to Judaism from its formative stages. Furthermore, and indirectly, the crisis also explains Baḥya’s decision to expose the inner knowledge—­which should in principle be kept hidden, at least to some degree—­to the eyes of every future reader. Another argument related to this problem emerges from Baḥya’s framing of the duties of the members as limited in number, in contrast with the duties

Chapter Five ­— 136

of the heart that are infinitely extended, or in another formulation that is in one respect more cautious and in another respect more daring, a framing that sees the commandments that are grounded in the dictates of human reason and inferred as part of the inner knowledge as “almost innumerable.”39 From the perspective of our present concern, it is important to note that the infinity of the duties of the heart—­even if all of them are somehow derived from the ten “roots” or “principles” (uṣūl) enumerated in the ten gates of Baḥya’s work—­means that The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts is an act of only partial disclosure, that still leaves much to be discovered and independently pursued by the perceptive reader. Unlike the tree whose roots are hidden from sight but whose branches are visible, Baḥya presents The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts as an inverted tree: its roots are exposed but the fullness of the branches cannot be seen. Baḥya implies this much in his discussion of how the duties of the heart unfold from the principles enumerated in his book, and of the divine assistance that is necessary in order to perceive the duties that branch out from these principles. In Baḥya’s words: You must know that all the duties of the heart . . . are included in these ten roots (uṣūl) included in this book, both the positive and the negative ones. . . . Therefore, adhere to them in your heart, and repeat them constantly in your mind, and then their branches ( furūʿ) will be made manifest to you, with the help of God as he perceives from your intention and desire [to fulfill them] and inclination towards them. As it is said by the friend (walī): “Whoever fears God, he shall be shown what path to choose; His soul shall abide in prosperity, and his seed shall inherit the land” (Ps 25:12–­14). The secret (Heb. sod) of God is for those who fear Him, to them He makes known His covenant.40

The sequence of verses with which Baḥya ends his discussion in this paragraph attests to a process of future disclosure of knowledge that is not imparted to every reader simply by the act of reading the book. Moreover, in quoting the three verses Baḥya ties together fear of God and the life of the soul devoted to God, and relates to both as a secret that will be revealed by divine assistance to those who adhere to God.41 It is also possible that Baḥya integrates in this quotation an allusion to the reward of the World to Come that awaits those

Bāṭin and Tradition ­— 137

who fear God, expressed in the phrase “his seed shall inherit the land,” which is associated with a statement in Mishnah Sanhedrin 10:1: “All of Israel have a share in the World to Come, as it is said: ‘And your people, all of them righteous, shall inherit the land for all time’ (Isa 60:21).”42 A third argument for regarding The Guide to the Duties of the Hearts as a book that only partly discloses knowledge and thus retains at least some degree of concealment, concludes the third chapter of the Gate of Self-­Accounting. According to Baḥya, the Torah is not the only text that has both inner and manifest dimensions. His own book as well—­or at least this particular unit in the Gate of Self-­Accounting, which Baḥya sees as a concise version of the whole book 43—­is written in the same manner, and features secrets that are not fully disclosed but only hinted at. Therefore you should think of them [the modes of self-­accounting] constantly and bring them to mind as long as you live. Do not be content with my concise discourse on them and with my short indications here, for each of these matters is laden with far more interpretations and clarifications than I have mentioned to you. I have only urged them on your attention (tanbīhā), and reminded those who are concerned in a few words.  .  .  . May you keep it in mind, guarding it in your memory and turning your thoughts to it frequently, for when you rehearse it thus you will be exposed to all sorts of hidden secrets and spiritual lessons. Do not assume that if you contemplate and study the manifest sense (ẓāhir) of the words you know their inner (bāṭin) meanings as well. These can be reached only after much thought, constant repetition, and continuous and diligent effort expended over a long period of time.44

First, these words further clarify Baḥya’s specific rendering of the term tanbīh, the “calling to attention,” which he frequently employs in the book and which also featured in the subtitle of the work as it appeared in MS Paris BN MS héb. 756 (wa-­l-­tanbīh ʿalī lawāzim al-­ḍamāʾir, Eng.: “and the calling to attention to the requirements of the interiorities”).45 Notably, the term tanbīh signifies on the one hand an address and an utterance that involve some disclosure, but on the other hand, this address is nothing but an intimation that is not exhaustive and calls for further exploration. Moreover, in this paragraph Baḥya creates

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a bold doubling of the structure of Scripture. He does indeed expound on biblical verses and reveal some of their secrets by shedding light on them from the perspective of inner knowledge or the duties of the heart, yet by doing so he does not ultimately dissolve the mystery but only transports it to his own book. Now it is his book that requires the careful study that befits the study of Scripture, his book that is designed to become subject to memorization, a treasure of subtle secrets that will go unnoticed by inattentive readers and will only be disclosed to those who delve deep into its inner dimension.

Notes

Introduction 1. On Saragossa as Baḥya’s native homeland see Ramos Gil, “La Patria.” To Ramos-­ Gil’s finding, which is based on MS Biblioteca Nacional de España 5455, we can now add a Geniza fragment in Judeo-­A rabic of the opening page of the work, T-­S K6.175, in which it is written: “Our Rabbi Baḥya the judge [dayan] . . . from the city of Saraqusṭa in al-­A ndalus,” which has yet to be discussed in scholarship as far as I know. This document can be assessed, with some caution, as written in Fustat in the thirteenth century. I am grateful to Judith Olszowy-­Schlanger and Ben Outhwaite for their assistance in dating and locating the origins of this fragment. On dating the life and work of Baḥya, see Kokowzow, “The Date of the Life of Baḥya”; Kokowzow’s position has generally been accepted. See Baneth, “Common Teleological Source,” 24; Goldziher, “Review of A. S. Yahuda”; Ramos Gil, “Algunos aspectos,” 131; Vajda, La Théologie ascétique, 8, stating that Baḥya’s work should most probably not be dated before 1080; but see also a challenge to Kokowzow’s dating in Lobel, Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 246–­47n4. 2. On the proper pronunciation of Baḥya’s name see Steinschneider, Hebrew Translations, §214, p. 74. 3. It may be that the Hebrew title of the work, Torat ḥovot ha-­levavot, an abridged translation of the Arabic title of the work, was coined by its translator, Judah ibn Tibbon. In his introduction to the translation, Ibn Tibbon refers to the title in the following words: “For one of the sages of Sefarad, our Rabbi Baḥya ibn Paqūda of blessed memory, has a work of Torat ḥovot ha-­levavot,” Duties of the Hearts (Ibn Tibbon), 57. I did not find any indication that Baḥya translated either the work’s title or any other occurrence of the Arabic compound farāʼiḍ al-­qulūb with the Hebrew compound ḥovot ha-­levavot. Moreover, in the remaining fragment of Joseph Qimḥi’s translation (Gate

139

Notes to the Introduction ­— 140 of Repentance, chapter 9) it is evident that farāʼiḍ al-­qulūb is translated as ḥovot ha-­lev, and is contrasted with ḥovot ha-­guf. Qimḥi probably uses here the talmudic term ḥovat ha-­guf (e.g., bYevamot 6b; bQiddushin 37), even though the term has different sense in its talmudic usage; see also Saʿadya Gaon’s rhymed list of the 613 commandments: “Thou shall fear your Lord,” in Saʿadya Gaon, Kitāb jāmiʿ al-­ṣalawāt wal-­tasābīḥ, 169 l. 130, and compare with miṣvot ha-­guf, ibid., 160 l. 42. Qimḥi’s fragment, kept in MS Leipzig Uni. B.H. duod. 39 (the compound ḥovot ha-­lev in folio 3a), was reprinted in the introduction to Adolf Jellinek’s introduction to his edition of Duties of the Hearts; see specifically ibid., 24 (Jellinek). For the original Judeo-­A rabic see al-­Hidāya, 322. The compound Kitāb al-­hidāya also served as the title of a work by Samuel b. Ḥofni that deals with Muʿtazilite-­style taklīf, centring on the relationship between God as a law-­giver and humanity as those who are required to obey to the law; on this work see Sklare, Samuel ben Ḥofni, 25, 63; Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 61; for the remaining fragments of the work brought by Sklare see Samuel b. Ḥofni, Kitāb al-­hidāya; on the difficulty distinguishing in medieval booklists between Samuel b. Ḥofni’s Kitāb al-­ hidāya and Baḥya’s work see Sklare, ibid., 26n111. 4. On the integration of commentaries in print editions of the Duties of the Hearts see Gries, “Tradition and Change,” 25–­26. 5. On the many fragments of the Duties of the Hearts in the different Geniza collections, see Ben-­Shammai, “Medieval History and Religious Thought,” 145; Stroumsa, “Between ‘Canon’ and Library,” 32. On the Duties of the Hearts in the second Firkovitch collection see Fenton, Handlist of Judeo-­Arabic Manuscripts, 150. 6. On the various Hebrew editions of the Duties of the Hearts see Haberman, “Towards the Investigation”; on translations of the work see Steinschneider, Hebrew Translations, §214, pp. 81–­82, and see also the editor’s notes, ibid. 7. See Kaufmann, Die Theologie, 4n3l; see below chapter 1, pp. 40–43. 8. See Safran, “Bahya ibn Paquda’s Attitude”; however, see the important critique in Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 185n22, 199n95. Although it is highly probable that Baḥya’s condemnation of sensual pleasures indeed derives from earlier sources, an issue that casts some doubt on Safran’s argument regarding Baḥya’s critique of the courtier class of his times, it does not provide sufficient evidence to reject it. 9. On the courtier culture of al-­A ndalus in Baḥya’s times see Robinson, In Praise of Song; on the role of Jews in courtly life see García-­A renal, “Jews of al-­A ndalus”; Scheindlin, “Merchants and Intellectuals”; Wasserstein, “Muslims and the Golden Age”; idem, “Jewish Elites.” 10. See Vajda, La Théologie ascétique, 140–­45, esp. 141–­42; Ramos Gil, “Algunos aspectos,” 148–­50, 174–­80; Lobel, Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 21, 31–­32; Dan, “Spiritual Ascent and Mysticism,” 296–­310, esp. 303, 313; Afterman, Devequt, 62–­72.

Notes to the Introduction ­— 141 11. On this distinction in relation to the study of Islam, see Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 3–­4, 231–­34. 12. See Vajda, La Théologie ascétique. On the necessity of updating this work see Fenton, Treatise of the Pool, 54n4; Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 187n33; and another indication in Vajda, Review of van Ess, 209. 13. In general, although a statement by Baḥya in the Gate of True Love seems to attest to the principle of gradual progress, the author does not indicate such a principle in the opening passages of any of the other gates. Moreover, Baḥya’s presentation of the ten gates in the general introduction to his work does not refer to gradual order even when it does propose other types of links between the different gates (see Duties of the Hearts, 103–­5; al-­Hidāya, 36–­38). 14. See such explicit argument in Schweid, “Path of Repentance,” 25 (“The content of all previous gates is present once again in each gate, and in a more profound and thorough manner. This is indeed the essence of progressing to the goal.”) 15. In the opening passage of the Gate of True Love, Baḥya asserts: “For the love of God is the highest stage and the supreme rank for those who obey God.” Duties of the Hearts, 314; al-­Hidāya, 409. 16. Clearly, Baḥya considered the Gate of Self-­Accounting, and especially its third chapter, as a concise version of the whole work. In any case, the specific literary traits of this chapter are unique when compared with any of the work’s other chapters. It is not only exceptionally long, but it is also distinctive in the way its subject unfolds in thirty discrete subsections, compared with other chapters that mostly do not exceed ten subsections, a number that the author was fond of. Moreover, Baḥya himself argues that in the thirty modes of self-­accounting “human obligations towards God will be clarified in their entirety” (Duties of the Hearts, 356, trans. altered; al-­Hidāya, 333, my italicization). On the term lawāzim as paralleling farāʼiḍ, see Baḥya’s phrasing in his introduction, “roots of the duties of the hearts and the obligations of the interior ( farāʼiḍ al-­qulūb wa-­lawāzim al-­ḍamāʾir),” Duties of the Hearts, 100, trans. altered; al-­Hidāya, 32. For an evident case of the use of lawāzim in the sense of commandments, see “the duties of circumcision” (lawāzim al-­mila), Duties of the Hearts, 206; al-­Hidāya, 166. 17. See Fenton, Treatise of the Pool, 54n4; Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 187n33; and an indication toward this in Vajda, Review of van Ess, 209. 18. See Vajda, La Théologie ascétique, 118–­23; Lazaroff, “Baḥyā’s Asceticism”; Kreisel, “Asceticism in the Thought”; Ilan, “al-­Iʿtidāl Al-­Sharīʿi”; Krinis, Stranger in This World; I am grateful to Ehud Krinis for sending me a preliminary copy of the outline of his manuscript, as well as an early version of one of its chapters. 19. Few exceptions to this can be found in Gries’s discussion of the modes of can-

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 142 onizing the Duties of the Hearts in the age of print, and see note 4 above; Mirsky, From Duties of the Heart; pace Tobi, Review of Mirsky; Ilan, “Beginning of Wisdom”; Ta-­ Shma, “A Summary.” Chapter 1 1. The Arabic term nawāfil is common in both uṣūl al-­fiqh and uṣūl al-­dīn literatures In Islam; see discussion below. Mansoor translates the term: “to be considered supererogatory”; Duties of the Hearts, 89; al-­Hidāya, 18; In his Hebrew translation, Abrahamov translates: “It is like acting lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din”; Abrahamov’s translation is consistent with Baḥya’s own remark with regard to nawāfil al-­sharāʾiʿ in the Gate of Purification of the Acts, see Duties of the Hearts, 287; al-­Hidāya, 259. It is also possible that Abrahamov follows here Maimonides’s analysis of acting lifnim mi-­ shurat ha-­din, see Mishneh Torah, Laws of the Foundations of the Torah, 5:11; see also Twersky, Introduction to the Code, 427–­29, and 429n181, cf. ibid., 444; see also Twersky addendum in the Hebrew translation of his introduction (Twersky, Introduction to the Code, 402–­3). 2. Thus far no study has been dedicated to: (a) the use of farāʾiḍ in the sense of “commandments” or “duties” in the Middle Ages, neither in the Jewish nor in the Muslim contexts; (b) the distinction, inasmuch as it exists, between sharāʾiʿ and farāʾiḍ, (c) in the Jewish context, the distinction between either of these terms and the term al-­miṣvot. Baḥya uses farāʾiḍ far more frequently than he does sharāʾiʿ; see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 184n19a. 3. Duties of the Hearts, 88–­89, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 18–­19. 4. Duties of the Hearts, 89; al-­Hidāya, 19. 5. Ibid. 6. On bāṭin and ẓāhir see also p. 5 above. 7. Dan, On Sanctity, 405 (my translation). 8. Tishby and Dan, Hebrew Ethical Literature, 109 (my translation). 9. Ibid., xxiii. 10. See Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 179–­208. 11. Ibid., 181 (my translation and italics). 12. See Koch, Human Self-­Perfection. 13. On hypernomianism see Wolfson, Venturing Beyond, 232–­40; on hypernomianism and anomianism in Kabbalah see Idel, “Performance, Intensification, and Experience,” 116–­18. On the adoption of this term by Koch, see Human Self-­Perfection, 40–­41. Koch’s argument, as far as I understand, is not identical to that of Wolfson. He argues that “in the context of self-­perfection one can find many authors who consider

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 143 the nomos the minimum of conduct and support the performance of hypernomian behavioral patterns.” Ibid, 40. In my view, which I develop in this and the next chapter, Baḥya challenges the very definition of nomos, aiming to transform what is meant by it. 14. Ibid, 28. 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid. 17. Generally speaking, Baḥya’s attitude toward the figures and traditions of the Geonim of Babylonia has yet to be significantly studied. Safran has argued that “Bahya’s attitude to the Geonim is one of unqualified veneration,” and that it is so as part of an ideology involving a rejection of the courtier class and form of life that was typical of some of the Jews of al-­A ndalus; see Safran, “Bahya ibn Paquda’s Attitude,” 179. In my opinion, Safran’s position regarding Baḥya’s attitude to the Geonim is not consistent with other passages in the Duties of the Hearts. While no explicit statements opposing the tradition of the Geonim can be found in the work (and in any case such statements are not representative of his style), and while Baḥya was indeed highly influenced by Saʿadya, still, implicit rejection and marginalization of geonic positions is manifest in the Duties. In any case, a study of Baḥya’s attitude toward the Geonim of Babylonia requires a careful examination of the construction, as well as deconstruction, of the authority of the Geonim in al-­A ndalus. For a methodical discussion on the construction of epistemic authority see Opsomer and Ulacco, “Epistemic Authority in Textual Traditions,” 21–­46, esp. 21–­37; see also Aerts, “Historical Approaches to Epistemic Authority,” 343–­63, esp. 344–­57. On the influence of Saʿadya on Baḥya see programmatic statements in Kaufmann, Die Theologie, 7; Vajda, La Théologie ascétique, 12; Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, xiii; specific examples are too many to be noted here. With regard to Samuel ben Ḥofni, it is possible that Baḥya refers to the Gaon when he mentions, in the introduction to his work, the three books that meant to: “instill the matters included in the Law (maʿānī al-­sharīʿa) in our souls, by demonstration (istiḍlāl) and by refutation of those who disagree with us,” Duties of the Hearts, 88; al-­Hidāya, 18. Among these books Baḥya refers to “the book The Essence of Religion (uṣūl al-­dīn),” which may be a work by Samuel ben Ḥofni. On this issue see Steinschneider, Die hebraeischen Uebersetzungen, §65; idem, Polemische und Apologetische, 102–­3; Sklare, Samuel ben Ḥofni, 24n114. However, see another suggestion in Stroumsa, al-­Muqammiṣ, 27n122. The interrelations between Baḥya and Karaite literature has not been thoroughly studied yet. 18. On al-­Muḥāsibī see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt; for a current state of the field see Metzler, Den Koran verstehen, 1–­17; see also Picken, Spiritual Purification, but

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 144 see reservations in Van Ess, Review of Picken. For general statements on proximity between Baḥya’s and al-­Muḥāsibī’s ideas, see Yahuda, “Die Islamischen Quellen,” 72; Lazaroff, “Baḥya’s Asceticism,” 22; Mansoor, “Arabic Sources,” 88. For a study of the distinction between the duties of the members and the duties of the heart in al-­Muḥāsibī as a source for Baḥya see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 186–­ 201. See also references and discussions on interconnections between Baḥya and al-­ Muḥāsibī in Vajda, La Théologie ascétique, 30–­31, 89, 91–­92, 94–­95, 101–­3, 107, 109–­11; Abrahamov, “The Obligation to Speculate,” 73n15, 75; Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 121, 152–­53, 165, 172–­73, 175, 196–­200, 238–­39. Although Baḥya did adopt some of the central principles of the religious outlook fashioned in al-­Muḥāsibī’s oeuvre, most of which were yet to be addressed in scholarship, Goldreich’s apt remark on the “substantial differences between them (beyond the trivial difference that pertains to their belonging to different religions)” should still be taken into consideration (Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 189). 19. Wensinck, “Nāfila.” 20. It is likely that the use of this term among Jews precedes Saʿadya, and not only because the Gaon uses it in passing. The relevant parts (the concluding part of chapter 12 to chapter 15) in which this term might have appeared in ʿIshrūn maqāla (Twenty Chapters) by Dāwūd ibn Marwān al-­Muqammiṣ (active in the second half of the ninth century) are severely damaged and incomplete. Even though the term nawāfil does not appear in the legible remaining part, the distinction between obligatory duties and religious activity beyond one’s duties clearly exists in the work; see Stroumsa, ʿIshrūn Maqāla, 252n59, 253. It might be that the term nawāfil appears in the missing parts. I thank Sarah Stroumsa for bringing this observation to my attention. 21. Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary to Proverbs, 193–­94. See other occurrences of the term in Saʿadya’s commentary on Proverbs 21:27, ibid., 167; Proverbs 28:9, ibid., 228. See also Saʿadya on al-­nedavah in his Commentary on Job 34:19, even though it is glossed there in relation to the term tabarrʿa and not nawāfil: “For the nedavah (al-­nedavah) is giving beyond one’s duty (istiḥqāq), and the one who gives is not referred to as mutabarriʿ if he still has any debts he has to pay off, and will not be until he has paid everything off” (Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Job, 168–­69). See also Saʿadya, Doctrines and Beliefs, where he uses the verb tanaffala when arguing that adding voluntary acts does not mean subtracting from the acts to which one is obligated, as well as makes another distinction between an addition that is initiated by man and duties that were imposed by God; Saʿadya Gaon, Kitāb al-­amānāt, 135. 22. On ʿAshar masāʾil see Sklare, Samuel ben Ḥofni, 237–­51; For translation of the surviving parts of the work see ibid., 253–­97; For the Judeo-­A rabic original see Sklare, “Religious and Legal Thought,” 2:61–­113 (henceforth: ʿAshar masāʾil).

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 145 23. See Sklare, Samuel ben Ḥofni, 285; ʿAshar masāʾil, 84. 24. See Sklare, Samuel ben Ḥofni, 295, trans. modified; ʿAshar masāʾil, 92. 25. Ibid. 26. See Sklare, Samuel ben Ḥofni, 296, trans. modified; ʿAshar masāʾil, 93. 27. For another occurrence of nedarim and nedavot bearing the same meaning see Levi ben Yefet, Sefer ha-­miṣvot, v, 1349. 28. An abnormal use of direct object after the maṣdar, and see Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 316. 29. On this treatise and its attribution to Samuel ben Ḥofni see Schlossberg, “A Booklet on the Names of the Lord,” 5–­7, esp. 6 notes 8, 10; see also an edition of the Arabic original and a Hebrew translation, ibid., 7–­38. 30. For a typological set of distinctions involving the term ḥasid see Scholem, “Three Types of Jewish Piety,” 176–­90 (esp. 184: “The hasid does not, like the tsaddik, do what is demanded of him, but goes beyond it”, cf. Tishby and Dan’s definition of musar literature, above, at note 8 of this chapter); see also Halbertal’s observation, in Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 16 (“It is a sign of religious intimacy that the pious test the borders of ritual.”) Already in preceding Rabbinic sources, the term ḥasid designates, among other values connected with it, the performance of supererogatory acts; see, for instance, mBerakhot 5:1; yBerakhot 8d; bBerakhot 32b; tBava Qama 2:6; For a discussion on ḥasidut in Tannaitic literature see Safrai, “Pious and Men of Deeds,” 518–­39; idem, “Teachings of the Pious,” 501–­17; Ben-­Shalom, Hassidut and Hassidism. In medieval literature postdating Baḥya the term ḥasid was tied with the compound lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din in a variety of ways, an issue that has yet to be studied, see for instance, Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Deʿot 1:10; RaDaQ, Commentary on Psalms, 4:4. 31. Schlossberg, “A Booklet on the Names of the Lord,” 17 (my translation). 32. Ibid., 17–­18. 33. Yefet ben ʿEli, Commentary on Hosea, 249 (my translation). 34. An interesting source paralleling Yefet, which also ties between the couplet shavey peshaʿ (originally in Isaiah 59:20) and a formulation of Hosea 14:5 can be found in the Qumranic Thanksgiving Scroll: “who forgives those who repent of transgression (shavey peshaʿ ) but visits the guilt of the wicked . . . I, your servant . . . And (so) I love you voluntarily,” Hodayot, 22–­23, trans. modified. As for the relation between Karaite writings and Qumranic scrolls, I accept the position of Ben-­Shammai, “Some Methodological Notes,” 69–­84. 35. See pp. 43–44 below. Goldreich’s observation on the prevalence of the term farāʾiḍ in Karaite discourses (“Possible Arabic Sources,” 184n19a), on the basis of its frequent use in Qirqisānī, is correct also with regards to Yefet. 36. Yefet ben ʿEli, Commentary on Song of Songs, 26 (my translation); and see inac-

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 146 curate English translation in Yefet ben ʿEli, Commentary on Song of Songs (Alobaidi), 182–­83. 37. Yefet ben ʿEli, Commentary on Proverbs, 386–­87 (my translation). 38. It may suggest an excessive performance of nawāfil aimed at gaining reward, and see above at n. 66 of this chapter. 39. Ankori determined that Levi ben Yefet’s Book of Commandments was fully translated by the school of Ṭovia ben Moshe at an early stage; see Ankori, Karaites in Byzantium, 446. On Levi’s Book of Commandments see also Ben-­Shammai, “Sefer Ha-­ Mitzvoth,” 99–­103; Vajda, “La lex orandi.” For more on Levi ben Yefet see Wechsler, “Levi (Abū Saʿīd) ben Japheth,” and references ibid. 40. On another method used by Karaite translators to address this problem see Ben-­Shammai, “Sefer Ha-­Mitzvoth,” 112n37. 41. According to MS Oxford Reggio 5, 121v. On this manuscript see Neubauer, Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts, col. 175, ent. 857. Wrongly printed in the Algamil edition as al nukhal. 42. Levi ben Yefet, Book of Commandments, iii, p. 800. All translations from Levi ben Yefet are mine. 43. See in this context also ibid., iii, 763: “Even in case it begun as nedavah, if one has taken it upon oneself as obligatory, it becomes similar to the rest of the miṣvot and duties, and God will demand its realization, as it is written: ‘[When you make a vow (neder) to the Lord your God, do not put off fulfilling it,] for the Lord your God will require it of you, and you will have incurred guilt’ (Deut 23:22)”; and see also ibid., ii, 502: “nedavah becomes obligatory if taken upon oneself as an obligation.” 44. Levi ben Yefet, Book of Commandments, iii, 760–­61. 45. On both proximity and distinction between neder and nedavah in an earlier medieval source see Sheʾiltot of Aḥai Gaon, 143–­44. On the root n-­d-­b in Biblical Hebrew and in the Dead Sea Scrolls see Kister, “The Root NDB,” 111–­30, and especially his distinction between the root n-­d-­b as expressing volition or internal necessity to perform a divine instruction, and what he terms “a terminus technicus in the realm of ritual” (ibid., 112, my translation), which means bestowing unto God something one is not obligated to give, but gives voluntarily. The medieval use owes primarily to the latter sense of the term, but significantly broadens it; see also Haran, “Nedavah,” 783. 46. Levi ben Yefet, Book of Commandments, iii, 706. 47. Ibid., v, 1087. 48. Ibid., iii, 706. 49. Ibid., v, 1179.

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 147 50. In MS Oxford Reggio 5: “uttered with one’s lips” (bitaʾ sfatav). 51. Levi ben Yefet, Book of Commandments, iii, 713; corrections according to MSS Leiden Or. 4760 and Oxford Reggio 5. 52. Levi ben Yefet, Book of Commandments, ii, 501–­2; and see a parallel source, with some differences in a Geniza fragment, Mosseri II 70.18a. This Judeo-­A rabic fragment is an unattributed (to date) commentary on Daniel 6:10–­11, in which it is written: “It is improper for one to risk death for a supererogatory act (nāfila) chosen from among the supererogatory acts (nawāfil), but it is a duty to risk death for an obligatory act (wājib) from among the obligations (wājibāt). For instance, if someone who volunteered to fast for a whole day is being threatened to be killed if he does not eat, he shall eat and not be killed.” This is reminiscent of Levi ben Yefet’s approach, even though this source addresses the distinction between supererogation and obligation, and not between supererogation (nedavah) and neder, as is the case in Levi. On this Geniza fragment see also an observation by Ratzaby, “Biblical Chapters from the Genizah”: “] This fragment is] different than the Saʿadya commentary that has survived. Following Saʿadya, this commentator interprets precepts regarding prayer deriving from [verse] 11.” However, it is possible that the author is Karaite, and that his derivations of law of prayer from Daniel 6:11 owes to Yefet ben ʿEli, Commentary on Daniel, 30. 53. For a discussion on the nature of ʿinnuy see Levi ben Yefet, Book of Commandments, ii, 445–­47. However, see also ibid., v, 1182: “Every thing that one taken upon oneself is considered an ʿinnuy,” and wrongly printed in the Algamil edition. 54. Levi ben Yefet, Book of Commandments, iii, 707; wrongly copied in MS Leiden Or. 4760 and wrongly printed in the Algamil edition. 55. On this work see Yūsuf al-­Baṣīr, Das Buch der Unterscheidung, 11–­96; Sklare and Ben-­Shammai, The Works of Yusuf al-­Basir, 65–­76. This work’s impact on the Andalusi environment is seen in its echoes in the writings of the medieval Andalusi Rabbanite author Joseph ibn Ṣaddīq. See Joseph ibn Ṣaddīq, Ha-­ʿ olam ha-­qaṭan, 44, 47, 72ff., referred to as Kitāb al-­manṣūrī, and see Vajda, “La Philosophie et la théologie,” 174–­78. 56. For an edition of the original Judeo-­A rabic of the first twenty chapters of this work see Yūsuf al-­Baṣīr, Das Buch der Unterscheidung; for an edition of Ṭovia ben Moshe’s Hebrew translation of the work see Yūsuf al-­Baṣīr, Sefer maḥkimat peti. 57. This section has survived in Judeo-­A rabic in Geniza fragments; see MS London, British Library, Or. 5564B.11. It was identified as belonging to Kitāb al-­tamyīz by Gregor Schwarb in his user notes in the Friedberg Genizah Project; for the Hebrew translation of this section see Yūsuf al-­Baṣīr, Sefer maḥkimat peti, 156–­57. 58. Ebstein, “Organs of God,” 271, trans. modified. On the layered structure of

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 148 this hadith see Graham, Divine Words, 173–­74. For an analysis of this hadith and for references to other Islamic sources featuring it, see Massignon, Essai sur les origins, 66, 127; Ritter, Ocean of the Soul, 576. 59. For such an interpretation of this hadith see Ebstein, “Organs of God,” 271. 60. See Massignon, The Passion of al-­Hallāj, 1:383; it does not appear in the original French edition (Massignon, La passion), but is a late addition. 61. See Sviri, Perspectives on Early Islamic Mysticism, 44–­45. 62. Al-­Muḥāsibī, Masāʾil fi ʾl-­zuhd, 174. 63. Al-­Muḥāsibī, Masāʾil fī aʿmāl al-­qulūb, 72. 64. Ibid., 72–­73. 65. See Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 92–­95; Mahmoud, al-­Moḥâsibî, 108–­12. 66. See Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 93–­94; Mahmoud, al-­Moḥâsibî, 109. 67. See Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 93. 68. Al-­Muḥāsibī, Sharḥ al-­maʿrifa, 37–­38; and see discussion on this passage in Sviri, Perspectives on Early Islamic Mysticism, 48. This same point is raised by al-­ Muḥāsibī in his Kitāb al-­riʿāya, 47, 53. 69. On al-­Muḥāsibī’s conception of duties that are imposed on one’s interiority see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 144–­46. 70. On subjugation of the will as a major issue in early Islamic mysticism see Meier, “Transformation of Man,” 40. 71. See n. 17 of this chapter. 72. It is not possible to list all the references in this framework; suffice will be to note Kaufmann, Die Theologie, 29n3; Vajda, La Théologie ascétique, 16, 25–­26n4; 139; Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, xi, 15, 36–­38, 81, 103, 124–­25, 126–­27, 134, 144–­45, 166, 179–­93, 197–­200; and in Abrahamov see notes to his translation in Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 28n45, 68n102, 94n37, 99n49, 111n6, 118n35, 119n42, 141nn115–­16, 229n20, 254n40. Baḥya may have learned some of the Muʿtazilite argument from the thought of al-­Muḥāsibī, which was influenced by Muʿtazilite thinking in his surroundings. On the interconnections between al-­Muḥāsibī and the Muʿtazila see general observation by Van Ess, Kleine Schriften, 153–­54. On Muʿtazila in al-­A ndalus see Stroumsa, “Muʿtazila in al-­A ndalus,” and especially her remarks on the familiarity of Jews with Muʿtazilite writings, ibid., 92–­96, and a critique of some uses of the term “Muʿtazilite influence,” 83–­84. 73. On Karaite presence in al-­A ndalus in the eleventh century see Bareket, “Karaite Communities,” 251; Adang, “Karaites as Portrayed,” 187–­88; Gil, History of Palestine, 809; Ashtor, Jews of Moslem Spain, 2:139, 141, 144, 163–­64, 172; Allony, “Ibn al-­ʿAm,” 35–­52; Ben-­Shammai, “Major Trends in Karaite,” 357; idem, “Between Ananites and

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 149 Karaites,” 23–­25; Gerson Cohen, introduction, xlvi–­l; Rustow, Heresy and the Politics, 349–­55; Lasker, “Karaites in Spain,” 179–­95. For preliminary observations on Baḥya’s relationship with Karaite thinking see Michaelis, “Psalms.” 74. See n. 16 of this chapter. 75. See Duties of the Hearts, 89, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 18. 76. Ibn Tibbon translates here: “However, if you choose to take upon yourself additional supererogatory acts of the duties (mi-­tosefet ha-­reshut ba-­miṣvot),” Duties of the Hearts (Ibn Tibbon), 163; Qāfiḥ translates: “But if you find it proper to obligate yourself to supererogatory acts of the duties (bi-­nedavah ba-­miṣvot), al-­Hidāya, 259 (Hebrew col.). Both Qāfiḥ and Ibn Tibbon join this passage to the preceding one, as is expected because of the use of Arabic word wa-­ʾimā. In the preceding passage, Baḥya exhorts one to follow the path of the forefathers. Supererogation can thus be seen as involving some departure from the path of the forefathers, though one that has been approved by tradition itself. 77. See Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 251n51. I could not locate the Muslim origin of this dictum. 78. Duties of the Hearts, 287, text and trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 259. 79. Duties of the Hearts, 364; al-­Hidāya, 342. For other examples of fasts and prayer as central praxes of supererogation see also Duties of the Hearts, 43839; al-­Hidāya, 423. 80. See above at n. 63 of this chapter. 81. Duties of the Hearts, 337; al-­Hidāya, 314. 82. Duties of the Hearts, 438–­39, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 423. 83. Duties of the Hearts, 443, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 428. 84. See Duties of the Hearts (Ibn Tibbon), 272; al-­Hidāya (Heb. col.), 428; Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 329. 85. Duties of the Hearts, 443. 86. In any case, Baḥya’s poetic language in this chapter, and the unique use he makes of the compound al-­farāʾiḍ al-­maʿahūda, make this a passage problematic for the purposes of an analysis that can be further projected onto Baḥya’s overall system. It is preferable, in this case, to be even more cautious in trying to understand the implications of the passage. 87. Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 181. Another proposal Goldreich makes but not elaborate on in his study is preferable, according to which, Baḥya considered the duties of the heart as an “autonomous system, completely paralleling the system of 613 duties of the members (and of higher importance),” ibid., 183 (my translation). 88. Tishby and Dan, Hebrew Ethical Literature, 109. 89. Ibid., xxiii.

Notes to Chapter 1 ­— 150 90. On Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation see Leicht, “Judah Ibn Tibbon,” 109–­10, 115–­18, 128–­30. For a comparison between the original Judeo-­A rabic and Ibn Tibbon’s translation see Sister, “Bachja-­studien,” 33–­75; idem, “Einige Bemerkungen,” 86–­93. See also a comprehensive study of the vocabulary and lexicon of Ibn Tibbon as reflected in his translation of the Duties of the Hearts in Avirbach, “Translation Method.” 91. See above, at n. 43 of chapter 3 and following. 92. Abrahamov and Qāfiḥ followed Ibn Tibbon’s translation of walī as ḥasid. On the different translational possibilities of walī see Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 23n8; see also Michael Schwarz’s decision in his translation of Halevi’s Kuzari to translate walī as ḥoseh, followed by an explanation in Judah Halevi, Book of Kuzari, 365. Qāfiḥ also remarked on the difficulty of translating the term walī to Hebrew in Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Psalms, 22n82. 93. See above at n. 30 of this chapter. 94. See Avirbach, “Translation Method,” 144–­45. 95. Interestingly, Ibn Tibbon preserves in his translation another common compound, referring to Solomon (as the author of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes) approximately fifty times with the words: “Said the sage (ʾamar ha-­ḥakham).” 96. Ta-­Shma estimates that the Summary was written between 1185–­1190. For further details on this estimation as well as an edition of the introduction of the Summary see Ta-­Shma, “A Summary,” 133–­46. 97. Ibid., 142. 98. Ibid., 143. 99. On the figure of the ḥasid in Rabbinic literature see references in n. 30 of this chapter. 100. Sefer Ha-­Yashar, 7; cf. ibid., 25 (“To continually read in the treatises of the righteous, such as the treatise of the ḥasid our teacher Baḥya ibn Paquda”). On Sefer ha-­ Yashar see Shokek, “Sefer hayashar”; idem, “Relationship between ‘Sefer ha-­Yashar’ ”; on the question of the author of Sefer ha-­Yashar see ibid., 340–­42. 101. Baḥya ben Asher on Gen 41:1, Commentary on the Torah, 1:229. 102. See respectively MS Biblioteca Palatina, Parama, Cod. Parm. 2406, fol. 2r; MS Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS Laud. Or. 106, fol. 94r. 103. On the title of the work see n. 3 of the introduction. However, although irregularly and not frequently, Ibn Tibbon does use the compound miṣvot ha-­levavot, and see Duties of the Hearts (Ibn Tibbon), 11–­12, 15–­16, 17, 26, 90. 104. In general, in his study Avirbach does not indicate Ibn Tibbon’s preference of Rabbinic Hebrew over Biblical Hebrew, and this requires further study. On the development of the language of “debt” (ḥov) and “duty” (ḥovah) in late antique Judaism as

Notes to Chapters 1 and 2 ­— 151 part of an ideational shift beginning in late biblical and Second Temple literature see Anderson, Sin, 8–­9, 27–­28, 31, 95–­97, 111–­13, 135. 105. On the Arabic terms translated by Ibn Tibbon as miṣvah (in different declensions) see Avirbach, “Translation Method,” 224; on terms translated by Ibn Tibbon as ḥovah see ibid., 141, and note especially the absence of the term sharāʾiʿ in this regard. 106. For a distinction between commandments “of reason” and “of revelation” in which Baḥya uses the Arabic term farāʾiḍ see al-­Hidāya, 16 (Duties of the Hearts, 87), 135 (204), and see also the use of farāʾiḍ ʿaqliyya in the source quoted above at n. 83 of this chapter. For a distinction between the duties of the heart and duties of the members in which Baḥya uses the Arabic term sharāʾiʿ see al-­Hidāya, 363 (Duties of the Hearts, 384). 107. See, however, Baḥya’s explicit statement in the Gate of Obedience: “The duties based on the Law ( farāʾiḍ al-­sharīʿa) are limited and finite in number, being six hundred and thirteen altogether, while the duties imposed by the intellect ( farāʾiḍ ʿaqliyya) are almost limitless,” Duties of the Hearts, 184, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 137. In this case, unlike his regular fashion, Ibn Tibbon translates farāʾiḍ as miṣvot (Duties of the Hearts [Ibn Tibbon], 86), cf. Duties of the Hearts, 92 (Duties of the Hearts [Ibn Tibbon], 11), al-­Hidāya, 23. 108. I am grateful to Sarah Stroumsa for bringing this issue to my attention. Chapter 2 1. On the “heart” and closely related terms among Muslim ascetics and mystics see Sviri, Sufis, 409–­22; See also eadem, Perspectives on Early Islamic Mysticism, 4, 12–­ 13, 38–­39, 78, 143–­44, 217, 277–­79, 304–­6; Gramlich, Ibn ʿAṭāʾ, 18, 58–­64; idem, “ad-­ Dārānī,” 27–­30; idem, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums, 1:304–­6, 2:87–­88, 2:394–­98; and see Gramlich’s translation of Ḥusayn al-­Nūrī’s maqāmāt al-­qulūb in Gramlich, Weltverzicht, 433–­46. The discourse on the heart in Muslim mysticism draws extensively from the references to the “heart” in the Qurʾan, and see Massignon, Passion of al-­Hallāj, 3:12; Encyclopedia of Islam, s.v. “Ḳalb.” 2. Duties of the Hearts, 418, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 401. 3. On the sources and adaptations of the discourse on “internal” senses in late antiquity and the Middle Ages see Wolfson, “Internal Senses”; cf. idem, “Isaac Israeli on the Internal Senses”; idem, “Notes on Isaac Israeli’s Internal Senses”; See also Black, “Psychology,” 312–­16; eadem, “Internal Senses”; Gätje, Studien zur Überlieferung. 4. Duties of the Hearts, 144, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 87. 5. Ibid.

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 152 6. On the method of istiḍlāl see Ebstein, “Human Intellect,” 204, 208–­9, referring to istiḍlāl in Baḥya on p. 218. 7. Duties of the Hearts, 144–­45, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 87–­88. 8. This is explicitly articulated in a variety of remarks throughout the work, e.g., Baḥya’s remark concerning “God’s knowledge of both inner and external matters in him [man],” Duties of the Hearts, 368, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 346; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 392, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 371. 9. See Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 197–­98. 10. The accounts differ, as noted by Goldreich, in that Baḥya mentions taste instead of smell that was referred to in al-­Muḥāsibī, see ibid., 198n89. Another rare case in which seven members are enumerated is in al-­Tirmidhī, see ibid., 198–­99, 199n94, referring to Sviri (Burg), “Mystical Psychology”; more recently, see Sviri, Perspectives on Early Islamic Mysticism, 277, 294–­95n61. 11. On the term “heart” in al-­Muḥāsibī see De Crussol, Le Role de la raison, 41–­49; Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 35. 12. On inner conduct that has no outward manifestation see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 36. On the “acts” of the heart see also Massignon, Passion of al-­Hallāj, 3:22. 13. See al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­ʿaql, 204, 221. 14. See Duties of the Hearts, 89; al-­Hidāya, 19; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 87, 190; al-­ Hidāya, 16, 144–­145. 15. Duties of the Hearts, 89, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 19. 16. On nafs in Muslim asceticism and Sufism see Gramlich, Weltverzicht, 152–­217; Sviri, Sufis, 397–­408; eadem, “The Self and Its Transformation,” 195–­215. 17. On the “commanding soul” (al-­nafs al-­ammāra) see Qurʾan 12:53; on the “soul at peace” (al-­nafs al-­muṭmaʾinna) see ibid., 89:27–­28; On Sufi ascetic practices aimed at achieving a state of “soul at peace” see Knysh, “Sufism and the Qur’an.” On al-­ nafs al-­ammāra in al-­Muḥāsibī see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 35. Van Ess’s remark regarding the passivity of the heart is not consistent with his immediately following assertions regarding the deeds of the heart. 18. See De Crussol, Le Role de la raison, 139–­40. 19. See most distinctly in Duties of the Hearts, 198–­220; al-­Hidāya, 156–­84. This has to do with a transposition involved in Baḥya’s discourse on the “soul.” In his work, the soul no longer appears as a negative element inciting one to disobedience, but as having a positive source, requiring the preservation of its purity. In Baḥya’s thought, the soul, to some degree, becomes analogous to the heart, with blurred boundaries between the two. This conceptual transformation in the discourse on the soul likely results from Baḥya’s integration of his sources, some of them featuring substantial

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 153 Neoplatonic orientation (such as the Epistles of the Brethren of Purity), in which the soul is seen as a noble part of man. 20. An example of the former possibility can be found in the introduction to the work: “Man is composed of a soul and a body. . . . we are obliged to obey God both outwardly and inwardly. Outward obedience is [expressed] in the duties of the members. . . . Inward obedience, however, is in the duties of the heart,” Duties of the Hearts, 89; al-­Hidāya, 19. In this case, there is no discrepancy between the soul and the heart, in the same manner that there is no discrepancy between the body and the members. An example of the latter possibility is to be found in the intellect’s address to the soul, as part of their dialogue in the Gate of Obedience: “He [the Creator] prepared for you [the soul] in this palace [the body] four seats for the leaders who rule it: the intellect, the heart, the liver, and the testicles,” Duties of the Hearts, 215; al-­Hidāya, 176; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 163; al-­Hidāya, 111. On the relationship between the soul (nafs) and the heart (qalb) as a confrontation between a negative and a positive element see Massignon, Passion of al-­Hallāj, 3:12–­13; Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 31–­36; Sviri, Sufis, 409; Gramlich, Weltverzicht, 164, 184 (brought in the name of Abū Bakr al-­Ṣaydalānī: “The are no life but in the death of the soul. The life of the heart depends on the death of the soul.” My translation), 188, 214, 221, 368 (brought in the name of Ibn Abi al-­Ward: “Those whose soul does not love this world, are beloved by the people of this world. Those whose heart does not love this world, are beloved by the people of Paradise.” My translation). On the soul as having negative connotation in Eastern piyyutim see Beeri, Le-­David mizmor, 71–­72; eadem, “Zuhdiyyot from the Cairo Genizah,” 369–­70. This attitude toward the soul is transformed in the Sephardic piyyut; see Scheindlin, Vulture in a Cage, 106–­7; Beeri, Le-­David mizmor, 72; eadem, “Zuhdiyyot from the Cairo Genizah,” 364. Baḥya is part of this Sephardic trend. He mitigates the animosity between the soul and the heart, and in some cases treats the two as analogous. Though rather infrequent, there are some cases in Muslim mystical literature in which heart and soul are seen as equal. See, for instance, al-­Sulamī, Ṭabaqāt al-­ṣūfiyya, 248, 439; and some more examples in Gramlich, Weltverzicht, 307. 21. See Duties of the Hearts, 403; al-­Hidāya, 284 (ikhtibār al-­nafs fi-­ijsām). This does not exhaust the notion of trial in Baḥya, which is broader and includes also exceptional favors or tribulations that are considered by Baḥya as a test. The term ikhtibār is not exclusive in this regard. Baḥya also uses miḥna, and in rarer cases, fitna. 22. For the compound ikhlāṣ al-­qalb see Duties of the Hearts, 111; al-­Hidāya, 46 (see note 10 for a slight variation in Oxford Bodleian Lib., MS Poc. 96); See also Duties of the Hearts, 256, 275; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 224, 246. For the compound ikhlāṣ al-­ ḍamīr see Duties of the Hearts, 208, 362, 363, 386, 401; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 169, 340,

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 154 341, 365, 381. For the couplet ikhlāṣ al-­nafs see Duties of the Hearts, 223, 386; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 186, 365. 23. The heart is also guided, though in an inferior manner in comparison with the guidance of the intellect, by the edicts and exhortation of Scripture, termed by Baḥya tanbīh al-­sharāʾiʿ. Baḥya compares the two modes of guidance in Duties of the Hearts, 183–­85; al-­Hidāya, 136–­39. 24. On the intellect in al-­Muḥāsibī see De Crussol, Le Role de la raison; Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 67–­78; Ebstein, “Human Intellect,” 203–­5, 210. For more on the intellect and its relation to obedience, see Massignon, Passion of al-­Hallāj, 3:58–­60. 25. Duties of the Hearts, 183, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 136. 26. Duties of the Hearts, 185, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 139. 27. Baḥya follows Saʿadya in this regard; see Book of Doctrines and Beliefs, 93–­94. 28. Duties of the Hearts, 85, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 13–­14. 29. In another case, Baḥya argues that the endurance of man requires more graces from God than any other being, because man is inherently weak in the first stages of his existence. See Duties of the Hearts, 179; al-­Hidāya, 130–­32. On man as being nobler than plants, animals, and inanimate objects, therefore owing a greater debt to God, see Duties of the Hearts, 356–­57; al-­Hidāya, 333–­34. 30. In any case, as shown above, discernment (tamyīz) is a subcapacity of the intellect. In addition, the activity of the intellect leads to comprehension ( fahm). In some cases, these terms are used to denote the same meaning, e.g., Duties of the Hearts, 151, 156, 163; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 95, 101, 110. 31. On the term ṭāʿa see Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 410–­11 (there also indicating miṣvah) Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 109n1; al-­Hidāya, 37n63, 127n1; see also Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 142–­43, there in the sense of “worship of God”; and see Gimaret’s entry ṭāʿa in Encyclopedia of Islam. 32. Duties of the Hearts, 176, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 127; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 182 (“Obedience to God consists of the beneficiary’s submission to his Benefactor and his attempt to repay Him as far as he is able.”); al-­Hidāya, 136. 33. Duties of the Hearts, 358; al-­Hidāya, 335. In the first stages of development, man is weaker than other animals, and he is also weaker when he is intellectually impaired; see Duties of the Hearts, 179; al-­Hidāya, 131. 34. Ibid. 35. Duties of the Hearts, 89, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 19. 36. Duties of the Hearts, 98; al-­Hidāya, 30. On the tongue as in between the outer and the inner see also Duties of the Hearts, 415 (“The tongue is the gate to your inwardness,” trans. modified); al-­Hidāya, 398. However, see also Baḥya’s remark that the tongue is “external,” Duties of the Hearts, 365; al-­Hidāya, 343.

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 155 37. Duties of the Hearts, 430, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 414. 38. On the example of geometry, see Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 188–­92. 39. On the term tanbīh see n. 45 of chapter 5. 40. Duties of the Hearts, 384, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 363–­64. 41. A partial analogue to this can be found in Baḥya’s remark that the decrees of Scripture and tradition (among them he enumerates some of the most representative of the duties of the members, including prohibitions of kinds of food, clothing, and sexual intercourse), are aimed at a preliminary mode of struggle with man’s basic instincts and desires. This is a necessary stage because the intellect, in man’s early stages of development, cannot overcome these desires on its own, because it is “a stranger in this world, with nothing to support it . . . rather is everything [the bodily powers] against it. By necessity it is weak and in need of something to fortify it and help it to fight the overwhelming power of desire” (Duties of the Hearts, 181, trans. slightly modified; al-­Hidāya, 134). Only after this stage one may “ascend,” in Baḥya’s terms, to “to God’s obedience, which is obligatory upon him also by way of an inference of the intellect” (Duties of the Hearts, 182; al-­Hidāya, 135). The intellect is not secondary to Scripture in respect to the proper worship of God, but it is more essential. However, there is a need for a process that will arouse the intellect to activity in order for it to properly function. 42. “Soul” and “heart” here seem to be equivalent, or at least significantly overlapping. 43. Duties of the Hearts, 89, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 19. 44. Ibid. 45. The following examples were already noted by Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 183n13. 46. Duties of the Hearts, 91, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 21. 47. Duties of the Hearts, 106–­7, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 41. To the two types Baḥya adds a third, inferior in quality to both, applied to the “study of history, . . . the classes of people and their succession in past generations, as well as the stories and anecdotes taken place in ancient times.” This type seems to be completely devoid of religious significance. 48. On the status and mode of appearance of the duties of the heart in Scripture see chapter 5. 49. On Baḥya’s theory of reward see chapter 4. 50. On the primacy of the hidden over the manifest in relation to the theory of reward see chapter 4. 51. On the Hebrew particle ke-­ or kimʿaṭ (Ar. naḥw, translated by Mansoor using the adverb “almost”) that precedes the number 613 see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 156 Sources,” 179–­80; al-­Hidāya, 23n12. It is possible that Baḥya’s qualifying tone, stating that the duties of the members are “almost” 613, is related to the inclusion of some of the duties of the heart as part of the 613, maybe because some of the works enumerating the 613 commandments that were available to Baḥya included several commandments that he saw as pertaining to the duties of the heart; see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 180, and in Appendix A, pp. 201–­2. At any rate, the general principle dividing between the duties of the members, that add up to 613 or almost 613, and the duties of the heart that are limitless is kept in this case as well. 52. Duties of the Hearts, 92, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 22–­23. 53. Baḥya asserts in the introduction that the ten gates are referring to the ten principles or roots of the duties of the heart: “Having made up my mind and sealed my decision concerning the composition, having constructed its foundations, prepared its bases, and built it on ten roots (uṣūl) which include all the duties of the heart, I divided it into ten gates (abwāb), each one devoted to one of the roots” (Duties of the Hearts, 102; al-­Hidāya, 35). As noted by Goldreich with regard to the ten roots that include the entirety of the duties of the heart, it is possible that Baḥya establishes here an analogy to a traditional trope that regards all commandments to be included in the Ten Commandments; see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 182–­83 and n12. Specifically, it is possible that Baḥya refers here to Saʿadya’s use of this trope, adapting and transforming it to fit his own cause. Saʿadya used this idea in his rhymed lists (ʾazharot) of 613 commandments, as well as in his Commentary on Sefer Yeṣirah (Tafsīr kitāb al-­mabādiʾ), where he writes: “The Ten Commandments include all possible definitions, thus  .  .  . it is necessary that all 613 commandments will be included as part of the Ten Commandments” (Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Sefer Yeṣirah, 47, my translation); cf. Saʿadya Gaon, Two Early Translations, 349. It was also integrated (as part of a longer quotation from Saʿadya in translation) in the final part of Judah ben Barzillay of Barcelona, see Malter, Saadia Gaon, 357. On Saʿadya’s relevant ʾazharah see Urbach, “Role of the Ten Commandments,” 173; Saʿadya, Book of Commandments, xxi, 285; Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 17; and see possible reference in the introduction to Ḥefeṣ ben Yaṣliaḥ’s Sefer ha-­miṣvot: “The compilers of books of precepts chose different paths: of whom one established the Ten Commandments as principle genera for the rest of the commandments, and associated each class of commandments to one of the Ten Commandments; such is the finest of the compilation [of commandments]” (Zucker, “New Fragments,” 14, my translation). 54. Baḥya interprets here the idea of the “broad” commandment (contrasted with the “end,” in the sense of “limit,” of every “purpose”) as expressing the unlimitedness of the duties of the heart (in contrast with the limit of 613 of the duties

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 157 of the members). This interpretation stands in interesting proximity to—­a s well as distance from—­K araite interpretations of the verse, which are part of the Karaite attack on the Rabbanite stance that the total number of commandments is 613. In contrast with this enumeration, in Karaite discourse the commandments are not limited to 613—­a n issue seen by some Karaites as a Rabbanite falsification—­a nd may even be limitless; see Frank, Search Scripture Well, 72n169; Astren, Karaite Judaism and Historical Understanding, 63n136; Vajda, “Quelques mots à propos du Siddūr al-­Muʿallim Fadil,” 204; already mentioned in Heller, “Karaites,” col. 947. Yefet expresses such a position in his commentary on this verse that begins in the introduction of the commandments as an eternal Law, contrasted with man-­made laws whose applicability is time-­bound. Not only time binds such laws, but they are also limited in scope. In contrast, the commandments of Scripture are immeasurable both with respect to their “roots,” which are too profound to be known, and with respect to their “branches” that have no limit; see. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS hebr. 289, fols. 79v–­80r; cf. Salmon ben Yeruḥam commentary on Psalms, St. Petersburg, Russian National Library, Firk. I MS EVR I 556, fols. 196v–­197r. The unlimitedness of the “true” commandments, learned from the infinity of possible “branches” or “derivations” ( furūʿ), is associated in Yefet’s commentary with the clause, “Thy Commandment is exceedingly broad,” and contrasted with the idea of limiting the number of commandments (“end to every purpose”), implicitly referring to the 613 commandments. All these elements appear also in Baḥya’s interpretation, even though they are transformed to fit his own approach. He does not contrast between 613 man-­made commandments and infinite divine commandments, but instead refers to 613 as the number of the duties of the members (that was, as he notes in the introduction, the focus of the Rabbanite tradition!), in contrast with the duties of the heart that infinitely branch; see more below. 55. See Duties of the Hearts (Ibn Tibbon), 86; Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 117; al-­Hidāya, 137. Abrahamov notes that a possible source for Baḥya in this case is Saʿadya, Commentary on Sefer Yeṣirah, 98. 56. See Mcginnis, “Avicennan Infinity,” 5–­13; See also Massignon, Passion of al-­ Hallāj, 3:65. On the infinite proceedings of the intellect see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” Appendix B, 202, and especially the quotation from Ibn Sīnā’s Kitāb al-­ishārāt wa ’ l-­tanbīhāt: “The strands of the intellect are almost (yakād[!]) infinite.” However, Goldreich contends that for various reasons, “Baḥya’s sources with respect to the infinite branching of the duties of the heart is to be looked for elsewhere” (my translation). One such venue, not mentioned by Goldreich, is Karaite discourse. 57. See Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 611, s.v. “k-­q-­d,” sec. 1.

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 158 58. Duties of the Hearts, 184; al-­Hidāya, 138; with respect to the infinite graces of God, cf. Duties of the Hearts, 178 (“man [should] obey, praise, and thank the Creator of all benefaction . . . whose beneficence is infinite, permanent, and perpetual”); al-­ Hidāya, 129. Baḥya also relates to the inability of the intellect to fathom the amount of graces conferred upon each man: “When God . . . inspires man to follow the righteous path, He moves his soul to meditation and reflection upon His graces, so that he may understand it and his discriminative powers may grow by it. When a man tries to come to understand it properly by means of his intellect, he is unable to do so because of its universality, abundance, continuance, and everlastingness” (Duties of the Hearts, 199, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 157). 59. It is possible that ḥāl here is not intended to denote the rank achieved by the mystic, as in the Sufi technical terminology (iṣtilāḥ), but is related to medical literature, in which it denotes the specific physiological condition of the body; see Massignon, Passion of al-­Hallāj, 3:67. On ḥāl in Sufi literature, see Sviri, Sufis, 183–­84. 60. Qāfiḥ’s translation: “the steadfastness of our mind,” al-­Hidāya, 22 (my translation); Ibn Tibbon’s translation: “As long as our intellect . . . is ours,” Duties of the Hearts (Ibn Tibbon), 11. 61. Duties of the Hearts, 91; al-­Hidāya, 21–­22. 62. For a similar idea in a Muslim context see a tradition attributed to Abu ’l-­Ḥusayn al-­Nūrī (d. 907–­908) on the duty to know God, which is not only one’s foremost duty, but also the most difficult to execute for it has no limit; al-­Munāwī, Al-­ Kawākib al-­Durriyya, 1:195; see discussion in Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums, 1:389–­90. 63. Duties of the Hearts, 184, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 138. 64. Duties of the Hearts, 186, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 140. 65. On the necessity that revelation, rather than intellect, specify the details and conventions even of the commandments of reason, Saʿadya remarks: “The rational laws, [whose] their practice cannot be complete unless the prophets specify them for human beings. Thus, for instance, Reason commands gratitude towards God for the blessings received from Him, but does not specify the form, time, and posture appropriate, to the expression of such gratitude. So we are in need of prophets. They gave it a form which is called ‘prayer’; they fixed its times, its special formulae, its special modes and the special direction which one is to face when praying. Another instance: Reason disapproves of adultery, but gives no definition of the way in which a woman can be acquired by a man so as to become his legal wife” (Saʿadya Gaon, Book of Doctrines and Beliefs, 103–­4; Kitāb al-­amānāt wa-­ʾl-­iʿtiqādāt, 122–­23). Abrahamov remarks that Baḥya here follows Muʿtazilite thought (not referring specifically to Saʿadya); see

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 159 Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 118n35. However, other considerations, including the rest of Baḥya’s ideas and rhetoric in the passage, indicate a more probable source in Saʿadya. 66. Even if this is somehow mitigated by the specification and elaboration on the ten “roots” (a debatable issue because Baḥya does not specify any criteria for execution), it is relevant only with respect to the foundational stratum of the roots and not with respect to the entirety of the commandments of the heart. 67. Duties of the Hearts, 137–­38, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 79–­80. Onʿilm al-­bāṭin as equivalent to al-­ʿilm bi-­ farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb (knowledge of the duties of the heart) see al-­Hidāya, 16; on this issue see further in chapter 5 of this study. 68. Duties of the Hearts, 153, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 98. On iʿtibār in al-­ Muḥāsibī see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 196; on iʿtibār in the works of Andalusi Muslim thinkers see Casewit, Mystics of al-­Andalus, 3, 269–­79; on iʿtibār in Islamic philosophy until the twelfth century see Griffel, Formation of Post-­Classical Philosophy, 493–­99. 69. Duties of the Hearts, 155–­56; al-­Hidāya, 101. 70. Duties of the Hearts, 170; al-­Hidāya, 120. 71. Duties of the Hearts, 150; al-­Hidāya, 94. 72. This is not the only purpose of contemplating the graces of God. At the beginning of the gate, Baḥya mentions another purpose, that results from the conclusion of the first gate, namely, that the essence of God cannot be known by the intellect. Only a second-­order knowledge of God can be reached, in the form of studying God’s traces, and especially what Baḥya terms “His Wisdom,” from worldly phenomena: “[Contemplation is] the nearest path to the affirmation of His existence and the finest way to reach His true meaning,” Duties of the Hearts, 150, trans. slightly modified; al-­Hidāya, 94; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 124; al-­Hidāya, 62. 73. Duties of the Hearts, 174, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 124. This is in line with the aforementioned principle, with which Baḥya opens the next gate of his work, the Gate of Obedience: “Reason requires the beneficiary to obey the benefactor,” Duties of the Hearts, 176, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 127; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 166 (“Our intellect has the capacity to understand the wisdom, ability, and grace found everywhere in the world, and the obligation to obey and worship their Author in accordance with His due, and for His general and special graces.” Translation modified); al-­Hidāya, 114. 74. Duties of the Hearts, 150; al-­Hidāya, 94. 75. Duties of the Hearts, 151; al-­Hidāya, 95. 76. In this sense, the world that one is called upon to contemplate is not an inherently flawed world, but instead, a world that is essentially good and benevolent. Baḥya

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 160 does not adhere, in this respect, to the tenets of Neoplatonic thought that define the world as a realm of struggle between existence and inexistence, or in an Aristotelian terminology which was prevalent among Arabic and Jewish Neoplatonists, between the endurance of form and its cessation due to its embodiment. 77. On the intellect as distinguishing between human beings and any other animals, see Duties of the Hearts, 166; al-­Hidāya, 114. 78. Baḥya mentions three gateways to knowledge of religion (dīn) and law (sharīʿa): the intellect, Scripture, and the transmitted traditions; see Duties of the Hearts, 87; al-­Hidāya, 15. In any case, Baḥya argues that an understanding, and thus obedience, stemming from the intellect is “many times greater” than that gained from Scripture and tradition (“Obedience springing from the intellect and what is concealed in man’s conscience . . . is many times greater than obedience shown by the members.” Duties of the Hearts, 183; al-­Hidāya, 136), and see Baḥya’s entire discussion on this matter in Duties of the Hearts, 183–­85; al-­Hidāya, 136–­39. 79. Duties of the Hearts, 87, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 16. 80. See Saʿadya Gaon, Book of Doctrines and Beliefs, 94–­102; Kitāb al-­amānāt wa-­ʾl-­ iʿtiqādāt, 117–­22; Altmann, “Division of the Commandments”; Ben-­Shammai, “Classification of the Commandments.” 81. Baḥya argues that the imposition of the “commandments of Revelation” is an outcome of the special graces conferred upon the people of Israel by God throughout their early history, creating a special collective debt that is to be reciprocated by this special type of commandments; see Duties of the Hearts, 204; al-­Hidāya, 164; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 189; al-­Hidāya, 143. The specific reason for each of these commandments is unfathomable; see Duties of the Hearts, 188 (“The Law includes certain matters, the reason for whose obligation cannot be grasped by the intellect, namely, the duties imposed by revelation.” Translation modified); al-­Hidāya, 142; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 87, 94; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 24, 26. In other cases, Baḥya presents the commandments of Revelation as an outcome of periods of ignorance and unbridled desirous life in the history of the nation; see Duties of the Hearts, 422; al-­Hidāya, 405; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 188; al-­Hidāya, 142. 82. Saʿadya highlights in several cases that the total number of commandments is 613. This is mentioned in his Book of Commandments in four different instances. In the introduction to the work: “I have marshalled the 613 commandments (sharāʾiʿ) in 26 chapters”; at the end of chapter 15: “Thus far 307 commandments (sharāʾi) [were mentioned], which are half [of the commandments]”; and twice in the conclusion to the work: “In the 26 chapters their number amounted to 613  .  .  . 613 commandments (waṣiyya) were completed.” Saʿadya Gaon, Book of Commandments, 6, 132, 245,

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 161 247, respectively (my translation). In addition, before authoring his Kitāb al-­sharāʾiʿ, Saʿadya wrote a piyyut enumerating the 613 commandments, and at least two ʾazharot (rhymed lists of the 613 commandments), tying the entirety of commandments to the Ten Commandments; see Saʿadya Gaon, Book of Commandments, 251–­82. In his introductory remarks to the ʾazharot, Saʿadya implicitly refers to the number 613 as already prevalent and established (“the people of our generation are accustomed to be informed of the essentials of the 613 commandments during musaf ”), Saʿadya Gaon, Kitāb jāmiʿ al-­ṣalawāt wal-­tasābīḥ, 156. For discussions on Saʿadya’s piyyut on the commandments and on the ʾazharot see ibid., 184; idem, Book of Commandments, 8; Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 14, 17. These works by Saʿadya exerted much influence on Andalusi ʾazharot written by Joseph ibn Abītūr, Isaac ibn Chiquitilla, and Solomon ibn Gabirol; see Zulay, Liturgical Poetry, 44; Elizur, “Character and Influence,” 244n60. On the general acceptance of 613 as the total number of commandments see also Ḥefeṣ ben Yaṣliaḥ’s remark in the introduction to his Sefer ha-­miṣvot: “It is agreed by everyone that all we were commanded to do . . . and were warned not to do, and the rest . . . are 613 in number” (Zucker, “New Fragments,” 14, my translation). However, it is interesting that Ḥefeṣ also raises the possibility that there are more than a thousand commandments, which are derived from the 613, the 613 being roots or sources for the rest: “However, those [commandments] added to the 613 are in the rank of branches elaborated from the sources which are 613” (ibid.). This differs from Baḥya, who does not consider the 613 as sources (uṣūl).  83. Duties of the Hearts, 87, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 16. 84. For further discussion on disclosed and undisclosed knowledge, see chapter 5. 85. Duties of the Hearts, 184, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 137–­38. 86. It is possible that Baḥya’s use of Ps 119:18 in this context is both an integration, and a transformation, of a Karaite trope, using a verse that became central in Karaite writings and thought. On the centrality of the verse in Karaite discourse see Wieder, Judean Scrolls, 83. The formulation of Baḥya’s reference to the verse: “in order that He [God] will uplift the veil of ignorance (kashf ḥijāb al-­jihl) from him [the psalmist],” is close to Saʿadya’s formulation in his Commentary on Psalms, 251 (“uplift the veil of ignorance and incomprehension from my heart’s eyes”); see also Saʿadya’s citation of the verse in the introduction to the Book of Doctrines and Beliefs, 25–­26. This verse is also central to Mubashshir ben Nissi ha-­Levi’s critique on Saʿadya, and see Kitāb istidrāk in Blau and Yahalom, Controversies in Baghdad, 170. 87. Duties of the Hearts, 186, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 140. 88. In any case, the specifications of the 613 commandments determine in advance the conditions for the application of each commandment. In this context, Baḥya pres-

Notes to Chapter 2 ­— 162 ents another principle, not related to rational acquisition of halakhic knowledge, that implies differential imposition of duties. According to this principle, special duties were imposed for special favors conferred upon specific groups within the nation, such as the Levites, Priests, or the royal lineage; see Duties of the Hearts, 189; al-­Hidāya, 143; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 204–­5; al-­Hidāya, 164. These commandments form a subcategory of the commandments of Revelation. Their inner logic is different from that of the commandments of reason, that can be exposed by the power of discernment, as discussed presently. However, it is indeed possible that by introducing the idea of “special graces” that result in further duties, Baḥya prepares the ground for the presentation of the idea of differential imposition on the basis of the human power of discernment; see discussion below. 89. See Duties of the Hearts, 94; al-­Hidāya, 26. For more on the varying capacities of the intellect among different persons, and the relationship between one’s degree of intellectual achievements and one’s final judgment, see Massignon, Passion of al-­ Hallāj, 3:58. 90. On the World to Come see chapter 4 below. 91. Duties of the Hearts, 372, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 451. 92. Duties of the Hearts, 372–­73, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 451–­52. 93. Implicitly, one who cannot gain knowledge of (and thus cannot fulfill) the duties of the heart, has no place in the World to Come. In one case Baḥya articulates explicitly the idea that only fulfillment of the duties of the heart can lead one to the World to Come; see above at n. 7 of chapter 4. 94. On a differential element that determines the imposition of commandments of Revelation upon different groups within the nation, e.g., the Priests, see n. 88 of chapter 2. 95. Duties of the Hearts, 203, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 163. 96. Duties of the Hearts, 204; al-­Hidāya, 163. 97. Baḥya remarks, in a following paragraph, that God confirmed or reasserted (taʾkīduha) the commandments of reason. It is therefore possible that he considers that at least part of the commandments of reason were acknowledged already before the Sinaitic revelation; see Duties of the Hearts, 204; al-­Hidāya, 164. On taʾkīd see al-­ Hidāya, 31–­32n7. 98. Duties of the Hearts, 204–­5; al-­Hidāya, 164. The status of the house of David in this paragraph is not easily deciphered. On the one hand, they belong to this subgroup, subject to special commandments for being singled out; on the other hand, it seems that the commandments imposed on the lineage of David are not necessarily a part of what is “well known and clear,” but are referred to in relation to a verse from

Notes to Chapters 2 and 3 ­— 163 Jeremiah. (21:12: “O House of David, thus said the Lord: Render just verdicts Morning by morning; Rescue him who is robbed from him who defrauded him.”) This may be related to the special status of David in the Duties of the Hearts; see chapter 3. 99. Duties of the Hearts, 205; al-­Hidāya, 165. 100. On the various presentations of Abraham in Andalusi Muslim and Jewish writings in the Middle Ages see Stroumsa, “Father of Many Nations”; on Abraham as walī see Massignon, Passion of al-­Hallāj, 3:31. 101. In the Gate of Humility before God Baḥya argues that economic prosperity may in some cases be an outcome of divine graces conferred upon the wealthy person; see Duties of the Hearts, 309; al-­Hidāya, 284. In any case, in the dialogue between the intellect and the soul (Duties of the Hearts, 206; al-­Hidāya, 166), Baḥya’s examples of differentiation in duties are tithes, which vary according to the measure of land “endowed” by God, and circumcision, that is imposed only on those “endowed with a son.” This is a rare case in which differentiation applies to the duties of the members. 102. Duties of the Hearts, 206; al-­Hidāya, 166; cf. each of the four types singled out by special graces, Duties of the Hearts, 203–­6; al-­Hidāya, 163–­66. 103. Massignon, Passion of al-­Hallāj, 3:24; Sviri, Sufis, 183–­84. For a different reason for rejecting the principle of different ranks or degrees see Massignon, ibid., 25. 104. This issue is further discussed in chapter 5. Chapter 3 1. On proximity in Sufi discourses predating Baḥya see Nwyia, Exégèse coranique, 252–­69; Rustom, “Approaches to Proximity and Distance.” 2. On “interiority” as being looked upon by God, in contrast with “exteriority,” associated with being looked upon by the human neighbor, see Gramlich, Ibn ʿAṭāʾ, 107. 3. See Duties of the Hearts, 88, 165, 166, 235, 312, 342, 351, 367 (two occurrences), 368 (four occurrences), 392 (two occurrences), 394, 399, 432; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 17, 113, 114, 199, 287, 319, 328, 345, 346, 347 (two occurrences), 371 (two occurrences), 374, 380, 416; see also Baḥya’s use of murāqaba, which he refers to as one’s sense of being observed by God, in numerous places in the work and especially Duties of the Hearts, 274, 368; al-­Hidāya, 244–­45, 347; and see discussions in Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 47–­48, 224–­31, 234. 4. Duties of the Hearts, 88; al-­Hidāya, 17. 5. Duties of the Hearts, 342; al-­Hidāya, 319, trans. modified. 6. See Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 460, s.v. “ṭ-­l-­ʿ,” sec. 5, 8; Massignon, Essai sur les origins, 21. On iṭṭilāʿ as a special mode of vision that can purify the heart see Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums, 1:393.

Notes to Chapter 3 ­— 164 7. On luṭf in Baḥya, see Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 286n60; On luṭf in Muʿtazilite thinking see Abrahamov, “Abd al-­Jabbār’s Theory of Divine Assistance”; Blankinship, “Early Creed,” 47, 50; Rizvi, “Developed Kalām,” 94. 8. Duties of the Hearts, 432, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 416. 9. Ibid., trans. modified. 10. On this issue see chapter 4. 11. Duties of the Hearts, 272; al-­Hidāya, 241–­42. 12. See Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 554–­55, s.v. “q-­ṭ-­ʿ.” 13. According to Baḥya, there is an overlap between the terms “devotion” (inḳqiṭāʿ) and “coming near” (uns); see, for instance, Duties of the Hearts, 262; al-­Hidāya, 230 (“devotion [inḳqiṭāʿ] and coming near [uns] Him”); see further in Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 22–­23, s.v. “ʾ-­n-­s.”. 14. Duties of the Hearts, 428, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 411–­12. 15. Baḥya highlights this issue in the beginning of the second chapter of the Gate of the Purification of Human Acts: “The purification of all our acts to God alone consist of ten matters, which, once established in man’s heart, affirmed by him, and made the principles of his obedience (li-­ṭāʿatihi) and the bases of his actions, crown the purification of his acts with success, never letting him turn to anyone else but Him, never letting him expect hope from another or to make use of these matters except in his aim of pleasing Him (riḍaʾihi)” (Duties of the Hearts, 273–­74, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 243–­44); see also Baḥya’s formulation in the Gate of Self Accounting with respect to one’s relationship with He who confers good upon him, and the obligation to devote oneself to the latter “in order to obey and please Him” (Duties of the Hearts, 374; al-­ Hidāya, 353). 16. Duties of the Hearts, 361, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 338–­39. 17. In the same vein Baḥya considers obedience as an attempt to gain God’s nearness, and see the three terms that seem to overlap in Duties of the Hearts, 300; al-­ Hidāya, 275: “If there is one among your friends whose obedience to God (ṭāʿa) is greater than yours, whose actions (ʿamal) for His sake are finer, and his efforts to draw near (liltaqarrub) to Him stronger.” 18. See Lane, An Arabic-­English Lexicon, 1246, s.v. “z-­l-­f.” Abrahamov, in his Hebrew translation, skips this word, even though I did not find any manuscript in which it does not appear. Qafiḥ uses “to become attached” (histapḥut); see also al-­ Hidāya, 157n14 for manuscripts discrepancies. 19. See Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 469, s.v. “ʿ-­w-­ḍ.” 20. Duties of the Hearts, 199, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 157. 21. On supererogation see chapter 1. 22. On the arousal of attention by the intellect see n. 45 of chapter 5.

Notes to Chapter 3 ­— 165 23. The form iltidhādh appears already in Saʿadya in the introduction to his Commentary on the Pentateuch, there in the sense of “joy”; see Saʿadya, Commentary on Genesis, 20; It also appears in Isaac ibn Ghiyyath’s commentary on Ecclesiastes, and is common in both Abraham Maimonides and Joseph ibn ʿAqnin, as well as in Ibn Sina, especially in the chapters in which he uses Sufi discourse in his Kitāb al-­ishārāt wa al-­ tanbīhāt (Book of directives and remarks); See further Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 628, s.v. “l-­d h-­d h”; see also De Smet, La Quiétude de l’ intellect, 205, 229; al-­Jurjānī, Kitāb al-­taʿrīfāt, 244, §845. 24. Duties of the Hearts, 187, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 141–­42. 25. Duties of the Hearts, 261; al-­Hidāya, 229. 26. On nearness that results from the annihilation ( fanāʾ) of the subject (or of the subject’s agency), and on nearness that eventually brings about annihilation see al-­Junayd, Kitāb al-­fanāʾ; Massignon, Essai sur les origins, 255; Gramlich, Der eine Gott, 289–­93, 295–­309, 311–­28, 339–­42; idem, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums, 1:652–­54; 2:369–­71, 2:479–­89; Sells, Mystical Languages, 133–­34; Sviri, Sufis, 270–­71; Rustom, “Approaches to Proximity and Distance,” 5. 27. Duties of the Hearts, 433, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 417. 28. A more accurate translation may be: “beyond the capacities of any living being”; see Blau, Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-­Arabic, 43, s.v. basarīyūn. 29. On taʾyīd see Abrahamov’s note in Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 53n25; the use of the term taʾyīd was indeed prevalent in Ismāʿīlī discourses, and see Walker, Early Philosophical Shiism, 117–­18; Halm, Kosmologie und Heilslehre, 53n1; Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 65–­70; De Smet, “Ismāʿīlī Theology,” 321–­22. However, it is also used, although less frequently, in early Muslim ascetic discourses; see Massignon, Essai sur les origins, 153; Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums, 2:289. 30. See Qāfiḥ’s note in al-­Hidāya, 417n83, and also note his remark on Ibn Tibbon’s translation. 31. Duties of the Hearts, 433, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 417; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 434–­35; al-­Hidāya, 419. 32. See first of all, “Purification of Human Acts” elaborated upon in the fifth gate of the Duties of the Hearts. 33. See above chapter 2, section 3, and specifically at n. 79 of chapter 2. 34. Duties of the Hearts, 184; al-­Hidāya, 138. 35. See Ikhwān al-­Ṣafāʾ, al-­Jāmiʿa, 1:493, and discussion in Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 68. 36. See chapter 5 below. 37. Duties of the Hearts, 368–­69, trans. modified, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 346–­48.

Notes to Chapter 3 ­— 166 38. See Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 25–­26, 230, 320nn36–­37. Lobel sees the compounds “eye of the intellect” and “light of the intellect” as equivalent. However, their mode of figuration is not identical. In zuhd literature and early Sufi writings, including in al-­Muḥāsibī, the term most prevalently used is the “eye of the heart”; see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 218. Even though I could not find any use of “eye of the heart” in al-­Muḥāsibī, he does use “the sight of the intellect” (baṣarī al-­ʿaqlī), together with the “eye of certitude” (ʿaynī al-­yaqīnī), which is a Qurʾanic couplet (Q 7:102); see De Crussol, Le Role de la raison, 259, 354. For more on the “eye of the heart” see Gramlich, Ibn ʿAṭāʾ, 104–­5; idem, “ad-­Dārānī,” 74; cf. idem, Der eine Gott, 241; idem, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums, 2:291; Sviri, Sufis, 101, 199, 494. On seeing God see ibid., 486–­501. Ayn al-­baṣīra (eye of insight) is sometimes used in the Epistles of the Brethren of Purity, and see, for instance, epistle 29, p. 59; epistle 30, p. 94; epistle 35, p. 117; epistle 39, p. 168; epistle 51b, p. 430; More rarely, see the Epistle’s use of ʿayn al-­ʿaql, epistle 30, p. 84; epistle 40, p. 230, there also in relation to guidance. Both ʿayn al-­baṣīra and ʿayn al-­ʿaql appear also in Kitāb maʿānī al-­nafs; for the former, see p. 53 l. 8; for the latter, see p. 59 l. 10. See also the Hebrew couplet ʿeyn ha-­sekhel in Solomon ibn Gabirol, Keter malkhut, p. 259 l. 57. This couplet is frequently used in a tenth-­century Hebrew translation of Saʿadya’s Doctrines and Beliefs, Pitron sefer ʾemunot ve-­ḥarṣov ha-­binot, even though an Arabic equivalent is missing from the original work; see Saʿadya Gaon, Two Early Translations, 34, 40, 43, 50 (two occurrences), 59, 62, 67, 69, 93, 95 (two occurrences), 199, and ʿeyn sikhlenu, ibid., 33. 39. See below, chapter 5, esp. n. 43. 40. Cf. Duties of the Hearts, 187; al-­Hidāya, 141, in which Baḥya refers to the first stage in the process of instruction to the miṣvot, that happens by means of Scripture’s authority and guidance: “For a man in his youth is in need of management (siyāsa) and direction (tadbīr) to help him overcome his desires until he grows up and his intellect strengthens and properly operates.” In the same vein that Scripture guides one until the ripening of the intellect, God will direct one’s intellect to proper conduct when it is capable enough. 41. The special connection between the “friends of God” (awliyāʾ) and the “inner knowledge” (ʿilm al-­bāṭin) is referred to in a hadith cited in the tenth-­century, anonymously authored work, Adab al-­mulūk (Conduct of the kings): “It is said that Aḥmed b. Ghassān said: I asked al-­Hujaymī about inner knowledge (ʿilm al-­bāṭin), and he replied: I asked ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid b. Zayd about inner knowledge, and he replied: I asked al-­Ḥasan al-­Baṣrī about inner knowledge, and he replied: I asked Ḥudhayfa b. al-­ Yamān about inner knowledge, and he replied: I asked the messenger of God . . . about inner knowledge and he replied: ‘It is a knowledge [shared only] between God and

Notes to Chapter 3 ­— 167 his friends (awliyāʾ). None of the angels or any of His other creation knows about it.’ ” Adab al-­mulūk, 34, and see discussion in Mourad, Early Islam, 100; Radtke dates the work to around 984, and argues the it was most probably authored by ʿAlī ibn Jaʿfar al-­Sirawānī (d. 1005), a mystic from Basra; see Radtke’s introduction to Adab al-­mulūk, 17–­20. For more on this work see Meier, “An Important Manuscript Find.” The quoted passage may be related to the idea, expressed in several sources, that the prophets and angels envy the “friends”; see n. 47 of this chapter. A different version of this hadith, presented as a ḥadīth qudsī, appears in Al-­Risāla fī ʿilm al-­taṣawwuf (Epistle on Sufi knowledge) by Abu ’l-­Qāsim al-­Qushayrī (d. 1074), see al-­Risāla al-­ qushayriyya, 2:443, although with no mention of the compound ʿilm al-­bāṭin, and with a focus on the notion of ikhlāṣ (purification). 42. Duties of the Hearts, 189; al-­Hidāya, 143. 43. The relationship between wilāya and ilhām was already stated and reflected upon in Kitāb al-­kashf wa ’ l-­bayān, a short treatise written in the late ninth century by the Baghdadi mystic Abū Saʿīd al-­K harrāz, and see Nwyia, Exégèse coranique, 231–­33. 44. Lasker, “Sub-­Prophetic Inspiration,” 146 (my translation); cf. Lasker, “ ‘Arabic Philosophical Terms,” 163. 45. Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 23n9 (my translation); cf. ibid., 168n50. 46. For this he is also referred to as khātam al-­nabiyyin, and see Q 33:40. 47. Already in the ninth century, in his Kitāb al-­kashf wa ’ l-­bayān, al-­K harrāz rejects the position (without mentioning who maintained it) that the awliyāʾ are superior to the prophets; see al-­K harrāz, Rasāʾil, 31–­34. It is likely that this (or similar) position was held by Abū Sulaymān al-­Dārānī (d. 830), the disciple of ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid ibn Zayd; see Massignon, Essay on the Origins, 152–­54. This position is also presented in the name of al-­Dārānī’s disciple, Ibn Abi al-­Ḥawārī (d. 845), asserting that the awliyāʾ are preferred over the prophets, and see Ibn al-­Jawzī, Talbīs iblīs, 218. See also the so-­called ḥadīth al-­ghibṭah, cited in a several sources referred to in Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, 25n26; see also Abū Ṭālib al-­Makkī, Qūt al-­qulūb, 2:222. 48. Ben-­Shammai notes that the term awliyāʾ is used by Saʿadya as synonymous with anbiyā, and remarks that “the casual interchange between the Arabic terms walī and nabī is so widespread in Saʿadya’s works that it needs no illustration,” Leader’s Project, 207 (my translation); see also Schlossberg, “Concepts and Methods,” 208–­ 9n39. On the difficulty of finding an adequate translation for Saʿadya’s use of walī see Qāfiḥ’s note in his edition of Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Psalms, 22n82; cf. idem, Doctrines and Beliefs, 2n12. Interestingly, even though Saʿadya uses walī and nabī interchangeably, the paradigmatic walī of his Doctrines and Beliefs is Job. On Saʿadya’s conception of Job’s exemplarity see Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Job, 16, although he

Notes to Chapter 3 ­— 168 does not use the term walī in this source. In his Commentary on Psalms, Saʿadya uses the term walī, in various declensions, to translate the Hebrew terms: yareʾ (Ps 14:4), ben (Ps 17:14; 34:12), ʿeved (Ps 34:23; 69:37), gaʾul (Ps 102:2), and yadid (Ps 127:2). 49. See Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 168n50; and see already in Goldziher, “Die Heiligenverehrung im Islam,” 282. 50. Duties of the Hearts, 198, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 155. 51. Another example is the distinction Baḥya makes between those who obey God due to the instructions that were received by tradition, whom he refers to as the “righteous (akhyār) and the pious (abrār),” and those who obey the laws after they have reached them by means of their intellect. The rank of the latter is that of the “prophets (anbiyā) and God’s chosen friends (ṣafwat Allāh al­-­awliyāʾ)” (Duties of the Hearts, 188, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 142). For other instances in which the prophets and the “friends” seems to be equally ranked see Duties of the Hearts, 262, 443; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 230, 428. 52. Duties of the Hearts, 243, trans. modified; al-­Hidāya, 209. 53. See Radtke, “Walī.” 54. For a comprehensive survey of these aspects see Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 123–­56; see there also on the transition from the Shiite conception of awliyāʾ to that of the Ikhwān al-­Ṣafāʾ. On wilāya in Shiism see Landolt, “walāyah,” and bibliographic references there; see also a comparative study by Fenton, “The Hierarchy of the Saints.” On the difference in pronunciation between wilāya and walāya, and its possible significance, see survey and bibliography in Elmore, Islamic Sainthood, 113–­14. In Sufism, these aspects were most pronouncedly elaborated upon by such thinkers as al-­Ḥakīm al-­Tirmidhī (ninth century), Sahl al-­Tustarī (d. 896), and Abū Ṭālib al-­Makkī (d. 996), all impacting the shape Sufi thinking took in al-­A ndalus. As shown by Radtke and by Sviri, the most comprehensive examination of the concept of wilāya predating Baḥya was that of al-­Tirmidhī; see especially Sviri’s argument that in al-­Tirmidhī, “ʿilm al-­awliyāʾ appears like a huge tree from which all else branches off,” Sviri, Perspectives on Early Islamic Mysticism, 220. On walī and awliyāʾ in Sufi discourse see Radtke, “Walī”; Sviri, Perspectives on Early Islamic Mysticism, 217–­36; Böwering, Mystical Vision of Existence, 231–­41; Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, 41–­64. On the relations between the power to perform miracles and the concept of wilāya in al-­A ndalus see Fierro, “The Polemic about the Karāmāt al-­Awliyāʾ.” 55. On al-­Muḥāsibī see n. 18 of chapter 1. 56. There has yet to appear any comprehensive study of the concept of awliyāʾ in early Muslim asceticism or in traditions brought in the name of early Muslim ascetics predating the formative period of Sufi compilations. Some important remarks can

Notes to Chapter 3 ­— 169 be found in Goldziher, “Die Heiligenverehrung im Islam,” 275–­381; also, see the few pages by Massignon and by Van Ess dedicated to the pre-­Sufi concept of awliyāʾ and its formation in Sufi thought: Massignon, La passion, 2:747–­49; Van Ess, Theology and Society, 2:102–­3, 2:114–­15; in addition, some available sources are referenced in Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period, 127–­34; more recently, see Ebstein’s remarks on awliyāʾ in the early mystic Ḏū l-­Nūn al-­Miṣrī, in Ebstein, “Ḏū l-­Nūn,” 584–­86. On the use of later sources that cite early traditions on Muslim ascetics see Melchert, Before Sufism, 1–­3. 57. Al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­Waṣāyā al-­Naṣāʾiḥ, 62–­63. The emphasis on obedience as a cardinal trait of the walī is noted in a saying brought in the name of al-­Rabīʿ ibn Khuthaym Abū Yazīd, an ascetic of the first generation after Muhammad, in the Persian compilation Kashf al-­maḥjūb (Revelation of the veiled) by ʿAlī ibn ʿUthmān al-­ Jullābī al-­Hudjwīrī (d. 1073): “Abū Yazīd was asked: ‘who is a walī?,’ he replied: he who is prudent in what is commanded and prohibited by God, for the more one loves God, his heart is devoted to what He commanded, and his body abstains from what He prohibits.” Al-­Hudjwīrī, Kashf al-­maḥjūb, 272 (I thank Lilach Berg for her assistance in translating from Persian); it is also expressed in a ḥadīth qudsī in the Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal collection of hadith reports: “He [God] said: the most blessed of God’s friends is a man of faith that has but little property, who is content in praying, worshipping God and obeying him concealedly,” Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, 5:252. This mode of obedience, unlike in al-­Muḥāsibī, still does not involve “internalization” of worship, but highlights acts that are not publicly performed. 58. On this term see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 199. 59. Al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­khalwa, 452; with regard to the attribution of this work, Van Ess indicates that its author may very well be Aḥmad ibn ʿĀṣim al-­A nṭākī, an older contemporary of al-­Muḥāsibī; see Van Ess, Review of Picken, 131. However, it should be noted that the attribution to al-­Muḥāsibī was already made medieval times; and compare the quote above with al-­Muḥāsibī’s remark on the awliyāʾ in his Kitāb al-­riʿāya: “They grieve in that for which men rejoice and they rejoice in that for which men grieve. They search for that from which men flee and the flee from that which others, that is the neglectful and the self-­deceived, desire. They find companionship where others experience loneliness because their friendship is with God alone, reaching intimate converse (munajāt) with Him. To Him they reveal their secrets and unto Him they draw near in their need.” Al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­riʿāya, 7. Alienation from the world as a characteristic of the walī is mentioned in the portrait of Ḥasan al-­Baṣrī presented by Abū Nuʿaym al-­Iṣfahānī (d. 1038): “Among the friends of God . . . Abū Saʿīd al-­Ḥasan ibn Abī al-­Ḥasan, the ascetic jurist and the devout worshiper. He re-

Notes to Chapter 3 ­— 170 nounced the trivialities and adornments of this world, and admonished the desires and arrogance of the soul,” Ḥilyat al-­awliyāʾ, 2:131–­32; and in the same vein, this formulation brought in the name of Maʿrūf al-­Karkhī (d. 815), a celebrated early Baghdadi ascetic, in response to a question about the identifying feature of awliyāʾ: “They desire God, devoted to Him and in Him they find refuge.” Al-­Sulamī, Ṭabaqāt al-­ṣūfiyya, 79. 60. However, in the Kitāb al-­riʿāya a special trait of the awliyāʾ is mentioned: they were not tainted by sin from their adolescence onward, and therefore were in no need for repentance. I did not find any such characterization in any of al-­Muḥāsibī’s other works. 61. Al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­riʿāya, 38. 62. Ibid., 18. 63. Duties of the Hearts, 243; al-­Hidāya, 209, associated with Ps 31:20: “Oh how abundant is Thy goodness that You have in store for those who fear You; that take refuge in You instead of all men.” 64. Duties of the Hearts, 262; al-­Hidāya, 230. 65. Duties of the Hearts, 369; al-­Hidāya, 347, see discussion above on pp. 59–60. 66. Duties of the Hearts, 368; al-­Hidāya, 347. 67. Duties of the Hearts, 369; al-­Hidāya, 347. 68. Al-­Muḥāsibī, too, makes ample use of the term ḍamīr in his writings, and see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 90, 133, 141. Al-­Muḥāsibī also uses this term in several subdistinctions he makes, for instance, between the sins of the members (dhunūb al-­ jawāriḥ) and inner sins (dhunūb al-­ḍamīr) in Kitāb al-­riʿāya, 44. 69. Al-­Muḥāsibī frequently uses ḥijāb not only to denote separation, which can be overcome, between man and God, but also as an image for the deception of the world that beguiles one with pleasures that lead him astray; see, for instance, al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­riʿāya, 22–­23. In addition, al-­Muḥāsibī describes the Garden of Eden as “veiled,” in the sense of the many impediments that make it difficult for the soul the approach it, and see ibid., 24. 70. Duties of the Hearts, 424–­25; al-­Hidāya, 407. 71. Al-­Muḥāsibī sometimes uses economic metaphors (accumulating capital, trade, commerce, gain and loss) that contrast between the “wages” of the world, that are gained by commerce and negotiation with the people of this world, and the “wages” that await one in the hereafter, that result from trading with God in the currency of fulfilling one’s duties; see, for instance, al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­riʿāya, 11, 12, 40–­41 (on one’s expectations of a wage for one’s work in this world, and the expectations of a wage for one’s worship in the World to Come. See especially the phrase: “God’s worker

Notes to Chapters 3 and 4 ­— 171 and merchant,” ibid., 41); in many other cases, however, the hereafter is presented as a grace that is not part of any economic relationship with God. The metaphors of commerce, and of gain and loss, are probably based on Qurʾanic metaphors; see Q 2:16; 35:29; 61:10. I am thankful to Iqbal ʿAbd al-­Raziq for her insightful comment on this issue. 72. Duties of the Hearts, 425; al-­Hidāya, 408. Chapter 4 1. On al-­ākhira in the Qurʾan see Abdel Haleem, “Quranic Paradise,” 56; Lawson, “Paradise in the Qurʾān,” 103. 2. See Vajda, La Théologie ascétique, 109–­10; Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 152, 156; Guttmann, Philosophies of Judaism, 108–­9; Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 183n13; Dan, “Spiritual Ascent and Mysticism,” 313; Abrahamov, introduction, 14, 19, 20; idem, “Sources,” 19–­20. 3. Pines, History of Jewish Philosophy, 68 (my translation). For a comprehensive study of Halevi’s doctrine of the World to Come see Lasker, “Eschatology and Messianism.” 4. Pines, History of Jewish Philosophy, 68. 5. Indeed, a scholar of the stature of Julius Guttmann saw the very appearance of the category of the World to Come in Jewish discourses as only a solution to the problem of theodicy; Guttmann, Philosophies of Judaism, 38–­39. Guttmann offers the same explanation in his explication of the idea of the World to Come in Saʿadya, which is one of the most significant references to this idea in his study; see ibid., 71–­73. See further examples in Pines, History of Jewish Philosophy, 37; Schlanger, La philosophie de Salomon ibn Gabirol, 244; Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 97–­99. Exceptional in this regard, as in many other respects, are studies that address Maimonides and his conception of the World to Come, especially in the introduction to Pereq Ḥeleq in the Commentary on the Mishnah; see, for instance, Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 153–­65; see also another exception with regard to medieval Kabbalah, Bar-­A sher, Journeys of the Soul. 6. Duties of the Hearts, 260; al-­Hidāya, 228. 7. Ibid. 8. On the relationship between this world as ephemeral and transitory and the World to Come as eternal see Duties of the Hearts, 272, 377; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 241, 355. 9. Baḥya asserts in this vein in the concluding gate of the work: “Exchange the desire for this world for the affairs of the World to Come and for the duties of your heart. When you keep them constantly in mind you will earn God’s satisfaction, His

Notes to Chapter 4 ­— 172 acceptance of you and your good deeds, and His pardon of your sins, whereupon you will become His favorite, as it is said: ‘I love them that love me’ (Prov 8:17).” Duties of the Hearts, 445; al-­Hidāya, 430. 10. On the role of this verse see also n. 63 of chapter 3. 11. For various sources preceding Baḥya that associate this verse with the notion of the World to Come see Sifre Deuteronomy (Finkelstein), sec. 356, p. 424; yAvodah Zara 42c; Genesis Rabbah 44:4, p. 428; Ecclesiastes Rabbah 12:10, sec. 1, and in numerous loci in Exodus Rabbah and the Tanḥuma literature. In medieval sources before the time of Baḥya, the verse was referred to in this context, among other loci, in Saʿadya’s baqashah, “O God, Lord of the earth”; Saʿadya Gaon, Doctrines and Beliefs, 172–­73 (cf. idem, Two Early Translations, 132); idem, Commentary on Proverbs, 133; Saʿadya’s introduction to Isaiah, in Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 160; Samuel ben Ḥofni, Biblical Commentary, 187; idem, Kitāb al-­Hidāya, 124; and in Karaite exegesis in a fragment of Benjamin al-­Nahāwandī commentary on Genesis, Mann, “Early Karaite Bible Commentaries,” 369; Salmon ben Yeruḥam, Commentary on Ecclesiastes, 257. 12. Duties of the Hearts, 389; al-­Hidāya, 369. 13. Duties of the Hearts, 89; al-­Hidāya, 19. 14. Yahuda (Duties of the Hearts [Yahuda], 79) remarks that this saying is attributed to Jesus in Muslim sources, and refers to al-­Ghazālī’s Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-­dīn; see other references in Gramlich, Weltverzicht, 35–­36. 15. Duties of the Hearts, 390; al-­Hidāya, 368. 16. Duties of the Hearts, 104; al-­Hidāya, 38. 17. Duties of the Hearts, 445; al-­Hidāya, 430. See another instance in which this image is evoked, through the integration of a verse from Isaiah (5:12), Duties of the Hearts, 92; al-­Hidāya, 22. 18. Duties of the Hearts, 389; al-­Hidāya, 368 (in footnote 12 the same quote is cited from p. 369, not 368). 19. Duties of the Hearts, 197; al-­Hidāya, 154. 20. Duties of the Hearts, 91; al-­Hidāya, 22. 21. Ibid. This notion is featured also in al-­Muḥāsibī, who argues that the soul, in principle, finds it hard to endure what is necessary for its redemption in the hereafter, and that it “refuses to bear the burden of leaving the luxuries of the world that it loves.” Al-­Muḥāsibī, al-­Masāʾil, 148, and discussion in Gramlich, Weltverzicht, 162; Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 34. 22. On the gradual increase of knowledge and understanding see Duties of the Hearts, 184; al-­Hidāya, 137. 23. Duties of the Hearts, 389–­90; al-­Hidāya, 368. 24. Duties of the Hearts, 427; al-­Hidāya, 410.

Notes to Chapter 4 ­— 173 25. Cf. the following expression: “immediate reward (al-­thawāb al-­ʿājil) and postponed [reward] (al-­ājil),” e.g., Duties of the Hearts, 187; al-­Hidāya, 141; Cf. Duties of the Hearts, 159, 187, 333; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 106, 142, 310. 26. Duties of the Hearts, 258–­59, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 227. 27. Duties of the Hearts, 258, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 226. 28. On this issue see further n. 23 of chapter 5. 29. See Baḥya’s statement in the Gate of the Purification of Human Acts, Duties of the Hearts, 281 (“because this matter [reward and punishment in the World to Come] is little explained in Scripture and there are but scant traces of it”), al-­Hidāya, 253; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 196–­97; al-­Hidāya, 153, in which Baḥya refers to scriptural “traces” or “signs” (āthār) of the reward of the World to Come. Indeed, Baḥya presents the tendency to believe that because the reward of the World to Come is not spelled out in Scripture it is in fact nonexistent as one of the temptations of the instinct (Duties of the Hearts, 281; al-­Hidāya, 253). Overcoming this temptation thus involves the hermeneutical undertaking of interpreting the “signs” properly. 30. Awareness of death and waking consciousness to focus on it are recurring themes in Muslim ascetic literature. Even though they are not particularly highlighted in the first compilation of the genre, Kitāb al-­zuhd by Ibn al-­Mubārak (d. 797), they are prevalent already in Kitāb al-­zuhd by Wakīʿ ibn al-­Jarrāḥ (d. 812?), and in Muḥāsabat al-­nafs by Ibn Abī al-­Dunyā (d. 894), whose writings were prevalent in al-­A ndalus, and see Vizcaíno, “Las obras de zuhd en Al-­A ndalus,” 222. 31. Duties of the Hearts, 311–­12; al-­Hidāya, 287. On the body after death in medieval thinking see Park, “Birth and Death,” 36–­39. This account, however, does not take account of Muslim sources. 32. Duties of the Hearts, 308; al-­Hidāya, 283. 33. Duties of the Hearts, 376–­77; al-­Hidāya, 356. 34. Duties of the Hearts, 377; al-­Hidāya, 356. 35. Duties of the Hearts, 265; al-­Hidāya, 234. 36. Duties of the Hearts, 265–­66; al-­Hidāya, 234. 37. Duties of the Hearts, 266; al-­Hidāya, 234. 38. On the fear that reward in this world (given for the fulfillment of the duties of the members) will come at the expense of the reward of the World to Come, see Baḥya’s assertion: “The ancient pious men were frightened and terrified whenever God accorded them a grace in this world. What they feared was that they would fail to pay Him His due obedience and thanks, which might have caused their destruction in the other world . . . and they feared that this grace might be God’s reward for their obedience; this could reduce their reward in the other world for their pious actions.” Duties of the Hearts, 206; al-­Hidāya, 166.

Notes to Chapter 4 ­— 174 39. This issue is also addressed in the development of a consciousness of being a “ ‘stranger” in this world, and of knowing that being in the world is transitory, that the soul must not seek rest in this condition, and that one must constantly strive to understand and to fulfill his duties toward the “sovereign” of this world. In Baḥya’s formulation: “A man must make a reckoning with himself concerning his condition as a sojourner in this world. He should regard himself in it as a man who is a stranger in an alien place. . . . Among the obligations that derive from his being a stranger in this world are: . . . He should always be ready for his journey and he should prepare for the way by never resting in peace and idle tranquility. . . . He should study the customs of the place, and its laws, as well as the rights of its ruler and his obligations to him.” Duties of the Hearts, 394–­95; al-­Hidāya, 375; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 424; al-­Hidāya, 407, in which Baḥya contrasts the ones who “seek comforts, but find only trouble,” with those who have left the state of “rest” or “comfort” (rāḥa) and “befriended” God. In general, Baḥya’s attitude toward the notion of “rest” is charged with tension, and is not completely negative. Thus, from one perspective, Baḥya sees the very focus on the duties of the heart as necessitating the soul to be restful from its constant involvement with the world. Moreover, Baḥya portrays the World to Come as a horizon of restfulness for the soul; see both aspects pronounced in Duties of the Hearts, 401; al-­Hidāya, 381. 40. See the various appearances of the term in al-­Hidāya, 69, 106, 131, 154, 164, 209 (two times), 224, 226, 227 (two times), 228 (two times), 229 (two times), 252, 258. 41. Duties of the Hearts, 256; al-­Hidāya, 224. 42. On Baḥya’s conception of the layered structured of Scripture see chapter 5. 43. Duties of the Hearts, 425; al-­Hidāya, 408. This source is further discussed on pp. 95–96 above. On the metaphors of commerce and of gains and losses, see n. 71 of chapter 3. 44. On the different ranks of ahl al-­sharīʿa see Duties of the Hearts, 192–­95; al-­ Hidāya, 151–­55. For further discussion of this list see above p. 90; on the related list of the ten ranks of the “knowledge of the Torah” (ʿilm al-­kitāb). and below p. 132. 45. For further discussion of the “friends of God” (awliyāʾ) see above chapter 3 section 2. 46. Duties of the Hearts, 198, my italicization; al-­Hidāya, 155. Abrahamov, too, noted this tension; see Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 129n75. 47. Cf. Baḥya’s use of iyyaḥfil in Duties of the Hearts, 309; al-­Hidāya, 284, and compare also with Maimonides, Commentary on the Mishnah, Zeraʿim, 385. 48. For other appearances of this dictum (mAvot 1:3), in which the same interpretation is reflected, see Duties of the Hearts, 183–­84, 262, 267, 295, 363, 436; respectively,

Notes to Chapter 4 ­— 175 al-­Hidāya, 137, 230, 236, 268, 340, 420. For further discussion on Baḥya’s notion of tractate Avot as an important resource for understanding the duties of the heart, see n. 36 of chapter 5. For the possible acquaintance of Muslims with this very dictum from tractate Avot see Wasserstein, “An Arabic Version of Abot 1:3”; However, see Fenton’s disputation of this identification in Fenton, “Observation à propos”; and Wasserstein’s subsequent response in Wasserstein, “Encore une fois Abot 1:3.” 49. Duties of the Hearts, 197; al-­Hidāya, 154. 50. For parallel discussions in several Muslim schools of thought (although with different conclusions from that of Baḥya), see Massignon, La passion, 3:121. 51. Duties of the Hearts, 260; al-­Hidāya, p. 228. 52. On the requirement to “withdraw” not only from this world, but also from the World to Come, see Massignon, La passion, 3:40. Going beyond the principle of reward is presented by Baḥya also as associated with a supreme level of the love of God, which he defines as love “for the very essence and substance [of God], neither from fear nor from hope [of gain].” Duties of the Hearts, 429, al-­Hidāya, 412. Such an approach was criticized from a Shi’ite perspective as part of a more general critique of Sufism that was leveled by Jamāl al-­Dīn al-­Murtaḍā al-­R āzī (first half of the twelfth century). In his Tabṣirat al-­ʻawwām fī maʻrifat maqālāt al-­anām (Instructions for the common people concerning the knowledge of human discourses), al-­R āzī criticizes the Sufis for worshipping God out of their sheer love, and not out of longing for the hereafter or the fear of punishment. To bolster his criticism, he brings the case of Muhammad praying for paradise and seeking refuge in God from the fire of hell; see Pourjavady, “Opposition to Sufism,” 616. 53. Duties of the Hearts, 294–­95; al-­Hidāya, 268. 54. Duties of the Hearts, 184; al-­Hidāya, 137. 55. Duties of the Hearts, 363; al-­Hidāya, 340. For further discussion of the purification of human acts, see Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 152–­55, 160–­67. 56. See discussion in pp. 59–60 above. 57. Duties of the Hearts, 260; al-­Hidāya, 228. On the principle of grace and its role in one’s very existence in the world see chapter 3 section 3. 58. Baḥya employs the compound “one of the righteous (al-­ṣāliḥīn)” to tacitly refer to a Muslim source, supplying no further attribution. See further instances in Duties of the Hearts, 143, 202, 227, 246–­47, 262, 267, 271, 277, 290, 316, 320, 344, 381–­82, 436, 445; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 85, 161, 190, 212–­13, 230, 236, 240, 248, 263, 291, 296, 321, 360–­61, 420, 430. Alternatively, Baḥya uses several other compounds: “one of the sages (al-­ḥuqamāʾ),” in Duties of the Hearts, 160 (meaning, in this case, a philosopher, cf. Baḥya’s explicit references to “one of the philosophers [ falāsifa],” Duties of the Hearts,

Notes to Chapter 4 ­— 176 146, 169; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 56, 90), 191, 289, 377, 390; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 107, 147, 265, 356, 369; “one of the ascetics (zuhhād),” in a similar use in Duties of the Hearts, 228, 252–­53, 364; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 191, 219–­20, 342–­43; “one of the virtuous (afāḍil),” Duties of the Hearts, 288, 292–­93, 410–­11, 428; respectively, al-­Hidāya, 260, 265, 393–­94, 412; “one of those who rely on God (mutawakkilīn)” (referred to in the Gate of Reliance on God, which may explain the specific use), Duties of the Hearts, 272; al-­Hidāya, 241; “one of the knowers (ʿārifīn),” Duties of the Hearts, 142; al-­Hidāya, 84; “one of those who know (ʿulamāʾ) God,” Duties of the Hearts, 388; al-­Hidāya, 367; “one of the scholars (ʿulamāʾ),” Duties of the Hearts, 93 (two times), 325; al-­Hidāya, 24, 301; “one of those who fear (khāʾifīn) [God],” Duties of the Hearts, 436; al-­Hidāya, 420. In many cases, Baḥya adds to these citations a source from Jewish canonical literature as a counterpart. 59. Duties of the Hearts, 262; al-­Hidāya, 230. 60. Duties of the Hearts, 188; al-­Hidāya, 142. 61. Duties of the Hearts, 258; al-­Hidāya, 226. 62. Duties of the Hearts, 263; al-­Hidāya, 231; cf. Duties of the Hearts, 188; al-­Hidāya, 142. 63. It is possible that this stark difference between the two authors stems, at least in part, from the difference between the lush descriptions of paradise in the Qurʾan, and the relatively limited descriptions of the World to Come in Jewish canonical sources preceding Baḥya. For studies on paradise in the Qurʾan see Neuwirth, “Paradise as a Quranic Discourse”; Abdel Haleem, “Quranic Paradise”; Lawson, “Paradise in the Qurʾān.” For a comprehensive study of paradise in medieval Kabbalah see Bar-­A sher, Journeys of the Soul. 64. On al-­Muḥāsibī’s Kitāb al-­tawahhum see al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­tawahhum (Roman), 11–­34; Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 14–­15, 137–­38, 214; Picken, Spiritual Purification, 72–­73. Smith has noted similarities between Kitāb al-­tawahhum and a work by al-­Ghazāli, al-­Durra al-­fākhira fi kashf ʿulūm al-­ākhira (The precious pearl in the revelation of the sciences of the hereafter); see Smith, al-­Muḥāsibī, 269–­70. The book catalogue ( fihrist) of Ibn Khayr al-­Ishbīlī attests to the presence of Kitāb al-­ tawahhum in al-­A ndalus in the twelfth century; see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 15. On the authenticity of the attribution of Kitāb al-­tawahhum to al-­Muḥāsibī see Van Ess, “Die Doktorarbeit,” 316–­17 (reprinted in van Ess, Kleine Schriften, 2392–­93). On the term tawahhum see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 137. Kitāb al-­tawahhum is not the only work that addresses this topic. Preceding it are a work by ʿAbd al-­Malik ibn Ḥabīb al-­A ndalusī (d. 853), Kitāb waṣf al-­firdaws, as well as a significant part of a work by Hannād ibn al-­Sarī (d. 858), Kitāb al-­zuhd. However, these works differ from Kitāb

Notes to Chapters 4 and 5 ­— 177 al-­tawahhum, in that the former consist of a compilation of hadith sources organized according to a thematic structure, while the latter description of paradise is more independent. On different patterns of works specifically devoted to “sciences of the hereafter” (ʿulūm al-­ākhira), see Günther, “Poetics of Islamic Eschatology,” 194–­95. 65. There seems to be no difference between the hereafter (al-­ākhira) and paradise in the works of al-­Muḥāsibī. The focus on pleasure in the hereafter is exceptional in Muslim ascetic works that addressed the issue of the afterlife. Much more prevalent is an emphasis on the dread of judgment and the torments that await the punished; see Nagel, “Paradise Lost,” 38. 66. Al-­Muḥāsibī not only integrates Qurʾanic descriptions of paradise, but he also independently elaborates on some Qurʾanic motifs associated with paradise. 67. Al-­Muḥāsibī, Kitāb al-­tawahhum, §184, and see translation to French translation ibid., 70. 68. See Van Ess, Theology and Society, 5:226. 69. Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 138. 70. On Baḥya’s use of the Arabic root l-­ṭ-­f, see Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 286n6. On different patterns of using laṭāʾif to regulate the relationship, or to mediate between the body and what is nonbodily, see Massignon, La passion,3:16–­17. 71. Duties of the Hearts, 258; al-­Hidāya, 226. On a source from the Epistles of the Brethren of Purity in which it is argued that the soul, after its detachment from the body, joins the angelic cohort, see Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 180n89 (cf. Abrahamov, “The Sources,” 19–­20); see ibid. also a reference to a Geniza fragment surveyed by Friedman on human beings becoming angelic after their demise, Friedman, Maimonides, 143. 72. According to Baḥya: “The Creator’s purpose in creating mankind was to train the soul (riyāḍat al-­nafs) and test it in this world, in order to purify it and attach it to the rank of the holy angels,” Duties of the Hearts, 403; al-­Hidāya, 384; on riyāḍa in the Duties of the Hearts see further in Michaelis, “Ṣūfī Terminology,” 258. 73. Baḥya terms this “the joy of obeying God” (iltidhādh’ bi-­ṭāʿat Allāh), which means not only a sense of pleasure, but also a reflective aspect that causes an elevated state of happiness, termed surūr. 74. Duties of the Hearts, 351; al-­Hidāya, 328–­29. Chapter 5 1. On the structure of the Jewish tradition and the issue of Judaism as a “tradition” in the Middle Ages, see Pines, Studies in the History of Jewish Philosophy, 7, 16; Pines et al., “A Discussion on Science,” 13–­15; and see remarks on Pines’s notion of the Jewish tradition

Notes to Chapter 5 ­— 178 in Agamben, “Il teorema di Pines,” 8–­9. On the modes of transformation of medieval tradition in an interreligious perspective see Stroumsa, “Whirlpool Effects,” 159. 2. On the crucial role of the term bāṭin in Baḥya’s construction of the inner life of religion see Sviri, “Mysticism,” 915–­16; eadem, “Spiritual Trends,” Krinis, Stranger. I am indebted to Ehud Krinis for sharing with me some chapters of his work in progress and for his remarks. 3. On the term “medium” in relation to the notion of “tradition” see Giddens, “Living in a Post-­Traditional Society,” 59–­109; On the idea of “inner history” that is drawn from the late theory of experience of Edmund Husserl and is brought to bear on the structure of traditions see Gadamer, Wahrheit und Methode, 207–­9. 4. On ʿilm al-­bāṭin see n. 26 of this chapter. 5. Duties of the Hearts, 137–­38; al-­Hidāya, 89–­90. 6. See Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 181n10, 183n13. 7. Duties of the Hearts, 88; al-­Hidāya, 17–­18. 8. Baḥya gathers three items in one category of books that aimed at “instilling the matters of religion in our heart by way of rational demonstration (istiḍlāl) and the refutation of those who disagreed with us.” These are Saʿadya’s Kitāb al-­amānāt wa’ l-­ iʿtiqādāt (Book of beliefs and opinions), the Book of Principles of Religion, which possibly refers to a work by Samuel ben Ḥofni (see n. 17 of chapter 1 above), and The Book of al-­Muqammiṣ, which refers to Dawūd ibn Marwān al-­Muqammiṣ. (Stroumsa argues that Baḥya refers here specifically to al-­Muqammiṣ’s ʿIshrūn maqāla, and see further on the appellation Book of al-­Muqammiṣ in Stroumsa, al-­Muqammiṣ, 27.) It is difficult to understand Baḥya’s logic in listing these books together, and whether he saw them as forming an inner-­Jewish tradition of some kind. It is also difficult to ascertain if Baḥya’s focus is on the polemical aspect of these works, the effort of “instilling of the matters of religion,” or the rational mode of inquiry that aims at indisputable proofs. 9. Duties of the Hearts, 89; al-­Hidāya, 18. 10. Duties of the Hearts, 89; al-­Hidāya, 18–­19. 11. The second possibility is articulated further on by Baḥya: “When intentions are defective, deeds are not acceptable to God,” Duties of the Hearts, 97; al-­Hidāya, 29–­30. On the nature of the relations between the duties of the heart and the duties of the members see above chapter 2, section 2. 12. See Duties of the Hearts, 90; al-­Hidāya, 19–­20. With regards to the phrase “the books of the rest of the prophets” see also al-­Hidāya, 253, where the category also consists of biblical wisdom literature. 13. See Duties of the Hearts, 90–­91; al-­Hidāya, 20–­21. 14. On Baḥya’s attitude toward the Geonim of Babylonia, and specifically Saʿadya, see n. 17 of chapter 1.

Notes to Chapter 5 ­— 179 15. The term tanbīh is further discussed at n. 45 of chapter 5 below. 16. This refers not only to the rational demonstration of what is already known from traditional sources, nor to rational speculation per se, but to the achievement of knowledge of religious duties that were not acknowledged as duties in any other way, and to the enhancement of the scope of duties that are learned in other ways; see further in chapter 2 of this study. On the duty of rational speculation and of providing rational demonstration to traditional knowledge see Abrahamov, “Obligation to Speculate,” 71–­80. 17. Baḥya dedicates the entire first gate of his work to this duty; see Kaufmann, Die Theologie, 52–­71; Lobel, A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue, 146–­52. 18. Duties of the Hearts, 93; al-­Hidāya, 24. 19. Ibid. 20. This is the “works of the hearts” (ʾaʿmāl al-­qulūb), a phrase in use already in the works of Christian authors in late antiquity (Syriac: ‫)ܥܡܠܐ ܕܠܝܒܐ‬, which resurfaces in sources of early Islamic asceticism, and becomes prominent in the works of al-­Muḥāsibī. See Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 207–­8; Sviri, Sufis, 308n34; Smith, al-­Muḥāsibī, 87; on the relation of ʿilm and ʾaʿmal see Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 36, 80–­81. 21. See above at n. 7 of chapter 4. 22. See Duties of the Hearts, 260; al-­Hidāya, 238. 23. The distinction between the multitudes ( jumhūr) and an elite of elect few (khawāṣṣ) is not exhaustive of Baḥya’s work. In addition, Baḥya seems to attempt to create a circle of addressees that is not limited to an elect few but who he does not regard as the multitude; see Duties of the Hearts, 148; al-­Hidāya, 93. This is the reason, argues Baḥya, that he wrote the book in Arabic, the prevalent language for most of “the people of the generation,” and employs metaphors and similes. 24. Duties of the Hearts, 260–­61; al-­Hidāya, 228–­29. 25. Baḥya employs the term Kitāb Allāh frequently in his work. This phrase is sometimes used to signify the Hebrew Bible by other medieval Rabbanites and Karaite authors writing in Judeo-­A rabic. On the term Kitāb Allāh in Qur’anic discourses and in other Islamic discourses of the ninth to tenth centuries see Andani, “Revelation in Islam,” 110–­91. For other cases of the use of this term by Jewish authors in light of Muslim sources and approaches, see Ben-­Shammai, “Return to the Scriptures,” 319–­39, esp. 333–­36; Possibly, in some cases, the use of Kitāb Allāh by both Rabbanite and Karaite authors had a polemical aspect and responded to the accusation of the falsification of the Bible; see Lazarus-­Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds, 70–­71. 26. Abrahamov suggests that there is no esoteric dimension of concealed knowledge in the term ʿilm al-­bāṭin in Baḥya’s discourse. Instead, he argues that the term

Notes to Chapter 5 ­— 180 signifies only one’s orientation toward the duties of the heart; see Duties of the Heart (Abrahamov), 73n29. However, see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 181nn 9–­10. See further on ʿilm al-­bāṭin in Baḥya’s work in Steinschneider, Jewish Literature, 101; Yahuda, “Die Islamischen Quellen,” 97. On the tension between two senses of ʿilm al-­bāṭin in Sufi discourses, and on the similarities and differences between Sufi and Ismāʿīlī use of the term see Goldreich, “An Unknown Treatise,” 176; for more on ʿilm al-­bāṭin in al-­A ndalus see Fierro, “Bāṭinism in Al-­A ndalus,” 106; Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 26n79. Nonetheless, it seems that there were cases in which the very distinction between different kinds of bāṭinism in al-­A ndalus was unstable or even undetermined, and sometimes merged in the figure of a specific thinker or in the circle of disciples of one master; see Marin, “Abû Saîd Ibn al-­A râbî,” 33–­34; and also Ibn Khamīs, Kitāb al-­garīb, 106–­29. On earlier uses of the term, especially in circles of Muslim mystics and ascetics, see the appendix to Radtke, “Theologen und Mystiker,” 551–­65, and see some more sources in Goldreich, “An Unknown Treatise,” 176–­77 and notes ibid. Interestingly, al-­Muḥāsibī presents the term ʿilm al-­bāṭin programmatically in a way incongruent with Baḥya. In his Kitāb al-­ʿilm, al-­Muḥāsibī labels three categories of knowledge: ʿilm al-­ẓāhir (external or manifest knowledge), ʿilm al-­bāṭin (inner knowledge), and ʿilm bi-­Allāh; see an Arabic edition of the treatise appended to Librande, “Islam and Conservation,” 125–­46, in 141 ll. 3–­4. However, see traditions on al-­Muḥāsibī brought in Metzler, Den Koran verstehen, 353. 27. Duties of the Hearts, 88; al-­Hidāya, 17–­18. 28. Baḥya gives Saʿadya as a noticeable example of an author of exegetical literature who focused on the interpretation of the “words and their meanings,” that is, on what Baḥya related to as an exegetical trend that does not pay heed to the “inner” dimension of Scripture. Even though this depiction is generally congruent with Saʿadya’s mode of interpretation, it does not cover the whole range of the rich and multifarious exegetical approach, which also include bāṭin and sirr interpretations in various cases, and especially in his commentary on Proverbs. See Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary to Proverbs on Prov 5:14–­20 (56–­57); 7:5–­23 (68–­72, esp. 72); 11:1 (93); 11:26 (98); 12:9 (100); 12:11 (ibid.); 19:11 (143); 19:13 (144); 20:4 (150); 20:26 (257); 21:14 (163); 22:13 (172); 22:24–­25 (175); 24:27 (191); 25:8–­10 (197); 28:10 (229); 29:21 (242). Qāfiḥ does not distinguish in his translation between bāṭin and maʿani, and translates both as “matter” (Heb: ʿinyan); See further on bāṭin in Saʿadya in Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 306, 319, 322, 345–­48. 29. This has been interpreted as a possible dispute with Karaism; see Abrahamov’s note in Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 199n29. On the Karaite presence in al-­ Andalus, see n. 73 of chapter 1. 30. Duties of the Hearts, 193; al-­Hidāya, 148; See further Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 124n57.

Notes to Chapter 5 ­— 181 31. Duties of the Hearts, 193; al-­Hidāya, 149. 32. Duties of the Hearts, 194; al-­Hidāya, 150. 33. Duties of the Hearts, 388; al-­Hidāya, 367–­68. On the distinction between muḥkam and mutashābih in Qur’anic exegesis see Wansbrough, Quranic Studies, 149–­ 50; on this distinction in Saʿadya see Zucker, Rav Saadya Gaon’s Translation, 331–­32, 335; Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Genesis, 38–­44, and Saʿadya’s exposition of the distinction in 17–­18 (Arabic), 191 (Heb. trans.); See further Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 338–­39. 34. See, for instance, Saʿadya’s presentation of exegetical principles in Kitāb al-­ amānāt wa’ l-­iʿtiqādāt, 219–­20; Cf. Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Genesis, 17–­18 (Heb. 190–­91); Saʿadya’s introduction to Isaiah printed in Ben-­Shammai, Leader’s Project, 170–­73; Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Job, 20–­21. 35. “Manifesting” the inner perfection is presented as one of the temptations of the instincts (“you should show your deeds, uncover your behavior before the people”) that are to be controlled, see Duties of the Hearts, 289; al-­Hidāya, 262. This mode of manifestation is considered by Baḥya as “pretense” (riyā’); on riyā’ see Lobel, A Sufi-­ Jewish Dialogue, 160–­63, 166–­67, 170–­75. 36. See Duties of the Hearts, 90–­91, 97; al-­Hidāya, 21, 28. On the incorporation of biography and hagiography in Arabic literature in medieval al-­A ndalus see Marín, “Biography and Prosopography,” 1–­17; eadem, “Parentesco simbólico,” 335–­56. Baḥya assigns a special role to the Mishnaic tractate Avot and distinguishes it from the rest of the Talmudic corpus. Avot, he argues, includes a more detailed account and prefigures the mode by which the duties of the heart are to be addressed. Indeed, in his introduction, Baḥya uses Avot extensively, an issue that warrants further study. For more on Avot in al-­A ndalus see further n. 48 of chapter 4. 37. Duties of the Hearts, 92; al-­Hidāya, 23. 38. Duties of the Hearts, 96; al-­Hidāya, 27. 39. On these two formulations see further discussion at pp. 56–58 above. 40. Duties of the Hearts, 105–­6; al-­Hidāya, 40. My italicization. 41. On employing Psalm 25:14 to indicate esoteric knowledge see already Tanḥuma, Lekh Lekha, para. 19; Vayeira, para. 5. 42. See also Saʿadya’s interpretation of Psalm 37:9 (“those who look to God shall inherit the land”): “With regards to the several references in this psalm to the righteous who shall inherit the land, it can be interpreted in several ways . . . meaning the place of recompense (dār al-­thawāb) for it is called ‘land’ as it is said: ‘enjoy the goodness of God in the land of the living’ (Ps 27:13).” See Saʿadya Gaon, Commentary on Psalms, 114; Cf. Qurʾan 21:105. 43. See Duties of the Hearts, 356; al-­Hidāya, 333.

Notes to Chapter 5 ­— 182 44. Duties of the Hearts, 397; al-­Hidāya, 377. 45. On tanbīh see note in Duties of the Hearts (Abrahamov), 39n96; Lobel, A Sufi-­ Jewish Dialogue, 179–­82, 190–­92. For a different perspective on the use of the term in Baḥya see Vajda, La théologie, 58. For the originality of the work’s subtitle see Yahuda, Prolegomena, 39; However, see Goldreich, “Possible Arabic Sources,” 194n69.

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Index

Abrahamov, Binyamin –­57, 89–­90, 142 no. 1, 144 no. 18, 148 no. 72, 150 no. 92, 157 no. 55, 158 no. 65, 164 no. 7, 18, 171 no. 2, 174 no. 46, 177 no. 71, 179 no. 16, 26, 182 no. 45 adab (proper conduct) –­15, 18, 38 al-­ākhira (the world to come, the hereafter) –­97–­124, 97, 171 no. 1, 177 no. 64–­65 thawāb (reward of the world to come) -­99, 101, 112, 117, 119; ḥubb (love of the world to come) –­101; raḥīl ilā (journey to the world to come) –­108, 122 Al-­A ndalus –­7, 12, 34, 86, 92, 128, 139 no. 1, 140 no. 9, 143 no. 17, 147 no. 55, 148 no. 72–­73, 159 no. 68, 161 no. 82, 163 no. 100, 168 no. 54, 173 no. 30, 176 no. 64, 180 no. 26, 181 no. 36 ʿaql –­see Intellect Asceticism (zuhd, perishut) –­12, 41–­42, 95, 111, 152 no. 16, 168 no. 56, 179 no. 20 aṣfiyāʾ ([God’s] favorites) –­41, 80, 94–­95 āthār –­see Traces Awe (yir’ah) –­3, 81

al-­Balkhī, Shaqīq –­31 al-­Baṣīr, Yūsuf –­28–­29, 147 no. 55–­57 al-­Baṣrī, Ḥasan –­31, 166 no. 41, 169 no. 59 bāṭin –­see Inner Ben Moshe, Ṭovia –­28, 146 no. 39, 147 no. 56 Ben Shammai, Haggai –­140 no. 3, 5, 145 no. 34, 146 no. 39–­40, 147 no. 55, 148 no. 73, 154 no. 31, 156 no. 53, 160 no. 80, 161 no. 82, 167 no. 48, 171 no. 5, 172 no. 11, 179 no. 25, 180 no. 28, 181 no. 33–­34 Ben Shelamya, Asher of Lunel –­41–­43, 150 no. 101 Ben Yefet, Levi –­24–­28, 98–­99, 128, 145 no. 27, 146 no. 39, 42, 44, 46–­49, 147 no. 51–­55 Bretheren of Purity, Epistles of (Rasāʾil al-­ikhwān al-­ṣafāʾ), -­86–­87, 92, 153 no. 19, 166 no. 38, 177 no. 71 Cairo Genizah –­1, 28, 139 no. 1, 140 no. 5, 147 no. 52, no. 57, 153 no. 20, 177 no. 71

203

Index ­— 204 Commandments –­2–­5, 7, 9, 11, 17, 19–­26, 29, 33, 35, 38–­9, 43, 45, 50, 53, 56–­60, 63–­67, 69–­71, 73–­76, 84, 86–­87, 99, 109, 112, 118, 122, 125, 127, 129–­131, 136, 140 no. 3, 141 no. 16, 142 no. 2, 146 no. 39, 42, 44, 46, 147 no. 51–­54, 151 no. 106, 156 no. 51, 53, 157 no. 54, 158 no. 65, 159 no. 66, 160 no. 80–­82, 161 no. 88, 162 no. 94, 97, 98; of Revelation (al-­samʿiyya) –­19, 63, 70, 160 no. 81, 162 no. 88, no. 94; of Reason (al-­ʿaqliyya) –­19, 38, 63, 65, 151 no. 106; Knowledge of, see knowledge of the Law Contemplation (careful consideration, iʿtibār) –­6–­7, 11–­12, 60–­63, 87, 159 no. 68, 72 Christianity –­9, 179 no. 20 ḍamīr –­see Inner Dan, Joseph –­17, 39, 140 no. 10, 142 no. 7–­8, 145 no. 30, 149 no. 88, 171 no. 2 Day of Judgment (yawm al-­dīn, day of reckoning) –­32, 108–­109, 119 Devotion (inqiṭāʿ) -­75, 80, 84–­86, 93–­ 94, 104, 115, 164 no. 13 Duties of the members ( farāʾiḍ al-­ jawāriḥ) –­4, 15–­16, 30, 35, 37–­39, 45, 52–­58, 63–­65, 73, 86, 97, 100–­102, 112, 118, 123, 125, 127, 130, 135, 144 no. 18, 149 no. 87, 151 no. 106, 153 no. 20, 155 no. 41, 156 no. 51, 157 no. 54, 163 no. 101, 173 no. 38, 178 no. 11 Ex gratia (lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din) –­17, 40, 43 External (exterior, exteriority, manifest, ẓāhir) –­3, 5, 7–­8, 10–­11, 15–­16, 33, 46–­

50, 52–­56, 61, 73–­74, 79, 82, 84, 87, 101–­103, 107, 109, 111, 116, 123, 125, 127, 129, 131, 133, 135, 152 no. 8, 154 no. 36, 163 no. 2, 180 no. 26 faḍal –­see Virtue fahm (comprehension, understanding) –­51, 67, 154 no. 30, 172 no. 22 farāʾiḍ al-­jawāriḥ -­see Duties of the Members farḍ –­see Obligation Geonim –­3, 128, 132, 143 no. 17 Al-­Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid –­172 no. 14, 176 no. 64 God, Assitance of (divine support, taʾyīd) –­86–­87, 165 no. 29; Gaze of –­ 5–­6, 48, 53, 78–­80, 87–­89, 92, 99, 120; existence of –­47–­48, 50–­51, 60–­63, 159 no. 72; for love of God, see love Goldreich, Amos –­17, 34, 48, 140 no. 8, 141 no. 12, 17, 142 no. 2, 10, 143 no. 18, 149 no. 87, 152 no. 9–­10, 155 no. 45, 51, 156 no 53, 157 no. 56, 171 no. 2, 178 no. 6, 179 no. 20, 180 no. 26, 182 no. 45 Grace (divine; niʿmah) –­6–­7, 15, 32, 44, 48, 51–­52, 58, 60–­63, 65, 68–­74, 83–­84, 88, 90, 90–­93, 95, 101, 113–­114, 116–­118, 154 no. 29, 158 no. 58, 159 no. 72–­73, 160 no. 81, 162 no. 88, 163 no. 101–­102, 171 no. 71, 173 no. 38 Halakha –­2, 4–­5, 16–­18, 33, 40, 59, 75, 125, 162 no. 88 Halevi, Judah (the kuzari) –­98–­99, 150 no. 92 hawā (inclination, desire) –­36, 49, 92, 115

Index ­— 205 ḥawāss –­see Senses ḥikma –­see Wisdom Hypernomianism –­18, 142 no. 13 ʿibāda –­see Worship Ibn Tibbon, Judah –­40–­43, 57, 139 no. 3, 149 no. 76, 150 no. 103, 151 no. 105, 107 idrāk –­see Perception ikhlāṣ (purification) –­36, 39,49, 90, 153 no. 22, 167 no. 41, 150 no. 90, 95 ikhtibār (trial) –­49, 153 no. 21 ilhām –­see Inspiration ʿilm – ­ ­see Knowledge Individualism –­73–­76, 79 Inference (istiḍlāl) –­15, 26, 47, 50, 61, 155 no. 41 Infinite (infinity) –­2, 57–­60, 63–­65, 69, 72, 74, 82, 84, 94, 100, 116, 136, 157 no. 54, 56, 158 no. 58 Inner (interior, interiority, internal, hidden, bāṭin, ḍamīr) –­2–­11, 15–­16, 32–­33, 35, 37, 40, 45–­76, 79–­80, 87–­88, 94–­96, 99, 101–­103, 106–­107, 111–­113, 115–­118, 123–­127, 129–­138, 142 no. 6, 152 no. 8, 12, 154 no. 36, 159 no. 67, 166 no. 41, 167 no. 41, 170 no. 68, 178 no. 2, 4, 179 no. 26, 180 no. 26, 28; Knowledge, see knowledge Inspiration (ilhām) –­60, 70–­71, 83, 89, 126, 158 no. 58, 167 no. 43–­44 Intellect (reason, ʿaql) –­5, 8–­9, 11, 33, 36, 46–­47, 50–­51, 57–­58, 60–­74, 77, 83–­88, 129–­130, 133, 153 no. 20, 154 no. 24, 30, 33, 155 no. 41, 157 no. 56, 158 no. 58, 60, 65, 159 no. 72, 160 no. 77–­78, 81, 162 no. 89, 163 no. 101, 166 no. 38, 40, 168 no. 51; Limits of –­46–­47;

for commandments of reason, see commandments Intention (intent, kavvanah) –­3, 17, 33, 35, 48, 55, 60, 74, 79, 114–­115, 121, 136, 178 no. 11 inqiṭāʿ -­see Devotion Ismāʿīlīyya –­92, 165 no. 29, 180 no. 26, istiḍlāl –­see Inference iʿtibār –­see Contemplation iʿtiqād –­see Opinion jumhūr –­see Many, the Kabbalah –­4, 17, 142 no. 13, 171 no. 5, 176 no. 63 Karaism (Karaite) –­13, 18–­29, 33–­34, 143 no. 17, 145 no. 34–­35, 146 no. 40, 146 no. 52, 148 no. 73, 157 no. 54, 56, 161 no. 86, 172 no. 11, 179 no. 25, 180 no. 29 Kaufmann, David –­140 no. 7, 143 no. 17, 148 no. 72, 179 no. 17, Knowledge (ʿilm) –­40, 47–­48, 51, 53, 55–­ 56, 60, 63–­73, 78, 87–­88, 113, 119–­122, 126–­138, 152 no. 8, 159 no. 67, 72, 160 no. 78, 162 no. 93, 166 no. 41, 172 no. 22, 175 no. 52, 179 no. 16, 26; of the Law (Torah, Scripture,ʿilm al-­kitāb) –­65–­66, 69, 132–­134, 160 no. 78, 174 no. 44; Esoteric –­181 no. 41; Inner (ʿilm al-­bāṭin) –­55, 6–­61, 64, 69, 88, 126–­127, 131–­138, 166 no. 41, 180 no. 26; Self -­47; of Duties –­55–­56, 60, 67, 88, 127, 135, 159 no. 67, 179 no. 16; of God –­90, 113, 159 no. 72 (see also: intellect, limits of) Koch, Patrick B. –­17–­18, 142 no. 12–­13 Kuzari, the book of –­see Halevi, Judah

Index ­— 206 Lasker, Daniel –­89, 149 no. 73, 167 no. 44, 171 no. 3 lifnim mi-­shurat ha-­din –­see Ex gratia Lobel, Diana –­139 no. 1, 140 no. 10, 143 no. 17, 144 no. 18, 148 no. 72, 155 no. 38, 163 no. 3, 164 no. 7, 166 no 38, 171 no. 2, 175 no. 55, 177 no. 70, 179 no. 17, 181 no. 35, 182 no. 45 Love (love of god, god’s love, ahava) –­3, 11, 17, 21–­22, 30–­31, 37–­38, 54, 79–­82, 85, 93–­94, 101–­106, 110, 141 no. 15, 145 no. 34, 153 no. 20, 172 no. 9, 175 no. 52; of the world –­106, 110 Maimonides, Moses –­145 no. 30, 165 no. 32, 171 no. 5, 174 no. 47 Mansoor, Menahem –­38, 142 no. 1, 144 no. 18, 155 no. 51 Many, the ( jumhūr, the multitudes, the masses, the public at large) –­106–­107, 130, 179 no. 23 Massignon, Louis –­31, 148 no. 56, 60, 151 no. 1, 152 no. 12, 153 no. 20, 154 no. 24, 157 no. 56, 158 no. 59, 162 no. 89, 163 no. 100, 103, 6, 165 no. 26, 29, 167 no. 47, 169 no. 56, 175 no. 50, 52, 177 no. 70 muḥāsaba (inward accounting, self-­ reckoning) –­32, 82, 87, 101, 104–­105, 109, 174 no. 39 al-­Muḥāsibī, Ḥārith –­18, 30–­37, 48–­52, 92–­93, 95, 119–­121, 123, 144 no. 18, 148 no. 62–­69, 72, 152 no. 10–­11, 13, 17, 154 no. 24, 159 no. 68, 166 no. 38, 168 no. 55, 169 no. 57, 59, 170 no. 60–­62, 68–­ 69, 71, 172 no. 21, 176 no. 64, 177 no. 65–­67, 179 no. 20, 180 no. 26

al-­Muqammiṣ, Dāwūd ibn Marwān –­ 143 no. 17, 144 no. 20, 178 no. 8 musar (ethico-­psychological literature) –­4, 17, 39–­40, 145 no. 30 Mysticism (mystical, mystic) –­9–­10, 13, 31, 33–­34, 47, 85, 90–­91, 148 no. 70, 151 no. 1, 153 no. 20, 158 no. 59, 167 no. 41, 43, 169 no. 56, 180 no. 26 nabī –­see Prophecy nafs (soul, self) –­6, 31–­32, 49, 101, 152 no. 16–­17, 153 no. 20–­22, 177 no. 72 nawāfil –­see Supererogation Neoplatonism –­6, 9, 85, 87, 121, 153 no. 19, 160 no. 76 niʿma –­see Grace nubuwwa –­see Prophecy Obedience (ṭāʿā) –­3, 8, 11, 15–­16, 32–­33, 37–­38, 48, 51–­54, 57, 58–­60, 62, 65–­66, 68–­70, 73, 80–­94, 101–­102, 112–­115, 119, 132, 140 no. 3, 141 no. 15, 153 no. 20, 154 no. 24, 31–­32, 155 no. 41, 158 no. 58, 159 no. 73, 160 no. 78, 164 no. 15, 17, 168 no. 51, 169 no. 57, 173 no. 38, 177 no. 73 Obligation (duty, fard, sharīʿa, ḥova; see also: commandment) –­3, 11, 15–­17, 20–­24, 26, 28–­29, 31, 35, 37–­38, 43–­ 44, 54–­55, 58–­59, 63, 65, 67–­69, 74, 76, 82–­84, 86, 90, 108, 113, 128–­129, 132, 141 no. 16, 146 no. 43, 147 no. 52, 159 no. 73, 160 no. 81, 164 no. 15, 174 no. 39 Opinion (conviction, belief, iʿtiqād) –­48, 52

Index ­— 207 Perception (idrāk) –­46–­47 Philosophy (science, for ʿilm see knowledge) –­4, 53, 67, 98 Pines, Shlomo –­98–­99, 115, 171 no. 3–­5, 177 no. 1 Pious (piousness, piety, hasid) –­2–­3, 5, 21, 29, 39–­42, 84, 95, 104, 113, 145 no. 30, 150 no. 92, 99, 168 no. 51, 173 no. 38 Prophecy (nubuwwa, prophet, nabī) –­ 19, 70–­71, 80, 84, 86, 89–­91, 96, 106–­ 107, 113, 128, 131, 133, 158 no. 65, 167 no. 41, 43, 47, 168 no. 51, 178 no. 12 Qāfiḥ, Yosef -­57. 149 no. 76, 150 no. 92, 158 no. 60, 164 no. 18, 165 no. 30, 167 no. 48, 180 no. 28 qalb (heart) –­45–­50, 54–­55, 153 no. 20, 22 Rasāʾil al-­ikhwān al-­ṣafāʾ -­see Brethren of Purity, Epistles of Religiosity –­2, 4, 73–­74, 76, 97, 128 Repentance (teshuva) –­11, 22, 37, 59–­60, 109, 122, 170 no. 60 Revelation –­19, 70, 89, 106, 120, 130, 151 no. 106, 158 no. 65, 162 no. 97, 179 no. 25; for commandments of revelation, see commandments Roots (of the law, uṣūl) –­20, 53, 57, 136, 142 no. 1, 156 no. 53, 161 no. 82; of Religion (uṣūl al-­dīn) –­143 no. 17 Saʿadya Gaon –­18–­19, 21, 43, 60, 63–­64, 140 no. 3, 143 no. 17, 144 no. 20–­2 1, 147 no. 52, 150 no. 92, 154 no. 27, 156 no. 53, 157 no. 55, 158 no. 65, 160 no. 80, 82, 161 no. 86, 165 no. 23, 166

no. 10, 167 no. 48, 171 no. 5, 172 no. 11, 178 no. 8, 14, 180 no. 28, 181 no. 33–­3 4, 42 Samuel ben Ḥofni –­18–­21, 28–­29, 31, 34, 40, 140 no. 3, 143 no. 17, 144 no. 22, 143 no. 23–­25, 29, 172 no. 11, 178 no. 8 Senses (ḥawāss; for spiritual senses, see also: spiritual) –­6, 46–­47, 50, 52, 132, 151 no. 3 sharīʿa -­see Obligation Spain –­1, 7, 148 no. 73 Spiritual (spirituality) –­2, 4, 17, 32, 38–­ 39, 46, 55, 95, 108, 135, 137 Sufism (sufi) –­9, 47, 74, 85, 92, 152 no. 16–­17, 158 no. 59, 163 no. 1, 165 no. 23, 166 no. 38, 168 no. 54, 56, 175 no. 52, 180 no. 26 Supererogation (miṣvot nedavah, nawāfil) –­3, 15–­44, 69, 83, 142 no. 1, 144 no. 20, 21, 145 no. 30, 146 no. 38, 147 no. 52, 149 no. 76, 79 Stroumsa, Sarah –­140 no. 5, 143 no. 17, 144 no. 20, 148 no. 72, 163 no. 100, 171 no. 5, 178 no. 1, 8, Sviri, Sara –­31, 148 no. 61, 68, 151 no. 1, 152 no. 10, 16, 153 no. 20, 158 no. 59, 163 no. 103, 165 no. 25, 166 no. 38, 168 no. 54, 178 no. 2, 179 no. 20 ṭāʿā –­see Obedience takfīr (atonement for wrongdoing) –­31, 37 takmīl (Complementing [of religious duties]) –­31, 37 tamyīz (discrimination) –­46, 61–­62, 133, 154 no. 30, taṣfīya (rectification) –­49

Index ­— 208 taʾyīd –­see God, assistance of Tishby, Isaiah –­17, 39, 142 no. 8, 145 no. 30, 149 no. 88 Traces (āthār) –­6, 61, 87, 159 no. 72 uṣūl –­see Roots Vajda, George –­10, 139 no. 1, 140 no. 10, 141 no. 12, 17–­18, 143 no. 17–­18, 146 no. 39, 147 no. 55, 148 no. 72, 157 no. 54, 171 no. 2, 182 no. 45 Van Ess, Josef –­120, 141 no. 12, 17, 143 no. 18, 148 no. 65–­67, 69, 72, 152 no. 11–­12, 17, 153 no. 20, 154 no. 24, 159 no. 68, 166 no. 38, 169 no. 56, 58–­59, 170 no. 68, 172 no. 21, 176 no. 64, 177 no. 68–­69, 179 no. 20, Virtue ( faḍal) –­36, 38–­39, 41, 49 walī (friend [of God], wilāya) –­30, 40–­ 43, 70–­71, 77, 89–­91, 94, 96, 129, 136,

150 no. 92, 163 no. 100, 167 no. 43, 48, 168 no. 54, 169 no. 57, 59 Wisdom (ḥikma, sage, ḥakīm, see also: Wise) –­47–­51, 61, 71, 87–­88, 127, 129, 150 no. 95, 159 no. 72–­73, Wise (ḥakham) –­41, 60, 64, 126, 150 no. 95 Wolfson, Harry Austryn, -­151 no. 3 Wolfson, Elliot –­18, 142 no. 13, Worship (ʿibāda) –­2, 7–­9, 16, 25, 32–­33, 38, 42–­43, 50–­58, 70, 73, 82, 92–­93, 96, 102, 114–­115, 135, 154 no. 31, 155 no. 41, 159 no. 73, 169 no. 57, 59, 170 no. 71, 175 no. 52 yawm al-­dīn –­see Day of Judgment Yefet ben ‘Eli –­21–­24, 145 no. 33–­36, 146 no. 37, 147 no. 52, 157 no. 55 ẓāhir –­see External zuhd –­see Asceticism

Stanford Studies in Jewish Mysticism Clémence Boulouque & Ariel Evan Mayse, editors Elliot R. Wolfson, The Philosophical Pathos of Susan Taubes: Between Nihilism and Hope Melila Hellner-Eshed, Seekers of the Face: Secrets of the Idra Rabba (The Great Assembly) of the Zohar Rabbi Menahem Nahum of Chernobyl, The Light of the Eyes: Homilies on the Torah, translation, introduction, and commentary by Arthur Green

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