Abū Ḥāmid Al-Ghazālī and His Revival of The Religious Sciences PDF

The First Islamic Reviver
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The First Islamic
Reviver
Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī and
His Revival of the Religious
Sciences
KENNETH GARDEN
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3
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Garden, Kenneth.
The first Islamic reviver : Abu Hamid al-Ghazali and his Revival of the religious sciences /
Kenneth Garden.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978–0–19–998962–1 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Ghazzali, 1058–1111. 2. Ghazzali,
1058–1111. Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din. 3. Islam—Doctrines—History. 4. Islamic
renewal—HIstory. I. Title.
BP80.G3G37 2014
297.2—dc23
2013017174
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
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For all my parents
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Contents
Preface and Acknowledgments xi
Introduction 1
A Misleading Autobiography 1
Recent Reassessments 5
Al-Ghazālī the Reviver 8
Chapter Overview 11
PART ONE: Al-Ghazālī Before His Revival
Chapter 1—Al-Ghazālī and the Seljuk Regime 17

Al-Ghazālī’s Service to the Seljuk Regime 19
Collapse into Civil War 22
Al-Ghazālī’s Crisis and Transformation in a Political Context 25
Chapter 2—The Scale of Action: An Intellectual Portrait of al-Ghazālī
on the Eve of His Departure from Baghdad 30
Sufism and Philosophy 31
The Scale of Action 40
Felicity in the Hereafter Is Attained through Knowledge and
Practice 41
A Third Way 47
Are the “Theoreticians” and the Philosophers One and
the Same? 49
Modifying Philosophy’s Practical Science 53
Al-Ghazālī and the Guides on the Path to Felicity 55
The Turning Point of 488/1095 56
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viii Contents
PART TWO: The Revival of the Religious Sciences
Chapter 3—The Revival and Its Agenda 63

The Content of the Revival 63
Felicity and the Telos of the Science of the Hereafter 70
The Science of Unveiling and the Theoretical Science 72
The Science of Praxis and the Practical Science 75
The Legal Ethics of the First Two Quarters 81
Acts of Worship 81
Acts of Daily Life 83
The Second Half on Ethical Self-Cultivation 87
Qualities Leading to Perdition 87
Qualities Leading to Salvation 92
Al-Ghazālī’s Cosmology 92
Love, Logic, and Death 98
Conclusion 101
Chapter 4—The Rhetoric of Revival: Authorizing Strategies and the
Presentation of the Science of the Hereafter 104
Conjuring a Sense of Crisis 105
Fingering the Culprits: Who Killed the Religious
Sciences? 107
Reviving the “Science of the Hereafter” 109
Demoting Law and Theology 111
The Law as a Science of the World 112
The Law’s Eclipse of the Science of the Hereafter 112
Kalām’s Eclipse of the Science of the Hereafter 115
The Science of the Hereafter Has Greater Authority than
Law or Theology in the Key Jurisdictions of Those
Disciplines 118
Did al-Ghazālī’s Authorizing Strategies Influence the
Substance of the Revival as Well as Its Presentation? 120
Conclusion 121
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Contents ix
PART THREE: Promoting the Revival in the World
Chapter 5—Promoting the Revival 125

Al-Ghazālī’s Self-Presentation to Members of the Regime 127
Writing Works on the Science of the Hereafter for Different
Audiences 130
Polemics Against the Ibāḥiyya 133
Promoting Careers of Scholars of the Hereafter 134
Recruiting, Instructing, and Retaining Disciples 135
Fakhr al-Mulk: al-Ghazālī’s Vizier-Disciple 138
Conclusion 141
Chapter 6—Defending the Revival 143
Hopes for the Return to Teaching 147
The Controversy—What It Was About 149
Al-Ghazālī Responds 155
Responding to Critics through The Distinguishing
Criterion 156
Responding to Critics by Casting Himself as the Deliverer
from Error 158
Al-Ghazālī’s Enemies Move against Him through an
Outside Agent 161
Al-Ghazālī’s Summons and Trial 163
Conclusion 166
Epilogue—Rereading the Deliverer 169
Notes 177
Works Cited 217
Index 225
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Preface and Acknowledgments
i first came to the Persian thinker al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) through my

interest in the history of al-Andalus on the opposite side of the Muslim
world. In 1998, I went to Madrid to look for a dissertation topic dealing
with Andalusi history, and it was there that Maribel Fierro of the Consejo
Superior de Investigaciones Científicas suggested that I work on the burn-
ing of The Revival of the Religious Sciences (Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn) in Córdoba
in 503/1109. At the time, I knew what most people knew about al-Ghazālī
and his Revival: that he had become a Sufi as a result of a spiritual crisis
in 488/1095, that the Revival was an encyclopedic work of Sufism, and
that this work, like its author, was impeccably “orthodox.” If this work
had been burned by religious scholars of al-Andalus under the Almoravid
regime, it was a great anomaly in the Muslim world that would surely
reveal something about the unique religious dynamics of the Islamic
West. I returned to the United States and, with the guidance of my advisor
at the University of Chicago, Wadad Kadi, and Mustapha Kamal, Robert
Dankoff, and Vincent Cornell, I did a preliminary survey of the fragmen-
tary sources on this event. With the help of a Fulbright grant, I then went
to Morocco in hopes of finding new sources that would allow me to solve
the puzzle of the burning. When no breakthroughs emerged from the few
new clues I did find, I turned my attention to the Revival itself. Had I not
read al-Ghazālī’s masterpiece with an eye to finding what was controver-
sial about it, this study in its present form would not have come about.
In the Revival, I did not find a staid compendium of Sufi instruc-
tion, but rather a bold blueprint for remaking Islam’s scholarly tradi-
tion. Al-Ghazālī set out to demote the reigning religious disciplines of
his day, chiefly law and the theological discipline known as kalām, and
promote in their place a discipline of al-Ghazālī’s own creation, which
he called the Science of the Hereafter. This new discipline was clearly
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xii Preface and Acknowledgments
indebted to Sufism but nowhere identified with it. The possibility that
the Revival itself, more than Andalusi exceptionalism, might explain
the burning, seemed more plausible. I then looked at a work al-Ghazālī
wrote in defense of his masterpiece, The Composition on the Critiques
of the Revival (al-Imlāʾ fī ishkālāt al-iḥyāʾ), which Albert Hourani had
suggested might be a response to the Andalusi burning. Internal evi-
dence showed that it could not have been. Instead, I discovered that
it must have been written in response to a controversy Josef van Ess
had discovered in al-Ghazālī’s Persian letters, and to which he had
linked al-Ghazālī’s famous autobiography, The Deliverer from Error
(al-Munqidh min al-ḍalāl). Suddenly, a new reading of al-Ghazālī’s life
and thought presented itself, and the Andalusi burning appeared in a
very different light.
After I defended my dissertation, I left aside the Andalusi contro-
versy (though I hope to publish my findings on this soon) and refo-
cused on al-Ghazālī, his Revival, and the controversy that had shaped his
self-presentation in the Deliverer, which in turn has guided modern schol-
ars’ understanding of his life and thought. Further study of al-Ghazālī’s
thought led me to an emerging line of revisionist accounts. Following
the insights of Richard Frank, scholars such as Jules Janssens and Frank
Griffel had begun to argue that the image of al-Ghazālī as a Sufi who had
refuted philosophy was wrong. His Doctrines [usually translated as The
Aims] of the Philosophers was an earnest synopsis of philosophical thought,
not a preparation for its refutation. His Precipitance [usually translated as
The Incoherence] of the Philosophers was not a refutation of philosophy, but
a critical engagement with it that sought to create space within it for the
claims of revelation. Sufism was ultimately less of a key to understanding
his later writings than was the thought of the great philosopher Ibn Sīnā
(428/1037). It was Frank Griffel in particular who initiated me into this
new scholarship and who found space for me at Yale University when my
wife was a postdoctoral fellow there. At Yale, I met Alexander Treiger, also
doing sophisticated work on al-Ghazālī, and over time I met other scholars
contributing to this emerging understanding of his thought, including
Scott Girdner, M. Afifi al-Akiti, and Yahya Michot. To their work on the
philosophical dimensions of al-Ghazālī’s thought, I found that I could add
a crucial biographical element.
I owe a debt of gratitude to many more friends and scholars than
those few mentioned above. Manuela Marín, Mercedes García-Arenal,
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Preface and Acknowledgments xiii
Fernando Rodriguez Mediano, Delfina Serrano Ruano, and Rachid

El-Hour also provided guidance while I was at the CSIC in Madrid.
Mohammad Bencherifa, M’hammad Benaboud, Mostapha Bensbaa,
Halima Ferhat, and Ibrahim Boutchiche all generously shared their
time and knowledge with me while in Morocco. Generous funding
from the Program for Cultural Cooperation of the Spanish Ministry of
Education and Culture, the Fulbright Commission, and the American
Institute for Maghrib Studies made my time in Spain and Morocco pos-
sible. Many libraries gave me a tranquil place to work, including the
University of Chicago’s Regenstein Library, Yale’s Sterling Memorial
Library, the Library of Congress, the library of the Middle East Institute
in Washington DC, the Bibliothèque Nationale du Royaume de Maroc
in Rabat, the library of the Nederlands-Flemish Institute of Cairo,
Harvard’s Widener Library, and Tufts University’s Tisch Library. A Qatar
postdoctoral fellowship at Georgetown University under the direction
of Samir Shehata gave me time to begin revising my dissertation. While
in Cairo in the fall of 2011 thanks to a fellowship from the Center for
Arabic Study Abroad, Hossam Gaiel at Cairo University had many long
and illuminating conversations with me about the meaning of Mīzān
al-ʿamal, and Sayyed Daifallah assisted me in translating key passages.
Friends and colleagues read parts of the manuscript at different times,
including Paul Heck, Paul Powers, Maurice Pomerantz, Ata Anzali,
Scott Girdner, and Malik Mufti. My colleagues at Tufts University, Brian
Hatcher, Heather Curtis, Joseph Walser, Kevin Dunn, Margaret Hutaff,
and Elizabeth Lemons all guided me in balancing teaching with research
and in bringing my book to publication. Elias Muhanna has followed
the project over the years and suggested the design from which the
book’s cover is drawn. This book would have been much thinner and
contained many more errors if all of these people had not shared their
insight and experience with me. I am grateful to the editorial team at
Oxford University Press—editor Cynthia Read and editorial assistant
Marcela Maxfield, production manager Cammy Richelli, and copy edi-
tor Katherine Ulrich—for shepherding this book into production so
capably. My wife, Margaret Litvin, has contributed most of all to every
step of this project, shaping my thought and prose and inspiring me in
word and example. Our children, Henry and Esther, have brought great
joy to my life and work since they have entered the world. I am grateful
above all to my parents, to whom this book is dedicated.
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The First Islamic Reviver
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Introduction
this is a book about the life and thought of the great Persian religious
thinker Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111). As the title suggests, it argues
that he was the first Islamic reviver, the first Muslim thinker to so con-
sciously marshal the rhetoric of revival (iḥyāʾ) and renewal (tajdīd) in the
service of his religious agenda. Al-Ghazālī is the author of scores of books,
but the focus here is the major vehicle of his revivalist agenda, his Revival
of the Religious Sciences (Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn), and his worldly efforts to pro-
mote this book over the final decade and a half of his life. Three other
books by al-Ghazālī play prominent roles in this study. His collected let-
ters provide unique insight into this final phase in his life. His early Scale
of Action (Mīzān al-ʿamal) clarifies the thesis and aims of the Revival as
well as the changes and continuities in his thought that the latter book
represents. Finally, this study returns on three occasions to the book that
has been the cornerstone of the non-revivalist view of al-Ghazālī that has
prevailed among Western scholars for a century and a half and remains
prevalent still today: The Deliverer from Error (al-Munqidh min al-ḍalāl).
Contextualizing the Deliverer, identifying its intentionally misleading ele-
ments, explaining why al-Ghazālī put them there, and showing misread-
ings of the text by modern scholars is necessary to clear the way for this
new understanding of al-Ghazālī as a reviver.
A Misleading Autobiography
To understand The Deliverer from Error and the role it has played in Western
al-Ghazālī reception, we must grasp both al-Ghazālī’s circumstances when
he wrote it in the 12th century and the circumstances of the Western schol-
ars who interpreted it in the 19th and 20th. The Deliverer did not simply
emerge out of a flight of introspection in al-Ghazālī’s autumn years. In
the face of a vicious campaign against him and his Revival in the city of
Nishapur, al-Ghazālī crafted it as an account of his life and thought that
aimed to deflect charges that he was an Ismaili Shiite and a philosopher.
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2 first isl amic reviver
He further sought to justify his return to teaching at the Niẓāmiyya

Madrasa in Nishapur after having dramatically renounced his position
at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad 11 years earlier. Finally, he sought
to establish his religious authority against those who sought to under-
mine it by describing the unparalleled knowledge to which his unique and
divinely-guided studies and experiences had led him. The account that
emerged was as follows.
Drawing on a mode of autobiography established by the Greek philoso-
pher and physician Galen (mentioned by name in the Deliverer), al-Ghazālī
constructs his unique intellectual authority by depicting an early break
with all inherited knowledge.1 In his youth, he writes, he entered into a
radical skepticism in which he came to doubt even axiomatic knowledge.
He emerged from this not through his own efforts, but “by a light God
cast into [his] breast,”2 and, all his unexamined preconceptions having
been swept away, began searching for a criterion for certain knowledge.
Drawing on a trope used before him by his contemporary and acquain-
tance ʿUmar Khayyām (526/1131),3 he writes of his conclusion that the
Truth, if it is to be grasped at all, must be sought through the method of
one of four schools of thought: the tradition of Islamic theological dis-
course called kalām, the rational inquiry of philosophy, the infallible guide
(imām) of the Ismāʿīlī Shiites, or the mystical insight of the Sufis. One
by one he rejects the first three of these schools, disassociating himself
thereby from the Ismaili Shiism and Islamic philosophy to which he was
accused of adhering. The first charge seems to have been groundless,4 but
al-Ghazālī’s debt to philosophy was profound.5 It was for this reason that
he claimed in the Deliverer—and only in the Deliverer—to have found his
criterion for certain knowledge in Sufism, much as ʿUmar Khayām had
stated that Sufism is the best path. Taking up Sufism’s discipline, however,
came only after a life-transforming crisis.
Al-Ghazālī describes himself at the peak of his career, holding a presti-
gious chair at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad and teaching some 300
students. The Sufi path would mean renouncing all of this, and his resolve
faltered. Finally, God settled the matter for him, robbing him first of the
ability to speak, and so to teach, and then of the ability to digest food. His
doctors despaired of a cure, but al-Ghazālī understood what God called
him to do. Under the guise of going on pilgrimage to Mecca, he made
his way to the Levant in 488/1095, where he spent two years and began
his new life. He describes himself there as having “no occupation but

Introduction 3
retreat and solitude,” (ʿuzla wa-khalwa) and dedicating himself to spiritual

exercises,6 though, in fact, he also spent some of his time composing new
works, including the first sections of The Revival of the Religious Sciences,
and reading from this book publically in Damascus during teaching ses-
sions he convened in the Umayyad mosque.7
After these two years, unspecified concerns and the appeals of his chil-
dren drew him back to his homeland, where, again, he describes him-
self as being immersed in retreat and solitude. We know, though, from
other sources that he continued actively teaching, composing works of
religious sciences, promoting his Revival, and pursuing a lively corre-
spondence with other religious scholars as well as officials of the ruling
Seljuk regime.8 Finally, 11 years after he left his position in Baghdad, God
arranged the circumstances for his return to teaching at the Niẓāmiyya
Madrasa in Nishapur, a post he insists he assumed as a changed man, and
thus not as a resumption of his former life.
Later in this book, we will return to the details of the whispering cam-
paign in the face of which al-Ghazālī composed the Deliverer, and the ways
in which he used it to proclaim his unparalleled religious authority. For
now, let us turn to the way in which this account of skepticism, spiritual
crisis, and the embrace of mysticism over theology and philosophy has
shaped Western understanding of al-Ghazālī.
When it was discovered in the 19th century (the first translation was
into French by August Schmölders in 1842), The Deliverer from Error
appealed to Western scholars on a number of levels. Above all, they found
in the Ghazālī of the Deliverer a Muslim religious scholar with whom they
could sympathize. Unaware of the many established tropes at work in
al-Ghazālī’s self-depiction, they took it to be a spontaneous and transpar-
ent account of his life. In the soul-baring interiority of his spiritual crisis
and transformation in Baghdad, they saw a Muslim Augustine. This led
Claude Field to entitle his English translation of the Deliverer (the first of five
to date) The Confessions of al-Ghazālī. Montgomery Watt consciously mis-
translated the Deliverer as the Deliverance from Error,9 echoing Augustine’s
passive deliverance by God and obscuring the fact that it is the book itself
and its author who are the Deliverer of the title. Watt was followed in this
translation by two later translators of the Deliverer, R. J. McCarthy10 and
Muhammad Abulaylah.11 William James reproduced a three-page excerpt
of the Deliverer on al-Ghazālī’s crisis, spiritual exercises, and mystical illu-
minations in his 1902 Varieties of Religious Experience to illustrate the Sufi

variety of mysticism—mysticism being, for James, the authentic heart of

all religious experience precisely in that he conceived of it as an utterly
interior experience, prior to discursive and institutional objectification.12
This strictly interiorized view of al-Ghazālī’s life is one I have described as
that of the proverbial “wise man on the mountaintop,”13 whose epitome
can be seen in the 2004 film al-Ghazali: The Alchemist of Happiness, which
portrays its protagonist wandering alone over a sand dune or trekking
through the desert accompanied by only a pack animal.14
This reading’s emphasis on the interiority of al-Ghazālī’s Sufism led
to translations of the Deliverer that further exaggerate al-Ghazālī’s efforts
to obscure his many worldly commitments through a mainly psychologi-
cal and spiritual focus. While al-Ghazālī writes of spending two years in
the Levant (al-shām) after his crisis, some of which time was spent in
Damascus, including some periods of seclusion in the minaret of the
city’s Umayyad mosque, Watt and McCarthy translate this passage to indi-
cate that al-Ghazālī spent the full two years in Damascus (as al-shām can
also be read), much of that time spent in retreat in the minaret.15
The Jesuit Vincenzo Poggi has noted the striking appeal al-Ghazālī
has had for Christian clergymen16—McCarthy was also a Jesuit and Watt
a Scottish Episcopal minister. Some of these Christian scholars found a
near Christian in al-Ghazālī. The Catholic priest Miguel Asín-Palacios
entitled his 1934 four-volume study of al-Ghazālī La Espiritualidad de
Algazel y su sentido Cristiano.17 The American Protestant evangelist in the
Muslim world, Samuel Zwemer, titled his monograph on al-Ghazālī A
Moslem Seeker After God: Showing Islam at its Best in the Life and Teaching of
al-Ghazali, Mystic and Theologian of the Eleventh Century; in it he observed,
“There is a real sense in which al-Ghazālī may be used as a schoolmaster
to lead Moslems to Christ.”18 His acquaintance, the orientalist and profes-
sor at the Hartford Theological Seminary Duncan Black Macdonald, had
a Protestant’s appreciation for what he perceived as al-Ghazālī’s rejection
of “Scholasticism.”19 Other Christian scholars saw in al-Ghazālī a Muslim
who shared their disdain for the dry religious law that they saw practiced
in Islam (and Judaism).
Given these scholars’ approval of al-Ghazālī’s efforts, they were
quick to judge al-Ghazālī and his writings “orthodox,” and with their
Deliverer-based understanding of his thought, they judged his Revival of
the Religious Sciences to be an orthodox work of Sufism. Recognizing the
centrality of that work to al-Ghazālī’s corpus, they described it effusively

Introduction 5
but vaguely as “magisterial” but did not subject it to critical study. More
attention was paid to works al-Ghazālī mentions in the Deliverer that mark
his break with philosophy: The Doctrines (usually translated as “Aims”20) of
the Philosophers, which al-Ghazālī claims to have written as a preparatory
study of philosophical doctrines, and The Precipitance (usually translated
as “Incoherence”21) of the Philosophers, which he presents as his decisive
critique of Islamic philosophy. Readers inclined to rationalism (among
both non-Muslims and critical Muslims) have developed from these two
books a negative image of al-Ghazālī as the man who killed the philo-
sophical tradition in the Muslim world; some have presented this as a
catastrophe, the very reason why modernity came first to Europe rather
than the Middle East.22
This book presents of al-Ghazālī as a reviver, advocating his own
unique synthesis of Sufism and philosophy, and dedicating his life after
his departure from Baghdad to a very worldly campaign to promote his
vision of the revived; Islamic religious sciences as such, it is at odds with
the received reading of al-Ghazālī just summarized. It is not unique in
this, however. Over the past two decades, and especially in the last ten
years, there has been a revisionist trend that has undermined most of the
key elements of the Deliverer-based reading of al-Ghazālī’s thought and
its significance.
Recent Reassessments
There have long been questions about this reading of the Deliverer and the
image of al-Ghazālī that emerged from it: about the status of the Deliverer
as an autobiography in the contemporary sense,23 about its claim that
al-Ghazālī rejected philosophy,24 and about its omission of any mention
of its author’s significant role in the politics of his day.25 Over the past
two decades a growing body of revisionist studies has produced a new
understanding of al-Ghazālī. Above all, it has shown that his treatment
of philosophy is quite different that he suggests in the Deliverer, that his
thought is a complex blend of philosophy and Sufism, and that a different
view of his life emerges from a careful and contextualized reading of the
Deliverer and other sources, chiefly his letters.
A watershed in the emergence of this new understanding of al-Ghazālī
was Richard Frank’s 1992 Creation and the Cosmic System: al-Ghazâlî
and Avicenna,26 making the case that Islamic philosophy’s most famous

critic owed a profound debt to Ibn Sīnā, Islam’s most famous philoso-
pher. He made this case particularly in terms of the presentation of cau-
sality, which he argues al-Ghazālī understood as consisting of chains of
cause and effect as the philosophers did, rather than believing each event
to be caused directly by God, as his own Ashʿarite school of kalām held.
Frank fleshed out his case in a number of subsequent publications,27
and while his work has been criticized for selective use of evidence,28
his broader findings have been vindicated by a number of studies in
recent years that spell out al-Ghazālī’s debt to Ibn Sīnā and al-Fārābī as
well as his creative adaptations of their thought to make it compatible
with central tenets of Islamic belief such as God’s unrestricted freedom
of action, His creation of the world in time, and the necessity of pro-
phetic guidance for human salvation.
Jules Janssens revisited The Doctrines of the Philosophers and con-
cluded that it cannot be taken to be the study written in preparation
for the refutation of philosophy in The Precipitance of the Philosophers
as al-Ghazālī claims in the Deliverer. The Doctrines is a summary of a
Persian work of Ibn Sīnā, his Dānishnāmah, while the critique of the
Precipitance follows Ibn Sīnā’s Arabic Book of the Cure (Kitāb al-shifāʾ).
More importantly, the Doctrines does not focus on those twenty philo-
sophical tenets al-Ghazālī singles out for criticism in the Precipitance
and so cannot serve the purpose al-Ghazālī claims for it in the Deliverer.29
Frank Griffel, meanwhile, showed that the Precipitance does not set out
to disprove these twenty tenets, but rather to show that the philoso-
phers could not prove them by rational demonstration. This is not to
say they are false, necessarily; the point was to show that philosophy
was not a self-subsistent, rational science as it claimed, but must derive
its (largely correct) first principles from prophecy.30 Alexander Treiger
has recently argued that the standard translation of Tahāfut al-falāsifa as
The “Incoherence” of the Philosophers is a mistake, making a convincing
argument based on the content of the work itself as well as al-Ghazālī’s
use of the term elsewhere that The Precipitance of the Philosophers would
be more accurate—a much less dismissive pronouncement on philo-
sophical thought.31
Griffel further made the important discovery of a manuscript of
another overview of philosophical doctrines by al-Ghazālī, separate from
but similar to The Aims of the Philosophers.32 This suggests that al-Ghazālī
wrote both works as summaries of his own deep and committed if critical

Introduction 7
engagement with philosophy rather than for the purpose of its refuta-
tion. M. Afifi al-Akiti has argued that a number of writings attributed to
al-Ghazālī whose authenticity is questioned are genuine works written
for his elite disciples and heavily indebted to philosophy. Naming these
works after their chef d’oeuvre The Restricted from Those Not Worthy of It
(al-Maḍnūn bihi ‘alā ghayr ahlihi), he has referred to this as al-Ghazālī’s
Restricted corpus, offering it as further decisive evidence of al-Ghazālī’s
philosophical borrowings.33
The narrative of al-Ghazālī’s life emerging from the Deliverer has
been called into question by two studies. In his “Quelques remarques
sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” Josef van Ess bluntly states that the mis-
take made by previous readers of the Deliverer is that they have taken the
book to be an autobiography. It is rather, he says, “nothing but a great
apology.”34 Van Ess was the first to link the Deliverer to a controversy
described in a collection of al-Ghazālī’s letters in Persian, and, draw-
ing on the insights of his predecessors as well as his own, he noted the
many stock tropes al-Ghazālī mustered in describing his life: the quest
for the criterion for the truth borrowed from the Sufi al-Muḥāsibī (d.
243/857); the four schools of thought that promised certain knowledge
borrowed from the philosopher and polymath ʿUmar Khayyām, as men-
tioned above; the spiritual crisis near the age of 40 that leads to a conver-
sion borrowed from the Ismaili Nāṣir-i Khusraw (d. 481/1088).35 Stephen
Menn adds another name to that list, namely the Greek philosopher and
physician Galen, as mentioned above, whom he argues is the origina-
tor of a tradition of autobiography crafted to present its author as an
authority uniquely in possession of an inerrant method for determining
the truth as the result of an arduous personal quest that begins with the
rejection of all inherited knowledge. Menn argues that it was this autho-
rizing strategy that drew al-Ghazālī to emulate Galen—whom he cites by
name in the Deliverer.36
To these two we should add Dorothea Krawulsky’s German translation
and study of al-Ghazālī’s Persian letters.37 By making the letters available
in a European language, establishing their chronology, and providing a
preliminary study of their contents, she made accessible a broader range
of writings in al-Ghazālī’s own voice that can take us beyond the tropes of
the otherworldly mystic and solitary truth-seeker to show us a man rooted
in the reality of his age, connected to its elites, and actively engaged in try-
ing to transform it.

Al-Ghaza–lī the Reviver

This book aims to carry this revisionist wave forward by answering three
questions. First, much of the focus in recent years has been on excavating
al-Ghazālī’s true doctrines, the ones he himself subscribed to and taught
to a small circle of initiates as opposed to those he more plainly advocated
in his public writings. But the very difficulty of teasing these out, tracking
down every discussion related to a given question across his large corpus,
and collating and comparing them shows that their exposition was not the
primary aim of his writings. As Frank Griffel points out, al-Ghazālī’s radi-
cal adaptation of the neoplatonic, emanationist cosmology of the philoso-
phers seems to have been lost even on as sensitive and brilliant a reader
as the philosopher Ibn Rushd (d. 595/1198).38 It was not these doctrines
that were responsible for al-Ghazālī’s immense influence and popularity
across the centuries. What was?
Second, if al-Ghazālī’s own account of his life and thought is mis-
leading, what drove him to write it as he did? Van Ess’s study gives the
broad outlines of an answer: he wrote the Deliverer in response to a cam-
paign against him in Nishapur after his return to teaching there. But
what was the nature of this campaign? What aspects of his thought and
writing did it target? How exactly was the Deliverer crafted to respond,
and how can we take this into account so as perhaps to salvage parts of
his narrative?
Finally, and most importantly, in showing the inaccuracy and inade-
quacy of The Deliverer from Error as an account of al-Ghazālī’s life, recent
research has raised a question put frankly by Alexander Treiger: Who was
al-Ghazālī?39 The answer that he was a thinker who integrated Avicennan
philosophy into Islamic thought is quite pale in comparison to the grip-
ping self-portrait of the Deliverer. Frank Griffel has gone a great distance
in answering this question, producing the first fresh study of al-Ghazālī’s
life in many decades and uncovering much new data. But this data still
does not rise to the level of a compelling narrative. Is there one that can
replace that of the Deliverer? This is not simply a matter of wanting a better
story; a new integrated narrative of al-Ghazālī’s life and thought is needed
as a scaffolding for contextualizing his various works, understanding how
they were shaped by his immediate concerns, how they served his larger
agenda, and how they fit together as a coherent corpus.
The answer to these three questions lies in focusing on al-Ghazālī’s
authorship of his oddly neglected masterpiece The Revival of the Religious

Introduction 9
Sciences, his promotion of that book and its vision, and his defense of
it in the face of a campaign against it, which occasioned his writing of
four significant compositions, including The Deliverer from Error. Through
this study, al-Ghazālī’s life is joined once again to his thought: I present
him not as a solitary and otherworldly seeker, but as an engaged scholar,
rooted in his age, connected to some of its most powerful men, and using
every tool at his disposal to promote a revivalist agenda. In this respect, his
counterparts are not to be sought among the Sufis he frequently quotes
in the Revival nor in Ibn Sīnā, to whom he owed such a profound debt,
but among the Muslim revivers of subsequent ages, many of whom were
inspired by al-Ghazālī, and who have been particularly numerous in the
modern era.
Certainly, designating the Revival as al-Ghazālī’s masterpiece may seem
subjective and disputable; with so many seminal works to his name, who
is to say which is his greatest? But the judgment of succeeding generations
of Muslims as well as al-Ghazālī’s own warrants this distinction. Fervent
admiration of the Revival has been consistent from al-Ghazālī’s day to the
present. It has been said of it that “[i]f all the books of Islam were lost, the
Revival would suffice for them,” and that “[t]he Revival verged on being
a Qurʾān.”40 Many of al-Ghazālī’s admirers went beyond fulsome praise
and wrote epitomes of the book. Badawi points to 26 such rewritings.41 To
this corpus belongs a Shiite version of al-Ghazālī’s masterpiece by Muḥsin
al-Fayḍ (d. 1091/1680),42 and even a Syriac Christian version of the Revival,
the Ethicon, written by Gregory Barhebraeus in the 13th century.43 His ene-
mies, too, were drawn to the text. His Andalusi contemporary Abū Bakr
al-Ṭurṭūshī, who had met al-Ghazālī in Baghdad, detested the book and
approved of its being burned in Cordoba in 503/1109. But he himself wrote
a version of the Revival that, as he put it, corrected its mistakes.44 These
efforts continue to this day: Michael Cook cites two modern adaptations,
and as recently as 2004, the Lebanese scholar of Sufism Suʿād al-Ḥakīm
published an adaptation entitled The Revival of the Religious Sciences in the
Twenty-first Century.45 None of his other works have attracted this kind of
praise or emulation.
Al-Ghazālī himself clearly held the Revival to be his most significant
work. It was on the basis of its authorship that he made the audacious
claim in the Deliverer to be the divinely appointed Renewer (mujaddid) of
the 5th Islamic century.46 His concern for spreading its message is shown
by the fact that he produced several other versions of the work for differ-
ent audiences: The Alchemy of Felicity as a Persian version of intermediary

length (wasīṭ) and The Jewels of the Qurʾān as a succinct version (wajīz).47
He further wrote a summary of the Revival, The Kernels of the Revival
(al-Lubāb min al-iḥyāʾ).48 As we shall see, from the time he began writ-
ing it in 489/1095 to his death, The Revival of the Religious Sciences was
al-Ghazālī’s central preoccupation, and a significant part of his corpus
sprang from that work.
This preoccupation went beyond writing the Revival and its synopses.
The period after his departure from Baghdad was not one of “seclusion and
solitude” (ʿuzla wa-khalwa) as al-Ghazālī claims in the Deliverer, devoted
to an interior quest for truth and salvation. Rather these were years spent
in advocacy of the agenda proclaimed by the title of his masterpiece: The
Revival of the Religious Sciences. It is easy to forget just how revolutionary
a declaration this title is, especially now that the Revival is a book found
in many a bourgeois Muslim home, but al-Ghazālī meant it literally: the
religious scholarly disciplines of his day were dead, he proclaimed, and he
was taking it upon himself to provide a comprehensive agenda to bring
them back to life.
“Revival” is a word one rarely reads in treatments of The Revival of the
Religious Sciences. Rather, reading that work in the light of the Deliverer, it
is usually cast as a work of Sufism and then left largely unanalyzed. The
Revival is not a work of Sufism. What al-Ghazālī consistently advocates
in it is rather what he calls the Science of the Hereafter (ʿilm al-ākhira).
He does not declare himself a Sufi in that book—the only work in which
he does so is the Deliverer. When he does write about the Sufis, it is as a
third party, and he states explicitly that Sufism is not an obligatory science,
while the Science of the Hereafter is. It is true that much of the content
of the Revival is derived from classical works of Sufism. Entire pages are
taken in particular from Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī’s Nourishment of Hearts. But
central features of the book are derived from philosophy, especially its
soteriology, ethical psychology, and theory of virtue.
Al-Ghazālī did not stop with providing this blueprint for revival; he
promoted his revivalist agenda by every means at his disposal. Beyond
writing different versions of the work for different audiences, he recruited,
instructed, and made efforts to retain disciples in his Science of the
Hereafter; he promoted the careers of spiritual comrades; he maintained
an active correspondence to promote his agenda beyond his circle of fol-
lowers in Ṭūs; and he cultivated supporters and even disciples among the
Persian administrators of the Seljuk Empire to provide favors and backing

Introduction 11
for his endeavors. His relationships with these men stemmed from his
time in and around the Seljuk court in Isfahan and Baghdad. Despite his
famous renunciation of his position in Baghdad and a lesser-known vow
he made at the tomb of Abraham in Hebron never again to visit or take
money from rulers (which we will explore later), he did not sever these
important connections.
One of these men was Fakhr al-Mulk (d. 500/1106), the vizier of the
Seljuk King of the East, Sanjar (d. 552/1157). More than a supporter or sym-
pathizer, it is clear that Fakhr al-Mulk, son of al-Ghazālī’s former patron
Niẓām al-Mulk, was the great scholar’s disciple. It was he who summoned
al-Ghazālī to return to teaching in Nishapur in 499/1106, an event that
must therefore be seen not as the providential coincidence of al-Ghazālī’s
own inclinations and the will of God,49 but as the culmination of a decade
of active promotion of his revivalist vision. This is the Ghazālī that emerges
from a reading of The Revival of the Religious Sciences, its derivatives,
and his letters: not a reclusive, inward-directed spiritual seeker, but an
engaged, outward-directed campaigner for a religious agenda—al-Ghazālī
the Reviver.
Arriving in Nishapur, convinced that he was the divinely appointed
Renewer of the 5th Islamic century by virtue of being the author and propo-
nent of the Revival, and confident of his official backing, al-Ghazālī encoun-
tered unexpected difficulties. His disciple and patron Fakhr al-Mulk was
assassinated by an Ismaili in 500/1106, rendering al-Ghazālī’s official sup-
port more tenuous. Seizing upon his new weakness, opponents launched
a campaign against him and the Revival, accusing him of being, among
other things, an Ismaili and a philosopher. In response to this campaign,
al-Ghazālī wrote no fewer than four short but significant works, includ-
ing The Deliverer from Error. The Deliverer, then, is a work shaped by the
polemical context in which it was written, which accounts for many of the
distortions that have clouded our understanding of al-Ghazālī’s thought
for over a century and a half.
Chapter Overview
This book lays out its new narrative of al-Ghazālī’s life and thought over
three parts and seven chapters.
Part I contextualizes al-Ghazālī’s life before he departed from state ser-
vice in Baghdad and embarked on his revivalist program.

Chapter 1 places al-Ghazālī in the context of the politics of his age.

He began his career in Isfahan in the court of Niẓām al-Mulk, who later
appointed al-Ghazālī to serve in the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa he had founded in
Baghdad. Through 10 years of service to the state, al-Ghazālī came to know
the most powerful men of his age, including the Sultan Malikshāh and dif-
ferent caliphs. His departure from Baghdad seems to have been motivated
in part by regret over this service, from which he repented through a series
of vows at the tomb of Abraham. He break with politics also left its mark
on his revivalist agenda. This chapter explores al-Ghazālī’s time in the
orbit of Seljuk politics from which he never entirely departed.
Chapter 2 looks at al-Ghazālī’s ethical thought on the eve of his depar-
ture from Baghdad. The Revival is primarily a work of ethics that al-Ghazālī
began composing in 489/1096, immediately after his break with state ser-
vice and embrace of a revivalist agenda. The Scale of Action is likewise
a work of ethics, which he seems to have composed in 488/1095. The
comparison of two works of ethics written before and after this water-
shed event reveals a good deal about what changed—and what did not
change—as a result of their author’s famous turn. The Scale is not an
expression of the soul-searching of a man anguishing over the decision
of whether to sever his worldly ties and embrace Sufism. It is written by a
supremely confident man who holds that all who are capable should pur-
sue felicity in the hereafter through philosophy if they meet the prerequi-
sites for its study and Sufism if they do not. While there is some vacillating
over the correct formulation of philosophical doctrines, al-Ghazālī’s main
questions in the Scale revolve around the best means to convince his fel-
low Muslims to pursue this most important of undertakings to which he
had already committed himself.
Part II examines The Revival of the Religious Sciences, its structure, con-
tent, and rhetoric.
Chapter 3 asks: Just what is the Science of the Hereafter and how did
al-Ghazālī structure the Revival to present it? Comparing the structure and
content of the Revival to the Scale, we can see what changed in al-Ghazālī’s
ethical thought and its presentation. From a prescription to pursue felicity
through knowledge and practice, it became an urgent revivalist project. It
grew to contain an important legal dimension, weaving the ethical project
into the fundamental ritual obligations of the religion while at the same
time insisting on the necessity of these ritual obligations that cannot be
“outgrown” by those who advance on the path. It contains a great deal

Introduction 13
of plainly Sufi instruction and virtues utterly missing in the Scale, but it
retains important philosophical elements as well as reproducing almost
verbatim criticism of Sufism from a philosophical perspective found in
the Scale. The Revival is a work that advocates neither Sufism nor philoso-
phy but the Science of the Hereafter, which can be understood as either
Sufism or philosophy or as a hybrid of both depending on the reader and
each reader’s inclinations. Al-Ghazālī held that following the path to felic-
ity was the most urgent pursuit a human being could undertake. In the
Revival he presented a spiritual guidebook in which both the philosophi-
cally and mystically inclined could find guidance, and in which the most
talented and insightful of readers could glean a synthesis.
Chapter 4 highlights the revivalist rhetoric of the Revival. Anyone can
write a prescriptive work of religious sciences. But how to make a pre-
scription compelling to its reader and transformative of the tradition it
addresses? Al-Ghazālī adopted a number of authorizing strategies to con-
vince his reader to pursue the Science of the Hereafter and even to join in
campaigning to make it the primary focus of the religious sciences. The
primary strategy he pursues is what I term a “narrative of revival,” which
presents the Science of the Hereafter not as al-Ghazālī’s innovation, but
as the original essence of the religion as practiced by its founding genera-
tion. Certain factions are then accused of having smothered this original
essence, and an agenda for its restoration is presented.
Part III surveys al-Ghazālī’s final 15 years in Khurasan promoting his
revivalist vision.
Chapter 5 draws on al-Ghazālī’s letters to present a picture of his years
in Ṭūs from 490/1097–499/1106. What emerges is not a reclusive ascetic,
but a man actively tending to a network of colleagues, disciples, and men
of state throughout the Persian-speaking world and beyond to promote
the agenda of The Revival of the Religious Sciences. One of the most con-
sequential of his correspondents is Fakhr al-Mulk, the son of his former
patron, Niẓām al-Mulk, who summoned him back to public teaching in
Nishapur.
Chapter 6 considers the consequences of al-Ghazālī’s return to pub-
lic teaching in Nishapur. When his patron was assassinated only months
after he assumed his post at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa there, a campaign
was launched against al-Ghazālī and his Revival that united enemy fac-
tions of the city against him. Al-Ghazālī first responded indirectly to his
enemies, writing two works with apologetic agendas subtle enough to be

missed by subsequent generations of readers: The Distinguishing Criterion

between Islam and Clandestine Apostasy (Fayṣal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām
wa-l-zandaqa) and The Deliverer from Error. After being tried and acquitted
by Sanjar, the ruler of the eastern realm of the Seljuk Empire, al-Ghazālī
wrote a “mirror for princes” for him, Counsel for Kings (Naṣīḥat al-mulūk),
and later a more direct rebuttal of his enemies’ attacks on the Revival, The
Composition on the Criticisms of the Revival (al-Imlā’ fī ishkālāt al-iḥyāʾ).
The Epilogue returns to The Deliverer from Error in the light of the pre-
ceding study, reading this key text anew. Once the apologetic facet of this
work is contextualized, a clearer portrait emerges from the Deliverer itself
of al-Ghazālī the Reviver. Al-Ghazālī presents himself as a religious thinker
whose unique and providential life experience have made him the indis-
pensable guide to his age, the divinely appointed Renewer of the century,
the very “deliverer from error” promised in this audacious work’s title.

PART ONE
Al-Ghazālī Before His Revival

1
Al-Ghazālī and the Seljuk Regime
in the winter of the year 500/1106, al-Ghazālī was summoned for a

hearing before the Seljuk King of the East, Sanjar (d. 552/1157), under
circumstances we will explore in detail in chapter 6. Sanjar ruled the
eastern realms of the Seljuk Empire, an empire that stretched to Syria
and much of modern-day Turkey in the west, to modern-day Afghanistan
in the east, and north to encompass then thriving Silk Road cities such
as Marv and Kashgar. The Seljuks had conquered al-Ghazālī’s home
region of Khurasan in 431/1040, and their empire had reached its great-
est expanse under Sanjar’s father Malikshāh (d. 485/1092). While the
caliph remained the official ruler of the entire Muslim world, it was the
Seljuks who wielded actual power in the eastern Islamic lands, including
the caliphal seat of Baghdad. Abbasid-Seljuk rule there has been referred
to as a duo-archy, in which the Abbasids profited from Seljuk support
and the Seljuks were legitimated by Abbasid endorsement, while behind
the scenes each dynasty sought to expand its authority at the expense of
the other. In a letter he sent to Sanjar in advance of his appearance in
the royal court, al-Ghazālī reminded the young king of his long service
to the Seljuk regime and to the caliph, as well as of his renunciation of
those ties. Referring to himself in the third person, he gave his account
as follows:
He lived for twenty years in the days of the martyred sultan

(Malikshāh), whose favor was bestowed upon him in Baghdad and
Isfahan. He was often a messenger in important matters between
the Sultan and the Commander of the Believers (the caliph) and
wrote some seventy books about religious sciences. Then he saw
the world as it was and rejected it utterly. He spent some time
in Jerusalem and Mecca, and swore at the grave of Abraham, the
Friend of God—may God’s prayers be upon him—no longer to go

to any sultan, not to take the money of a sultan, and not to prac-
tice theological disputing or sectarian fanaticism (munāẓara va
taʿaṣṣub na kunad). He was true to this oath for twelve years and
the Commander of the Believers and all sultans knew him to be
excused.1
The extensive and complex relationship to the political authorities of his

day of which al-Ghazālī reminds Sanjar here is one we would also do well
to bear in mind. Though the customary view of al-Ghazālī (and the one
he himself encouraged) is almost entirely otherworldly, his adult life was
enmeshed in politics from beginning to end, and he remained in the orbit
of the most powerful men of his age throughout his career, notwithstand-
ing the above-mentioned vow. He began his higher studies at a madrasa
(college) in Nishapur endowed by the powerful Seljuk vizier (minister)
Niẓām al-Mulk (d. 485/1092) and known therefore as the Niẓāmiyya, one
of many such madrasas the great vizier endowed throughout Seljuk lands.
Al-Ghazālī’s teacher, al-Juwaynī (d. 478/1085), was appointed to a chair
at this madrasa after a political and sectarian controversy had forced him
to take refuge in Mecca for four years.2 Al-Ghazālī became involved in
the same sectarian disputes, adding an appendix to his student summary
(taʿlīqa) of al-Juwaynī’s teachings on law that criticized the founder of the
Ḥanafī school of law and listed his errors.3 It was to answer for this youth-
ful work that Sanjar would summon him, and it was this very partisanship
for his own Shāfiʿī school of law that he mentions forswearing at the tomb
of Abraham, referring to it as “sectarian fanaticism” (taʿaṣṣub).
After his teacher’s death, al-Ghazālī took a position in the vizier Niẓām
al-Mulk’s court in Isfahan, where his service to Malikshāh, too, may
have began. In 484/1091, as part of a plan to move the Seljuk capital to
Baghdad, the seat of the caliphate, Niẓām al-Mulk appointed al-Ghazālī to
Baghdad’s Niẓāmiyya Madrasa, dismissing two professors there to create
his position.4 With the deaths of Niẓām al-Mulk and Malikshāh within
three weeks of one another in 485/1092, al-Ghazālī became involved in
the succession disputes. He dedicated his refutation of Ismaili Shiism,
Scandals of the Esotericists and Virtues of the Mustaẓhirites, to the young
Caliph al-Mustaẓhir bi-l-Lāh (d. 512/1118).
As the oath above shows, al-Ghazālī’s famous crisis and departure
from official teaching in 488/1095 distanced him from men of state—in
fact, the oath suggests that a desire to step away from politics was one of

Al-Ghazālī and the Seljuk Regime 19
the primary motives in leaving his position and life in Baghdad. But his
letters from his years after departing from officially sponsored teaching
show that he maintained an active correspondence with administrators
of the Seljuk regime, requesting favors of them and sometimes offering
guidance. His return to teaching in 499/1106, of which he writes in The
Deliverer from Error, was at the behest of Sanjar and, more directly, Sanjar’s
vizier, Fakhr al-Mulk, son of al-Ghazālī’s former patron Niẓām al-Mulk.
Al-Ghazālī’s letters reveal that Fakhr al-Mulk became his disciple.5
In resituating our understanding of al-Ghazālī’s life, it is important to
begin by reinserting it in its political context. Politics and political connec-
tions played an overt role in al-Ghazālī’s efforts to promote his revivalist
agenda, as we shall see in part III. Furthermore, the grand scope of the
political deliberations he was party to in his early involvement with the
regime shaped the grand scope of his religious deliberations as he strove
to revive the religious sciences.
Al-Ghazālī’s Service to the Seljuk Regime

The Seljuk Empire al-Ghazālī served was headed by the Turkic Seljuk fam-
ily, whose army consisted mainly of Ghuzz Turkic nomads. It was admin-
istered, however, by Persians, such as Niẓām al-Mulk. It had conquered
eastern Persian lands at the expense of the Turkic Ghaznavid Empire,
which then moved into India. Its great rival to the west was the Ismaili
Shiite Fatimid dynasty, with its capital in Cairo. The Fatimids did not
threaten the Seljuk Empire directly, but they actively proselytized through-
out the eastern Islamic lands. In al-Ghazālī’s later years, a group of
Ismailis independent of the Fatimids, known as the Niẓārīs, took control
of the fortress of Alamūt, and for a time controlled the southern Caspian
region of Daylam. From Alamūt, led by Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ (d. 518/1124), the
legendary Assassins carried out killings of Seljuk men of state. They were,
if not an existential threat, a cause of anxiety among the Seljuks and the
lands they ruled.6
By the time he renounced his position in 488/1095, al-Ghazālī had
spent much of his life in institutions of learning financed by the Seljuk
regime, specifically by the great minister of that regime Niẓām al-Mulk,
who served two sultans over the course of nearly 30 years. Niẓām al-Mulk
was, like al-Ghazālī, from the city of Ṭūs in the region of Khurasan and
adhered, like him, to the Shāfiʿī legal school. The Seljuk rulers, on the

other hand, adhered to the Ḥanafī legal school. In the region of Khurasan
there was a fierce rivalry between the two schools that went beyond schol-
arly details of the law. Partisanship for one or the other school was called
“fanaticism” (taʿaṣṣub) and it gave rise to communal violence, political
intrigue, and persecution of one sect by the other. Niẓām al-Mulk became
vizier during a period of persecution of Shāfiʿīs by Ḥanafīs in the city of
Nishapur, one of the most important centers of Islamic learning in the
period.7 One of his responses to this was to endow a string of Shāfiʿī
madrasas, or colleges for the teaching of religious sciences, especially law.
These madrasas were named the Niẓāmiyya madrasas after their patron.
It was at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa of Nishapur that al-Ghazālī studied with
the great scholar of law and theology, al-Juwaynī. After al-Juwaynī’s death,
al-Ghazālī found a patron in Niẓām al-Mulk himself, joining his court in
Isfahan. Al-Ghazālī’s first biographer, ʿAbd al-Ghāfir al-Fārisī, writes that
the court was a stopping point in the travels of great scholars and that
al-Ghazālī profited from meeting them and proved his skill among them
through theological debate (munāẓara).8 Theological debate was some-
thing of a spectator sport and a forum for talented scholars to impress
powerful patrons.9 This was one of the three practices that al-Ghazālī fore-
swore in his oath at the tomb of Abraham.
We know little about what al-Ghazālī did during his six years in Niẓām
al-Mulk’s court. Apart from scholarship and scholarly debate, he seems
to have played a role in politics. As we have seen above, al-Ghazālī served
Sultan Malikshāh in addition to Niẓām al-Mulk, acting as his emissary to
the Abbasid caliph, though it is unclear whether this service would have
begun already in Isfahan or only after al-Ghazālī was installed in his posi-
tion in the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa of Baghdad in 484/1091. There is evidence
that other professors at the Niẓāmiyya in Baghdad served this diplomatic
function and that it was part of a broader pattern of religious scholars serv-
ing as intermediaries between the Abbasids and the Seljuks.10 As we shall
see below, after the death of Malikshāh, al-Ghazālī involved himself in
his capacity as a jurist in the succession dispute and engaged in polemic
against the Ismailis in the name of the caliph.
Attempts to infer the agenda al-Ghazālī served in his office revolve
around trying to infer what his patron Niẓām al-Mulk’s agenda was. The
sources have more to say about this, and there has been a good deal of
informed speculation about al-Ghazālī’s official role at the Niẓāmiyya.11
Because of his plain sectarian bias in founding the Niẓāmiyya madrasas as

centers of Shāfiʿī legal study, some have inferred that Niẓām al-Mulk had a
broader agenda of promoting an official orthodoxy.12 But Erika Glassen and
Omid Safi concur that Niẓām al-Mulk’s religious policies in fact aimed at
easing religious tensions in the Seljuk Empire.13 This effort was of a piece
with his broader agenda of promoting harmony in the empire through
disciplining the Seljuk army and maintaining as amicable a relationship
as possible between the Seljuk sultan and the Abbasid caliph.
The clearest illustration Glassen gives of these efforts to reach out to
all parties in the sectarian landscape is a list of pilgrimages Niẓām al-Mulk
and Malikshāh made while in Baghdad in 480/1087. They visited the
graves of the Sufi Maʿrūf al-Karkhī, the jurists Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal and Abū
Ḥanīfa, and the shrines of the first, third, and seventh Shiite Imams, ʿAlī,
Ḥusayn, and Mūsā b. Jaʿfar thereby recognizing the religious sensibilities
of Sufis, Ḥanbalī traditionalists, Ḥanafīs, and Shiites.14 During this visit,
the vizier even met with one of Baghdad’s few remaining adherents of the
Muʿtazilī school of kalām.15 There is evidence that these efforts succeeded
at least in winning the support of Ḥanbalī Traditionalists for the Seljuks.
There had been a great deal of opposition to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa by the
Ḥanbalī traditionalists of Baghdad, which ceased.16 The great traditionalist
religious scholar Ibn ʿAqīl (d. 513/1119) even eulogized Niẓām al-Mulk after
his death.17
Glassen argues plausibly that al-Ghazālī would have been an active par-
ticipant in his patron’s policy of religious reconciliation.18 Far from being
a partisan Shāfiʿī-Ashʿarī firebrand, al-Ghazālī’s impressive lectures won
a following that included the above mentioned Ḥanbalī traditionalist Ibn
ʿAqīl.19 Al-Ghazālī’s cooperation with the caliphs al-Muqtadī (d. 487/1094)
and al-Mustaẓhir is also in keeping with Niẓām al-Mulk’s support of the
office of the caliph. If we accept that he was invested in this facet of Niẓām
al-Mulk’s policies, then there is good reason to expect that he was pro-
foundly affected by the events that followed the death of his patron.
In 484/1091, when al-Ghazālī occupied his chair at the Niẓāmiyya, the
Seljuk Empire was at the pinnacle of its power, stretching from Kashgar
on the borders of China to the Mediterranean, and it seemed bound for
further expansion. The sultan had decided to make the caliphal city of
Baghdad his winter residence, and in 485/1092 construction began on a
new palace and royal mosque. Niẓām al-Mulk also had a palace built for
himself, as did his rival Tāj al-Mulk (d. 486/1093), who was the treasurer
of one of Malikshāh’s wives, Turkān Khātūn (d. 487/1094), a political

player in her own right. Plans were made for a great military campaign
to the west, which seems to have been the first phase of a plan to conquer
the entirety of the Muslim world. Had it been successful, this campaign
would have resulted, along with Seljuk conquest of Anatolia, in a larger
empire than the Abbasids had controlled at their height.20
Al-Ghazālī’s appointment to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in the second
Seljuk capital and caliphal city of Baghdad was of a piece with these
maneuverings. This was a very deliberate decision taken by Niẓām
al-Mulk. Before leaving Isfahan, he bestowed two grand titles upon
al-Ghazālī: “Brilliance of the Religion” (Zayn al-dīn) and “Eminence
among Religious Authorities” (al-aʾimma).21 Far from perfunctorily filling
a vacancy with a suitable candidate, Niẓām al-Mulk dismissed two sitting
professors to create a position for al-Ghazālī.22
Collapse into Civil War

But these grand plans came to nothing, and the regime of Malikshāh and
Niẓām al-Mulk unraveled with breathtaking speed. On Ramadan 10, 485/
October 14, 1092, while travelling with the sultan from Isfahan to Baghdad,
Niẓām al-Mulk was fatally stabbed in the vicinity of Nihāwand by an assas-
sin who approached him posing as a Sufi petitioner. The assassin was
seized and killed on the spot. On Ramadan 23/October 27, Malikshāh
arrived in Baghdad and issued an order Niẓām al-Mulk would certainly
have opposed: that the caliph leave the city immediately, essentially abol-
ishing the duo-archy and asserting the sole authority of the Seljuk sultan.
There had been an unhappy marriage between the caliph and the daugh-
ter of Malikshāh and Turkān Khātūn that had embittered the sultan and
his wife against the caliph. The short union had produced a son,23 who
now lived in the court of the sultan, and Malikshāh and his wife hoped the
young boy would be named caliph, thus uniting the Seljuk and Abbasid
houses. According to one source, Turkān Khātūn called her young grand-
son by the caliphal title Commander of the Believers, and had chosen a
site in Isfahan for his future caliphal palace.24 This attempt to exile the
caliph was an effort to speed the realization of these plans.
Malikshāh’s new minister, Tāj al-Mulk, convinced the sultan to give the
caliph a ten-day extension, long enough for events to intervene. On the
fast-breaking feast of ʿīd al-fiṭr, Shawwāl 1/November 4, Sultan Malikshāh
prayed at a popular shrine in northeast Baghdad, went hunting, ate a meal

of wild game, contracted a fever, and died.25 It was assumed by many that
he had been poisoned, whether by agents of the caliph to avoid expulsion
or by his own wife.26 Al-Ghazālī refers to him as the “martyred Sultan” in
the letter quoted at the beginning of this chapter, strongly suggesting that
it was widely accepted in the day that he had been assassinated.27
His wife, Turkān Khātūn, managed to keep the death a secret as she
maneuvered to have her five-year-old son named successor, plainly with
the assumption that she would be the one actually ruling. But the caliph
refused to give his official recognition of the young boy unless he ruled,
as a minor, under the guardianship of two appointees: for the treasury,
Niẓām al-Mulk’s replacement, the vizier Tāj al-Mulk, and for military
affairs, a Seljuk prince.28 Malikshāh’s widow solicited a legal brief, a fatwā,
supporting her position,29 while al-Ghazālī wrote the fatwā supporting the
caliph; it was al-Ghazālī’s opinion that was upheld.
During Malikshāh’s life, however, it was not this five-year-old son who
had been named his successor, but, on Niẓām al-Mulk’s advice, his now
eleven-year-old son named Barkyārūq, born to another of Malikshāh’s
wives, Zubayda Khātūn.30 Niẓām al-Mulk’s private army, called, like his
madrasas, the Niẓāmiyya, blamed Tāj al-Mulk for the murder of Niẓām
al-Mulk and proclaimed Barkyārūq sultan first in Isfahan and then in Rayy
(part of modern Tehran). Forces of the two contenders met in battle; vic-
tory went to Barkyārūq. Tāj al-Mulk was captured in the battle, and though
Barkyārūq expressed an interest in appointing him as his own vizier, the
Niẓāmiyya killed and dismembered him, sending one of his fingers to
Baghdad.31 After this, the younger son ceased to be a serious contender,
and he and his mother died of plague in 487/1094. Malikshāh’s brother
and governor of Damascus, Tutush, also claimed the throne and contested
it against Barkyārūq until the former’s death in 488/1095. His vizier
was Fakhr al-Mulk (d. 499/1106),32 the son of Niẓām al-Mulk, who, after
the death of Tutush, served Barkyārūq, and later still served the ruler of
Khurasan, Sanjar. As we shall see in chapter 5, during this final appoint-
ment he became al-Ghazālī’s disciple, and it was he who summoned him
to return to official teaching at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Nishapur in
499/1106.
Both Barkyārūq and Tutush were, at different times, recognized by
the caliph in Baghdad as sultan. On Muḥarram 14, 487/February 9, 1094,
an official document was prepared granting official caliphal recognition
of Barkyārūq as sultan and presented to the Caliph al-Muqtadī for his

signature. Shortly after signing, the 29-year-old caliph died unexpectedly.33

Much as Malikshāh’s death was kept secret by his wife, the caliphal vizier
ʿAmīd al-Dawla was summoned at night to the deathbed of the caliph
where he swore loyalty to the designated heir, al-Mustaẓhir. The next day,
he presented Barkyārūq with his document of caliphal recognition with-
out mentioning the death of the caliph. Only three days later was the offi-
cial mourning for al-Muqtadī held, along with the oath of loyalty for his
successor al-Mustaẓhir—a ceremony Barkyārūq did not attend, though
al-Ghazālī did.34 Al-Ghazālī later praised ʿAmīd al-Dawla for his acumen
in concealing the death until a smooth succession could be guaranteed.35
Thus, within a year and a half, the vizier who had managed the affairs
of the Seljuk Empire for nearly 30 years, the sultan of 20 years, and the
caliph had all died. The result was chaos and civil war that continued
for 13 years until Muḥammad b. Malikshāh was able to establish a stable
regime beginning in 498/1105. The one part of the empire that was rela-
tively peaceful was Khurasan, where Muḥammad’s brother Sanjar ruled
as the “King of the East.” Al-Ghazālī himself described the circumstances
that prevailed at the death of the caliph al-Muqtadī as follows:
Armies surrounded the City of Peace [Baghdad] whose outskirts

were crowded with every sort of soldiery. It was a time of religion’s
eclipse (zamān al-fatra36), and the world was overflowing with tribu-
lation and roiling with strife. Swords were drawn in every region
of the earth, and chaos was widespread in the rest of the country,
where the flames of war did not abate and the stabbing and strik-
ing had no end. The armies craved riches and their maws yawned
towards the treasuries. This led hearts to change and stirred up ran-
cor and hatred.37
Adding to the turmoil and uncertainty were suspicions that each of these
three deaths was an assassination perpetrated by members of the ruling
elite. The Ismaili Assassins of Alamūt claimed responsibility for Niẓām
al-Mulk’s killing, but he had numerous enemies in the Seljuk court, and
several of the historical sources accuse Malikshāh or Turkān Khātūn or Tāj
al-Mulk while also reporting the Assassins’ claim. Carole Hillenbrand con-
cludes that the most likely suspect in the murder of Niẓām al-Mulk was
his rival and successor Tāj al-Mulk, while Omid Safi has made the case
for Malikshāh’s guilt. Erika Glassen writes that it likely was, in fact, the

Ismailis of Alamūt who killed Niẓām al-Mulk, pointing to the dagger used
in his assassination, the typical murder weapon of the “self-sacrificers”
(fidāʾīyūn) of Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, and the fact that most of the sources, even if
they charge one of the main suspects within the court, also state that the
Ismailis’ first assassination was of Niẓām al-Mulk.38 The timings of the
sudden deaths of young and healthy Malikshāh and al-Muqtadī were sus-
picious, the sultan’s death sparing al-Muqtadī exile and the caliph’s death
ending his life immediately after he had ceased to be of use to Barkyārūq.
Hillenbrand and Mustapha Hogga have argued that these two deaths were
also assassinations.39
What is important for our purposes is that the stable and disciplined
Seljuk regime that Niẓām al-Mulk had worked to create, the sectarian rec-
onciliation he had sought to foster, and the harmony between the Abbasid
head of the umma and the Seljuk military and political ruler proved to
be so feeble. Not only had it collapsed; it had imploded into infighting
between Seljuk and Abbasid and Seljuk and Seljuk, and there were at min-
imum plausible suspicions that the deaths that had launched the cycle of
destruction were murders perpetrated by stakeholders in the system. It is
hard to imagine this not changing the worldview of al-Ghazālī, who had
worked for Niẓām al-Mulk in creating the very system that had collapsed.
Al-Ghazālī’s Crisis and Transformation in a

Political Context
Al-Ghazālī’s first response was to continue to support the system, work-
ing with what may have seemed its most stable remaining element: the
caliph. As mentioned above, he supported al-Muqtadī’s insistence that the
five-year-old Maḥmūd be granted caliphal recognition as sultan only with
guardians appointed by the caliph, the result of which was an expansion
of caliphal authority at the expense of the office of the sultan. In 487/1094,
after al-Muqtadī’s death, al-Ghazālī composed his The Scandals of the
Esotericists and Virtues of the Mustaẓhirites (Faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya wa faḍā’il
al-mustaẓhiriyya) for the new 15-year-old caliph al-Mustaẓhir in which he
gives guidance, urging the young caliph to seek advice of men of insight
and experience, especially his vizier ʿAmīd al-Dawla, whom he goes on to
praise.40
But al-Ghazālī also recognized the political reality revealed by the col-
lapse of the regime so carefully constructed by Niẓām al-Mulk, and this

is plain in the content of the work he composed. The Mustaẓhiriyya is

mainly a refutation of Ismaili claims to religio-political authority, but it
also contains a justification of the caliphate, and discussion of the division
of power between caliph and sultan. It is in this latter subject that its novel
contribution lies.
In classical Islamic political and legal theory, the caliph is the foun-
dation of the religious law and its legitimacy—without him, the sharīʿa
would be threatened with extinction, and al-Ghazālī fully endorses this
view in the Mustaẓhiriyya.41 However, Carole Hillenbrand argues that he
articulates a theory of government in which the caliph is radically depen-
dent on the sultan and his military power (shawka), not simply as an
instrument of the caliph’s authority, but as the basis of his very election
and investiture as caliph. Rejecting the divine appointment of the Ismaili
imam (naṣṣ), al-Ghazālī writes that the legitimate ruler of the Muslim
community, the caliph, is appointed by election (ikhtiyār) of the Muslims.
Clearly this election cannot occur through the oath of allegiance (bayʿa)
of the entire Muslim community, which raises the question of whose
allegiance determines the election of the Caliph. The answer is that of
any individual who commands unsurpassed military force and thus can
provide a power base for the caliph. At that time, this would have meant
whichever Seljuk contender attained the sultanate and his Turkic army.
In al-Ghazālī’s formulation, God did play a role in the system by turning
the heart of the sultan in favor of the caliph. The ratification of a caliph
by the power of the sultan, then, is a sign of the divine will. There were
ten qualities a caliph must possess, but as long as a military commander
endorsed a caliph who possessed them, the endorsement was legitimate.42
In articulating this theory, al-Ghazālī was simply recognizing the realities
of his day. Hillenbrand further argues that by articulating his theory in a
work of polemic written for the caliph, he was trying to convince the caliph
of these realities as well.43
Hillenbrand finds that al-Ghazālī was consistent in this position for
the rest of his life, reiterating the dependence of the caliph on the sul-
tan for his appointment in The Balanced Book of What-to-Believe (al-Iqtiṣād
fī al-iʿtiqād), written the following fateful year of 488/1095, and in the
Revival itself.44 Since no treatise on government from before the collapse of
the Seljuk regime in 485/1092 survives, we cannot demonstrate whether
these works were consistent with his earlier views or not, but Hillenbrand
suggests, very plausibly, that this was a new position that grew out of those
turbulent times.45 By articulating this new theory, al-Ghazālī was doing

what he found necessary as a participant in the politics of his day to try to

restore stability in the realm.
In another capacity, however, al-Ghazālī’s thought on the role of politics
moved in a very different direction. The following year, he largely cut his
ties with the regime, renouncing his position and moving from Baghdad
to the Levant for two years, and then, after another brief stay in Baghdad,
to his home region of Khurasan, never to return. One of his major motives
in doing this was the desire to remove himself from politics. As we saw in
the quotation that opened this chapter, while in the Levant al-Ghazālī went
to the tomb of Abraham in Hebron, where he took an oath never again to
appear before a ruler, never again to take money from a ruler, never again
to participate in public theological debate (through which he had secured
his status with Niẓām al-Mulk), and never again to engage in sectarian
fanaticism, which was also interwoven with the politics of his age.
Al-Ghazālī’s claim in the quotation above that “he was true to this oath
for twelve years and the Commander of the Believers (i.e., the Caliph) and
all sultans knew him to be excused,”46 suggests that the vow was widely
known throughout his period of retreat from official teaching. He seems
to refer to this decision to cut his ties to politics in the Revival as well. In
book 17 of the Revival, The Manners of Travelling, al-Ghazālī writes that
one of the legitimate purposes of travel is the necessity of fleeing political
authority and prestige and political connections because they disturb the
emptying of the heart of all but God.47
Despite this flight from politics, al-Ghazālī repeated his new theory
of government throughout the remainder of his career, and continued to
write about the importance of a just ruler to the community and to the
pursuit of piety of its members in the Revival and other works. But just
as he recognized the reality of the Abbasid-Seljuk dynamic, he also recog-
nized that a Muslim community reliant on the political stability of such a
fractious regime was on a flimsy foundation indeed. Already in 488/1095
he began to formulate a new relationship between the pious individual
and the government that took these political realities into consideration.
Rather than politics guaranteeing a stable environment for the pursuit of
individual piety, it was individual piety that would be responsible for guid-
ing the ruler to rule justly. We will explore this in the next chapter.
Just as we must bear in mind that al-Ghazālī’s life before 488/1095 was
very much immersed in politics, we must also be aware that his renuncia-
tion of this life was never complete. Al-Ghazālī did not retire to a life of

obscure devotion, as many of his contemporaries did and as he, too, could
surely have done.48 Rather, he embarked on a campaign to transform the
religious landscape of his age. The interiorized narrative of the Deliverer
presents al-Ghazālī’s post-crisis life as a solitary quest for certainty and sal-
vation, but the work he devoted himself to writing after his departure from
Baghdad and to promoting for the rest of his life, as we shall see, tells a
different story. The Revival of the Religious Sciences is a work dedicated to
the salvation of all Muslims through the transformation—revival—of the
religious sciences. The ultimate goal of the Revival is to guide its reader
to felicity in the hereafter, but his project had major implications for the
understanding and practice of the religious sciences in this world, which
had to be reordered to serve the goal. In this respect, there is continuity
between al-Ghazālī’s work within the framework of worldly politics before
his crisis and his work outside of the political sphere afterward, both aim-
ing at a stable social and religious order for Muslims in this world.49 As
Erika Glassen has put it, with his departure from Baghdad, al-Ghazālī
moved from religious policy to religiosity.50
Neither was his break with the regime and its actors ever total. A year
and a half after he left Baghdad, he returned briefly, taking up residence
in the Sufi hospice (ribāṭ) of Abu Saʿd al-Ṣūfī, adjacent to the Niẓāmiyya
Madrasa where he had previously taught, and which, like his former insti-
tution, had benefitted from the largesse of Niẓām al-Mulk. Here he gave
readings of his work in progress, The Revival of the Religious Sciences, to
enthusiastic audiences. Even here he intervened in political issues in his
capacity as religious scholar and jurist. One of his students in Baghdad
was the Andalusi Abū Bakr Ibn al-ʿArabī (d. 543/1148), at whose request
he wrote a fatwā endorsing the conquest of the Andalusi kingdoms of the
“Party Kings” (the Mulūk al-ṭawā’if, one of whom Abū Bakr’s father had
served as vizier) by the Almoravid regime, whom Abū Bakr later served
as a judge. With it, al-Ghazālī sent a letter endorsing Abū Bakr and his
father, who were hoping to ingratiate themselves with the new regime.
Al-Ghazālī may well have avoided contact with the caliph and sultan dur-
ing his brief sojourn in Baghdad—he writes that both “knew him to be
excused,” a reference to his vows. But as we shall see in chapters 5 and 6,
he continued to cultivate his connections to members of the Seljuk court,
particularly the sons of Niẓām al-Mulk. For a man who sought to trans-
form his age, the political influence his connections could offer was too
useful to reject utterly.

Al-Ghazālī’s famous spiritual crisis of 488/1095 had a very worldly

context. It must be understood at least partially as a response to the politi-
cal events of his age, both because he felt morally compromised by his
political involvement, as his vows demonstrate, and because he despaired
of the role of the regime in establishing a stable and just worldly order. But
al-Ghazālī’s grand ambitions for the transformation of the religious land-
scape of his age, spelled out in his Revival of the Religious Sciences, show
that his departure from Baghdad was not a renunciation of the world.
Rather it shows a redirected ambition, and one that he relied on his politi-
cal connections to achieve, as we shall see.
Of course, the Revival also represents a particular set of religious doc-
trines and intellectual commitments, whose development has a dynamic
of its own. The thesis of that book grew out of internal intellectual delib-
erations throughout al-Ghazālī’s early career. In the next chapter, we
will explore al-Ghazālī’s thought in the year before his departure from
Baghdad.

2
The Scale of Action: An Intellectual

Portrait of al-Ghazālī on the Eve of
His Departure from Baghdad
our most iconic picture of al-Ghazālī is his spiritual crisis in 488/1095.

The Deliverer paints a vivid picture of his paralyzing doubt and abrupt
departure from Baghdad: a break with his former life and convictions.
As we saw in the Introduction, however, the Deliverer was written 12 years
after the events it portrays to serve a particular rhetorical agenda. To hear
al-Ghazālī’s voice in this pivotal period, we must turn to another source,
one that tells a very different story of his concerns, state of mind, and intel-
lectual and spiritual commitments.
Al-Ghazālī likely wrote The Scale of Action (Mīzān al-ʿamal) in the
very year of his dramatic break.1 It is a work of ethics like The Revival
of the Religious Sciences, the expression of al-Ghazālī’s post-488/1095 pro-
gram, which he began composing immediately after his departure from
Baghdad. The Scale, then, can be seen as a sort of first draft of the Revival,
and many crucial elements of the later masterpiece are cast in greater
relief when compared to the preliminary sketch. Examining the Scale and
comparing it to the Revival shows the centrality to al-Ghazālī’s thought in
this period of ethics or, more specifically, a broader discipline called, in the
philosophical tradition, the Practical Science. This comparison explains
what was at stake for him in this subject, reveals what changed in his
ethical thought after Baghdad, and, tellingly, what did not. Far from a tor-
mented soul, despairing of his own salvation, the author of the Scale is a
supremely confident man with a mission—a mission that remains funda-
mentally unchanged when it is repackaged in the Revival.
The Scale conveys a sense of great urgency, but its concern is not with
a criterion for certain knowledge for its own sake. Rather, it deals with the

Scale of Action 31
quest for felicity in the hereafter (al-saʿāda al-ukhrawiyya), an eternal bliss

that surpasses the salvation of common Muslims, which was an impor-
tant feature of philosophical thought, not the Sufism of his day. Its author
does not appear plagued with doubt and faltering commitment; rather,
the Ghazālī of the Scale seems most concerned with convincing others to
seek felicity, not with his own chances of achieving it. One of the paths
to felicity described in the Scale is Sufism, but the other is philosophy,
which al-Ghazālī presents as the superior of the two paths. The Ghazālī of
the Scale, then, is a marked contrast to the Ghazālī of the Deliverer: a man
intrigued by Sufism but committed to philosophy, certain in his own con-
victions and achievements in the path to felicity and dedicated to leading
others to follow in his footsteps.
Before beginning our engagement with the Scale, it is worth paus-
ing to examine the two schools of thought al-Ghazālī considers in that
work: Sufism and philosophy. This will allow us to better understand—
and interrogate—his self-positioning vis-à-vis these two disciplines.
Sufism and Philosophy

According to a legend in circulation by the late 6th/12th century,2 the great
philosopher Ibn Sīnā (d. 428/1037) once met alone with the Khurasani
Sufi Abū Saʿīd Ibn Abī al-Khayr (d. 440/1049). For three days the two
men discussed the insights to which their respective disciplines had led
them. Emerging from the meeting, Ibn Sīnā reported to his followers,
“Everything I know, he sees.” Abū Saʿīd Ibn Abī al-Khayr told his followers,
“Everything I see, he knows.”3 Plainly, the moral of this legend is that phi-
losophy and Sufism are two paths to the same insight, albeit experienced
in different ways.
Famously, in his Deliverer from Error, al-Ghazālī came to a different con-
clusion, declaring that philosophy is not a reliable path to certain knowl-
edge, but Sufism is. It is surprising, then, to find that in The Scale of Action
he calls both philosophy and Sufism paths to the Truth, very much echo-
ing the sentiment of the legend above. Before turning to al-Ghazālī’s inter-
vention, let us look at these two sciences, Sufism and philosophy: their
similarities, their differences, and what was at stake in al-Ghazālī’s posi-
tion on them.
It is important to emphasize that this is an overview of the relationship
between philosophy and Sufism in al-Ghazālī’s day. As the above legend

suggests, the distinctions between the two blurred in later years, with
philosophers insisting on a role for direct, intuitive insight in attaining
knowledge of the Truth, and Sufis giving rational, discursive accounts of
their visions, a trend that reached its furthest development in Mullā Ṣadrā
(d. 1050/1640 or 1044/1635).4 But al-Ghazālī’s own writings, and, as we
shall see, the reaction of many of his contemporaries to them, show that,
in his time, the distinction was significant.
Sufism in al-Ghazālī’s day was a practical more than a theoretical dis-
cipline. It centered on what Pierre Hadot has called “spiritual exercises,”5
training undertaken for the sake of changing one’s very self, molding it to
fit an ideal. For Sufis, this ideal was a Godly self, an ideal captured by the
injunction of a hadith often quoted by Sufis, “Acquire the virtues of God,”
(takhallaqū bi-akhlāq allāh). At its most basic, this amounted to scrupu-
lously obeying God’s commandments, and, at its furthest extrapolation,
to the self’s obliteration in an overwhelming awareness of the Divine that
breaks down the distinction between knower and known.
For an early Sufi like al-Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857), whose nickname means
“the reckoner,” this method entailed a minute examination of personal
motivation and the inclinations that come to mind. For al-Muḥāsibī, these
can come from one of three sources: Satan, the ego, or God. A practitioner
of his method must honestly assess his motives at all times, acting only
on Godly motivations.6 Later Sufis, such as al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988), charted
the progress of Sufi practitioners toward God, consisting of a number of
“stations” (maqāmāt), beginning with a repentance (tawba) of their for-
mer, egocentric life, then scrupulous assessment of their conduct (waraʿ),
then an embrace of asceticism (zuhd) and poverty (fuqr), and continuing
through a series of psychological/spiritual dispositions of increasing res-
ignation to the will of God. These were patience with God’s will (ṣabr),
reliance on God alone (tawakkul) as all phenomena stem from God, and
contentment with the divine will (riḍā) whatever it may decree, because all
that occurs, however it may affect us, is the will of God.7 Progress through
these stages is also sought through ritual acts beyond what the law man-
dates, such as additional prayers and fasting, and meditative practices
such as the repetition of names of God or other pious phrases, sometimes
undertaken in secluded retreat (khalwa).
The primary obstacle to progress was the ego (nafs) and its whims
and appetites. The ego must be so thoroughly overcome that the practi-
tioner becomes “as a corpse in the hands of a corpse washer,” gratefully

Scale of Action 33
accepting the dictates of the divine will. Ultimately, in extraordinary states

that can only be sporadically achieved, the ego melts so completely that the
Sufi ceases to act with any awareness of a distinct self, his very conscious-
ness having been subsumed by God. Some Sufis in the grips of such a
state sought to express their “passing away” in the divine (fanāʾ) through
“ecstatic utterances (shaṭḥiyyāt). The most notorious of these are those of
al-Ḥallāj (d. 309/922), who declared his perceived union with God by say-
ing, “I am the Truth,” and Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d. 261/874), on whose lips
“Glory be to God,” became “Glory be to Me!” (subḥānī).8
This immersion in God was described as a kind of “knowledge” of God
(maʿrifa),9 but Sufi thinkers of al-Ghazālī’s day were not concerned with
working out systematically the theoretical implications of this knowledge
of God and His relation to His creation. In fact, many early Sufi writ-
ers insisted that this experience of God lay beyond the power of language
to convey. Rather, a work like al-Qushayrī’s (d. 465/1074) classic Epistle
on Sufism (al-Risāla fī al-taṣawwuf) focuses largely on a subtle examina-
tion of psychological/spiritual experiences and states, both ordinary and
extraordinary, in ways that may entail broader metaphysical implications
without articulating them.10 Later Sufi theoreticians, such as the “Greatest
Shaykh” Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn al-ʿArabī (d. 638/1140), elaborated complex cos-
mologies based on Sufi experiential knowledge of God, but the emphasis
of al-Ghazālī’s predecessors was on ethics, psychology, and spiritual meth-
odology. In fact, the “theosophical Sufism” of a figure like Ibn al-ʿArabī
may have been made possible by al-Ghazālī’s innovations.11
These early Sufis shared the universal Muslim concern with salvation
in the afterlife and certainly hoped that their scrupulous piety would earn
them this. But there was little emphasis on the notion that Sufi practice
was necessary for salvation, or that the salvation attained by Sufis would
be qualitatively different from that of non-Sufis, though there were excep-
tions.12 Sufis saw themselves as a spiritual elite and believed that some
especially accomplished Sufis could become saints, whose prayers God
answered in life, and who could continue to intervene with God with
respect to worldly affairs even after death.13 But the focus of their practice
remained the possibility of encountering God in this life as a reward in its
own right.
As for “Islamic philosophy,” it should first be emphasized that, unlike
the philosophies of Plato, Aristotle, and Plotinus that provided its founda-
tion, it actually was Islamic. Islamic philosophers recognized the reality of

God, His prophets, His scriptures, His angels, prophetic miracles, salva-
tion and so on. However, each of these elements of the Islamic religious
tradition was redefined and understood in terms of a totalizing system
that sought to account for reality in all of its facets.
It should also be emphasized that, unlike most contemporary Western
philosophy, falsafa, as it is known in Arabic, was not a strictly intellectual
exercise. Rather, it was pursued as a way of life, an undertaking that aimed,
like Sufism, at the transformation of the self through spiritual exercises
for the sake of salvation in the afterlife, though philosophers understood
this in a particular way.14 The philosopher who most influenced al-Ghazālī,
Ibn Sīnā (or Avicenna, as he became known in European languages), enti-
tled his great compendium of knowledge, covering logic, physics, math-
ematics, and metaphysics, The Book of the Cure (Kitāb al-shifāʿ). It was
written not out of an encyclopedic impulse to gather together disparate
knowledge for the sake of consultation, but in order to offer a comprehen-
sive vision of reality that would effect the healing of the soul, the “cure” of
the book’s title.
The systematic nature of philosophical knowledge, along with the logi-
cal proofs upon which it was understood to rest, made falsafa the scientific
method of its day. Each element of the philosophical system fit with the
others, explaining reality in its totality in an orderly and logical way. God,
as understood by the philosophers, did not create or act upon the universe
arbitrarily. Everything from the structure of the cosmos, to the nature of
prophecy, to the rewards and punishments of the afterlife was understood
as the automatic unfolding of a rational system.15
The God of the philosophers is not understood as a Being with a will or
emotions or whims, concerned with the affairs of His creatures and with
whom they could communicate. Rather, philosophers such as Ibn Sīnā
saw God as the Necessary Existent (wājib al-wujūd), the self-subsistent
entity, conceived of as thought thinking itself, to which all conditioned
beings owe their existence. This existence emanates from God, who is
utterly singular and utterly immaterial, through a series of intervening
spheres associated with the stars, planets, sun, and moon, to the sublu-
nar, physical world. Existence becomes more diffuse with each sphere of
emanation. God’s utter unicity becomes the multiplicity of the world; His
immaterial, intellectual existence and eternality give way to the genera-
tion and decay of the material world. This process of creation is not willed
in time, but is rather an unwilled emanation from the One, whose very

Scale of Action 35
nature is spontaneously to generate existence without beginning or end.

Hence, this doctrine contradicted the commonly held Muslim belief that
God had created the world in time.16
The philosophers understood the human being to consist of two basic
parts: an immortal, immaterial, rational soul or intellect, and a mortal
body. They held that the highest aim of the intellect is to use the lower
faculties of the body, such as motion and sensation, which in turn use the
body, its limbs and sensory organs, for the sake of acquiring knowledge of
the higher intelligible worlds.17 Too often, though, they thought the oppo-
site occurs, and human beings act not for the sake of furthering the ends
of the intellect, but for the sake of satisfying the passions and appetites of
the body. To serve the aims of the intellect and not the body, the philoso-
pher must work to reduce the hold of the body and its passions—a prac-
tice of ethical self-cultivation similar to Sufi practice. But these practices
do not, in themselves, lead the philosopher to God, no matter how strenu-
ously they are undertaken or how much the soul is perfected. Rather, the
rational soul, once freed of the demands of the body and its passions,
must actively pursue knowledge of God through rational investigation of
Him and His creation. This knowledge is not spontaneous and experien-
tial, but rather achieved by means of logical demonstration (burhān).
Acquiring this knowledge literally transforms the soul. To see, say, a
lamp, is merely to perceive it. To know a lamp is to abstract from a mate-
rial lamp the immaterial, intelligible form of a lamp, or “lampness,”
which is then impressed in the knower’s immaterial intellect like a seal
in wax, such that the intellect that knows and the intelligible form that is
known become one and the same. The philosophers conceived of even
the acquisition of knowledge in a unique way. The intelligible form is
impressed upon the soul not by the investigator’s own effort, but by the
“Active Intellect” (al-ʿaql al-faʿʿāl), the intelligible emanation that mediates
between the higher intelligible realms and the sublunar world of genera-
tion and decay. By acquiring correct knowledge of the immaterial forms
of the universe (tested by logical demonstration), the rational soul takes
on the form of the ordered universe emanating from God. Insofar as the
universe itself aspires at each level of emanation to be as much like its
Creator as possible, the rational soul thus takes on an ever more Godlike
form though the continuing acquisition of knowledge.
The philosophical project is precisely this “return” to God (al-maʿād)
by overcoming the material body, its passions, and its five senses, whose

perception does not transcend the material world, by employing the intel-
lect to gain knowledge of the immaterial, strictly intelligible realms of the
higher spheres, and ultimately of God, the intelligible being par excellence.
The soul takes pleasure in adorning itself with knowledge of the intelli-
gibles, but only when it is rid of its body through death will the full maj-
esty of its intelligible vision be clear to it. If the soul attains this, it will
experience untold delight in the afterlife, contemplating God’s perfection
and splendor for all of eternity, which will be its reward, instead of the
sensual pleasures depicted in the Qur’ān. If the soul fails to do this, its
eternal punishment will be the realization of its failure, not the fire and
brimstone depicted in the Qur’ān. This strictly spiritual understanding
of the afterlife and of rewards and punishments, following as the natural
consequences of earthly actions rather than meted out by a personal God,
is another point in which the philosophers part company with more com-
mon Muslim understandings of scripture.
For philosophers, then, unlike Sufis, knowledge of God and His cre-
ation in all its facets had a unique soteriological significance. For some
philosophers, gaining knowledge of the intelligible forms of the higher
realms was the only route to any sort of afterlife whatsoever. Those who
did not forge in their soul the pattern of God’s rationally ordered universe
by acquiring the intelligibles–the large majority of Muslims–would have
their existence limited to the body only and would share in its extinction.18
For other philosophers, such as al-Fārābī (d. 339/951), these “dormant”
human souls would have to suffer for all of eternity the realization of their
failure to make use of their life to attain felicity.19
This has profound ramifications for the understanding of the Islamic
tradition and its scripture. Most philosophers understood the Qurʿān
to contain symbolic information comprehensible to them but miscon-
strued by common believers, who would gain no guidance from God’s
revealed word that would aid them in the afterlife. This was tantamount
to claiming that God had duped the overwhelming majority of Muslims.20
Ibn Sīnā, however, found a solution to this. For him, there existed two
types of salvation in the afterlife. The one for common believers, salva-
tion (najāt), would be experienced in the bodily terms described in the
Qur’ān—however, the pleasures of paradise would exist not in the physi-
cal world, but in an imaginal world, one step further removed from the
divine epiphany than the physical world. For those who come to know God
in this life, their reward would be felicity (saʿāda), a strictly immaterial,

Scale of Action 37
world-transcending, direct intellectual experience of the immaterial God,

who was the only truly existent Being in the cosmos. The Qur’ān, in this
account, did not dupe anyone, because its purpose was to reveal the law,
not the path to felicity.21
The theoretical knowledge of God and His creation that philosophers
like Ibn Sīnā pursued and elaborated was, for this era, “scientific,” in that
it provided a systematic account of the cosmos and all its phenomena.
There was no room in philosophical thought for the deus ex machina.
God did not endow prophets with supernatural powers and insights for
His own inscrutable purposes. Rather, prophets were human beings with
hyper-developed versions of the faculties found in common people. The
philosophers held that ordinary human beings were capable of having true
premonitions of the future in dreams and that prophets could have these
premonitions while waking. Normal human beings could control their
limbs with their minds; prophets could control physical objects beyond
their bodies by the hyper-development of the same faculty. God did not
choose to create the cosmos at an arbitrary moment in time: rather, the
cosmos was co-eternal with God, an automatic extension of His creative
nature. In fact, God did not even know the particulars of the distant and
imperfect physical world of multiplicity and decay. Rather, He knew only
the universal forms of which individual objects or people were particular
instantiations.
The systematizing concern of philosophy extended to all phenomena.
The achievement of Ibn Sīnā, in particular, was to harmonize Aristotelian
philosophy, the Ptolemaic universe, and Islamic revelation. This synthesis
gave a consistent, rational, scientific account of the cosmos and human
beings’ place and purpose in it. His achievement was widely respected,
and by the mid-12th century, his thought was everywhere to be found in
the eastern Islamic world and beyond.22 Al-Ghazālī’s was an early and cre-
ative engagement with it.
In al-Ghazālī’s time, Sufism and philosophy had deep commonalities.
Both were practical disciplines that aimed to perfect the human soul with
the higher goal of knowing God. But their aims and methods also had
profound differences. Knowledge of God was understood by the Sufi to
come spontaneously as a result of spiritual exercises alone, but the philos-
opher held that it came through rational investigation. The philosopher’s
insights could be rationally ordered and conveyed; in fact, if they could
not, then the philosopher could not be said actually to know them. It has

been argued that for Ibn Sīnā, for example, the only possible way to attain
true knowledge was through the rational demonstration by means of the
syllogism.23
For the philosopher, all of existence was an object of inquiry, for it
was only through knowledge of the rational order of the cosmos that the
divine pattern of the Creator could be known. Sufism in this period did
not share this interest in the study of the cosmos and produced nothing
like Ibn Sīnā’s great summa of human knowledge. Most importantly for
understanding al-Ghazālī’s discussion of the two disciplines in the Scale
of Action, the pursuit of knowledge of God in philosophy had very differ-
ent stakes than it did in Sufism. The ultimate aim of the philosophers was
felicity in the hereafter (al-saʿāda al-ukhrawiyya), a higher and qualitatively
different reward (in Ibn Sīnā’s formulation) than the reward enjoyed by
common believers unawakened to knowledge of the intelligibles. In an
Islamic context, this was a radically different understanding of soteriology
that was not shared—and could be seen as elitist and offensive—by other
Muslims.
It has long been thought that the role of philosophy in al-Ghazālī’s
thought was settled, but a new picture of his relationship to that disci-
pline has emerged. In The Deliverer from Error, al-Ghazālī writes of study-
ing and mastering philosophy in his spare time over the course of two
years, reviewing this material for an additional year, motivated from the
very beginning by the aim of refuting philosophy. He claims to have writ-
ten a summary of philosophical doctrines entitled The Doctrines of the
Philosophers, followed by a refutation of 20 of the philosophers’ tenets,
entitled The Precipitance of the Philosophers (Tahāfut al-falāsifa).24 Most sur-
viving manuscripts of the Doctrines contain a reference at the beginning
and end explaining that the aim of the work is to pave the way for the
Precipitance.25 It has therefore long been held that the Doctrines and the
Precipitance are companion pieces, written for the sake of refuting philoso-
phy.26 Any analysis of al-Ghazālī’s borrowings from philosophy must first
address this very strong statement on the author’s own part that he had
studied philosophy only to reject it.
Recent studies have conclusively shown that al-Ghazālī misrepresents
his approach to philosophy in the Deliverer and that the Doctrines was
not written as a preparatory work for the Precipitance. Jules Janssens has
argued very persuasively that the Doctrines is not an overview of philo-
sophical doctrines per se, but rather a student’s summary (taʿlīqa) of a

Scale of Action 39
Persian philosophical work by Ibn Sīnā, his Dānishnāmah, and that it

bears no relationship to the Precipitance.27
As for the Precipitance, Frank Griffel has argued that, far from being
the product of stolen moments over the course of three years, the work
is a masterpiece of philosophical literature itself that may well have been
decades in the making.28 Rather than a refutation of particular philosophi-
cal doctrines, the Precipitance aims to refute the claim of the philosophers
that theirs is a self-subsistent discipline that has rationally demonstrated
all of its tenets. On the contrary, al-Ghazālī argues, many of the central
philosophical principles are neither rationally demonstrated nor demon-
strable. This is not to say that he disagrees with them. In the fifth and
ninth chapters of the Precipitance, al-Ghazālī attacks the proofs of the phi-
losophers for God’s being one and for His not having a body. Like almost
all Muslim scholars over the ages, al-Ghazālī himself subscribed to these
doctrines. Indeed, God’s unity is the most foundational of all Islamic
tenets. Other of al-Ghazālī’s writings reveal that he subscribed to other of
the more strictly philosophical doctrines whose proofs he refutes in the
Precipitance, such as the heavens being inhabited by souls and the soul’s
being incorruptible in the afterlife.
What al-Ghazālī objects to are not the philosophers’ conclusions, or
at least not all of them. Rather, he objects to their arguments and their
accompanying conviction that they are able autonomously to build their
intellectual edifice through rational proofs alone, starting with no presup-
positions and owing no debt to any other authority. What he aims to do
is establish the necessity of divine guidance through prophecy. He claims
that those correct philosophical doctrines discussed in the Precipitance
were not discovered by the philosophers through their own efforts, but
revealed by earlier prophets like Abraham and Moses.29 And, crucially,
he counts philosophical soteriology, the quest for felicity in the hereafter,
among philosophy’s correct doctrines, writing that it, “does not conflict
with religion.”30
In a fatwā appended to the Precipitance, al-Ghazālī goes so far as to
rule that any Muslim who denies the world’s creation in time, denies
God’s knowledge of particulars, or denies that the rewards or punish-
ments of the afterlife are bodily can be considered an apostate and
suffer the punishment for apostasy—death. This is a much harsher
application of the law of apostasy than existed in the generations prior
to al-Ghazālī.31 However, he softens his position in a short later work

entitled The Decisive Criterion for Distinguishing Islam from Clandestine

Apostasy (Fayṣal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām wa-l-zandaqa), in which he
declares that the truth of scripture can be assented to in different ways.
Clearly, a passage of scripture can be recognized as ontologically true,
that is, as referring to an actual, physical existent. But it could also be
recognized as referring to a sense perception, an imaginary concep-
tion, an intellectual conception, or as engaging in analogy. It may be
factually wrong in a particular instance to argue for a more abstract
reading of a scriptural passage, but to do so does not amount to unbe-
lief.32 This would mean, for instance, that Ibn Sīnā’s imaginal bodily
afterlife would not contradict the Qur’ān’s depiction of bodily rewards
and punishments in the afterlife, although it denies that they will liter-
ally be true.
The recent scholarly consensus, then, is that al-Ghazālī did not refute
philosophy so much as critically engage it. He did not reject philosophical
doctrines, nor did he accept all of them, or accept the ones he assented to
at face value. My analysis of the Scale is in keeping with these findings.
The Scale of Action

The Scale of Action is a short work of ethics that begins with a passionate
call for the pursuit of felicity in the afterlife, a goal pursued through the
acquisition of knowledge (ʿilm) and ethical practice (ʿamal). In the intro-
duction to the work, al-Ghazālī writes that, having already completed a
work providing a “standard” (miʿyār) for the correct pursuit of knowledge,
he will here provide a “scale” (mīzān) for the kind of practice that leads to
felicity. The “standard” he refers to is the Standard for Knowledge (Miʿyār
al-ʿilm), a work on logic whose companion piece the Scale of Action is.33
Thus we see at the outset that al-Ghazālī is approaching his task within
a philosophical framework, offering guidance to felicity in the hereafter
through ethical self-perfection and the acquisition of correct knowledge
through rational investigation.
It has been shown that al-Ghazālī adapted much of the content of the
Scale from earlier works, especially al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī’s al-Dharīʿa ilā
makārim al-sharīʿa, but also various works of Ibn Sīnā.34 However, the
opening chapters, which urge the pursuit of felicity, and chapters 7 and 8,
which discuss the relative merits of philosophy and Sufism as methods for
attaining felicity, seem to be al-Ghazālī’s entirely original compositions.35

Scale of Action 41
This strongly suggests that these two issues—urging pursuit of felic-

ity and determining the best method for attaining it—were al-Ghazālī’s
major objectives in composing this work.
Despite the evident philosophical sources and framework of the Scale,
its relation to philosophy is complex. The Ghazālī that emerges from the
Scale is a thinker indebted to philosophy but critical of existing philo-
sophical schools. He is intrigued by Sufism, convinced that it too is a valid
path to knowledge and felicity, and has inquired into selectively adopt-
ing some of its practices. The Scale presents both rational investigation
and Sufis’ practice and inspiration (ilhām) as paths to the highest felicity
in the afterlife (al-saʿāda al-ukhrawiyya), rational investigation being the
surer of the two, though suitable for only a small elite qualified to pursue
it. Sufism is the path best suited to most of those who pursue felicity, and
those for whom Sufism is more appropriate should not be exposed to
the philosophically based rational method. But al-Ghazālī holds out the
possibility of a more perfect felicity, through subsequent Sufi practice,
for those rational investigators who have reached the limit of what their
method can attain. This is not the position al-Ghazālī presents himself
as holding vis-à-vis philosophy and Sufism in the Deliverer. Neither are
these the concerns he presents himself there as weighing on the eve of
his departure from Baghdad.
Felicity in the Hereafter Is Attained through

Knowledge and Practice
The very first point al-Ghazālī makes in the Scale is that the highest imper-
ative in human life is attaining felicity (saʿāda) in the hereafter. Felicity is
not the same as simple salvation, which most Muslims can hope to attain,
but is a state of pleasure that surpasses the pleasure of the saved in the
hereafter. It is pursued through knowledge and practice (ʿilm wa-ʿamal),
and its substance is likewise to be understood in terms of these, particularly
knowledge, for practice serves the attainment of knowledge.36 The knowl-
edge sought is further defined as the acquisition of the intelligible forms:
The felicity, pleasure, and repose of every entity lies in attaining its
unique perfection . . . the unique perfection of a human being lies in
grasping the reality of the intelligibles (al-ʿaqliyāt) as they truly are
without imaginings or sensory data that animals also share.37

Practice consists in training the self to act ethically by cultivating habitual

virtues such as wisdom and courage and eliminating habitual vices such as
foolishness, cowardice, or rashness. Ethical training is necessary because
the default disposition among human beings is to follow the dictates of
their passions: anger and the appetites for food and sex. The passions,
al-Ghazālī writes, have their uses. In order for the human soul to gather
knowledge of the true essences of things, it has to exist in the world, and
worldly existence requires a body. The body, in turn, requires anger for
the sake of defending itself and the appetites for the sake of sustaining
itself and reproducing the species. Al-Ghazālī compares feeding the body
to feeding a horse that one rides into battle.38 But for most people, unfor-
tunately, satisfying the passions becomes an end in itself rather than a
means to an end. This leads to engrossment in the affairs of the world and
heedlessness of the goal of attaining felicity in the afterlife. Thus, taming
the passions—practice—becomes a prerequisite for focusing on attaining
knowledge.
Once the passions are tamed, the intellect (‘aql) is freed to pursue
knowledge, though not just any knowledge. What is ultimately desired
is knowledge of God. Al-Ghazālī calls the pursuit of this knowledge the
“theoretical science” (al-ʿilm al-naẓarī), whose domain he defines as:
Knowledge of God, His attributes, angels, books, prophets, and the

kingdoms of the heavens and the earth, the marvels of the human
and animal souls insofar as they are related to the omnipotence
of God, not with respect to their essence. The highest goal is the
knowledge of God and God’s angels. It is necessary to know them
because they are intermediaries between God and the Prophet. It is
likewise necessary to gain knowledge of prophecy and the Prophet,
because the Prophet is an intermediary between human beings
and angels just as the angel is an intermediary between God and
the Prophet. This chain continues to the least of the theoretical sci-
ences. The utmost of them is the knowledge of God, but the discus-
sion of this branches out in all directions because each refers to the
others, as the details are many.39
Any phenomenon in existence is of interest, not for itself, but because it

is a creation of God; just as we may come to know an author more closely
by examining his writings, al-Ghazālī asserts, so too can we come to know
the Creator by studying His creation.40

Scale of Action 43
Unlike practice, knowledge of the divine is not a means to the end of

felicity—it is felicity itself.41 “The felicity and perfection of the soul” con-
sists in its “being inscribed with the truths of divine matters and uniting
with them to the point that it is as though it [the soul] were they [the divine
truths].”42
The result of this is a being drawn near (taqarrub) to God. Al-Ghazālī is
quick to specify that this proximity is not in space, but in quality (maʿnā)
and to denounce the ecstatic claims of Sufis like al-Ḥallāj and Abū Yazīd
al-Bistāmī, discussed above, to have attained union with God, which he
insists is impossible.43 The soul was created for this perfection and thirsts
for it. But there are infinite gradations of this perfection and thus of felicity,
which will only truly be grasped after death, the separation of the soul from
the body, and the resulting cessation of the appetites, sensory data, and
imaginings. Death, then, is the drawing back of the curtain on Reality.44
Despite this quite philosophical framing of the subject, al-Ghazālī
goes on to claim that there are two paths to felicity in the hereafter: a
philosophy-inspired method based on rational investigation, but also
Sufism. In our discussion of Sufism and philosophy above, we saw that
one of the key differences between the two disciplines was that the highest
goal or telos of philosophy was the attainment of felicity in the hereafter,
whereas Sufis did not posit a qualitatively different afterlife. Al-Ghazālī,
however, presents Sufism as sharing the philosophical telos of felicity.
The source he cites for this is a “spiritual guide among the authori-
ties of the Sufis” (muqaddam min matbū’ī al-ṣūfiyya), who he says told
him that,
He who ascends to God Most High sees heaven when he is in the

world, and the highest paradise (al-firdaws al-aʿlā) is with him in
his heart if he is able to attain it. Attaining it is achieved through
stripping away attachments to the world and the devotion of all of
his endeavors to contemplating the divine matters until its truth
(jalīya) is revealed to him through divine inspiration (ilhām ilāhī).
This is attained upon the purification of his soul (nafs) of pollutants.
Attaining this is felicity. The practice is designated for attaining
this. These people are a sect who claim insight (maʿrifa) through
knowledge (ʿilm) and practice for felicity.45
It is possible that al-Ghazālī’s information came from an individual Sufi or

member of a Sufi sect that did hold that the ultimate aim of Sufi practice

was felicity in the afterlife, just as in philosophy. There was one Sufi of the
4th/10th century who held this doctrine, one Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Jabbār
al-Niffarī (d. after 366/977), who believed that a Sufi’s contemplation of
God in this life was necessary for the beatific vision of God in the here-
after. But he and his writings enjoyed little popularity until he was redis-
covered by Sufis of the 13th century, such as Ibn al-ʿArabī and al-Shushtarī
(d. 668/1269).46 This is not a doctrine that seems to have been widespread,
and it has not come down to us in surviving Sufi writings of the period.
In the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī lists Sufi writings he had read, and none of the
authors he lists advocate the pursuit of felicity;47 he would have known that
this is not the generally prevailing view.
Al-Ghazālī contrasts a philosophical method he ascribes to a group
he calls the “Theoreticians” (nuẓẓār—I will account for the significance
of this term below) to the method of the Sufis in two different pas-
sages in the Scale.48 The second of these is longer and more detailed
and comes in chapter 7, entitled “The Separation of the Path of the Sufis
from the Path of Others with Respect to Knowledge” (Bayān mufāraqat
ṭarīq al-ṣūfiyya fī jānib al-ʿilm ṭarīq ghayrihim). It is the more important
of the two because it not only expounds the difference between Sufis
and the Theoreticians but presents al-Ghazālī’s experience of and cri-
tique of Sufism as well as his tentative proposal of a third way that com-
bines aspects of both paths.
Al-Ghazālī defines the difference between the Sufis and Theoreticians
as follows:
Know that with respect to practice they are in agreement: its aim is

to eliminate repulsive traits (al-ṣifāt ar-raddiyya) and purify of the
soul of bad morals. But with respect to knowledge, they disagree,
and the paths of the Sufis and the paths of the Theoreticians of
the people of knowledge part ways in this matter. The Sufis do not
encourage acquiring and studying the sciences or studying the com-
positions of writers on inquiring into the truths of matters. Rather,
they say that the path begins with eliminating sinful traits, cutting
all ties, and devoting all of one’s attention to God Most High.49
This is not to say that the Sufis are not interested in attaining knowledge of
the truths of matters. The difference lies in the way in which they acquire

Scale of Action 45
such knowledge. After immersing themselves in single-minded attention

to God,
Nothing remains for [Sufi practitioners] but to wait for what appears
from an opening (futūḥ) the likes of which appeared to the saints.
This is a portion of what appeared to the prophets. It may be a mat-
ter like a fleeting flash of lightning that does not persist. Then it
may return, though it may be delayed. If it returns it may persist
or it may be dazzling. If it persists, its persistence may lengthen or
may not. Its likeness may follow in close succession and may not be
limited to a single discipline (fann).50
The Sufi approach to knowledge, then, is to trust that it will come through
divine inspiration after perfection in ethical practice.
In this passage, as well, al-Ghazālī attributes his information to “an
authority and a spiritual guide of the Sufis,” much like his account of the
Sufi approach to felicity presented above. Given the similarity in word-
ing, it is likely that the two sources are the same, though this cannot be
proven. What he says about his source in this passage, though, is striking.
He writes that he approached this man about practicing Sufism under his
guidance, only to be rejected:
At the time when my desire to pursue this path was sincere, I con-
sulted with an authority and spiritual guide of the Sufis (matbūʿ
muqaddam min al-ṣūfiyya) about [the practice of ] continually recit-
ing the Qur’ān, and he forbade me.51
The reason al-Ghazālī was rejected is not given, and neither does he tell
us when in his life it occurred.52 But the fact that he prefaces this man’s
account of the Sufi method with a story of having been rejected by him as
a disciple plainly implies that he had not subsequently practiced Sufism
such that he could have given his own first-hand account. While there is
evidence in other sources that al-Ghazālī’s acquaintance with Sufism was
long-standing53 and that he had begun practicing Sufism shortly after his
arrival in Baghdad,54 this is a clear statement from al-Ghazālī himself that
he had not pursued the Sufi path at the time of his writing the Scale in
488/1095. More importantly, the fact that al-Ghazālī was not a practitio-
ner of Sufism, one of only two paths to the felicity whose pursuit he so
fervently advocates, must lead us to infer that he understood himself to
be a practitioner of the other path: the philosophically based path of his
Theoreticians.

This impression is strengthened by the account later in the same chap-

ter of the method of the Theoreticians. While the account of Sufism is
presented with reference only to itself, the account of the approach of the
Theoreticians is presented as a critique of the Sufis from the Theoreticians’
perspective. The Theoreticians, al-Ghazālī writes, do not reject the Sufi
method of focusing on practice, but they hold that it is extremely unlikely
to succeed in attaining the knowledge that is its goal. Cutting ties to the
world to the degree required by the Sufi path is nearly impossible, and if
it is achieved it is more likely to lead to confusion, delusion, bodily illness,
and melancholy. Without previous training in “the true demonstrative sci-
ences” (al-ʿulūm al-ḥaqīqiyya al-burhāniyya), the Theoreticians charge, the
Sufi will take delusional imaginings to be the truth. How many a Sufi,
they ask, has been captivated by an imagined insight for ten years that he
could have seen through in an instant had he been schooled in the sci-
ences first? A more reliable way to seek knowledge is to pursue knowledge
and practice in tandem, taming the passions but also pursuing rational
inquiry into the divine matters.
While this critique is placed in the mouth of the Theoreticians rather
than al-Ghazālī’s own voice, it is a critique he plainly shares. He allows it
to stand without contradiction and provides no corresponding critique of
the Theoreticians from a Sufi standpoint. He presents his own preference
explicitly in the following chapter, entitled “The Primary of the two Paths”
(Bayān al-ūlā min al-ṭarīqayn).
In that chapter he writes that, in his opinion, there is no way of say-
ing absolutely which is the superior method for attaining felicity, for this
depends on the personality and circumstances of each would-be practi-
tioner. To follow the method of the Theoreticians and its simultaneous
pursuit of knowledge and practice, one must be young enough to be
trainable, intelligent enough to grasp their sciences, and have a qualified
instructor. If any of these conditions are not met, it is preferable to pursue
ethical practice alone, that is, Sufism. Al-Ghazālī specifies that only a few
of the few who resolve to pursue felicity will meet these criteria, making
the method of the Theoreticians the path of the elite and Sufism the path
of the many.55 While this relative approach does not give absolute prece-
dence to one school over another, there is a clear hierarchy: Al-Ghazālī
does not even entertain the possibility that a person qualified for the study
and practice of the Theoretician’s method might choose to pursue Sufism
instead. Combining this discussion with the critique of Sufism presented

Scale of Action 47
in the previous chapter of the Scale makes clear al-Ghazālī’s preference for
the philosophically based approach of the Theoreticians, and the rationale
for this preference.
In addition to this stated preference for the path of the Theoreticians,
the content of the Scale reflects this preference. In addition to the fact
that the Scale and its companion piece the Standard of Knowledge together
provide guidance for the simultaneous pursuit of knowledge and prac-
tice as per the method of the Theoreticians or philosophers, the ethics
of the Scale follow a philosophical model. Al-Ghazālī’s ethical psychology
is ultimately Platonic, describing the soul as possessing three faculties
(quwā): the rational (qūwat at-tafakkur), the irascible (qūwat al-ghaḍab, i.e.,
anger), and the concupiscent (qūwat ash-shahwa, i.e., the appetites).56 He
defines virtue in an Aristotelian way, as a mean between a vice of excess
and a vice of deficit, hence the “scale” (balance) of the title.57 His list of the
cardinal virtues that flow from the correct balancing of the three faculties
further follows Aristotle.58 The Sufi method he describes on the authority
of the spiritual guide he once consulted—namely cutting ties to the world
and meditating on God alone—is not reproduced in the Scale, and the
Sufi-derived virtues he would later describe in the fourth quarter of The
Revival of the Religious Sciences do not appear in the Scale. There are exam-
ples of ethical self-discipline that refer to Sufi training under the direction
of a shaykh,59 and, more importantly al-Ghazālī does claim in two later
chapters of the Scale that it is a work of Sufism.60 But the content of the
work contradicts these claims: the very guide to pursuing felicity through
knowledge and practice in which al-Ghazālī’s discussion of the two paths
is contained is written according to the philosophical method.
A Third Way
Al-Ghazālī’s discussion of the Sufis and Theoreticians does not end with
this, but goes on to point toward a third possible method that synthe-
sizes the two. Given al-Ghazālī’s plain statement that he has not practiced
Sufism and the tone with which he discusses this synthesis, it is clear that
such a hybrid remains a hypothetical prospect for him. He describes this
third possibility as follows:
[Another possibility] is a young man of innate intelligence who has

spent his youth in the pursuit of knowledge, who is drawn to this

[i.e., the path of the Theoreticians] after training in the other sci-
ences, but training within the framework of the science he is drawn
to (tanabbah lahu baʿd al-irtiyāḍ bi-anwāʿ min al-ʿulūm wa-lākin
bi-hadhā al-nawʿ min al-ʿilm alladhī tanabbah lahu)61—such a per-
son as this is prepared for both paths together. His first task is to
advance along the path of study to the point that he attains from
the demonstrative sciences (al-ʿulūm al-burhāniyya) that which it is
within human capacity to grasp through effort and study. Following
those who have preceded him is sufficient provision for this. Once
he has attained this to the extent possible, such that there remains
no science of these kinds of sciences that he has not attained, there
is no harm after this in choosing seclusion from humankind, turn-
ing away from the world and devoting himself to God. If he waits,
perhaps there will be opened to him through that path that which is
obscure to the climbers of this path [i.e., the Theoreticians].62
The combination of the Theoreticians’ and Sufis’ method is sequential,

then, and reserved for the elite of the elite. Of those drawn to pursue felic-
ity, only a few will be qualified for the study and practice of the science of
the Theoreticians. Only a few of these few will exhaust the possibilities of
the Theoreticians’ method and be free to explore Sufi practice as a possible
route to more profound knowledge and thus greater felicity.
A better sense of the kind of additional insight that may be attained by
a Theoretician who pursues Sufi practice after the mastery of the philo-
sophically based curriculum is given in a parable al-Ghazālī provides in a
previous chapter of the Scale, which is also found in the Revival with some
modification. A king invites Byzantine and Chinese artists to decorate
opposite walls of a single hall so that he can judge between their artistry.
A curtain is hung down the middle of the room so that neither group of
artists can see the other. The Byzantines request exotic pigments for paint-
ing and the Chinese request only supplies for polishing, which evokes
surprise. After some time, the Byzantines announce that they are finished,
and the Chinese announce that they are finished as well. The curtain is
raised, revealing a splendid painting on the Byzantine wall and its still
more dazzling reflection on the other wall, which has been polished by the
Chinese to a mirror-like finish.63
As Alexander Treiger has noted, the content of the truth revealed by
the two methods in this parable (philosophy and Sufism respectively) is

Scale of Action 49
the same, though the Sufi method reveals it with greater brilliance and
clarity.64 Combining the two would create a method that joins the surety of
rational investigation to the superior quality of mystical insight.
Al-Ghazālī certainly saw himself as a candidate for this hybrid path—
he describes himself in the Deliverer as a youth of innate intelligence with
a thirst for independent authority in the sciences and hints at a similar
self-regard in the Scale.65 But this third way remained a hypothetical pos-
sibility for him at this point. It was not a path he had himself taken, and he
retained his doubts about its possibility. There is a strong note of hesitancy
in his description of this third path quoted above: “there is no harm” in
following it; “perhaps” it will lead to deeper insight.
Are the “Theoreticians” and the Philosophers

One and the Same?
This discussion of al-Ghazālī’s comparison of Sufis and Theoreticians
has so far avoided an obvious and pressing question: what is the relation-
ship between the Theoreticians and the philosophers? This is not a ques-
tion that al-Ghazālī raises or addresses directly. There are explicit uses of
the term “philosophers” (falāsifa) in the second and third chapters of the
book, while all subsequent discussions of what is plainly the philosophi-
cal method revolve around the approach to felicity of the “Theoreticians,”
including the important comparison of the Theoreticians and Sufis in
chapter 7 and discussion of the superior of the two methods in chapter 8.
What is the relation between the Theoreticians and the philosophers,
from whom their method is so evidently derived?66
The explicit uses of the term “philosophers,” four in all, come in
chapters 2 and 3 of the Scale, in which al-Ghazālī attempts to convince his
readers of the reality of felicity and to urge them to pursue it. Al-Ghazālī
refers here to a wide variety of groups—two different schools of philos-
ophers; common believers, Jewish, Christian, and Muslim; as well as
Sufis—and he does this in order to make the point that there exists a con-
sensus among very disparate schools of thought that felicity in the hereaf-
ter exists, even if they conceive of it in different ways.
Clearly, al-Ghazālī does not agree with each group’s conception of felic-
ity or with their broader creeds or doctrines; after all, he includes Jews
and Christians in his list. He shows explicit reservations, too, about some
of the philosophers he does mention. His first reference is to a school of

philosophers who hold that the pleasures of the afterlife will in fact be
rational, though some may experience these rational pleasures as bodily
ones—certainly a reference to Ibn Sīnā and his theory of an imaginal
afterlife for those who are saved but do not attain felicity. He refers to this
group as “Islamic metaphysicians among the philosophers” (al-ilāhiyyūn
al-islāmiyyūn min al-falāsifa).67 The second reference is to philosophers who
hold that the rational pleasures of the afterlife will bear no resemblance
to bodily pleasures, a position he also attributes to the Sufis. He refers to
this group as the “metaphysicians among the philosophers” (al-ilāhiyyūn
min al-falāsifa), neglecting to describe them as “Islamic.”68 It is precisely
this group that he condemns as unbelievers in the Precipitance.69 One phi-
losopher who held this doctrine was al-Fārābī. A final mention of the con-
sensus between Sufis and philosophers generally on the reality of felicity
refers to “The Sufis and the philosophers who believe both in God and
the Last Day” (al-falāsifa alladhīna āmanū bi-l-lāh wa-l-yawm al-ākhir ʿalā
al-jumla) to distinguish them from other philosophers who do not.70
After these few, highly qualified references to philosophers, the word
never again appears in the Scale. The Sufis, paired twice in this early
discussion with the philosophers, are subsequently contrasted to the
Theoreticians, as we have seen. The Theoreticians in turn, though plainly
a group that also believes in the reality of felicity in the afterlife, are not
mentioned in chapter 2 among the groups that share this consensus. In
his subsequent discussions of the Theoreticians, al-Ghazālī never quali-
fies their status as Muslims as he did for some of the philosophers. What
are we to make of this distinction?
The source of the word “Theoretician” (nāẓir) in the Scale would seem
to be the “theoretical science” (al-ʿilm an-naẓarī) mentioned above, the
science of attaining knowledge of God, which is opposed to the “practical
science” (al-ʿilm al-ʿamalī), which contains ethics, along with politics and
economics.71 This very taxonomy of theoretical and practical sciences is
philosophical, as Avner Gilʿadi has shown.72 So is the broader framework
of The Scale of Action and its companion work the Standard of Knowledge,
as discussed above. This alone shows that the Theoreticians are rooted in
the philosophical method.
Another, simpler piece of evidence for the proximity, even near identity,
with the philosophers is that the term “Theoretician” does not occur in the
earlier discussion of those groups that hold that felicity is gained through
knowledge and practice, and the term “philosopher” does not appear in
the latter discussion of the different methods for attaining felicity. If the

Scale of Action 51
Theoreticians are a truly distinct third group that shares the position of the
Sufis and philosophers concerning felicity and its pursuit, why not men-
tion them in the first discussion? And if the philosophers are a distinct
third group with a method for attaining felicity in the hereafter, why not
present them and their method alongside the Sufis and Theoreticians in
the second discussion? This, too, strongly implies that the Theoreticians
do not possess a method for attaining felicity so distinctly different from
that of the philosophers as to warrant bringing a third group into the
discussion.
Further evidence comes from an early use of the term “Theoretician”
in the Scale. In the discussion in chapter 2 of the consensus on the reality
of otherworldly felicity, al-Ghazālī describes one group that does not share
this consensus. Of them he writes,
They are the masses of fools who are not known by their names
and are not counted among the group of the Theoreticians (zumrat
al-nuẓẓār). They claim that death is utter non-existence, that there
is no punishment for obedience or disobedience, and that a human
being returns after death to non-existence as he was before his exis-
tence. It is not allowable to call them a sect, because a sect refers to a
group and this school of thought is not a group and cannot be attrib-
uted to a known Theoretician (nāẓir maʿrūf ). Rather, such a one is
to be considered a useless fool whose appetites have overwhelmed
him and who has been mastered by Satan . . . He deceives some sin-
ners by ascribing this creed to one known for the intricacies of the
sciences like Aristotle or Plato or to a sect like the philosophers.73
First, those described here sound very much like a group of philoso-
phers al-Ghazālī refers to in The Deliverer from Error, whom he calls
there the Naturalists (al-ṭabīʿiyyūn), who say that upon death a human
being “is annihilated, and if he is annihilated, it is not reasonable to
posit the return of the annihilated.”74 He dismisses this group as her-
etics (zanādiqa) and contrasts them to another philosophical school,
the metaphysicians (al-ilahīyūn), much as he does in this passage of the
Scale. The fact that he refrains in the Scale from referring to this group
as philosophers and takes pains to contrast them to philosophers can
only be explained by his wanting to preserve the reputation of philoso-
phy as such, his earlier reservations regarding specific schools of phi-
losophy notwithstanding.

More important, though, is his use of the term “Theoretician” in this

passage. This group cannot be considered to be among the Theoreticians
and are not associated with the teachings of a known Theoretician.
Presumably, then, the metaphysicians among the philosophers he
mentions earlier in this chapter of the Scale, both those he classifies
as “Islamic” and those he does not, can be considered Theoreticians.
By extension, we could take “Theoretician” as used in this passage to
refer to the Sufis as well, but this possibility is excluded by the explicit
contrast of Sufis and theoreticians later in the book. “Theoreticians,”
in this passage, are those who seek knowledge of the true affairs of
things through the theoretical science (al-ʿilm an-naẓarī), which, in this
passage, includes even groups of philosophers with tenets al-Ghazālī
rejects.
While this earlier use shows that the term “Theoretician” can be used
broadly to refer to practitioners of the philosophical method who are not
beyond the pale, as are the Naturalists, the latter, more consistent use has
a more restricted sense, and is al-Ghazālī’s way of referring to his own
practice of the philosophical method. It was not uncommon for Muslim
thinkers, including Ibn Sīnā, to ascribe what were, in fact their own views
to a fictional third party.75
Al-Ghazālī and his Theoreticians follow a broadly philosophical
method in pursuing felicity through rational inquiry, but in this passage
we see a significant departure from the practice of other Muslim philoso-
phers, Ibn Sīnā in particular. As we have seen above, for Ibn Sīnā, the
only way to acquire valid knowledge of the intelligibles was through the
syllogism.76 The Theoreticians likewise pursue knowledge through ratio-
nal demonstration, but recognize the acquisition of knowledge by the
Sufi method as well, which relies on ethical practice opening the way to
possible divine inspiration (ilhām). They are willing to pursue additional
insight through this method themselves, once they have attained all the
knowledge they can hope to attain through rational investigation. So we
see that al-Ghazālī, as deeply indebted to philosophy as the Scale shows
him to have been, was no passive follower of the philosophers, but a cre-
ative adaptor of their school. This shows that the Scale is in keeping with
The Precipitance of the Philosophers and its agenda of defining those ele-
ments of Islamic philosophy that can be reconciled with revelation. The
answer is “many,” but with important exceptions and with a mindfulness
of philosophy’s debt to revelation.

Scale of Action 53
Modifying Philosophy’s Practical Science

Another point in which al-Ghazālī modifies the philosophical tradition is
in his treatment of the Practical Science (al-ʿilm al-ʿamalī), the focus of
the Scale. This modification grew out of his disillusionment with politics
discussed in chapter 1. First, he seeks to reorient the Practical Science
more exclusively toward salvation. Second, he tries to create a role in it for
Islam’s legal tradition. Third, he downplays the traditional role of politics
in the Practical Science. The way these modifications are presented sug-
gests that al-Ghazālī’s thought on this subject changed over the course of
writing the Scale. As we shall see, these tendencies are further developed
in the Revival.
In a tradition stretching back to Aristotle, philosophy presents the
Practical Science as encompassing three sub-disciplines: politics, eco-
nomics (understood as management of the household), and ethics,
treated in that order. The understanding is that one can only perfect
one’s self ethically in a well ordered polis and a well ordered house-
hold. Al-Ghazālī, however, lists ethics first, then economics, then poli-
tics, thereby emphasizing the sub-discipline of the Practical Science
that plays the greatest role in seeking individual felicity.77 The fact
that he included economics and politics shows that he was still think-
ing within the traditional philosophical schema, but had downplayed
the importance of politics providing the requisite context for ethical
practice.
A second discussion of the Practical Science shows him moving fur-
ther in this direction. Al-Ghazālī writes that its subdivisions are:
the legal commandments, the sciences of jurisprudence, the pro-

phetic traditions, and that is the science of governing the soul
through ethics as has been presented. [It further comprises] knowl-
edge of management of the household, and children, and food, and
clothing and the ways of earning a living (maʿīsha) and social trans-
action (muʿāmala), and this belongs to the science of jurisprudence
and includes the [segment of the law referred to as the] quarter
on transactions (rubʿ al-muʿāmalāt), marriage, and punishments.
Then, if its different varieties are known, their hierarchy must be
known such that life not be spent except in pursuit of the goal or
those things that bring one closer to it.78

In this account of the Practical Science, instead of discussing ethics in

terms of Aristotelian virtue ethics, al-Ghazālī discusses it primarily in
terms of the revealed law. Politics has vanished completely.
In a later section, al-Ghazālī expands on this approach, giving a sim-
ple maxim to keep in mind to judge the soundness of your actions: all of
your actions must be weighed according to the scale of the revealed law.
It is impossible, he writes, to follow the path unless you have adorned
yourself with the “noble qualities of the law.” However, he goes on to
say that “this is only possible after refining the virtues as we have pre-
viously described.”79 Thus, philosophical ethics and the revealed law
become mutually interdependent. Truly following the law is only pos-
sible for a virtuous soul, and a virtuous soul can only be recognized by
its perfect adherence to the law. This becomes an important theme in
the Revival, in which al-Ghazālī insists on the primacy of the law, but
also that following the letter of the law in the absence of its ethical spirit
is inadequate.
In both passages we see an even plainer move away from the inherited
philosophical presentation of the Practical Science: al-Ghazālī focuses on
those elements of it that strictly serve the attainment of individual felicity,
grounds the science in the law, and while he continues to place it in its house-
hold and social dimension (economics), he makes no mention of politics.
Here we see most clearly the impact of al-Ghazālī’s disillusionment with
politics after the collapse of the Seljuk regime he served. In Aristotelian
political thought, a well governed polis is a necessary basis for its inhabit-
ants’ pursuit of ethical perfection. But by 488/1095, after the regime he
served had fallen to pieces, al-Ghazālī had given up on the possibility of
politics providing a sound environment for the Practical Science and the
pursuit of felicity. Instead, he grounded his Practical Science, and later
in the Revival the corresponding Science of Praxis (ʿilm al-muʿāmala), in
individual piety.
As we shall see, in book 19 of the Revival on “Commanding Right
and Forbidding Wrong” (al-amr bi-l-maʿrūf wa-l-nahy ʿan al-munkar), he
reverses the equation, making individual ethical perfection the starting
point, which then expands first to righting the affairs of the household
(economics), and then to righting the affairs of the neighborhood, then the
city and surrounding countryside (politics). In doing so, he truly stands
philosophy’s Practical Science on its head. The foundation of a just—or
righteous—society is the pious individual, not the virtuous ruler. As we

Scale of Action 55
will see in chapter 3, his treatment of commanding right and forbidding

wrong was a watershed in writings on the subject and had a profound
impact on the Islamic tradition.
Al-Ghazālī and the Guides on the Path to Felicity

In writing the Scale, al-Ghazālī was concerned throughout not only
to explicate the Practical Science, but to urge his reader to take up its
practice. He addresses the issue of pedagogy, instructing his reader in
instructing others on the path to felicity. In the end, though, he plainly
thought that the one figure of his age best equipped to address this
epochal challenge was none other than himself. And he saw the need to
make himself into the most convincing possible advocate and guide to
the pursuit of felicity.
The longest chapter of the Scale by far is chapter 27, entitled
“Exposition of the Duties of the Student and Teacher in the Sciences that
Lead to Felicity,” which acknowledges the role others can play in instruct-
ing students in the Practical and Theoretical Sciences. But when it comes
to the most sophisticated instruction in these sciences, al-Ghazālī strongly
implies that he himself is the only qualified guide of his era. He writes
that there are two types of people who seek felicity: those who follow the
authority of others as a sick man follows the directions of his doctor, and
those who rise to the authority of the doctor themselves. He offers to guide
the reader in attaining this latter rank:
The potential for calamity (khaṭb) in this is great, the subject is

extensive, and the qualifications for this matter do not appear in the
ages except in a single rare individual (illā li-wāḥid fard shādhdh).
But we will inform you of it and raise you from the lowlands of fol-
lowing the authority of others (taqlīd) and guide you to the smooth-
ness of the path.80
This passage leaves no doubt that al-Ghazālī saw himself as just this “rare
individual,” a forerunner of his claim in the Deliverer to be the divinely
appointed Renewer of the fifth Islamic century.81
But, again, having the knowledge to guide is not the same as having
the ability to awaken others to the need for guidance. What al-Ghazālī saw
when he looked around him was heedlessness of the pressing necessity of

using our short human lifetime to attain felicity in the eternal hereafter.
He writes:
Know that the reason for [most people’s failure to pursue felicity]
is heedlessness in considering these matters that we have men-
tioned—for this heedlessness is constantly upon them, filling every
hour of their day, and they cannot realize this as long as their appe-
tites are dominant, as they are. Truly, the one who would make them
aware of this is a preacher of faultless conduct (wāʿiẓ zakīy al-sīra),and
the land is empty of them (emphasis added).82
Al-Ghazālī’s unique qualifications to provide the most advanced guidance

in the sciences that lead to felicity were not enough. To shake his fellow
Muslims out of engrossment in their appetites and awaken them to the
need to pursue felicity, he would have to become this “preacher of fault-
less conduct.” We find this sentiment again in chapter 27 of the Scale
referred to above, in which al-Ghazālī writes that the eighth of eight duties
of the teacher is that “the teacher of the Practical Science—I mean the
legal sciences (al-sharʿiyyāt)—practice what he teaches.”83 Again, an effec-
tive guide must guide by example.
At the time of writing the Scale in 488/1095, al-Ghazālī had come to
view himself as uniquely qualified to guide his fellow Muslims to the telos
of their lives. But he also recognized that he could not be an effective
guide unless he himself embodied the life to which he summoned others.
Surely becoming the “preacher of faultless conduct” was one of his chief
his aims in forswearing his elite life as an official scholar of the Seljuks
and Abbasids, and becoming a world-renouncing ascetic shortly after he
penned the Scale.
The Turning Point of 488/1095

What can we now conclude about al-Ghazālī’s famous departure from
Baghdad and all it represented in 488/1095? We cannot know what went
on in al-Ghazālī’s heart as he made his decision to leave his career and
part company from his own family for an indeterminate period of time.
But the foregoing two chapters give us better insight into al-Ghazālī’s deci-
sion than the Deliverer alone. What follows is an attempt to reconcile the
different sources about this turning point in his career, and to suggest
what kind of turning point it was.

Scale of Action 57
Al-Ghazālī had served as an official religious scholar of the Seljuk-Abbasid

duo-archy and no doubt saw himself as playing a crucial role in maintaining
a political order that would foster the correct individual practice of religion.
During this period in the court of Niẓam al-Mulk, al-Ghazālī would likely
have embraced the traditional Aristotelian conception of the Practical Science
as beginning with a just ruler providing a stable political order, which would
allow first for wise household management and only then for the cultivation
of individual ethical perfection. But the political order he served, seemingly at
the peak of its power, shattered within weeks and plunged into civil war with
the untimely deaths of its major stakeholders, likely at one another’s hands.
After its collapse, al-Ghazālī lost faith in this system. He continued to
acknowledge the legal necessity of the Caliph as the guarantor of the law,
but he recognized that the Caliph was reliant on the sultan, whose priority
was the Machiavellian pursuit of power, not the establishment of a virtu-
ous political order to allow for the cultivation of individual virtue and the
pursuit of felicity. The starting point for his new vision then, was the virtu-
ous individual, not the virtuous political order.
Al-Ghazālī had tremendous confidence in his mastery of the theoretical
and practical sciences. His greatest worry was over how to instruct others,
not how to pursue his own felicity. He saw himself as the only qualified
guide for his age, but to be a truly compelling guide, capable of rousting his
fellow Muslims out of their heedlessness and convincing them to take up
the pursuit of felicity, required more than knowledge. He could not present
himself as the “preacher of faultless conduct” mentioned in the Scale as long
as he remained in his compromising position at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in
Baghdad. To preach ethics to the broader mass of religious scholars would
require a break with his position and his former life. He needed to present
himself in a mode of authority broadly recognized by his fellow Muslims
and appropriate to the talents and circumstances of most of those he might
persuade to pursue felicity. Given his assessment of Sufism in the Scale as
the path best suited to most of those who resolve to pursue felicity in the
hereafter, we can see why Sufism appealed to him in this respect.
It appealed to him in another respect as well: Sufism was more than a
poor man’s philosophy. Al-Ghazālī saw in it a possibility for a more lumi-
nous insight into the true nature of reality for those who had attained all the
knowledge philosophy’s Theoretical Science could provide, as he clearly felt
he had. He was intrigued enough to talk to a shaykh about taking up a Sufi
practice, only to be denied due to his lack of total dedication to the practice.
This higher potential of Sufism remained an appealing hypothesis for him.

The Deliverer suggests that al-Ghazālī also came to have doubts about
the sufficiency of philosophical ethics. There he writes of a suspicion that
“all of your pursuits of knowledge and practice (al-ʿilm wa-l-ʿamal) are
hypocrisy and delusion!”84 Later in the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī criticizes the
philosophers for insincerity in their ritual practices and also for their wine
drinking and debauchery and the excuses they give for this. He mentions
Ibn Sīnā by name in connection to wine drinking.85 This suggests that
al-Ghazālī had come to hold that philosophical ethics, and his own, were
often pursued insincerely, and that they were insufficient compared to the
full world renunciation of the Sufis. And perhaps he was concerned that
as long as the theoretical prospect of more luminous insight through the
subsequent practice of Sufism remained only a theory, he could not be
certain of his own attainment of felicity.
We know that al-Ghazālī did embrace Sufi practice after 488/1095,86
and that he did depart from Baghdad in a way that many of his contempo-
raries found inexplicable,87 apparently sending his children ahead of him
to Ṭūs. He settled first in Damascus for some six months, where he writes
of beginning Sufi practice:
I had no task but seclusion and retreat, discipline and effort, dedica-
tion to purifying my soul, refining my character, and clearing my
heart for the remembrance of God Most High, as I had learned from
the books of the Sufis (emphasis added).88
Apparently his initial practice of Sufism was without a guide.

What is striking is that, apparently without instruction in Sufism and
without waiting for whatever higher insight his self-directed Sufi prac-
tice might provide, he immediately began composing his guide for others
in their ethical practice, The Revival of the Religious Sciences, and teach-
ing from this work in the central Umayyad Mosque of Damascus. As we
will see, in the Revival’s introduction to ethical practice, Explanation of the
Marvels of the Heart, al-Ghazālī reproduces with minor modification the
comparison of the Theoreticians and the Sufis found in the Scale. And he
gives the same account of the Sufi path he provides in the Scale that he
heard from the “authority and spiritual guide of the Sufis,” but this time
without mentioning him; in the Revival he presents this description of
Sufism in the third person without ascription. This is further reason to
conclude that he began writing the Revival without any more profound
experience of Sufism than he had when he wrote the Scale.

Scale of Action 59
To return to the iconic image of al-Ghazālī in the throes of a spiritual

crisis that forced him to depart Baghdad: there is every reason to accept
that the decision to renounce his prestige and part from his children was
a wrenching one. Perhaps he was also tormented by doubts about the
sufficiency of his philosophically guided ethical practice. But 488/1095
brought no radical reassessment of his intellectual convictions. The cen-
tral concepts of The Revival of the Religious Sciences are already present in
The Scale of Action.
Nevertheless, the Revival is a larger book than the Scale by an order of
magnitude. It represents the fruition of deliberations we see underway in
the Scale but also a totalizing guide to a well-lived Muslim life. More than
the Scale could ever have done, the Revival—and al-Ghazālī’s tireless per-
sonal promotion and defense of it—cemented his immediate and lasting
impact on the Islamic tradition.

PART TWO
The Revival of the Religious

Sciences

3
The Revival and Its Agenda
the previous chapter claimed that al-Ghazālī wrote The Scale of Action
as a first draft of The Revival of the Religious Sciences and that the funda-
mental premises of the later work were present in the earlier one. This
fact, though, is not immediately obvious upon opening al-Ghazālī’s mas-
terpiece. The Revival is a massive book; many of the 40 “books” that com-
prise it are in themselves longer than the entire Scale. The urgency of the
pursuit of felicity that is so central to the Scale from its first sentences is
presented much more subtly in the Revival. The discipline to which the
Revival is devoted, the Science of the Hereafter, is al-Ghazālī’s own inven-
tion, unique to the Revival and not mentioned in the Scale. Neither are its
subdisciplines, the Science of Praxis (ʿilm al-muʿāmala) and the Science of
Unveiling (ʿilm al-mukāshafa) found there by name. Most of the first half
of the Revival is devoted to detailed discussions of legal matters, and the
second half mainly to extensive discussions of virtues and vices. The Scale
deals briefly with some of these topics and with most not at all.
This chapter has two main aims: first to make the case that, despite
these considerable differences, the Scale and the Revival have the same
agenda and are devoted to the same fundamental disciplines, and second
to give a sense of the content of the Revival and the spirituality it advocates.
We will begin with an overview of the structure and content of the book.
The Content of the Revival

The Revival is a sprawling book, many times the length of The Scale of
Action. In consists of four quarters that contain 10 books each, cover-
ing ritual observance (ʿibādāt), daily customs (ʿādāt), destructive vices
(muhlikāt), and saving virtues (munjiyāt).

The 40 books that constitute the Revival are as follows1:
First Quarter: Acts of Worship
1. Knowledge
2. Foundations of the Doctrines
3. Mysteries of Purity
4. Mysteries of Prayer
5. Mysteries of Almsgiving
6. Mysteries of Fasting
7. Mysteries of Pilgrimage
8. Manners of Qur’ānic Recitation
9. Invocations and Supplications
10. Arrangement of Litanies and Divisions of the Night Vigil
Second Quarter: Acts of Daily Life
11. Manners of Eating

12. Manners of Marriage
13. Manners of Earning a Livelihood
14. The Lawful and the Prohibited
15. Manners of Intimacy, Brotherhood, and Friendship
16. Manners of Seclusion
17. Manners of Traveling
18. Manners of Music and Singing
19. Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong
20. Manners of Living and Prophetic Morals
Third Quarter: Qualities Leading to Perdition
21. Explanation of the Marvels of the Heart (Hereafter “Marvels of the

Heart”)
22. Disciplining the Soul, Refining Morals, and Treating the Diseases of
the Heart (Hereafter “Disciplining the Soul”)
23. Breaking the Two Desires
24. Perils of the Tongue
25. Perils of Anger, Spite, and Envy
26. Condemnation of the World

Revival and Its Agenda 65
27. Condemnation of Miserliness and Avarice

28. Condemnation of Vanity and Ostentation
29. Condemnation of Pride and Conceit
30. Condemnation of Delusion
Fourth Quarter: Qualities Leading to Salvation
31. Repentance
32. Patience and Gratitude
33. Fear and Hope
34. Poverty and Abstinence
35. Professing God’s Oneness and Relying on God
36. Love, Longing, Affection, and Contentment (Hereafter “Love”)
37. Intention, Sincerity, and Devotion
38. Self-Examination and Self-Reckoning
39. Contemplation
40. Remembrance of Death and the Afterlife
With its 40 books, the Revival aims at a totalizing vision of a Muslim

life oriented toward the attainment of otherworldly felicity. Al-Ghazālī
gives different rationales for the division of the book. In book 30, “The
Condemnation of Delusion,” he gives one of his most extensive accounts
of the aims of the Revival and the structure he devised to serve them in a
list of requirements for dispelling delusion. The third of these is “science”
(ʿilm), which he defines as follows:
[By] science, I mean the science of the knowledge (al-ʿilm bi-maʿrifa)

of how to follow the path to God, and the science of what brings one
closer to God and what distances one from Him, and the science
of the perils one can encounter on the path and the consequences
of its dangers. We have recorded all of this in The Revival of the
Religious Sciences. [The reader] will know from the quarter on ritu-
als their requirements that he may adhere to them, and their perils
that he may be wary of them. In the quarter on customs he may
know the secrets of life’s concerns (al-māʿīsh), what he is obliged to
do, that he may do it in keeping with the etiquette of the revealed
law (adab al-sharʿ) and what he is not in need of doing that he may
avoid it. From the quarter on the destructive vices he will know all

of the obstacles that block the path to God, for what stands in the
way of God are blameworthy traits of character, so he must know
the blameworthy and know how to treat it. He will know from
the quarter on saving virtues the praiseworthy traits that must be
established in the place of the blameworthy once these have been
eliminated . . . The root of all of this is that the love of God prevail
in his heart and drive out the love of the world such that he can
strengthen his desire and make his intent true. This cannot happen
without the knowledge (maʿrifa) I have mentioned.2
In his Exordium (khuṭba) al-Ghazālī gives a simpler account, writing that

the Science of Praxis, the subject of the book, is further divided into an
exterior (ẓāhir) science of bodily actions in the world and an interior
(bāṭin) science of spiritual states, the former divided into ritual matters
and customs of daily life and the latter into destructive vices and saving
virtues, whence the four quarters of the book.3 This division in two—
bodily actions and spiritual states—is also reflected in the structure of the
book in that the whole of the Revival begins with The Book of Knowledge,
which al-Ghazālī writes is an introduction to the whole work,4 and the sec-
ond half also begins with two books of theoretical introduction to ethics
and ethical psychology in the form of The Book of the Marvels of the Heart
and The Book of Disciplining the Soul.
This is a far more rationalized and extensive presentation than is found
in The Scale of Action, but we can nonetheless see how it follows that earlier
work. The first half deals with legal issues, the first quarter being mainly
legally determined guidelines for the performance of the rituals, some-
thing we saw al-Ghazālī insist on in later sections of the Scale—no person
may be considered ethical if they do not follow the law and adorn them-
selves with its noble qualities. The second quarter, as al-Ghazālī writes in
the quotation above, gives guidance on living life in accordance with the
etiquette of the revealed law, which can be seen as following the econom-
ics, the second subdivision of the philosophical Practical Science, which
the Revival’s Science of Praxis essentially is, as shall be argued below. The
second half has to do with different ethics, derived from the philosophical
and Sufi traditions. Politics is missing, as it was in later sections of the
Scale, though it returns in a new form in book 19, “Commanding Right
and Forbidding Wrong.” The first half points beyond its bodily ortho-
praxis towards the spiritual discipline of the second half. The second half

remains rooted in the legally prescribed rituals and daily comportment of

the first half, which can never be outgrown or dispensed with.
As we saw in chapter 1, one impetus to write the Revival came from the
collapse into civil war of the Seljuk regime al-Ghazālī had served. Niẓām
al-Mulk had sought to order the affairs of the Muslim community, patron-
izing scholarship and smoothing sectarian divisions, which, from a philo-
sophical perspective, would have the effect of creating the circumstances
for the pursuit of salvation for the many and felicity for the few. In short,
the Seljuk regime he administered served the role politics should in phi-
losophy’s Practical Science. That Niẓām al-Mulk’s achievement should
prove so fragile convinced al-Ghazālī of the necessity of grounding Islamic
soteriology elsewhere—in the pious individual and community rather
than in the just ruler. The Revival is a blueprint for this as well.
One of the major inspirations for the Revival came from the philo-
sophical tradition, Ibn Sīnā wrote his Book of the Cure (Kitāb al-shifāʾ) as a
comprehensive program for healing of the soul and leading it to felicity.
Al-Ghazālī, like many of his contemporaries, was captivated by this work,5
but he had reservations about many of its elements and about the broader
philosophical tradition as well. After his critical engagement with philos-
ophy in The Precipitance of the Philosophers (whose primary source was
the Cure6), The Standard of Knowledge, and The Scale of Action, al-Ghazālī
produced the Revival as his own comprehensive guide to a life devoted to
healing the soul in the pursuit of felicity in the hereafter.
Writing this book was al-Ghazālī’s first priority upon leaving Baghdad.
Dedicating himself to its composition and teaching its contents it was
probably one of the main aims that drove him to his dramatic decision
to break with his previous life and with the Seljuk regime. Promoting the
Revival and its agenda was the main devotion of the remainder of his life.
While the Revival and the Healing share the same, ultimately philo-
sophical telos, they are radically different in terms of their content. There
are several reasons for this. First, al-Ghazālī was not a philosopher in a
straightforward sense, but a critical and creative appropriator of philoso-
phy. Al-Ghazālī’s approach, or perhaps we could say that of the school of
the Theoreticians that he advocated, recognized the possibility of attaining
the knowledge that is the substance of felicity also through Sufi inspi-
ration (ilhām) and not syllogistic demonstration (burhān) exclusively.
It interwove the ethics of the philosophical tradition with the revealed
law. It deemed whole swaths of the philosophical curriculum irrelevant.

Treatments of physics and mathematics that constitute large portions the

Cure are absent in the Revival and in al-Ghazālī’s larger oeuvre. In keeping
with the recognition of both the suitability of Sufism for most who pursue
felicity and of the “third way” that combines a philosophical approach with
a Sufi one, Sufism plays an important role in the Revival.
Al-Ghazālī wrote for a different readership than Ibn Sīnā. Whereas
philosophy was understood by its practitioners as an elite pursuit for
those “awakened” souls who pursued felicity, and which had little to say
to the “dormant” ones, the Revival is a work for a much broader audience
of religious scholars. In the Scale we have seen that al-Ghazālī held that,
among those few who pursued felicity, most were best suited by talent and
circumstances for Sufism. A small elite was better suited to the method
of the Theoreticians, a much surer path to felicity. An elite of this elite
might find clearer and more profound insight in the pursuit of Sufism
after having reached the end their theoretical investigations. As a work
aimed at a broad rather than elite audience, then, it is unsurprising to find
that the Revival tones down its philosophical content and masks many of
those elements of philosophy that remain. It is also unsurprising to find it
devoted to practice (ʿamal), the shared element of the Sufi and philosophi-
cal methods, and not knowledge (ʿilm), in which the Sufi and philosophi-
cal methods part company, as al-Ghazālī stated in the Scale.
In addressing a broader audience al-Ghazālī had more far-reaching
ambitions than Ibn Sīnā, which is reflected in the title of his book, The
Revival of the Religious Sciences. Al-Ghazālī did not simply write this work
as a guide available to those interested parties who might find some use
in it; he wrote it as a broadside against the religious sciences as they were
practiced in his day and a summons to all religious scholars to the pursuit
of felicity. As it was, al-Ghazālī charges, most religious scholars dedicated
themselves to religious sciences such as law (fiqh) and kalām for the sake
of worldly gain. In this lay the very death of the religious sciences. Their
revival lay in reorienting the religious sciences—and the lives of the reli-
gious scientists—around those disciplines that led to felicity in the here-
after. Its aim was nothing less than the transformation of the religious
landscape of his age.
Al-Ghazālī calls the science he details in the Revival the Science of the
Hereafter (ʿilm al-ākhira), and he contrasts it to the Sciences of the World
(ʿulūm al-dunyā), by which he means primarily law and kalām. By so nam-
ing the science he advocates and the ones he aims to demote, al-Ghazālī

strengthens the rhetorical case for his project, a subject that will be explored
in detail in chapter 4. But he also obscures its philosophical origins, an
effect he achieves in many other ways as well. The “Practical Science”
(al-ʿilm al-ʿamalī) is renamed the “Science of Praxis” (ʿilm al-muʿāmala), a
term taken from the Islamic tradition that appears in the law and Sufism.
The “Theoretical Science” (al-ʿilm al-naẓarī) is renamed the “Science of
Unveiling” (ʿilm al-mukāshafa), a term taken from Sufism. Behind these
novel titles, the content of these disciplines has changed little.
The Science of the Hereafter is a new term that allows al-Ghazālī to
be vague about the method he is advocating, but also to refer to a disci-
pline genuinely of his own creation that draws on a variety of sources. The
Revival does show a clear debt to Sufism, especially in the fourth quar-
ter on “Saving Virtues” (munjiyāt), many of whose titles are taken from
the Sufi “stages” (maqāmāt) found in the works of writers like al-Sarrāj.
Many Sufis in later generations took the Revival to be a book of Sufism,7
which is how many western scholars understood it until very recently. But
it also contains many philosophical elements, such as its ethical psychol-
ogy detailed in books 21 and 22, its references to logic and contemplation
of God’s creation in book 39, and its very telos of felicity in the hereafter.
Al-Ghazālī could have written a book dedicated to Sufism if he had chosen
to do so. That he did not shows that he was either intent on also hint-
ing to qualified readers at the more reliable, philosophical method of the
Theoreticians, or that he found some elements of philosophy useful even
to practitioners of the Sufi method, or both.
As for felicity, the ultimate goal of the Science of the Hereafter, men-
tion of it is much less prominent than one would expect. We know from
the Scale that al-Ghazālī held that only the elite Theoreticians, pursuing
felicity through the practical science and the theoretical science simulta-
neously, stood a realistic chance of attaining their goal. The Sufi approach
of practice alone was capable in theory of leading its practitioner to felicity,
but, without the theoretical science to assess the insights achieved by prac-
tice, it is much more likely to lead to delusion than true knowledge. Given
that the Revival is devoted to practice alone, we can infer that al-Ghazālī’s
dim assessment of the prospects of Sufism’s success applies to those who
follow the Science of Praxis as well. This inference is validated by the fact
that he repeats the comparison of the Sufis and Theoreticians found in the
Scale in book 21 of the Revival, again charging that the Sufi method is less
reliable than that of the Theoreticians. But there is another change in the

Revival, which is that al-Ghazālī asserts a continuum of possible rewards

in the afterlife that his readership of religious scholars can aspire to, such
that even those he would not consider to belong to the elite can still profit
from their practice of the Science of the Hereafter. All of the practices that
apply to the pursuit of felicity apply to these lesser stations in the hereaf-
ter, making the Science of Praxis profitable, even essential, including for
those who do not attain the fullness of felicity.
Felicity and the Telos of the Science of the Hereafter

The highest aim or telos in the Revival, just as in The Scale of Action, is
the attainment of felicity (saʿāda) in the hereafter, a state of bliss that is
beyond salvation (najāt) alone.8 In the Scale, al-Ghazālī makes this case so
forcefully that he entitles his first chapter “Slackness in Seeking Felicity in
the Hereafter is Stupidity.” In a later work on the Science of the Hereafter,
the Persian Alchemy of Felicity, al-Ghazālī announces the focus on the
attainment of felicity in the very title of the work.9 The Revival does contain
explicit statements that felicity is the utmost end of human existence and
that obtaining it is the aim of the Science of the Hereafter, but these dec-
larations are not so much trumpeted as buried in odd corners of the book.
The Revival begins with an Exordium (khuṭba) that lays out the struc-
ture and agenda of the book and seeks to awaken the reader to its urgency.
Not once in this section does the word felicity occur. Al-Ghazālī does
introduce the Science of the Hereafter, the main concern of the book, and
writes of it that the insightful recognize the perilousness of their state and
know “. . . that there is no response but sincerity in knowledge and practice
(al-ʿilm wa-l-ʿamal) in the face of God,” for “climbing the path to the here-
after (al-ākhira) . . . is arduous and exhausting.”10 A reader who knows The
Scale of Action will understand this as a reference to the path to felicity, but
a reader who is not familiar with this earlier work may well read this as a
reference to salvation (najāt).
It is not until well into the first book of the Revival that felicity is intro-
duced, defined as the reward of those who know God, and distinguished
from mere salvation. It is not heralded as the announcement of an impor-
tant thesis, but rather appears as part of a discussion of the tenth of 10
duties of a student. It reads,
Salvation (najāt) will be attained by every climber of the path if

his goal is the true objective. This is safety [ from hell]. As for the

reward of felicity (saʿāda), it is not bestowed upon any but those

who know God.11
The out-of-the-way placement of this statement hardly suggests that the

attainment of felicity is the focus of the book. And yet, elsewhere in book 1
of the Revival, a work dedicated to the Science of Praxis, al-Ghazālī writes,
“The aim of praxis is unveiling, and the aim of unveiling is knowledge
(maʿrifa) of God Most High.”12 Much later in the Revival, in The Book of
Patience and Gratitude (book 32) we find a familiar statement that this
knowledge of God will be the very substance of felicity:
The highest goal of the Science of Unveiling is the knowledge

(maʿrifa) of God. This is the goal that is sought for its own sake, for
it is through it that felicity is attained. Nay, rather it is felicity itself
(ʿayn al-saʿāda), though in this world the heart may not feel that it
is felicity itself and will only feel this in the hereafter.13
Such discussions are found in many other passages throughout the

book.14 If felicity is the highest aim of the Science of the Hereafter,
what accounts for this understated presentation? Why not the clarion
call to pursue felicity that we find in the Scale? The answer is that here
al-Ghazālī addresses a different audience. He holds that most of the reli-
gious scholars, who are the intended readers of the Revival, are unlikely
to attain felicity. But he further holds that, for these religious scholars,
failure to pursue the Science of the Hereafter will deny them not only
felicity, but even salvation. After describing those who will attain felicity
and salvation respectively, the passage above from The Book of Knowledge
continues:
All of those who do not turn toward the goal and apply themselves
to it, or who do apply themselves to it but for the sake of worldly
aims rather than with the intention of devotion and worship, shall
be the people of the left side, of those who go astray, and shall dwell
in boiling water and burning hellfire.15
This raises another question. As we have seen, even Ibn Sīnā held that the
“dormant” masses of Muslims would attain an imaginal paradise in the
afterlife. Is al-Ghazālī asserting that only the scholars of the Science of the
Hereafter have a chance of avoiding hellfire?

Alexander Treiger has systematically analyzed all of al-Ghazālī’s writ-

ings on this issue and found that the range of those who he says will be
saved includes those without capacity or circumstances for following the
path, such as children of unbelievers, the mad, the mentally disabled. It
also includes common believers who uncritically accept the teachings of
their religious authorities, a level of belief al-Ghazālī refers to as “imita-
tion” (taqlīd).16 So he did not deny salvation to common believers.
Crucially, however, al-Ghazālī holds that the stakes are different for
religious scholars than for common believers. Religious scholars can-
not claim that they are simply following the creed of their religious
authorities; they are the religious authorities. Having opened the door
of religious knowledge, they must pursue it correctly or be destroyed.
Furthermore, in some of his writings, al-Ghazālī introduces a third fate
in the hereafter between salvation and felicity, which he calls “reward”
(fawz).17 Even those religious scholars who fail to attain the fullness of
felicity can still hope for a higher station than the common believers
through the practice of the Science of the Hereafter. And, of course,
some of them may succeed.
The Science of Unveiling and the Theoretical Science

Al-Ghazālī plainly states that the Revival is a work dedicated to the Science
of Praxis, and that he will therefore not discuss the Science of Unveiling.
Nonetheless, the Science of Unveiling is essential for the attainment of
felicity, and in many passages of the Revival, al-Ghazālī breaks his declared
silence on the subject. Avner Gilʿadi has argued that the definition of the
Theoretical Science in the Scale is so close to the definition of the Science
of Unveiling in the Revival, as to leave little doubt about their identity, as
his comparison of these two passages shows (table 3.1)18:
Alexander Treiger has analyzed al-Ghazālī’s definition of the Science of
Unveiling in this and other passages of the Revival and shown that it is a
theology19 that treats the following subjects:
1. God
2. Cosmology
3. Prophetology, Angelology, and Religious Psychology
4. Eschatology
5. Principles of Qur’ānic Interpretation

Table 3.1 Comparison of the “Theoretical Science” and the “Science of

Unveiling”
Theoretical Science from The Scale of Science of Unveiling from The Revival
Action of the Religious Sciences
Knowledge of God, his attributes, . . . The true knowledge of God’s essence,

angels, books, prophets, and the of His eternal and perfect attributes, of
kingdoms of the heavens and the His acts and judgment in creating this
earth, the marvels of the human and world and the Hereafter and the manner
animal souls insofar as they are related in which he gave precedence to the
to the omnipotence of God, not with Hereafter over the world, knowledge of
respect to their essence. The highest the meaning of prophecy, the Prophet,
goal is the knowledge of God and the meaning of revelation, the meaning
God’s angels. It is necessary to know of Satan and the expressions “angels”
them because they are intermediaries and “satans”. . . it is knowledge of
between God and the Prophet. It is the sovereignty of heaven and earth,
likewise necessary to gain knowledge knowledge of the heart and the struggle
of prophecy and the Prophet, because of the agents of the angels and the devil
the Prophet is an intermediary between within it; knowledge of the Hereafter,
human beings and angels just as the Paradise and Hell; knowledge of the
angel is an intermediary between God punishment of the grave, the bridge,
and the Prophet. This chain continues the scales, and the judgment . . .21
to the least of the theoretical sciences.
The utmost of them is the knowledge
of God, but the discussion of this
branches out in all directions because
each refers to the others, as the details
are many.20
Returning to the quotations in the table above, we can see that both cover
the first three of these topics and that principles of Qur’ānic interpreta-
tion are missing in both. Eschatology is treated in the definition from the
Revival and not in this passage of Scale, but a second discussion of the
Theoretical Science in the Scale does include eschatology,22 so they are
identical on this point as well. In terms of the subjects covered in each, we
have to conclude that, though al-Ghazālī changed the name of the science,
presumably to obscure its origins in philosophy, the Science of Unveiling
is the same as the Theoretical Science of the Scale.
Both Gilʿadi and Treiger emphasize the philosophical origin of the
Theoretical Science/Practical Science taxonomy as well.23 Treiger has

furthermore ruled out a Sufi origin to the content of this science. While he
can show a near-perfect match between the topics covered by the Science
of Unveiling (listed above) and the philosophical theologies of al-Fārābī
and Ibn Sīnā,24 he points out that Sufi writings in al-Ghazālī’s day focused
mainly on religious psychology and offered no ordered treatment of these
topics. Sufism, therefore, cannot be considered the source for the sub-
stance of al-Ghazālī’s treatment of the Science of Unveiling.25 However, as
Treiger also points out, the Science of the Hereafter excludes those dimen-
sions of philosophy that have no salvific significance, such as physics or
mathematics.26
This is not to say that Sufism plays no role in al-Ghazālī’s Science of
Unveiling. Both Gilʿadi and Treiger point out that the very term “unveil-
ing” (mukāshafa) is of Sufi origin, Gilʿadi further noting that “praxis”
(muʿāmala) too is a Sufi term.27 Treiger’s much lengthier discussion notes
that al-Ghazālī’s use of “unveiling” is similar enough to that of different
Sufi authors that we can say that it is consistent with the Sufi tradition, in
which unveiling is a kind of divine manifestation that may be divided into
different varieties or be part of a sequence of illuminations. But he argues
that al-Ghazālī’s distinctive noetics, the understanding of how knowledge
of God is attained, distinguishes him from the Sufi tradition and shows
the influence of Ibn Sīnā.28 Thus, he concludes, while al-Ghazālī borrowed
the term “unveiling” along with its general significance from Sufism, he
enriched its meaning, drawing particularly on the philosophical tradition
in doing so.29 Taking the Scale as our starting point, we might restate this
with a slightly different emphasis: al-Ghazālī modified a plainly philo-
sophical presentation of the Theoretical Science in the Scale to render it
consistent with the Sufi tradition of unveiling, and in so doing so made
the sophistication of the philosophical theological discourse available to
Sufism.
Treiger further argues that, in the Revival as in the Scale, the high-
est degree of knowledge of God is gained through a sequence of rational
investigation, as per the philosophical tradition, followed by Sufi prac-
tices and illuminations. The content of the knowledge further attained by
Sufi illumination is not different from the knowledge attained by rational
investigation, but it is perceived with greater clarity, as illustrated by the
parable of the Byzantine and Chinese artists, found in both the Scale and
the Revival and examined in the previous chapter.30
This amalgam of philosophy and Sufism follows the “third way” pre-
sented in The Scale of Action that we discussed in the previous chapter, and

it shows that al-Ghazālī has taken his tentative suggestion in that book and
confidently adopted it. It is worth recalling the value al-Ghazālī finds in the
sequential pursuit first of the path of the Theoreticians, then of the Sufis.
The rigors of the Sufi regime of asceticism are such that they are more
likely to result in the distortion of the soul than its correct acquisition of
the intelligible forms. Furthermore, those Sufis who do attain divine illu-
mination will lack a theoretical framework for understanding their experi-
ence and are likely to be deluded by it, as al-Ḥallaj and al-Bisṭāmī were,
mistaking the reflection of the divine realms in the mirrors of their hearts
for union with God.31 By undergoing theoretical, philosophical training
first, the seeker follows a surer path to knowledge of God and acquires the
necessary preparation to understand correctly whatever illuminations he
may encounter through his subsequent practice of Sufism.
The Science of Unveiling, then, follows very closely the Theoretical
Science of the Scale, both in terms of its subject matter and in that the
knowledge it “unveils” is the very stuff of the practitioner’s felicity in
the afterlife, a state of bliss above the salvation of the ordinary believer.
Al-Ghazālī’s formulation of this science follows the hybrid version of the
path to felicity proposed in the Scale, pursuing knowledge alongside ethi-
cal perfection according to the philosophical model, followed by Sufi prac-
tice in order to gain a deepening of insight. The knowledge thus sought is
categorized and theorized according to the philosophical tradition.
Again, like The Scale of Action, the Revival is a work devoted to the
Practical Science and not the Theoretical. Furthermore, as we have seen,
the Revival is written for a broader audience of religious scholars, most of
whom al-Ghazālī seems to think have little chance of attaining the highest
insight into the divine and therefore little chance of attaining the highest
felicity. Felicity has been correspondingly deemphasized in the Revival.
Unveiling, the means of attaining felicity and, in fact, its very substance,
is therefore discussed only in scattered passages in the Revival.32
The Science of Praxis and the Practical Science

The Science of Praxis, the major focus of the Revival, plays the same func-
tional role in the quest for felicity as the Practical Science in the Scale but
the divergences between the two in terms of their substance are greater
than the divergences between the Theoretical Science and the Science of
Unveiling. The Science of Praxis is an integration of the law, Sufism, and
philosophy, prefigured in the Scale, but never presented there.

As we saw in our discussion of The Scale of Action, al-Ghazālī progres-

sively departs in that work from the traditional philosophical structure
of the Practical Science. First, he reverses the usual order of the three
subdisciplines of that science, foregrounding ethics, which plays a role in
attaining felicity, and demoting politics, which does not. In a later discus-
sion, he emphasizes the role of the revealed law and omits any mention
of politics. Again, as I have argued, these changes grew out of al-Ghazālī’s
disillusionment with politics and its practical capacity in his age of guar-
anteeing the correct circumstances for the pursuit of felicity. The Practical
Sciences is founded on individual ethical practice and piety rather than on
a wise and stable political order.
This trend finds further development in the Revival. The role of the law
is not only recognized, but spelled out in great detail, integrating ritual
obligations into the Science of Praxis in the first quarter, and also dealing
with the subject matter of economics—management of the household,
earning a living, and social interactions—in the second quarter. Ethics
is the subject of the second half, drawing both on philosophical ethical
psychology and Sufi models of the stations (maqāmāt) on the path to God.
Apart from a brief discussion in book 14 of the Revival, politics is removed
altogether from this larger framework, though it returns, as we shall see,
in al-Ghazālī’s seminal treatment of Commanding Right and Forbidding
Wrong in book 19 of the Revival.
Al-Ghazālī incorporates the legal ritual obligations into the Science
of Praxis not simply because they are a divine commandment, but
because he presents them as part and parcel of the cultivation of ethi-
cal self-perfection and the pursuit of felicity. Al-Ghazālī writes: “The
sole purpose of acts of worship is to influence the heart, and this influ-
ence will only grow strong when it is persistently repeated.”33 He thus
weaves performance of rituals into a philosophical ethical framework.
Al-Ghazālī notes that, when reciting the first sura of the Qur’ān with
each prayer cycle, Muslims repeat the verse “Show us the straight path,”
which he interprets as a petition to God to assist the seeker in finding
the virtuous Golden Mean of the Aristotelian tradition in their ethical
training.34
The Science of Praxis, then, while playing the same role as the Practical
Science plays in philosophy’s pursuit of felicity, is very different in terms
of its content. Neither is it the same as practice in the Sufi tradition. Rather,
it is an amalgam of law, philosophy, and Sufism.

In the introductory book of the Revival, The Book of Knowledge,

al-Ghazālī gives a sense of the relationship of the Science of Praxis to exist-
ing religious sciences, making clear that it is not identical with any one
of them, including philosophy and Sufism. In the second section (bāb) of
this book, he discusses those sciences that are an obligation upon every
individual Muslim (farḍ ʿayn) and which are obligations that can be ful-
filled for the entire community by individual members (farḍ kifāya). He
begins this section by quoting the hadith, “Seeking the science (al-ʿilm35)
is a duty for every Muslim,” emphasizing later in his discussion that the
definite article indicates that some particular science is meant. He notes
that every religious discipline has claimed that the science referred to in
the hadith is their science. He begins with the theologians and jurists, the
two main disciplines he seeks to demote in the Revival, who claim that
the hadith refers to kalām and law. He then continues through Qur’ānic
exegetes and scholars of hadith, Sufis and philosophers.
Then al-Ghazālī gives his own solution to the identity of the knowledge
that is obligatory for every Muslim:
That which every student must necessarily affirm and have no

doubt about is that which I will state: It is that science, as I pre-
sented it in the Exordium of the book, is divided into the Science
of Praxis and the Science of Unveiling, and what is meant by this
science is no other than the Science of Praxis.36
He then discusses those facets of the Science of Praxis whose knowledge

is mandatory, and in doing so gives a better sense of how sciences such as
law, kalām, and Sufism relate to the Science of Praxis. When he discusses
the law and kalām, for instance, he makes it clear that knowledge of the
fundamental tenets, ritual acts, commandments, and prohibitions dis-
cussed by these sciences are an essential part of the Science of Praxis, but
only insofar as is necessary for their performance. Theoretical or exces-
sively detailed knowledge of the law and kalām for their own sake is not a
part of the Science of Praxis and may well distract from it.
Al-Ghazālī performs a sort of thought experiment, following the life
of a Muslim on the day of reaching maturity, and therefore responsibility
for ritual duties, and the knowledge he must therefore acquire. Beginning
with belief, the first thing he must know and understand are the two
phrases of the profession of faith (shahāda): “There is no god but God.

Muhammad is the messenger of God.” Ghazālī specifies that he is not

obliged to demonstrate their validity himself, but must be certain of them
on the authority of others. If he has done this, he has fulfilled the obliga-
tion required of him at that time, and nothing that may become obligatory
at a later time is required of him. There is no virtue in acquiring knowl-
edge of theological issues that have no direct application.
As for actions performed, if he were to live until noon, he would be
obliged to know what is necessary to pray the noon prayer. If he were to
live to the month of Ramadan, he would be required to learn the stipula-
tions for fulfilling the fast. If he owns property, he would have to know
what is necessary for the sake of paying the alms tax (zakāt). If he only
owns goats, he only needs to know the rules pertaining to paying the alms
tax on goats. As for actions refrained from, if he is a merchant and lives in
a region where usury is practiced, he must know it is prohibited. If he lives
in a region where pigs are kept, he is required to know that pork cannot
be eaten. There is no virtue in acquiring knowledge of the law that has no
direct application.37
Kalām and the law do form a part of the Science of Praxis. But knowl-
edge of these sciences has no value in itself—it is valuable only insofar as
it is actively applied in practice. It is not necessary to acquire knowledge
of the law or of theology that pertains to situations that one is unlikely to
encounter and therefore is unlikely ever to put into practice. Al-Ghazālī
specifies that if a Muslim were to die with no more than a basic under-
standing of the two phrases of the profession of faith, he would die an
obedient Muslim. Likewise, if the hypothetical Muslim were to know he
would not live to noon of the day he reaches maturity, there would be no
fault in his not learning to perform a noon prayer he knew he would never
need to perform.
This is in keeping with al-Ghazālī’s broader critique in the Revival of
jurists and theologians: they study obscure points of doctrine and law that
will never be of practical use, while neglecting the Science of the Hereafter
whose aim is nothing less than their eternal felicity. Several times in the
book he refers to jurists’ concerns with arcane forms of divorce and mun-
dane laws of commerce to mock the jurists’ claims that their science is a
means of drawing closer to God. Rather, al-Ghazālī implies, it is a misuse
of the revealed law for worldly status.38 Theology, he says, has a role to play
in protecting the community from heresy, but it, too, has become an end
in itself for the theologians, and a vehicle for worldly status and gain. By

way of analogy, he notes that a guard of a pilgrimage caravan may perform

an important duty by protecting pilgrims, but unless he also participates
in the rituals of the pilgrimage he will receive no merit for it. Just so,
a theologian must make sure that he pays primary attention to seeking
felicity through the Science of the Hereafter rather than to the irrelevant
details of theology.39
Throughout the Revival, al-Ghazālī makes it clear that the same
holds for any science or even ritual obligation. If a Muslim becomes so
obsessed with his own cleanliness and ritual purity that he misses the
time of the prayer he is washing for, then his ablutions have become an
obstacle rather than a virtue.40 Learning Arabic is desirable for the sake
of reading scripture and books of religious scholarship; but if one delves
into obscure vocabulary or arcane points of grammar, he may as well be
studying Turkish or Hindi. If this study distracts him from the Science
of the Hereafter, then it is worse than a waste of time; it is a vice to be
overcome.41
In continuing his discussion of the science that is an individual obli-
gation, al-Ghazālī turns in his conclusion from theology and the law to
Sufism. He had previously mentioned that the Sufis, too, had claimed
that theirs was the science that is obligatory for every Muslim.42 He
writes,
What the Sufis mention about understanding the fleeting thoughts

brought into the mind by the Enemy (khawāṭir al-ʿadūw) and the
heavenly host is also true, but only for those who apply themselves
to it. But if a man is largely unable to refrain from evil impulses,
hypocrisy, and envy, then he is required to learn the knowledge
of the quarter on destructive matters that he sees himself in need
of . . . most of what we have discussed in the quarter on destructive
matters is an individual obligation. (emphasis added)43
Here al-Ghazālī writes approvingly of Sufism, but in stating that some of

their discussions are true but obligatory only for Sufis while the vices dis-
cussed in the third quarter of the Revival are obligatory for all, he makes it
plain that the Science of Praxis is distinct from Sufism.
What al-Ghazālī has to say about philosophy in his discussion of
sciences that are an individual or communal obligation is subtle. His
explicit discussion of philosophy does not condemn it, but rather is

dismissive of it. He divides philosophy into four sciences: (1) geometry

and arithmetic, which are permissible; (2) logic, which he says is a part
of kalām (3) metaphysics (ilāhiyyāt), which he says is a part of kalām;
(4) physics, some of which contradicts true religion and is prohibited,
and some of which is a part of medicine, which is a superior science.44
These are the subjects covered in Ibn Sīnā’s Book of the Cure, but they
are not the totality of philosophical sciences. Al-Ghazālī does not refer to
the Practical Science or philosophical ethics specifically, and these play
a major role in his presentation of the Science of Praxis in the Revival.
This discussion obscures the role of philosophy in the Revival, though
al-Ghazālī does categorize ethics as a rational science in The Book of the
Marvels of the Heart.45
The fact that philosophical ethics plays an important role in the
Science of Praxis is plainly seen in books 21 and 22 of the Revival, which
serve as an introduction to the second half of the book, dealing with
vice and virtue. There, al-Ghazālī presents an ethical psychology that
goes back to Plato, dividing the self into three faculties: a rational fac-
ulty, the faculty of anger, and the faculty of the appetites. Soundness is
obtained when these three faculties are brought into correct balance,
with the rational faculty subordinating the faculty of anger and turning
it against the appetites. Virtue is presented according to a model that
goes back to Aristotle as a mean between a vice of excess and a vice of
deficit, such that courage, for example, is a mean between rashness and
cowardice.46 Al-Ghazālī admits to his debt to philosophical ethics even in
The Deliverer from Error.47
Though the Scale points in the direction al-Ghazālī takes in the Revival,
it does not spell out the synthesis of law, kalām, Sufism, and philosophy
that al-Ghazālī creates in that book and calls the Science of Praxis, and
this accounts for the vaster size of the Revival and the different spiritual-
ity that emerges from it. The Science of Praxis owes a debt to each of the
other four, but is not reducible to any one of them. Its debt to law and
kalām is plain. Its debt to Sufism is, if anything, exaggerated by choos-
ing Unveiling (mukāshafa) and Praxis (muʿāmala), terms taken from the
Sufi tradition, for his retitling of the Theoretical Science and the Practical
Science. Al-Ghazālī clearly chose this approach in order to obscure the
roots of the Science of the Hereafter in philosophy and to make it appear
more congenial to Sufism.

The Legal Ethics of the First Two Quarters

Acts of Worship
After The Book of Knowledge, which serves as an introduction to the whole
of the Revival, and The Foundations of the Doctrines, which provides an
overview of the mandatory creed, the rest of the first quarter is devoted to
ritual acts. Much of al-Ghazālī’s discussion of these is legal and follows the
content of manuals of Law (furūʿ al-fiqh). Al-Ghazālī insists throughout
the Revival that following the law and performing ritual acts correctly is
an indispensable foundation of the Science of the Hereafter. The detailed
guidelines he gives are as important to correctly living a religious life
as the virtue ethics of the second half, even if the second half addresses
more directly the means of working toward felicity in the hereafter. Ritual
duties never become superfluous as one progresses along the path, a
point al-Ghazālī vehemently makes in the Revival as well as in subsequent
works attacking the Ibāḥiyya, a term difficult to render in a single English
word, but meaning “those who declare ritual obligations superfluous” for
various reasons.48
But there are other aims here as well. One is to give most of his read-
ers as much information about the various rituals as they need to perform
them—and no more. This is in keeping with his recurring argument that
too many religious scholars devote themselves to amassing knowledge
of legal minutiae they are very unlikely ever to need for any purpose but
advancing their worldly careers as jurists.49 In The Book of the Mysteries
of Worship, Ghazālī refers his reader to three works of law he has written
for more extensive discussion of the details of ritual prayer, but he speci-
fies that this will be relevant only to the Mufti (jurisconsult). For devotees
who are not legal specialists, what he has presented in the Revival will
suffice.50
This is in keeping with his concern expressed in The Condemnation of
Delusions, the tenth book of the third quarter, that the law, like all religious
sciences, can become an end in itself for its practitioners, rather than an
element among many of the path to felicity in the hereafter. This is not to
say that al-Ghazālī presents a radically stripped down discussion of ritual
acts. If this were the case, he could surely have omitted discussions like
the closing section of The Book of the Mysteries of Purity on 10 things not to
do with your beard!51 But balancing his detailed description of the correct
performance of rituals, there are passages in which al-Ghazālī suggests a

far more lenient approach to the topic at hand to emphasize the point that
there are higher objectives than meticulously observing the rules of ritual
purity or prayer. He writes of the Companions wiping their hands on the
arches of their feet after eating, rather than washing carefully, and pray-
ing without a rug.52 He takes a more lenient (Mālikī!—and not Shāfiʿī)
approach to how to determine whether water is pure for use in wuḍū’.53
But in the end, his discussion is full and extensive.
There is a another element found in these books of the first quarter,
which is to present these universally accepted practices of the religion as
pointing beyond themselves to the interior cultivation of virtue detailed
in the second half of the book. While al-Ghazālī insists that he will limit
himself to external matters in the first half of the Revival, as we have seen,
he also links the ritual acts to ethical practice. So while ritual purification
demands the washing of the body before prayer, it cannot truly be real-
ized unless the heart is cleansed of vices and, ultimately, cleansed of all
but God.54 Thus, even these external actions point beyond themselves to
the necessity of the cultivation of internal states. In this way, al-Ghazālī
weaves his ethical vision into the fabric of the faith’s fundamental ritual
elements, such that, to a reader convinced of al-Ghazālī’s vision, they are
of a piece.
The chapters on ritual purity and the four legal “pillars of Islam” prom-
ise to deal with the “Mysteries” (asrār) of these topics, which Ghazālī says
are normally not dealt with in books of law. In the case of the Mysteries of
Worship, these include internal states that must be tended to in addition
to external actions. Prayer can only be considered valid if it is performed
attentively and with humility. While the second chapter of this book gives
a detailed description of the correct motions and utterances in the per-
formance of prayer, the third chapter devotes a lengthy section to the cor-
rect inward dispositions to cultivate during prayer and the psychological
effect that each segment of the prayer should have.55 He further claims
that illumination of the heart occurs through the correct performance of
the prayer in its outer and inner elements.56
In the second of two introductory books to the second half of the book,
Disciplining the Soul, al-Ghazālī writes that the sole purpose of the rituals
is to influence the heart. For this to be the case, they must be performed
correctly, and he gives the legal information needed to ensure this. But
they must also be performed with the higher aim of ethical self-discipline
and utter dedication to God in mind. The first quarter points the reader

toward this higher aim as well and weaves Muslim ritual performance
seamlessly into the Science of the Hereafter.
Acts of Daily Life

If in the first quarter al-Ghazālī treats ritual actions that are between the
scholar of the hereafter and God, in the second quarter al-Ghazālī treats
actions that occur in social life between the scholar of the hereafter and his
fellow human beings. Some of these actions fall under the rubric of the
law, such as the financial transactions dealt with in The Rules of Earning
a Livelihood. Some fall under the rubric of etiquette, as does most all of
The Manners of Eating. In all cases, the acts of daily life are to be kept in
perspective and understood in terms of the highest goal of seeking salva-
tion and felicity in the afterlife. Material, bodily existence makes these acts
necessary, but if they are attended to beyond what is required, they distract
from the obligations of the path to the hereafter. Approached in the right
spirit, however, they also offer opportunities to integrate the requirements
of the path into daily life.
One way of grasping the role of this quarter is to compare its treatment
of eating and the appetite for food with the treatment of the same subject
in the third quarter on destructive vices. A cornerstone of al-Ghazālī’s ethi-
cal psychology is the view that the appetites of the body, while necessary
for our individual earthly lives and our survival as a species, are the big-
gest obstacle to freeing our souls for contemplation of God. As long as
we are preoccupied with the appetites we share with animals, we are not
immersed in our spiritual capacity to know God that we share with the
angels and the means of realizing this in the hereafter.
Focusing on the crucial importance of controlling the bodily appetites,
al-Ghazālī begins the third quarter—after two books of theoretical intro-
duction to the second half as a whole—with Breaking the Two Appetites.
This dramatically titled book calls for an all-out assault on the desires for
food and sex. Though the ultimate aim is moderation once one has mas-
tered one’s hunger, only a very few will ever attain this, and a shaykh must
never tell his disciple that moderation will one day suffice lest he lose his
resolve.57
And yet human beings must eat, and eating is one of the greatest occa-
sions for fellowship with other human beings, and so, just as he begins
the third quarter with a treatment of the appetites, he begins the second

quarter with The Manners of Eating. Here al-Ghazālī provides practical

guidance to eating and food. He does not treat eating merely as an unfor-
tunate necessity, but notes that certain virtues can be realized through eat-
ing, such as companionship with spiritual brethren. This virtue outweighs
the demands of the campaign against the appetite for food when the occa-
sion arises for a meal in their company. He writes that a host should make
his guests feel at ease in enjoying a meal by encouraging them to eat—
including when a guest is minimizing his intake of food, presumably in
keeping with a regimen aimed at weakening the power of his appetite.58
One can oneself eat more than one normally would to encourage the appe-
tite of one’s guests59 and should not stop eating before they do lest they
feel self conscious in continuing their meal.60 On the path to the hereafter,
correct action depends on circumstances. Even for ascetics there are times
for indulgence and conviviality.
In Manners of Earning a Livelihood, we find a discussion similar to the
discussion of ritual purity in the first quarter in that it describes a hierar-
chy of aims in fulfilling the requirement. There are legal obligations all
Muslims must fulfill in earning a living, virtuous acts they can perform
above what is legally mandated, and ways to make earning a living a part
of the path to felicity. “This world is the sowing ground of the hereafter,”
al-Ghazālī writes here, a favorite saying of his in the Revival, and for most
of those who pursue the return to God (al-maʿād), their profession is a
means to this highest end—if it is pursued in the correct manner and in
keeping with the revealed law.61
While some people are supported by endowments in their religious
studies or spiritual exercises, most must earn a living in order to be
self-reliant and not a financial burden on others. To do so is meritorious,
more so than living a life wholly devoted to worship, as al-Ghazālī estab-
lishes through the citation of numerous sayings of the Prophet and his
Companions.62
The starting concern of a scholar of the hereafter in practicing a trade is
that his financial transactions be lawful, and much of this book is devoted
to legal questions of what sorts of goods may be lawfully traded in and
how trade in goods and services may be conducted in accordance with the
law.63 But al-Ghazālī urges his reader to go beyond this. Observing basic
justice in earning a living should be coupled with performing good deeds
beyond what is strictly required (iḥsān64); justice will earn one salvation
alone and performs the same role in trading as capital, but performing

good deeds will gain one reward (fawz) and felicity beyond this and per-
forms the same role in trading as profit.65 The preliminary degree of this
is in benefitting fellow Muslims in one’s trade. Excessive profit should
not be sought. One should help the poor by buying their goods, though
not at a loss to oneself. One should be willing to cancel a transaction with
which the other party has become dissatisfied, and should extend credit
to the poor and not collect on the debt until they have the means to pay.66
The higher degree of this is pursuing a livelihood ultimately for the sake
of God and the highest goal of the path, keeping this intention in mind
and renewing it each day. This entails finding occasion to fulfill religious
duties in the course of earning a living.67 Any time devoted to one’s profes-
sion beyond the basic goal of supporting oneself and one’s family is time
not spent on the demands of the path, and this is a mistake that places the
world before the hereafter.68
As we have seen, the philosophical Practical Science from which
al-Ghazālī derived his Science of Praxis was not solely dedicated to ethi-
cal self-perfection—Disciplining the Soul as al-Ghazālī calls it in the sec-
ond book of the third quarter—but also treated the broader life of the
household (economics) and of society (politics). Already in The Scale of
Action al-Ghazālī, disillusioned with politics in the wake of the of the
Seljuk regime’s collapse into infighting, showed his dissatisfaction with
this, reversing the usual order of their treatment to foreground ethics,
and in one discussion dropping politics altogether and connecting ethics
and economics to the law. In the Revival, the Science of Praxis has been
distilled to a concern with ethics and, to a lesser extent, economics to the
exclusion of politics, apart from a short discussion of the caliph and his
relation to the sultan in chapter 5 of book 14, The Lawful and the Prohibited.
But in the second quarter of the Revival, with its focus on social life, the
ethics, economics, politics triad returns in a hitherto unrecognized way.
The ninth book of the third quarter of the Revival is Commanding Right
and Forbidding Wrong (Kitāb al-amr bi-l-maʿrūf wa-l-nahy ʿan al-munkar).
Commanding right and forbidding wrong is understood as an injunction
upon Muslims to criticize or seek to prevent moral or legal lapses they see
around them. Michael Cook, in his exhaustive study of the development
of the concept in various Islamic discourses from the time of Islamic ori-
gins to the present, finds that the treatment of the topic in the Revival is
a watershed. Comparing it to previous treatments, he writes, “it is larger
than most of those we have considered by an order of magnitude.”69 There

are many features of al-Ghazālī’s discussion that are novel, but above all
Cook is struck by the all-encompassing scope of the injunction in the
Revival. He describes it as an ever-expanding responsibility:
Every Muslim has the duty of first setting himself to rights, and
then, successively, his household, his neighbors, his quarter, his
town, the surrounding countryside, the wilderness with its Bedouin,
Kurds or whatever, and so on to the uttermost ends of the earth.70
This raises the question, unanswered by Cook, as to what inspired

al-Ghazālī’s unprecedented treatment of the topic. The answer is his con-
tinuing but redirected commitment to the Practical Science as conceived
of in the philosophical tradition.
Compare the overview given above to al-Ghazālī’s description of the
three subdisciplines of the Practical Science in The Scale of Action:
The most important of these three is the training of the soul and
the management (siyāsat) of the body and tending to the balance
(ʿadl) of these attributes. If they have been balanced then one can
go beyond their balance and tend to distant matters of family and
children, then to the people of your city (balad). For all of you are
shepherds and all of you are responsible for your flock . . . If a person
is not able to manage and control his self, how will he be able to
manage others? These are the most important (majāmiʿ) Practical
Sciences.71
In this widening scope of responsibility, as each succeeding degree of

the Practical Sciences is mastered we can easily recognize the widening
injunction to command right and forbid wrong that Cook identifies.
Al-Ghazālī’s seminal treatment of commanding right and forbidding
wrong is a product of his engagement with philosophy in the Revival, and
of his disillusion with politics. In the Scale, al-Ghazālī first downplayed
and then eliminated politics from his discussions of the Practical Science.
Here, in a treatment not of the corresponding Science of Praxis but of
a completely different legal principle, the usual hierarchy of Practical
Sciences is turned on its head. Rather than a wise ruler guaranteeing a
just social order in which the pious individual can practice religion and
cultivate ethical perfection, it is the pious individual who is the guarantor
of the social order. Having lost faith in both the ruler’s wisdom and his

ability to guarantee the social order, al-Ghazālī found a different vehicle

for the exercise of politics.
Cook writes that the discourse of commanding right and forbidding
wrong is an ethical approach unique to the Muslim world. But we could
look at it differently: if al-Ghazālī’s discussion of the concept set the tone
for its subsequent understanding, and if al-Ghazālī’s conception was ulti-
mately Aristotelian, then this unique feature of Islamic discourse is simul-
taneously the continuation of Aristotelianism—albeit in radically revised
form—within that tradition.
The final three quarters of the Revival end in books that go beyond the
individual topics covered in those quarters, serving as a sort of summary
of the quarter or treating a broader theme. The final book of the second
quarter, Manners of Living and Prophetic Morals, serves this end. It does
not give a detailed recapitulation of the rules and etiquettes described in
the previous nine books,72 but gives a composite picture of a life correctly
lived in the person of the Prophet. Al-Ghazālī also invokes Muhammad to
validate the regimen of ethical self-discipline he advocates in this quarter
of the Revival and the following quarter, writing that God sought to disci-
pline the Prophet’s character through the Qur’ān, that his example was to
be followed by humankind, and that this was the primary aim of his pro-
phetic mission.73 He goes on to list the virtues of character Muhammad
exemplified, the first of which have to do with his practice of daily life,
and the rest with his character traits.74 The chapter then goes on to discuss
some of these in detail, such as Muhammad’s handling of food and cloth-
ing and his liberality and bravery. It ends with a listing of his miracles and
signs and a case for the veracity of his prophetic mission, an occasion for
al-Ghazālī to insist on the centrality of prophecy.
The Second Half on Ethical Self-Cultivation

Qualities Leading to Perdition
The third quarter of the Revival begins with two books that serve as an
introduction to the second half of the work as a whole. The first, Marvels
of the Heart, deals with psychology, how the mind relates to the body and
its appetites, how the mind gains knowledge of the world and of God, and
how to attain the correct relationship between the mind and the body and
its appetites in order for knowledge of God to be attained. The second
book, Disciplining the Soul, treats ethical theory, defining virtue, relating

it to the psychology of the previous book, and discussing the methods of

changing one’s character.
The first of these books of introduction is interesting for the continu-
ity it shows between The Scale of Action and The Revival of the Religious
Sciences in terms of the role of the Sufi and philosophical methods in the
path to the hereafter. It shows both that al-Ghazālī continues to hold that
knowledge of God can be obtained both through rational, philosophical
means and non-rational, Sufi means, and that he continues to hold, along
with the Theoreticians, that the Sufi method of obtaining knowledge of
God, though unlikely to succeed, potentially yields a more luminous
insight.
In a section entitled “The Difference Between Inspiration (ilhām)
and Study (taʿallum) and the Difference Between the Path of the Sufis in
the Uncovering of Truth and the Path of the Theoreticians,” al-Ghazālī
discusses these two means of acquiring knowledge entirely in terms of
means and not content.75 In doing so, he reproduces with minor changes
the description of the Sufi path and its critique by the Theoreticians found
in The Scale of Action. The Theoreticians do not deny the possibility of Sufi
insight, but find its method very unlikely to succeed in practice. It is more
likely to result in “corruption of the temperament, confusion of the intel-
lect and illness of the body” without training of the soul and instruction
in the “truths of the sciences” (in the Scale the phrase is “the true demon-
strative sciences” [al-ʿulūm al-ḥaqīqiyya al-burhāniyya]—the more plainly
philosophical reference has been removed).76 Here, as in the Scale, the
Theoreticians regret that many Sufis fall prey to a delusion for 20 years (10
in the Scale) that they could have seen through in an instant with scientific
training.
In the following discussion (bayān), he compares the heart to a lake
that can be filled externally by rivers that run into it or internally by a
spring in its depths, the rivers standing for learning and the senses and
the spring for inspiration pursued through solitary retreat and blocking
the senses, particularly sight. The water of the inner spring is described
as “purer and more constant,” but is not described as being of a different
substance. This comparison is followed by the parable of the Chinese and
Byzantine artists that we saw in the Scale. Both imply that philosophy and
Sufism lead to the same knowledge, even if the Sufi method may produce
greater clarity.77 In this crucial respect, al-Ghazālī’s position between the
Scale and the Revival did not change at all.

There is another discussion from the Scale whose inclusion in the

Revival is more surprising, which is his description of the Sufi path in this
section. It, too, is nearly identical to the one found in the Scale, which, as
we will recall, was based not on al-Ghazālī’s own experience of it, but on
an account given by an authority and spiritual guide of the Sufis (matbūʿ
muqaddam min al-ṣūfiyya) whom he had approached about Sufi prac-
tice only to be forbidden from pursuing it.78 This autobiographical aside
makes it plain that at the time of writing The Scale of Action, al-Ghazālī had
not himself practiced Sufism. In the Revival, the reference to the spiritual
guide is gone, but the account is the same and is still in the third per-
son: “They say that the path is dedication to spiritual exercises and the
elimination of blameworthy traits . . .” “They claim that the path in this is
first cutting connections to the world in their entirety . . . .”79 This strongly
suggests that al-Ghazālī’s lack of firsthand knowledge of Sufi practice at
the time of writing the Scale persisted at the time of writing this section
of the Revival, the Marvels of the Heart. From this and the overall resem-
blance of important sections of the two books, we might speculate that
the Marvels of the Heart represents the first book of the Revival al-Ghazālī
wrote, and further that he may have written them while he was still in
Baghdad, before he took up Sufi practice in Damascus, or only shortly
after his move to that city.80
The second theoretical book, Disciplining the Soul, provides an account
of the ethical theory derived ultimately from Plato and Aristotle, its ethi-
cal psychology resting on Plato’s tripartite soul, and its ethics resting on
Aristotle’s cardinal virtues and the notion of virtue as a mean between
vices of excess and deficit. While al-Ghazālī gives some advice on how
one might pursue ethical perfection without a guide, he argues that, ulti-
mately, having a guide is necessary.
The following book is devoted to Breaking the Two Desires. Though the
appetites for food and sex are an integral part of the human soul, neces-
sary for the preservation of self and species, they are also the primary
impediments to focus on the divine and the path to felicity. As we have
seen, the second quarter treats them as unavoidable elements of daily and
social life. The return to them in the third quarter discusses methods for
weakening their hold on the self. In both cases, a balance is to be sought
between craving the pleasure of food or sex and the impossible goal of
eliminating these appetites. Food should be eaten in moderation, and
marriage is recommended as a lawful venue for sexual satisfaction.

The Aristotelian ethical model detailed in the second book of the quar-
ter plays a smaller role in the discussion of individual vices than might be
expected. Furthermore, the mean that is recommended in treating these
vices departs from the philosophical tradition in often being closer often
to the deficit than the excess. This is in keeping with al-Ghazālī’s ascetic
and otherworldly ideals rather than Aristotle’s aristocratic ideal of the
“great soul.”
The quarter ends with a more general treatment of vice in the form
of the Book on the Condemnation of Delusions. Al-Ghazālī defines delusion
as differing from ignorance in that the deluded are convinced by their
passions that something false is true. Interestingly, the first example he
gives of delusion is one who holds that the physical world is concrete and
certain while the hereafter is intangible and uncertain. The discussion fol-
lows very closely his polemic against a school of philosophers in The Scale
of Action who deny an afterlife.81 Generally, the book follows this section
of the Scale in arguing against specific delusions that stand in the way of
pursuing the path to felicity. There are four groups in particular al-Ghazālī
addresses: the scholars, pious worshipers (ʿubbād), Sufis, and the wealthy.
Among the scholars, he criticizes those who delve into legal obscurities
but do not practice the Science of the Hereafter, a frequent critique in the
Revival.82 He repeats many of his critiques of jurists and theologians here,
also making a general observation that the sciences of the revealed law
are more likely to delude and distract from the path to the hereafter than
“secular” sciences that nobody would mistake for ends in themselves.83
But he also criticizes those who pursue the Science of Unveiling but do
not pursue ethical practice and those who resolve to pursue knowledge
and practice but neglect to cleanse their hearts of vices.84
Pious worshipers generally run the risk of being caught up in the
minutiae of acts of worship such that they forget about higher ethi-
cal self-cultivation, or devote themselves to supererogatory acts of wor-
ship while neglecting the individual obligation to discipline their souls.
Al-Ghazālī states that every act of worship has delusions associated with it
that he has pointed to in the relevant books of the first quarter, writing that
what he provides here is a synopsis of what is in those books.85
The discussion of the delusions of Sufis begins with superficiality,
hypocrisy, and those whose practice is based on ignorance. He also criti-
cizes the ibāḥiyya, those who believe themselves to be above the revealed
law, the performance of rituals, or even ethical training. This group came

to occupy more of al-Ghazālī’s attention after his return to Khurasan,

where he devoted a section of The Alchemy of Felicity to critiquing them
and wrote a separate epistle against them.86
The most serious criticism of the Sufis, though, sheds light on what
al-Ghazālī meant by his charge in the Scale and The Book of the Marvels of
the Heart that a Sufi can fall into a delusion and be incapable of extricating
himself for lack of the tool of logic. One possible delusion is to have an ini-
tial experience of mystical insight and to take it for a full unveiling of God’s
essence.87 The more serious delusion has to do with the relationship of
knowledge revealed to the heart and the heart itself. Al-Ghazālī frequently
describes the heart as a mirror, which, when cleansed of the corrosion of
vice, can reflect the realities of things (ḥaqā’iq al-umūr), which is to say,
the intelligible forms. Here, al-Ghazālī writes that the heart can expand to
contain the image of all of existence as it truly is: it can encompass all of
the intelligibles, the knowledge that is the very substance of felicity in the
hereafter. But there are some who mistake the heart—the place of witness-
ing—for the thing witnessed itself. This was the mistake of the famous
Sufi al-Ḥallāj, who, in a state of witnessing, cried, “I am the Truth,” mis-
taking his heart and self for the Reality he saw reflected in it.88
The cure for all delusions is threefold: intellect (ʿaql), knowledge
(maʿrifa) in the sense of the Science of Unveiling, and knowledge (ʿilm)
in the sense of the Science of Praxis. In his discussion of the intellect,
al-Ghazālī makes it clear that intelligence is necessary for the path to the
hereafter and that the intellect is the “basis for all of the felicities,”89 calling
to mind his statement in the Scale that philosophy can only be studied by
those intelligent enough for it. His discussion of knowledge in the sense
of the Science of Unveiling calls for knowledge of one’s self, one’s Lord,
the world, and the hereafter. He points the reader to several of those books
of the Revival in which unveiling is discussed.90 As for knowledge in the
sense of the Science of Praxis, this, he writes, is the subject of the Revival
as a whole.91
The Condemnation of Delusion ends with a warning to those who, hav-
ing cured themselves, call others to follow the path as they have. Therein
lies great danger. Creating a following for one’s self runs the risk of falling
prey to the love of power and position. Jealousy can grow at the success of
other guides on the path. Having disciples can lead to anger at their mis-
takes. One can fall prey to self-satisfaction, or, worse yet, to the delusion
that God has bestowed a special grace upon one. One can call others to the

path only if one’s work is for God alone, without any feeling of superior-
ity to one’s disciples. The danger never ends. The very fact that al-Ghazālī
gives this advice in a work whose aim is to call its reader to the path sug-
gests that he has made this calculus himself and finds himself able to
surmount these dangers. This is consistent with the self confidence in
his achievements and status al-Ghazālī expresses in the Scale, as we have
seen.92
Qualities Leading to Salvation

While the virtues of the fourth quarter are inspired by Sufism, there are
also many crucial, philosophically inspired passages to be found there.
In the first seven books of the fourth quarter we find al-Ghazālī’s treat-
ment of the “stages” (maqāmāt) of the Sufi path, but here we also find the
influence of philosophy. The highest goal of al-Ghazālī’s ascent to God is
love of God, but this is not understood in emotive terms. Rather, love of
God is the expression of knowledge of God, and while mystical inspiration
(ilhām) plays a role in attaining the highest degree of knowledge of God,
as we have seen, al-Ghazālī advises the most qualified aspirants, the ones
most likely to attain their goal, to pursue mystical insight only after careful
preparation through rational investigation.
The highest knowledge of God lies in perceiving His utter unicity, which
al-Ghazālī understands in terms of monism, the idea that all of existence
is ultimately a single reality. For al-Ghazālī the only entity that truly exists
is God, who exists necessarily, while all other beings have an existence that
is contingent on other causes and conditions and ultimately on God. God’s
unity is discussed in book 35 of the Revival, Professing God’s Oneness and
Relying on God. This book of the Revival has particular importance to this
study because it contains the passages of the Revival that were to prove the
most controversial in the centuries following al-Ghazālī. As we shall see in
chapter 6, it played a central role in a controversy al-Ghazālī faced in 500/1106
when he returned to teaching in Nishapur, and to which he responded in The
Composition on the Problems of the Revival (al-Imlā’ fī ishkālāt al-iḥyāʾ).
Al-Ghazālī’s Cosmology
The pinnacle of knowledge of God for al-Ghazālī is to realize His utter
unity and the unity of all of existence in Him, who alone can be truly

described as existing. Belief in God’s unity is a central tenet of Islam, the

first of two phrases one utters to become a Muslim (“There is no god but
God. Muhammad is the messenger of God.”). But not all declarations are
of equal worth. Al-Ghazālī argues that there are four degrees of realizing
God’s unity, and reaching the most profound levels is the utmost objective
of those who seek felicity in the afterlife.
Al-Ghazālī compares these four degrees to the layers of a walnut, which
has an outer shell, an inner shell, the nut itself, and the oil pressed from
the nut. The outer shell is to declare that “there is no god but God” without
any true conviction in the substance of the phrase. This, al-Ghazālī writes,
will save the one who makes the declaration the sword and spear in this
world—a reference, it would seem, to the penalty for apostasy93—but gain
him nothing in the hereafter. The inner shell is to make the declaration in
sincere belief of its truth in the heart, but without the heart’s thereby being
expanded and opened to the light of the truth. This, al-Ghazālī declares,
will spare the one making the declaration punishment in the afterlife, in
other words it will gain one salvation (najāt) but not felicity. This is the
degree of the common Muslims. Such a declaration of divine unity can
be threatened by creedal innovations (bidʿa) that aim to weaken the hold
of sincere belief, and theology (kalām) exists to prevent this. Thus, the
theologian is the guardian of the superficial belief of the commoners, not
surpassing them in the depth of his own understanding of divine unity.
The third degree is that of those drawn near to God (muqarrab), who sur-
pass the commoners and the theologians in seeing the multiplicity of the
world as stemming from one single Agent, and only in this do they finally
attain the nut itself. The highest rank is that of the righteous (ṣiddīq), who
witness but a single Reality, losing awareness of their very selves in this
vision of the One, thereby claiming the oil of the walnut. Al-Ghazālī writes
that the Sufis refer to this as annihilation in the divine unity (al-fanā’
fī al-tawḥīd). These two degrees are successively more profound insights
into the true nature of God, and are the substance of felicity in the after-
life, as we will see below.94
One of the aims of this passage is to serve al-Ghazālī’s rhetorical pur-
pose of demoting the Sciences of the World, in this case kalām, in order
that the Science of the Hereafter can take their place, a tactic he employs
elsewhere in demoting law. This will be examined more closely in the next
chapter. The more important aim in giving this glimpse of the Science
of Unveiling is revealing the knowledge of God that is the utmost goal

of those “travelers” (sālik) of the path to felicity. It illustrates the highest

knowledge of God that is the basis and substance of felicity in the hereafter.
It further gives substance to the distinction between the two highest ranks
of earthly insight into the Divine Reality in al-Ghazālī’s thought: between
Byzantines with their artfully crafted painting (of reality) and the Chinese
with their more brilliant and lustrous reflection of reality in a polished
mirror; between the Theoreticians and their philosophical insight and the
Theoreticians who have attained mystical insight beyond this; between the
“elite” and the “elite of the elite.”
Each of the four levels is beneficial in its own right, but deficient with
respect to the level above it. Recognizing that all of existence ultimately
stems from God retains the blemish (shawb) of remaining conscious of
the multiplicity of the world. Perfection is only reached in losing con-
sciousness even of the self in the fourth level of annihilation in divine
unity. That having been said, al-Ghazālī writes that reliance on God in all
things (tawakkul), the other topic of book 35, is based on the third level
and not the fourth.95 Though he does not say so here, this is because of
two things. First the utter immersion in God’s unity is not a state that can
endure in this life. The perpetual consciousness of God and only God and
the felicity that this entails will only endure in the world to come. Second,
relying on God in worldly undertakings assumes being conscious of those
undertakings and not, therefore, being single-mindedly absorbed in God.
In terms of its form, al-Ghazālī appropriated the four degrees of real-
ization of God’s oneness from Junayd, a major figure of the Sufi tradi-
tion.96 In terms of its substance, however, this presentation of gradations
of professing God’s oneness owes more to al-Ghazālī’s appropriation of
the philosophical tradition. Alexander Treiger has analyzed this passage
along with discussions of God’s unity found in other of al-Ghazālī’s works,
particularly his post–Revival book The Niche of Lights (Mishkāt al-anwār),
and found that the third level corresponds to a rational realization of God’s
utter unity, while the fourth is an experiential realization of this fact. The
experiential realization, attained through Sufi practice, consists of direct
perception and therefore is more vivid than the rational realization. But if
it is realized without prior investigation through the rational sciences, the
method of the Theoreticians, it is likely to be misunderstood as an actual
union between the perceiver and God. One who attains direct experience
of God’s unity through the Sufi method after prior philosophical training
will understand the experience for what it is.97 This section of the Revival

then, fleshes out al-Ghazālī’s tentative suggestion in The Scale of the third
way of the Theoretician who devotes himself to Sufi practice once the phil-
osophical method has yielded all the insight it can.
Treiger also demonstrates that this conception of God’s unity is drawn
from Ibn Sīnā’s presentation of God as the “Necessary Existent,” the Being
whose very essence is that He exist, who is self-subsistent and contingent
on no other causes or conditions for His existence. This is contrasted to
all other entities in the universe, which exist by virtue of causes and condi-
tions that lie beyond themselves and ultimately owe their existence to God.
Only God can be said truly to exist (i.e., to exist by virtue of Himself alone),
while all other beings have only a contingent existence, borrowed, as it
were, ultimately from God. Al-Ghazālī, then, is offering a monistic vision
of existence. Treiger has argued that Ibn Sīnā never fully elaborated the
monistic implication of his metaphysics, while for al-Ghazālī it became
the centerpiece of his system.98 But this highest level of knowledge of God,
the ultimate fruit of Unveiling and the very substance of felicity in the
hereafter, is derived from Ibn Sīnā and the philosophical tradition.99
Recognizing that human beings experience their actions as having
been freely chosen, al-Ghazālī presents an allegory to explain how human
actions, like all events in the physical world, are ultimately an expres-
sion of God’s will. He writes that this account will be in keeping with
the third level of understanding divine unity, though the mechanism he
describes applies as well to the fourth level, for, as we have seen, the dif-
ference between the fourth level and the third lies in perception and not
substance. The theoretical knowledge of the relationship between God
and His creation can be conveyed in language, while its all-encompassing,
direct apprehension cannot. What this allegory conveys is a version of the
philosophical cosmology described in the previous chapter, in which all
that exists and occurs in the sublunar world of generation and decay has
its origin ultimately in God and is conveyed to the physical world through
a series of intervening, purely intelligible heavenly spheres correspond-
ing to various celestial bodies, the last of which is the Active Intellect,
which is responsible for inscribing the intelligible forms into the human
rational soul.
In this parable, a Traveler (sālik), seeing a Paper blackened by Ink,
asks the Paper why it became blackened so. The Paper pleads innocence
and refers his questioner to the Ink. The Ink in turn blames the Pen, the
Pen the Hand, the Hand the Power (qudra) that put it in motion. The

Power blames the Will that directed it, and the Will blames Knowledge,
the Intellect, and the Heart. The Intellect denies responsibility, claiming to
be but a lamp that is lit but does not light itself. The Heart claims to be a
slate that does not unfurl itself, but is unfurled. Knowledge in turn claims
to be but engraving, engraved on the slate of the Heart when the lamp of
the Intellect dawns. It did not write on the Heart, but was rather written
on the Heart by . . . a Pen!100
To this point, the parable describes how human actions taken in the
physical world proceed through chains of cause and effect initiated by
the immaterial human soul (the heart), seat of the intellect, upon which
knowledge is inscribed, which then forms the will to act. The human soul
is not the autonomous initiator of action, but rather follows knowledge
inscribed in it by an immaterial “pen,” an image al-Ghazālī frequently
employs to refer to the Active Intellect, following Ibn Sīnā.101
The Traveler is baffled, his inquiry seemingly having gotten nowhere.
Knowledge warns him of progressing further along the way, which entails
a journey through the World of Dominion and Witnessing (ʿālam al-mulk
wa-l-shahāda), the World of Sovereignty (ʿālam al-malakūt), and the World
of Compulsion (ʿālam al-jabarūt), which serves as a bridge between two.102
He has already passed the World of Dominion in the form of the Paper,
Ink, Pen, and Hand, that is, the physical world of generation and decay. He
has already passed the first stages of the World of Compulsion in the form
of Power, Will, and Knowledge. The beginning of the World of Sovereignty
is the Pen that writes Knowledge on the heart, the locus of knowledge in
al-Ghazālī’s system. The World of Dominion is the physical world, the
world of Sovereignty is the world of the intelligibles and celestial spheres,
while the World of Compulsion is the human soul, imbedded in a material
body, but itself an immaterial, intelligible entity.
The World of Sovereignty is perilous, and the first stage of traversing it
is to seek a vision of the divine Pen, the Active Intellect. The traveler seeks
this vision by looking with his eyes (baṣr) for a pen of reed and Knowledge
tells him to seek it instead through the vision of his intellect (baṣīra) and
not to imagine it in terms of a physical pen, for just as God is utterly
unlike anything in the physical world, so too are His Pen and Hand unlike
pens of reed or hands of flesh and bone. The traveler is told that he is in
the sacred valley of Ṭuwā where Moses encountered the burning bush,
and he, too, should listen for revelation with the essence of heart and seek
guidance from the fire. Rejecting a vision of the pen resembling earthly

pens (tashbīh or imminence) and seeking it rather by stripping it of any

attributes of physical pens (tanzīh or transcendence), the traveler obtains
a vision of the divine Pen, writing incessantly on the hearts of human
beings all of the categories of Knowledge, which in turn awaken Will and
Power to act.
But like the earthly Pen, the divine Pen denies any independent voli-
tion and refers the traveler to the right Hand that holds it. Thus begins
a journey through the intelligible entities that correspond to the series
encountered in the worlds of dominion and compulsion. The Hand hold-
ing the Pen, utterly unlike earthly hands, but a hand nonetheless, refers
him to the Power that moves it. The Power (qudra) describes itself as a
mere attribute and refers him to the Possessor of power (qādir). At this
stage the seeker reaches the end of his quest and is addressed from behind
the veil of the pavilions of the divine presence (min warāʾ ḥijāb surādiqāt
al-ḥaḍra) with the Qur’ānic verse “He will not be questioned about what
He does, but rather they will be questioned.”103 The traveler is thunder-
struck and when he returns to his senses asks that his breast be opened
that he may know Him and that his tongue be freed that he may praise
Him. The traveler is told not to try to exceed the Lord of the Prophets
(Muhammad), to be satisfied with what he has and not to ask for more. He
should realize that he is forbidden from the divine presence and incapable
of perceiving the divine beauty and majesty. The inability to attain knowl-
edge is a form of knowledge in itself.
With that the traveler returns and apologizes to the various agents he
had met along the way for his incomprehension of their subjugation. He
has learned, he says, that He is the first and the last, that all of existence
issues from Him in its given order, and that He is the final destination of
all who journey toward His presence, station after station. This, al-Ghazālī
concludes, is the declaration of divine unity of those to whom it is revealed
that the Agent is One, that is, the third-station degree of divine unity.104
Thus we see an illustration of an emanationist cosmology, in which every-
thing that is owes its existence to God, the only true existent and only
truly autonomous agent. We also see an illustration of the return to God
through transcending the physical world grasped by the senses to the
world of the intelligible forms grasped by the intellect, of which the physi-
cal world is an imperfect and distorted reflection. This is what is at stake
in understanding divine unity for al-Ghazālī: coming to know God and
obtaining the felicity this entails.

After concluding the allegory, al-Ghazālī discusses some of the impli-

cations of this cosmology. One of the most significant is that in the end it
is only God who is the true actor, and in the world that results, all objects
and events—good and evil—have their origin in a single God. Al-Ghazālī’s
approach to the moral conundrum that results is theodicy: “it is not funda-
mentally possible for there to be better [than what exists] nor more com-
plete, nor more perfect.”105 He declares, in the words of Voltaire’s Candide,
that this is the best of all possible worlds.106
The philosophical origin of this cosmological allegory was not lost on
some of al-Ghazālī’s readers. It was to become the center of a campaign
against al-Ghazālī and his writings when he later returned to teaching in
Nishapur, as we will see in chapter 6.
Love, Logic, and Death

The highest knowledge of God, then, is a monistic vision of Him and His
creation. Al-Ghazālī repeatedly declares that such knowledge is the condi-
tion of felicity in the hereafter, and, more than that, is its very substance.
What is the link between knowledge and felicity? The answer is love.
Love, according to al-Ghazālī, must follow perception and knowledge,
for it is only through knowledge of a thing that it may be loved. Love is
given to those things that bring pleasure. Perception of a thing occurs
according to the sense through which it is achieved, and the pleasure of
perception follows this sense. The highest pleasure is found through the
highest sense, which is the intellect, the sense human beings share with
the angels and not with the animals. Things perceived through the intel-
lect are more beautiful than things perceived with the other senses. What
is more, God cannot be perceived with the five senses but can be per-
ceived with the intellect—and perceiving God is the highest pleasure that
exists.107
Al-Ghazālī lists five different causes for love: (1) Love of the self and that
which preserves the self; (2) Love of that which benefits the lover; (3) Love
of a thing in its own right; (4) Love of beauty; (5) Love of a thing to which
one has an affinity.108 That most worthy of love in each of these cases is
God, who creates and sustains all individual existences, who brings all
benefit to the individual with no motive of self-gain, who is the benefactor
of all of existence, who, in His perfection, omnipotence, and omniscience,
is the most beautiful, and with whom human beings have a hidden affin-
ity, having been made in His image.109

As previously stated, the highest pleasure comes from the most exalted
sense, namely the intellect. The highest pleasure of the intellect comes
through knowing the most exalted object, namely God. Out of this highest
pleasure comes the highest love.
The largest impediment to knowing God is the passions, which draw
attention to the body and the physical world. Overcoming the passions is
a first step to achieving knowledge of God, but the passions can never be
fully overcome as long as the soul exists in a body. As long as the seeker
lives in the world, the confusions of the passions will prevent the wit-
nessing of God, except for some rare flashes of insight in life’s night
in moments when the passions weaken.110 Al-Ghazālī describes these
insights as “like a fleeting flash of lightning” (ka-l-barq al-khāṭif), the same
image he applies to the insights of the Sufis in Marvels of the Heart and
in The Scale of Action,111 thus bringing systematic theoretical meaning to
these earlier descriptions. We have to suspect that al-Ghazālī saw this sig-
nificance in the description already in the Scale, though he presents the
broader description of the Sufi path in that book as coming from his Sufi
informant. There is good reason to suspect that the image came originally
from Ibn Sīnā.112 It is only after death that the full degree of knowledge of
God is attained and its attendant pleasures are known. Since God and His
wonders are infinite, the degrees of knowledge and therefore love of God
are likewise infinite, as are the degrees of felicity.113
Love of a thing not present and not fully known results in yearning
(shawq). Those who come to know God in the world will yearn for Him
because of both His absence and their inability to fully grasp His reality.
After death, God will be seen and the first cause of yearning will cease, for
God will be present. But as God is infinite, the second cause never will.
In the hereafter, yearning for further knowledge of God will never cease
and knowledge of Him will perpetually increase. The pain of yearning for
knowledge of the Beloved yet unattained will be diverted by the pleasure
of divine assistance (luṭf) in attaining it.
This is the felicity of the elite that seeks and achieves control of the
passions through following the law and taming the appetites and is thus
freed to pursue and attain knowledge of God.114 Each one has in the here-
after what they desired in this life; those who desired to witness God will
witness Him, while those who desire the bodily pleasures described in the
Qur’ān will experience those instead.115
If there were any doubt of the importance of rational inquiry in
al-Ghazālī’s method, it is dispelled by the next to last book of the Revival,

Contemplation (tafakkur). He defines contemplation as the combination of

two premises to gain a third premise, a clear reference to the syllogism. Its
goal is the increase in knowledge, and the term al-Ghazālī uses for “knowl-
edge” here is maʿrifa, one of two ways he refers to knowledge (the other
being ʿilm) and one that Treiger notes he uses consistently for the kind
of knowledge that leads to felicity.116 It is a term used in Sufi discourse to
refer to inspired knowledge.117 It should also be noted that al-Ghazālī uses
the term contemplation (tafakkur) to refer to the “rational faculty” (quwwat
al-tafakkur) in The Scale of Action, referring the reader to the Standard of
Knowledge (Miʿyār al-ʿilm) for further elaboration of this faculty.118 This
mixing of Sufi and philosophical discourses shows how intimately linked
the two schools have become in al-Ghazālī’s synthesis.
That having been said, his discussion of contemplation also shows
al-Ghazālī’s preference for rational inquiry in the process of gaining
knowledge of God prior to its perfection through subsequent Sufi prac-
tice. Compared to contemplation, al-Ghazālī describes the Sufi practice
of meditation (tadhakkur) as a lesser practice employed when the second
term of a syllogism is not to be found. This consists of repeating a con-
cept (maʿnā) over and over in the heart so that it is inscribed there and
does not vanish.119 Al-Ghazālī plainly states that “the virtue of contempla-
tion (al-tafakkur) is greater than remembrance and meditation (al-dhikr
wa-l-tadhakkur) because cognition (al-fikr) is remembrance (al-dhikr) and
more.”120 The remembrance (dhikr) al-Ghazālī refers to is a standard Sufi
practice, and his valorizing rational cognition over it in this passage is
telling.
Al-Ghazālī goes on in this book to guide the reader through the con-
templation of God’s creation, beginning with the nearest, the human body,
and progressing to the plants, minerals, animals, the ocean, the air, the
seven heavens and their planets, the Footstool (used by al-Ghazālī to refer
to the sphere of the fixed stars) and the Throne (the outermost sphere121)
mentioned in the Qur’ān, the angels who bear the Throne and the treasur-
ies of the heavens, and finally to the Lord of the Throne, the Footstool, the
heavens and the earth and what is between them.122 In the contemplation
of the physical world lies the path to the forms of the intelligible realms,
which can become inscribed in the human soul. If there were doubt that
the pursuit of the knowledge of God on the path to felicity through ratio-
nal inquiry retains a vital role in al-Ghazālī’s system, this should dispel it.
The final quarter and the Revival as a whole ends with Remembrance
of Death and the Afterlife, a fitting end as it is only in death that the full

knowledge of God attained in life will be realized and the fullness of

one’s felicity experienced. Furthermore, recalling the inevitability of death
serves as a striking means of awakening the reader to the urgency of using
their short life to seek felicity. Al-Ghazālī reminds his audience of the end
toward which we inexorably are moving and again discusses the different
ways in which the pains and pleasures of the afterlife can be imagined.123
It begins by urging the remembrance of death as a spiritual practice, and
then provides material both vivid and voluminous for this exercise, so
effective in focusing the mind on the fleetingness of the world and its
pleasures and the eternity of the hereafter and the urgency for preparing
for it.
Preparing for it, of course, means living a life dedicated to attaining
felicity, a life detailed in The Revival of the Religious Sciences. It means
scrupulously practicing the ritual obligations prescribed for all Muslims
and benefitting from the effect they have upon the heart, even if the exact
means of their benefit cannot be known. It means conducting one’s daily
affairs in keeping with the law and finding in them opportunities to serve
the highest goal. It means curbing the appetites that tie human beings to
this world and distract them from the world to come and purging the vices
that are impediments on the path. It means cultivating virtues and knowl-
edge of God, the highest goal and the fruit of all the subordinate practices.
Al-Ghazālī’s achievement in writing the Revival was precisely this total-
izing vision of the religious sciences reordered to serve the end of gaining
the knowledge of God that is the substance of felicity in the afterlife.
Conclusion
As we have seen in this chapter, the great work that came from al-Ghazālī’s
dramatic departure from his prestigious career in Baghdad in 488/1095
does not suggest a conversion to an utterly new life and way of thinking so
much as a crystallization of ideas and intent found already in The Scale of
Action. Already in the Scale, al-Ghazālī proclaims the urgency of seeking
felicity in the hereafter through knowledge and practice, ʿilm wa ʿamal.
“Knowledge” referred to knowledge of God, which would be the source,
indeed substance, of felicity in the afterlife. “Practice” was the ethical prac-
tice of shedding the hold of the appetites and the grip of vices that tether
attention to this world, diverting it from God and the afterlife. There were
two methods of pursuing felicity—Sufism and philosophy. These meth-
ods were indistinguishable in their approach to practice, but differed in

their approach to knowledge. The reader of the Scale cannot but infer that
al-Ghazālī, speaking in the voice of the Theoreticians, holds philosophy’s
rational approach to knowledge of God to be the surer path, though one
that only a small elite will be in a position to pursue. The many who are
not qualified for philosophy’s path should, however, also be encouraged
to pursue felicity, as unlikely as their ultimate success may be. He further
holds out a third possibility of Sufi practice upon the completion of the
philosophical curriculum in the hope of lending the insights wrested from
philosophy a greater vividness, though the tentativeness of the suggestion
in the Scale shows that this remained a strictly hypothetical proposition to
which he was unwilling to commit.
The Revival of the Religious Sciences suggests that what occurred in
488/1095 was a solidification of al-Ghazālī’s commitment to the synthe-
sis of philosophy and Sufism and to calling Muslims to the pursuit of
felicity as the most urgent task of a human lifetime. His description of
the two highest degrees of understanding God’s unity, representing the
highest insight humanly possible into the divine, show that the tenta-
tively proposed third way of the Scale has become a central proposition
of al-Ghazālī’s thought by the time of writing the Revival. Yet, al-Ghazālī
does not make it a central proposition of his writing. The open focus on
the goal of felicity and the relatively explicit discussion of philosophy and
Sufism as methods of attaining it found in the Scale are greatly attenuated
in the Revival. This is because al-Ghazālī intended the book for a broader
audience of religious scholars, most of whom would not be capable of a
philosophical approach, let alone a philosophical approach supplemented
by Sufi practice. What is more, in the Revival al-Ghazālī suggests that reli-
gious scholars who have moved beyond the naïve faith of common believ-
ers are not guaranteed the latter group’s salvation (najāt), but must pursue
the Science of the Praxis if they want to attain even that, let along felicity,
and thus, the content of the revival has become a requirement for them.
The Science of the Hereafter, as we have seen, is not identifiable with
either Sufism or philosophy. At its highest realization it may well be iden-
tifiable with the third way al-Ghazālī discusses in the Scale. But in limiting
his discussion of the Science of the Hereafter to the Science of Praxis alone,
al-Ghazālī effectively confines the Revival to the practice-only approach
of Sufism though it could also be understood as the practical side of the
philosophical method. At the same time, al-Ghazālī often enough points
beyond the Science of Praxis to the Science of Unveiling calling attention

to its existence and giving glimpses of its contents to entice the qualified
among his readers to look beyond the Revival to the philosophical method.
Presenting the path to felicity for a wide audience was one of the ways
al-Ghazālī went about promoting his vision. The title of the work reveals
another. His aim in writing the Revival was not simply to present a guide
for interested readers, but to transform the landscape of the Islamic reli-
gious tradition, restricting law and theology to their proper and limited
role in regulating worldly affairs, while elevating the science of seeking
felicity in the hereafter to the central concern of the Islamic scholarly tra-
dition. That was his intended Revival of the Religious Sciences.
Achieving this meant not only presenting his agenda, but marshalling
every source of religious authority and rhetorical tool at his disposal to
weave an all-encompassing vision of Islam in all its facets bent toward
the goal of attaining felicity in the hereafter. His efforts to do this are the
subject of our next chapter.

4
The Rhetoric of Revival: Authorizing

Strategies and the Presentation of the
Science of the Hereafter
as we have seen, The Revival of the Religious Sciences is an exhaustive pre-

sentation of the Islamic tradition recentered around the quest for felic-
ity in the hereafter, a religious science of al-Ghazālī’s devising, which
he names the Science of the Hereafter. This science has two subdisci-
plines, the Science of Praxis and the Science of Unveiling. The Science
of Unveiling is pursued only by the elite, while the Revival is a work for
a broad audience, targeting all religious scholars. There are telling asides
in the Revival that reveal enough about the Science of Unveiling to show
that it draws heavily on key concepts of Ibn Sīnā’s philosophy, but on the
main, the Revival is dedicated to the Science of Praxis. This science plays
the same role that the Practical Science plays in The Scale of Action and in
philosophy more broadly, which is to discipline the soul for the contem-
plation of God and His creation. But positions al-Ghazālī gestures at in
the Scale are fully elaborated in the Revival, which covers Islamic ritual
practices, social practices of daily life, a philosophically derived virtue eth-
ics, and Sufi cultivation of virtuous stages on the path to knowing God.
The Revival of the Religious Sciences has served its readers for nine cen-
turies as a comprehensive guide to a life dedicated to spiritual cultiva-
tion. But al-Ghazālī did not aim merely to provide a resource for those
individuals inclined to pursue the path to felicity. He aimed to transform
the religious landscape of his tradition, summoning all to his vision, an
agenda he presented as nothing less than the restoration to life of a reli-
gious tradition that had been killed by its very practitioners. He meant the
title of the work very literally: al-Ghazālī was a revivalist, and the Revival
was a work of revivalism.

Rhetoric of Revival 105
What does it mean for a work of religious scholarship to claim the sta-
tus of a revival? Literally it asserts the return of a religious tradition to the
lost purity of its founding moment, something to which no believer could
object. But when it comes to spelling out the original essence to which
the tradition must return, there is no single definition upon which every
believer could agree. Contestation of the founding message of the religion
is what gives rise to sects, schools, and currents in any religious tradition,
and revivalism is but one strategy used in the competitions among them,
one way of asserting that one’s own vision of the tradition is authoritative
while the others are not. Calls to return to a pristine past are always about
struggles to define the tradition in the present.1
In this chapter we will look at how al-Ghazālī deploys revival as a rhe-
torical tool to claim authority for the agenda of The Revival of the Religious
Sciences. Through an examination of the Exordium of the Revival, we will
see how al-Ghazālī conjures a sense of crisis that he promises to resolve,
and how he presents the quest for felicity as the lost focus to be restored
while painting law and theology as the villains behind its eclipse. Then
we will analyze what I have termed his “narratives of revival,” in which
he presents a history of the killing of the religious sciences aimed at felic-
ity and offers his own project as the revival of this all-but-dead tradition.
Finally, we will look at some of his other rhetorical strategies for winning
his reader over to his proposals for the restoration of the proper hierarchy
of the religious sciences.
Conjuring a Sense of Crisis

The opening of a book of Islamic religious scholarship is normally a for-
mulaic and staid affair. It begins with the dedication of the book to God
(the basmala), then the praise of God (ḥamdala), and then the invocation
of prayers and peace upon Muhammad (ṣalāt). It is also conventional to
invoke prayers upon the family of the Prophet and his revered Companions.
These items are normally separated from the rest of the introduction by
the phrase ammā baʿd, literally, “as for that which follows,” at which point
comes the actual introduction to the topic of the book.
In the Revival, al-Ghazālī flouts these conventions to evoke a sense
of the crisis that his book will address. He numbers the components of
the prologue, moving tersely through the first three items given above,
skipping prayers for the Prophet’s family and Companions (an omission

noted and criticized by some of his readers2), and with no marker of sepa-
ration, continues into the subject matter of the book with number four.
The section reads as follows:
In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate.

First I praise God greatly and continuously, even if the praise of
those who praise is feeble and unworthy of His majesty.
Second, I invoke God’s peace and prayers upon His Messenger,
prayers that encompass along with the Lord of Mankind, the rest of
the messengers.
Third, I ask guidance from Him most high in that which He has
delegated. To Him is my determination in writing a book on the
revival of the religious sciences.
Fourth, I dedicate myself to ending your self-satisfaction, Oh
you detractor, boundless in your censure, from among the band
of skeptics, excessive in your rebuke and faultfinding from among
the ranks of the reckless naysayers. For the knot of silence has
been loosened from my tongue and the obligation to speak out has
been placed round my neck as a necklace of articulation. This was
brought about by your persisting in blindness to the evident truth,
along with your support of falsehood and adornment of ignorance.
And by your incitement against anyone who brings about a slight
departure from the customs of mankind (khalq) and deviates a trifle
from the limitations of convention (rasm) with regards to practice
(ʿamal) in accordance with the dictates of knowledge (ʿilm), desir-
ing thereby to attain that which God Most High has ordained in
the way of the purification of the self (nafs) and the reform of the
heart. These efforts aim to compensate for some of a life squan-
dered in despair of achieving full redress and remedy and seclusion
from those of whom the Lawgiver (ṣāḥib al-sharʿ, i.e., Muhammad),
God’s peace and prayers be upon him, has said, “The most severely
punished of men on the day of the Resurrection will be the scholar
(ʿālim) whom God—may He be praised!—has not benefited
through his knowledge.”3
This is a departure from the standard format not only of other authors
but of al-Ghazālī’s own convention in his other writings, including his
prologues to the 40 books of the Revival itself. By racing through the pious

opening formulas of the book and explicitly linking them to, rather than
separating them from, the introduction to the subject at hand, al-Ghazālī
conjures a sense of crisis that his book must address. This sense of crisis
is echoed in the feverish and combative prose of the Exordium. This pas-
sage is crafted to give the impression of near recklessness, as though the
author were driven by a mission so urgent that he cannot be bothered
to observe convention and wait until after the formalities to launch his
attack.
The attack is on the self-satisfied status quo among the religious schol-
ars of his day. Their crime is to stand in the way of those who seek to
purify their selves through knowledge and practice, that is, who pursue
the Science of the Hereafter. But these scholars who obscure the truth
and impede the scholars of the hereafter are at odds with God and His
Prophet; their scholarship brings them no benefit, and they will be pun-
ished for it in the hereafter.
Here and in al-Ghazālī’s third point we see the thesis from which
al-Ghazālī drew his title. The word for science and knowledge is the same
in Arabic (ʿilm) and the word for scholar (ʿālim) is drawn from the same
root. Number three in al-Ghazālī’s list is to ask God’s blessing for his
revival of the religious sciences, which entails dethroning the religious
scholars whose sciences/knowledge bring them no benefit and replacing
them with religious scholars whose science is oriented toward God’s com-
mand to purify the self and reform the heart. This is the thesis of The Scale
of Action reformulated in revolutionary terms and presented as the very
revival of the religious sciences.
Fingering the Culprits: Who Killed the

Religious Sciences?
As al-Ghazālī continues, he singles out two specific religious disciplines
to blame for covering over the path to felicity: jurisprudence and theology.
Here we see a departure from the Scale, which gives no indication that
the path to felicity is blocked by jurists or theologians or that its pursuit is
in any way at odds with the law or theology. But in the following passage,
al-Ghazālī explicitly attacks these two disciplines and their adherents.
By my life, there is no cause for your persisting in arrogance but the

disease that has become pervasive among the multitudes of men,

yea has grown to encompass the masses and consists in their not
realizing the gravity of the situation. They are ignorant of the fact
that this is an affliction and that the matter is grave.4 The hereafter
(ākhira) is approaching and this world (dunyā) is fleeting. The hour
of death is near and the journey is long. Supplies are short, the
danger is great, and the way is blocked. The keen-sighted observer
knows that there is no response but devotion to the face of God
in knowledge (ʿilm) and practice (ʿamal). Climbing the path to the
hereafter (ākhira), abounding as it is in misfortunes, with neither
guide nor companion, is arduous and exhausting. For the guides
on the road are the scholars (ʿulamāʾ ) who are the heirs of the
prophets. But this age is devoid of them, and there remain none
but the imitators, most of whom have been overpowered by Satan
and seduced by tyranny. Every one of them passionately pursues
his fortune and has come to see right (maʿrūf) as wrong (munkar)
and wrong as right, until the science of religion (ʿilm al-dīn) has
been extinguished and the light of guidance has been obliterated
throughout the four corners of the earth. They have caused human-
kind to imagine that knowledge is no more than a ruling (fatwā)
of the government, to which the judges resort in settling a law-
suit when the rabble riot. Or a theological debating point (jadal)
with which a seeker of vanity arms himself to overcome his oppo-
nent and silence him with his arguments. Or a bit of embellished
rhymed prose (sajʿ)5 with which the preacher ingratiates himself to
the common folk and wins them over. They have not seen beyond
these three any other way to capture for themselves forbidden vices
and net their vain and ephemeral pleasures.6
The references in this section to legal opinions (fatāwā) and theological

debate (jadal) point directly to the religious disciplines he aims to demote
in order to promote the Science of the Hereafter: law and kalām. Not only
does al-Ghazālī disparage the worldly applications of these sciences for
prestige and profit, he demotes the two reigning religious disciplines
of his day and their practices to the level of the lowly preacher and his
rhymed prose by mentioning all three in the same breath.7
In beginning to describe the dimensions and details of the crisis,
al-Ghazālī draws a contrast that later becomes central in his taxonomy of
the religious sciences: the distinction between this world (dunyā) and the
hereafter (ākhira). He takes this opposition from the Qur’ān 30:6: “They

know the externalities of the life of the world (dunyā) but of the hereafter
(ākhira) they are heedless.” Al-Ghazālī reminds his reader of the approach
of death and the hereafter in both the style and content of the remainder
of this passage. Writing in rhymed prose, which gives a staccato feeling
of imperative,8 he warns his reader that death is near, the journey long,
and the road difficult. This message is a frequently recurring theme in
the Qur’ān, but has a particular meaning for al-Ghazālī: the short human
lifetime is the only opportunity there will be to gather knowledge of God
that will determine the degree of a human being’s felicity for all of eternity
in the hereafter.
Al-Ghazālī returns to the scholars—the guides on the path to the here-
after and heirs of the prophets—only to declare that, in truth, there are
none in his time. His fallen age has only pale imitators of the true ʿulamāʾ,
and they are engrossed in worldly pursuits and have confused right with
wrong.9 The result is that the science of religion (ʿilm al-dīn) has been
extinguished, and with it the light of guidance for those treading the path
to felicity in the hereafter. Clearly, then, rekindling the light of guidance
entails reviving religious science by refocusing it on the path to the here-
after rather than this world. This means wresting ʿilm from the hands of
those false ʿulamāʿ who have blotted out its true spirit and turned it to
corrupt ends and returning it to the rightly guided, a party whose identity
al-Ghazālī has begun to reveal.
Reviving the “Science of the Hereafter”

Through a sophisticated play of terms, al-Ghazālī’s Exordium foreshad-
ows the demotion of the “Sciences of the World” that the first book of the
Revival will make explicit.
As for the Science of the Path of the Hereafter (ʿilm ṭarīq al-ākhira),
and that which the Righteous Forebears (al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ) pursued
and which God—glory be to Him—in His Book called understand-
ing (fiqh), wisdom, brightness, light, guidance, and reason, it has
become occluded among humankind and been completely forgot-
ten. As this was a fissure that had appeared in the edifice of reli-
gion, and a black situation, I saw the importance of devoting myself
to composing this book, to reviving the religious sciences, to reveal-
ing the ways of the early leaders (al-aʾimma al-mutaqaddimūn) who

have gone before, and to making plain the branches of knowledge

that the prophets and the Righteous Forebears deemed beneficial.10
In this passage, al-Ghazālī gives a name to the science that he is advo-

cating and which is the subject of the Revival: the Science of the Path
of the Hereafter, usually shortened to the Science of the Hereafter (ʿilm
al-ākhira). As we have seen earlier in the passage, al-Ghazālī echoes the
Qur’ān in warning that the other world is approaching and this world is
fleeting. The perceptive realize that this temporal life must be led with
an eye to its consequences in the eternal hereafter. This is the main goal
of religion and is pursued through the Science of the Hereafter, which
must therefore be seen as the principle religious science. Of course, this
implies that all other religious sciences are of lower status, in other words,
that they deal with the affairs of this world, and thus, while not without
religious significance, are nonetheless of secondary importance. This
implied counterpart to the Science of the Hereafter, the Sciences of the
World (ʿulūm al-dunyā), will be introduced specifically in the first book of
the Revival as a term applied to law and kalām. Thus the Qur’ānic hierar-
chy of the hereafter and the world discussed above becomes a hierarchy
of religious sciences, a hierarchy whose terminology invokes a scriptural
authority.
Al-Ghazālī lists fiqh among what he presents as Qur’ānic references
to the Science of the Hereafter in the above passage. It is no accident that
he uses the word in its nontechnical meaning of “knowledge” or “under-
standing,” rather than its more common, technical meaning of “jurispru-
dence.” Later in The Book of Knowledge, he reveals that this is a conscious
strategy on his part to usurp the right of jurisprudence to its very name.
Drawing on a similar discussion by Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī (d. 386/996),11
whose Nourishment of Hearts was a major source for Sufi material in
the Revival,12 al-Ghazālī later calls fiqh a science whose content has been
changed. It originally dealt with the Science of the Hereafter and only later
came to be restricted to jurisprudence.13 This use of the word fiqh, then,
is a preliminary part of al-Ghazālī’s campaign to present jurisprudence,
not the Science of the Hereafter, as an innovation and a departure from
the practice of the Prophet, the first Muslims, and even the Qur’ān itself.
Al-Ghazālī uses this tactic frequently throughout the Revival: advancing
his argument by redefining or reinterpreting commonly accepted terms
and definitions, while calling as little attention to his re-signification as

possible. By the time he comes to his explicit claim that true fiqh has little
to do with jurisprudence, he has already used the word fiqh, as he has in
this context, to mean “understanding,” or in the phrase “the fiqh of the
path to the hereafter” to mean “science.”14 Through such tactics, al-Ghazālī
surreptitiously prepares his reader for the plain statement of his position
that is to come.
While The Scale of Action, as we have seen, is dedicated from its first
sentences to the pursuit of felicity in the hereafter through knowledge and
practice, al-Ghazālī’s advocacy of it here is more vague and revealed more
gradually. Rather than representing the perspective of a narrow religious
discipline, al-Ghazālī presents himself as advocating the practices of the
Righteous Forebears, which is to say the first three generations of Muslims
whose practice of the tradition is understood to have been pristine, as well
as the founders of the four Sunni schools of law, the prophets, and the
Qur’ān itself. It is their path that has been overgrown and forgotten among
humankind. As al-Ghazālī presents it, the revival of the religious sciences
by which he hopes to clear this path is not a matter of advocating the
knowledge and practices of a particular faction within Islam, but rather
the restoration of the essence of Islam itself as represented by its founding
figures and holy scriptures.
Demoting Law and Theology

The first of the 40 books of the Revival is The Book of ʿilm, which, al-Ghazālī
writes, serves as an introduction to the entire work. ʿIlm, as we have seen,
can mean both Science and Knowledge. I will usually refer to it as The
Book of Knowledge, but both senses of the word are in play in the title of
this book and its contents. It alludes to the knowledge of God that will
be the substance of felicity in the hereafter. It also discusses the intellect
itself, the divisions of the sciences, and the properties of students and
teachers. One of the major aims of the first book of the Revival is to make
al-Ghazālī’s case for reordering the hierarchy of the religious sciences,
placing the Science of the Hereafter at the top and demoting law and the-
ology. It is in this reordering, as we have seen, that the revival of the reli-
gious sciences lies.
Here we will analyze the rhetorical strategies al-Ghazālī uses to gain
his readers’ assent for his diagnosis of the crisis of the religious sciences
and his proposed cure. These include restricting the jurisdiction of law

and theology within their own subject matter and presenting a history of
the eclipse of the Science of the Hereafter by the Sciences of the World.
The Law as a Science of the World

In his preface, as we have seen, al-Ghazālī implies that law and theology are
Sciences of the World by contrasting them to the Science of the Hereafter.
In The Book of Knowledge, he makes this classification explicit. In keeping
with his usual approach, his explicit demotion of law appears with little
fanfare in a section on the praiseworthy and blameworthy sciences. In
a discussion of the divisions of the legal sciences, al-Ghazālī divides the
branches of law (furūʿ) into two parts. Of the first, he writes: “The first of
these is related to the affairs of the world and is contained in the books of
law. Those entrusted with them are the jurists (fuqahāʾ), who are scholars
of the world (ʿulamāʾ al-dunyā).”15 This sentence effectively demotes the
leading religious science of al-Ghazālī’s day to a science of the affairs of
the world, with no expertise or authority in the plainly much more crucial
matters of the hereafter. As such, law is forever to be seen as secondary to
the Science of the Hereafter, whose precedence over this world is empha-
sized in the Qur’ān. The second part of the branches of law relates to the
“matters of the hereafter”—but these, he says, will form the content of
The Revival of the Religious Sciences. Certainly jurists saw themselves as
authorities in all facets of the revealed law, and in claiming that not the
worldly science of law but the Science of the Hereafter has authority in the
more consequential branch of the law, al-Ghazālī is demoting law even in
what it sees as its own jurisdiction. As we will see, al-Ghazālī pursues this
campaign in other domains as well.
After this startling distinction, the elaboration of the sciences related to
the law is concluded without further comment. Only in the following sec-
tion does al-Ghazālī address his provocative classification of jurisprudence
as a Science of the World. He does so in response to a hypothetical ques-
tion: “Why did you adjoin law to the Science of the World and the jurists
to the scholars of the world?”16 He thus demonstrates that he is fully aware
of the gravity of his casually asserted demotion of law.
The Law’s Eclipse of the Science of the Hereafter

How is it that jurists have come to see themselves holding authority beyond
what al-Ghazālī insists is their proper domain? Here he writes that in the

days of the rightly guided caliphs, the first four successors of Muhammad,
chosen from among his Companions, the caliph himself was an expert in
the law in addition to his expertise in the Science of the Hereafter. He had
no need of the jurists except in rare cases that required consultation. This
left the early religious scholars free to dedicate themselves to the Science
of the Hereafter, which they eagerly did. The first generation of religious
scholars were Companions of the Prophet, and when they gathered in
mosques they were keen to discourse about the Science of the Hereafter.
When a petitioner approached one of them with a question on this topic,
they were happy to answer it. But when they were approached for their
legal opinion, their fatwā, they preferred to defer the question to one of
their colleagues.17
The caliphs who succeeded the rightly guided caliphs were not qualified
jurists and had to seek the scholars’ help with legal decisions. The scholars
called upon were from the second generation of the Righteous Forebears
(tābiʿūn). Their pious preference for the Science of the Hereafter followed
that of the Companions who preceded them, and they did what they could
to avoid the positions they were called upon to fill, such as judge (qāḍī)
and jurisconsult (muftī). They shunned even the service of the legend-
arily pious Caliph ʿUmar II (d. 682/720).18 In the end, however, they were
pressed into service, and through it they gained prestige. When others saw
the status these scholars gained through the practice of law, they flocked
to it, not seeing it as an unwelcome but necessary service to the commu-
nity, but as a vehicle to fame and fortune. Thus the equation was reversed.
Instead of the rulers seeking out the scholars, the scholars began seeking
out the rulers, petitioning them for appointments as judges and jursicon-
sults. The scholars, once proud in their indifference toward worldly mat-
ters, became obsequious in currying the favor of rulers.19
Even then, however, the greatest of the legal scholars did not lose sight
of the primacy of the Science of the Hereafter. Al-Ghazālī claims that
even the eponymous founders of the legal schools, who lived in Islam’s
second and third centuries, were above all exemplary practitioners of the
Science of the Hereafter for whom jurisprudence was a secondary con-
cern. Al-Ghazālī tells his reader that al-Shāfiʿī (d. 204/820), Mālik ibn
Anas (d. 179/795-96), Abū Ḥanīfa (d. 150/767), Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal (d.
245/855) and Sufyān al-Thawrī (d. 161/777–78)20 had five attributes. Each
was a worshiper of God (ʿābid), an ascetic, a scholar of the Sciences of the
Hereafter (ʿālim bi-ʿulūm al-ākhira), a jurist in human affairs and desir-
ous of achieving the vision of the face of God through his jurisprudence.

Four of these traits, he points out, have to do solely with the hereafter,
while one, worldly jurisprudence, has to do both with both this world and
the hereafter. According to al-Ghazālī, the jurists of his day are interested
only in this single concern but equate themselves with the founders of the
legal schools, though they cannot compare to them.21 Then, to strengthen
his argument, he describes at length the efforts of these great founding
figures for the sake of the hereafter and concludes by saying that their
deeds were the fruits of the Science of the Hereafter, not of knowledge of
obscure points of law.22 Thus, according to al-Ghazālī, the jurists are not
only unworthy heirs of the Prophet and his Companions; they are even
unworthy heirs of the founders of the schools of law to which they adhere.
What is more, al-Ghazālī argues that even the use of the term fiqh to
refer to the law is a blameworthy corruption of the original state of affairs.
In a passage devoted to “what has been substituted among the names
of the sciences,” he makes explicit an assertion implied in his Exordium
and elsewhere by his use of the word fiqh, “law” or “jurisprudence,” in its
nontechnical sense to mean “knowledge.” In the present day, he says, fiqh
has come to be restricted to the details of law, knowledge of obscure cases
among fatwās and judgments (wuqūf), and the technical means by which
these rulings were reached. Originally, however, fiqh referred mainly to the
Science of the Hereafter. He writes:
The term fiqh in the first age (al-ʿaṣr al-awwal) was used to refer to
the Science of the Path to the Hereafter, knowledge of the details
of the defects of self, the things that corrupt human action, keen
understanding of the vileness of this world, dedication to rising
to the grace of the Hereafter, and fear’s taking possession of the
heart.23
By these two lines of argument al-Ghazālī aims to undo what he portrays

as the jurists’ usurpation of the centrality of the Science of the Hereafter.
Going on the offensive, he contests the right of the jurists to claim to act
in the name of their founding fathers. He even questions their right to use
of the established name of their own science.
By presenting the jurists as usurpers of the primacy of the Science
of the Hereafter among the religious sciences, al-Ghazālī presents his
agenda of refocusing religious scholarship on the pursuit of felicity
through knowledge and practice not as an innovation in the Islamic reli-
gious sciences or as his own personal program, but as a restoration of

the religious sciences as they were originally practiced and as the pro-
gram of the Prophet’s Companions, the followers, the founders of the
legal schools, and of the discipline of fiqh as it was originally practiced.
This is an authorizing strategy frequently employed by reformers of all
stripes: identifying their agenda with the revered founders of a tradition,
describing the corruption of this pristine state of affairs, and calling for its
restoration. I have called this strategy a “narrative of revival.”24 The trope
of revival was so important an authorizing strategy for al-Ghazālī that he
pressed the very title of his book into its service.
Kalām’s Eclipse of the Science of the Hereafter

In the Revival, al-Ghazālī offers a second narrative of revival that mainly
faults theology and even lays some of the blame on writing as such. In a
passage drawn from the Sufi writer Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī’s Nourishment of
Hearts,25 al-Ghazālī explains that it was not until a.h. 120, after the death
of the Companions and the followers, that religious books began to be
written. He points out that the Caliph ʿUmar was reluctant even to write
down the Qur’ān. The first books may have been harmless enough, con-
sisting of collections of customs of the Companions (athar) and prophetic
tradition, and then the legal works of pioneers of legal thought such as
Mālik ibn Anas and Sufyān al-Thawrī. Even so, skepticism about writing
books remained. The founding jurist Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal criticized Mālik
for writing his Muwaṭṭaʾ, saying this was an innovation not known to the
Companions.
The true fall from this pristine state of affairs, al-Ghazālī claims,
came in the fourth/tenth century, when books of kalām began to
appear and the practice of debating points theological points came into
being. In al-Ghazālī’s day, public debate of theological doctrine was not
restricted to audiences of theologians, but was held before men of the
regime who lavishly rewarded the winners of such debates. Al-Ghazālī’s
first biographer, ʿAbd al-Ghāfir al-Fārisī, tells us that al-Ghazālī him-
self advanced his career in the court of Niẓām al-Mulk in this way.26
With the spread of theological debating and the publication of books
on theology, the Sciences of the Hereafter were forgotten among the
common people and the theological debater and the storyteller came
to be called scholars. Only among the elite (khawāṣṣ) were the Science
of the Hereafter and the distinction between true knowledge (ʿilm) and
theology preserved.27

In other passages, al-Ghazālī’s treatment of theology is similar to his

treatment of law. Its demotion is also presented as an afterthought rather
than as the carefully crafted rhetorical assault that it is. After finishing the
discussion of the praiseworthy and blameworthy sciences, he answers a
hypothetical interlocutor who asks him why he did not include kalām and
philosophy among these sciences. He explains that whatever useful mate-
rial kalām has to offer is contained in the Qur’ān or Hadith. Whatever goes
beyond this is either blameworthy disputation, which is an innovation, or
the debates of different factions, which are meaningless and often have
nothing to do with religion. Having dismissed theology, he goes on to talk
about philosophy at greater length.28
After this rather insulting treatment of theology, al-Ghazālī does return
to that science again, only to belittle it further. The theologians, like the
jurists, have a role to play. Much as the guards of the pilgrimage caravan
are an unfortunate necessity, there to ward off Bedouin who may attack
the caravan in the desert, so too are theologians an unfortunate neces-
sity: their duty is to protect the religion from blameworthy innovation.
Both sets of “guards,” he says, play an important role in allowing religious
duties to be fulfilled free of disturbance. However, much as a guard who
does not go beyond guarding the caravan to performing the pilgrimage
himself not truly participate in the ḥajj, so does a theologian who does not
go beyond disputation and defense against innovation have any part of the
Science of the Hereafter. Al-Ghazālī insists that such a scholar is not to be
counted among the scholars of religion.29
Though al-Ghazālī defines a valid role for disputation and debating
( jadal, mujādala, munāẓara),30 he also points to it as one of the great vices
of the theologians. Much as excessive concern for the minutiae of law can
be harmful to the jurist, so, too, can debate sow the seeds of the theolo-
gian’s own destruction by fostering in him blameworthy traits. Much as
drinking alcohol leads to other transgressions, so too does debating lead to
envy, arrogance, resentment, slander, self-justification, spying, schaden-
freude, hypocrisy, disregard for the truth, and other vices. Some of these
vices are the very character flaws that the otherworldly science aims to
cure; they are discussed in the third quarter of the Revival.31
Al-Ghazālī lays out the limits of kalām much as he sought to limit the
jurisdiction of law. He insists that revealing the truth of matters is not the-
ology’s concern; it serves no purpose beyond safeguarding the articles of
faith. Even this task, he tells us, is not an endless one. Anyone who cannot

be convinced to return to sound belief by 100 pages of kalām cannot be

returned to sound belief at all, having become too firmly rooted in heretical
innovation and too skilled in debate to be shaken from error. Al-Ghazālī has
produced just such a text in the form of his Balanced Book of What-to-Believe
(al-Iqtiṣād fī al-iʿtiqād). This being the case, any effort beyond the 100-page
limit is a blameworthy distraction from the pursuit of the Science of the
Hereafter.32 Alas, such verbosity is all too frequently the hallmark of the
theologian. Al-Ghazālī tells us that the only way in which the theologian
exceeds the common believer is in his production of verbiage (kalām), from
which the science of theology, kalām, gets its name.33
Though al-Ghazālī downplays his attacks on law and kalām, present-
ing them as discussions marginal to his broader exploration of the reli-
gious sciences, he is fully aware of the ramifications of his treatment of
these two disciplines. The Book of Knowledge (ʿilm) is nothing less than an
effort to define science (ʿilm) in such a way as to make the Science of the
Hereafter the guardian of its most important facets and to make law and
theology second-tier sciences, concerned only with the mundane affairs
of this world. After delivering his preliminary attacks on these sciences,
al-Ghazālī places a question in the mouth of a hypothetical interlocutor:
You have restricted the jurisdiction of the theologian to guarding

the faith of the commoners from the confusions of the innovator,
much as the jurisdiction of the guards of the pilgrimage caravan is
the protection of the goods of the pilgrims from the looting of the
Bedouin. You have restricted the jurisdiction of the jurist to preserv-
ing the laws by which the sultan restrains the evil of aggressive peo-
ple against one another. These two ranks are inferior with relation
to the science of religion. The scholars of the community (umma)
famous for their excellence are the jurists and the theologians, for
they are the most excellent of creatures in the view of God Most
High. How can you reduce their ranking to this lowly station with
regard to the religious science?34
Having thus summarized his treatment of law and kalām, al-Ghazālī

defends his now explicit project of demoting law and theology and promot-
ing his Science of the Hereafter. He refers to the revered Companions of
the Prophet, insisting that their excellence did not stem from their knowl-
edge of law or theology, but rather from their achievement in the Science

of the Hereafter. When the second caliph, ʿUmar, died, Ibn Masʿūd said
that nine-tenths of knowledge had died with him. Surely, al-Ghazālī scorn-
fully asks, his hypothetical questioner does not imagine that this is a refer-
ence to law or kalām? For the religious sciences to be restored, the Science
of the Hereafter must take its rightful place at the pinnacle of the religious
sciences, and the sciences of law and theology must be recognized for
what they are: Sciences of the World, unfortunate necessities in a social
world subject to crime and heresy, but of no use whatsoever in attaining
felicity in the hereafter, the purpose for which human beings were created.
The Science of the Hereafter Has Greater Authority

than Law or Theology in the Key Jurisdictions of Those
Disciplines
We have already seen al-Ghazālī make the broad claim that the jurists
have authority over only one branch of the law while the more consequen-
tial branch is the jurisdiction of the Science of the Hereafter. On a more
detailed level, al-Ghazālī also presents central topics of both law and theol-
ogy as falling under the purview of those two sciences only in their most
superficial aspects, while the Science of the Hereafter holds authority over
them in their more profound and consequential facets. In each such dis-
cussion, he asserts that there are four increasingly profound degrees of
practice or belief inherent in the matter at hand, and that law and theology
can address only the most superficial, the more profound being the juris-
diction of the Science of the Hereafter. In the case of the law, he makes
this argument concerning ritual purity (ṭahāra) and the permitted and
forbidden (al-ḥalāl wa-l-ḥarām). In the case of theology, he employs this
tactic with respect to divine unity (tawḥīd), which we have already seen in
chapter 3.
Ritual purity, ṭahāra, entails the washing of parts (wuḍūʾ) or all (ghusl)
of the body before the performance of prayer and other ritual acts. What
constitutes a valid washing or ablution and what nullifies a state of ritual
purity are legal questions. But al-Ghazālī insists that purity has more pro-
found and important dimensions that lie beyond the jurisdiction of the
law. In the beginning of the Mysteries of Purity (kitāb asrār al-ṭahāra), after
citing numerous hadiths and passages from the Qurʾān in which ritual
purity is praised and called the basis of religion and the key to prayer,
al-Ghazālī insists that there is an internal component of purity in addition
to the external. He writes,

Those of understanding comprehend from these externalities that the

most important of matters is the purification of the inmost essences
(al-asrār). For it is not likely that he (i.e., Muhammad), God’s peace
and prayers be upon him, could have meant by his saying: “Cleansing
(al-ṭuhūr) is half of faith,” that the external structure be cleansed by
pouring water and plunging into it while ruining the internal and
leaving it full of impurities and filth. How preposterous!35
The Mysteries of Purity is found in the first half of the Revival, which is
devoted to external (ẓāhir), that is bodily and public acts, and accordingly
the bulk of this book is devoted to the legal requirements of attaining
purity for ritual purposes. But here al-Ghazālī insists that purity, properly
understood, has a much more important ethical dimension. Just as one
must cleanse the limbs of impurity for prayer, one must cleanse the self
of vices. Exterior cleansing is an indispensable part of the path of felic-
ity, but the interior cleansing of vices is of more profound importance in
attaining felicity. Thus, the bodily issue of purity treated in the first half of
the Revival also has important dimensions that belong to the second half
of the Revival, which is dedicated to interior (bāṭin) matters of the mind
and spirit. As we saw in the last chapter, this is a strategy for incorporating
the law into the Science of the Hereafter, showing that observing required
rituals is fundamental, but also that they have a role to play in the quest for
felicity. It is also a strategy, though, for subordinating the religious science
of law to the Science of the Hereafter.
Al-Ghazālī makes this argument concrete by arguing that there are
four degrees of purity, rising from bare compliance with its exterior, legally
determined requirements to its complete interior realization, which is
guided by the Science of the Hereafter:
The first degree (al-martaba al-ūlā): The purification of the external

(ẓāhir) from ritual impurities and other impurities and excretions.
The second degree: The purification of the limbs from crimes
and offenses.
The third degree: The purification of the heart from blamewor-
thy (madhmūm) character traits and abominable vices.
The fourth degree: The purification of the inmost essence
(al-sirr) of all that is not God most high, which is the purity of
the prophets, God’s prayers be upon them, and the Sincere ones
(ṣiddīq).36

So what begins as a legally defined ritual purification of the body and

purging the limbs of crimes becomes, at its more profound level, an ethi-
cal matter of purifying the heart of vices, and at a more profound level still
the cleansing of the heart of all but God, which he subsequently states is a
prerequisite for knowing God, “the highest aim” of practice. These higher
two states are the domain of the Science of the Hereafter.
Of course, al-Ghazālī’s aim here is not only to demote jurisprudence
on its own territory, but also to link the law to the Science of the Hereafter.
He never questions that washing before prayer is mandatory, and the bulk
of the Mysteries of Purity is made up of the legal definitions of purity and
the performance of ablutions. The necessity of fulfilling legal and ritual
obligations is stated in the Scale37 and later, after returning to Khurasan,
al-Ghazālī would dedicate a treatise and a section of the Persian version
of the Revival, The Alchemy of Felicity, to a polemic against the ibāḥiyya,
philosophers and Sufis who claimed they had transcended the need for
ritual duties.38 In another passage of the Revival he writes: “By my life, it
(law) does pertain to religion, not by itself but through the medium of the
world. For this world is the sowing ground of the hereafter, and religion
cannot be practiced except through the world.”39 The law, he adds, serves
along with political rulers to guard religion; without these guards, religion
would disappear.40 Legally defined ritual duties are the foundation of the
Science of the Hereafter, but they must be understood from the perspec-
tive of their ultimate aim, which is not something that can be understood
through jurisprudence, let alone governed by it.
In this passage, as in his discussions of the permitted and forbidden
and divine unity, al-Ghazālī makes the case that the details of key topics of
law and theology lie within the jurisdiction of those Sciences of the World
only in their most superficial aspects. To do full justice to these crucial
elements of the Islamic religious tradition, one must turn to the Science
of the Hereafter for a more profound and consequential understanding.
This is an element of his broader campaign in The Book of Knowledge to
win acceptance for his agenda of placing the quest for felicity through
knowledge and practice at the center of the religious sciences.
Did al-Ghazālī’s Authorizing Strategies Influence the

Substance of the Revival as Well as Its Presentation?
It is one thing to say that al-Ghazālī presented the path to felicity in
ways calculated to win acceptance for his vision. But did his authorizing

strategies shape the substance of the Science of the Hereafter in any way?
It is very difficult to demonstrate motive in al-Ghazālī’s shaping of his new
science, but there are a couple of elements that do raise questions.
As we have seen, Ibn Sīnā held that ordinary believers who followed
the revealed law would enjoy the lesser pleasures of an imaginal after-
life, not experiencing the sublime felicity of intellectual pleasures, but
rather imagining the base physical pleasures described in the Qur’ān.
Al-Ghazālī, however, asserts that religious scholars, the intended audience
of the Revival, are in danger of hellfire if they do not pursue his Science
of the Hereafter: not only will they not attain felicity, they will not attain
even salvation. Was this calculated to raise the stakes in choosing to fol-
low or reject the Science of the Hereafter? Was this part of an effort to win
a broad following for the Science of the Hereafter and for its author and
chief authority?
The Scale of Action points to one motive for devoting the Revival to the
Science of Praxis alone and omitting the Science of Unveiling: as a work
for a broader audience, the Revival does not address itself mainly to that
talented and fortunate elite qualified for the method of the Theoreticians
and their simultaneous pursuit of knowledge and praxis. But did leaving
half of the Science of the Hereafter, the Science of Unveiling, out of the
Revival serve another purpose? Praxis, as we have seen, is presented as
serving the higher aim of unveiling, which is the means to and very sub-
stance of felicity. By refusing to lay out this superior science, al-Ghazālī
leaves his readership in the dark about the full scope of his Science of the
Hereafter, leaving open an epistemic gap41 that only he can fill. This guar-
antees his unique authority.
Again, it is difficult to demonstrate al-Ghazālī’s intention in crafting
these elements of his Science of the Hereafter. But these innovations
in the Revival, not found in Ibn Sīnā or al-Ghazālī’s own Scale of Action,
may have been adopted as authorizing strategies as well as expressions of
al-Ghazālī’s revivalist vision.
Conclusion
One of the major changes between The Scale of Action and The Revival
of the Religious Sciences is that al-Ghazālī devoted a great deal of thought
and energy not merely to formulating his vision of the pursuit of felicity
through knowledge and practice, but to presenting that vision as compel-
lingly as possible. As we saw in chapter 2, this was a concern of his when

writing the Scale. The Scale makes overt arguments about the importance
of the pursuit of felicity in the Hereafter. The persuasive rhetoric of the
Revival is of a different order of magnitude.
In The Revival of the Religious Sciences, al-Ghazālī seeks to transform
the religious landscape of his age by placing the Science of the Hereafter
at the apex of Islamic scholarship. His effort to convince his readers of the
urgency of his agenda begins in the very title of the work, which prom-
ises to breathe life into a scholarly tradition that, in its present form, is
dead. The Revival presents its agenda as the restoration of the religious
sciences to their pristine form as they were in the day of the salaf, the
revered first three generations of Muslims, a goal to which, on the face of
it, no religious scholar could object. But the pristine form of the religious
sciences, in al-Ghazālī’s presentation, amounted to the dedicated pursuit
of the Science of the Hereafter, with law and kalām holding a marginal-
ized status. This, of course, was a highly charged and controversial claim.
Al-Ghazālī strove to make it plausible by depicting many of the major
founding figures of the Islamic tradition—the Companions, the founders
of the legal schools—as scholars of the hereafter. Having presented the
founding decades of the Islamic tradition as ones in which the centrality
of the Science of the Hereafter was recognized and tended to, he then gave
two accounts of the corruption of the correct state of affairs, the eclipse of
the Science of the Hereafter by the Sciences of the World, law and theol-
ogy. Anyone who accepts these accounts could draw no other conclusion
but that the Science of the Hereafter should be restored to its place and
the Sciences of the World demoted. This is the rhetorical function of his
narrative of revival.
Crafting the rhetoric of the Revival for maximum effect was not
al-Ghazālī’s final effort to promote his revivalist agenda. In fact, he spent
much of the final decade and a half of his life personifying that rhetoric
and promoting the agenda of Revival, as we shall see in part III.

PART THREE
Promoting the Revival in

the World

5
Promoting the Revival
in the deliverer from Error, al-Ghazālī presents himself as a man who,

for most of his life, had a private mission rather than a public one. This
mission lay first in seeking a method that would allow him to perceive the
Truth and later, after his departure from Baghdad in 488/1095, in work-
ing to achieve his own felicity. In keeping with this self-presentation, he
describes himself during his nine years in Ṭūs, writing, “I chose retreat
there too, striving for solitude, purifying the heart, and remembrance
(of God),” though he notes that the events of the age, the needs of his
children, and the necessities of life compromised his solitude.1 Only with
his appointment to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa of Nishapur in 499/1106 did
he shoulder the public mission of countering the spiritual lassitude of
his age.2
This account, of course, downplays al-Ghazālī’s highly public career
prior to his repentance, discussed in chapter 1: serving Niẓām al-Mulk
in his court in Isfahan, acting as an intermediary between the Seljuk
Sultan Malikshāh and the Caliph al-Muqtadī, teaching at Niẓām al-Mulk’s
Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad, becoming embroiled in the succession
dispute after the death of Malikshāh, and writing anti-Ismaili polemic at
the behest of the Caliph al-Mustaẓhir. And as we have seen in part II of
this book, after his departure from Baghdad he embarked upon another
very ambitious public mission to revive the religious sciences as they were
practiced in his day by demoting law and kalām and promoting his Science
of the Hereafter in their place. It seems that al-Ghazālī began writing the
Revival almost immediately after his departure from Baghdad, reading
from the work already in Damascus and during his second brief stay in
Baghdad and completing it sometime after his return to Ṭūs.3
Frank Griffel gives al-Ghazālī’s itinerary as follows: in Dhū al-Qaʿda
488/November 1095 he travelled from Baghdad to Damascus. After no
more than six months, he travelled to Jerusalem, where he stayed until

the annual pilgrimage at the end of 489/1096. On the way to the Ḥijāz, he
stopped in Hebron where he made his vow at the tomb of Abraham. After
his pilgrimage, he returned to Damascus for a second short stay. Four
months later, in Jumāda II/May–June 1097, he was back in Baghdad. The
two years he writes of spending in the Levant in fact add up to a year and a
half and included a great deal of travel. After no more than six months in
Baghdad he returned to his home city of Ṭūs, where we have evidence of
him residing by Dhū al-Ḥijja 490/November 1097.4
Al-Ghazālī’s letters and other writings from the period after his return
to Ṭus and before his assumption of his position at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa
in Nishapur give a sense of other activities that detained al-Ghazālī from
his spiritual exercises, showing that he remained actively engaged in this
public mission of promoting his revivalist agenda. His promotion took
several forms beyond simply completing the composition of the Revival.
For one, he wrote other works on the Science of the Hereafter, tailored for
different audiences, most importantly Jewels of the Qur’ān and the Persian
Alchemy of Felicity. He further nurtured a network of scholars of the here-
after by recruiting students, soliciting support and funding for them,
promoting the careers of fellow scholars of the hereafter, and correspond-
ing with and encouraging a network of like-minded scholars, especially
Sufis. He engaged in polemic against a group he repeatedly criticizes in
his revivalist writings, the Ibāḥiyya, or those who do not perform their
ritual obligations and allege that the revealed law does not apply to them.
Finally, he cultivated connections with men of the Seljuk regime—at least
one of whom he counted as a disciple—for the sake of encouraging them
to act justly, guiding them to the degree of felicity in the hereafter that they
were capable of, and soliciting their assistance in furthering his revivalist
agenda.
Before examining al-Ghazālī’s efforts to promote the Science of the
Hereafter after his return to Khurasan, a word is in order about the letters
that are the major source for his activities in this period. They are mostly in
Persian and were collected at some point in the decades after his death by
an anonymous compiler. The compiler provides short introductions to the
letters, providing context, information, and interpretation sometimes at
odds with al-Ghazālī’s own account in the letters themselves.5 Interpreting
the letters means reconciling these two voices. Dating the letters can also
be difficult. The German translator of the letters, Dorothea Krawulsky, has
been able to come up with relatively exact years for some letters, but she

Promoting the Revival 127
could date many no more precisely than to after to al-Ghazālī’s return to

Khurasan in 490/1096. Some of the letters I use as evidence for his life
prior to his return to teaching in 499/1106 may have been written after
this period. But enough are dateable to this period to be confident that the
picture I present is accurate.
Al-Ghazālī’s Self-Presentation to Members of

the Regime
As we have seen, in Isfahan and Nishapur, al-Ghazālī was a court reli-
gious scholar, deeply involved in politics. His departure from Baghdad in
488/1095 was marked by his repudiation of this involvement; two of his
vows at the tomb of Abraham were never again to appear before a sultan
and never again to take money from a sultan.6 Al-Ghazālī was an elite
religious scholar who commanded a certain authority on the basis of his
learning, as a representative of the revealed law, and as a master of the
social and professional conventions of elite scholars. Breaking from this
role meant renouncing the authority that went with it. But in its place,
al-Ghazālī cultivated a different form of religious authority, namely that
of a pious ascetic, disdainful of the approval of political authorities, and
fearless in commanding right and forbidding wrong, even when speaking
to powerful men.
These were two available models of religious authority in al-Ghazālī’s
day, and we find them illustrated in a story told about Niẓām al-Mulk.
The great vizier, it is said, was in the habit of rising to greet the elite
Nishapuri scholars al-Juwaynī and al-Qushayrī when they called on him
and then sitting down again for discussions with them. But when the Sufi
al-Fāramadhī (d. 477/1084) came to see him, he actually ceded his seat to
him. When asked about this, Niẓām al-Mulk said that the religious schol-
ars engage in obsequious praise while al-Fāramadhī openly upbraids him
for his mistakes and tyrannical measures. For a statesman who wanted to
lead a righteous life, he said, it was necessary to spend time in the vicinity
of pious men.7
The account may well be a fiction, but it was related because it illus-
trated a reality its audience recognized. Al-Qushayrī and al-Ghazālī’s
teacher al-Juwaynī represent one model of religious authority, that of the
elite religious scholar in the service of the regime, while al-Fāramadhī,
from whom al-Ghazālī received some instruction in his youth,8 represents

the second, the religious figure who performs his independence of men
of power and receives all the more deference for it. Both types of scholars
had access to and wielded influence over Niẓām al-Mulk, the former type
through the prestige gained by the recognition of their learning and the
latter type through a moral authority they gained by evincing frank disre-
gard for any consideration but the demands of piety. The anecdote also
shows that this is not simply a matter of Sufis and non-Sufis. Al-Qushayrī
is the author of the Sufi masterpiece The Epistle.9 And there were religious
scholars of the period known for their incorruptibility and fearless dedi-
cation to commanding right and forbidding wrong who were not Sufis,
especially Ḥanbalī scholars.10
To command authority on the basis of either model required particu-
lar types of accomplishments and correct performance of the appropri-
ate role each. Success in the role of the elite scholar was attained by
proving one’s intellectual skill in public theological debate (munāẓara)
and being prepared to prove it again and again against all challeng-
ers.11 It meant holding grand-sounding titles, such as The Brilliance of
Religion (Zayn al-dīn) and The Eminence of the Religious Authorities
(Sharaf al-āʾimma), which were bestowed upon al-Ghazālī by Niẓām
al-Mulk when he took up his position at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in
Baghdad.12 Such scholars displayed their status when they processed
from the Madrasa to their home dressed in finery, including silk and
gold, which many understood as contrary to the Sunna,13 and accompa-
nied by their many students—300 in al-Ghazālī’s case.14 Al-Subkī writes
that al-Ghazālī’s “dignity surpassed that of the great men, the princes,
and the men of the immediate entourage of the Caliph.”15 In this role,
al-Ghazālī was also involved in politics, serving as an emissary between
the Seljuk Sultan Malikshāh and the Caliph al-Muqtadī,16 much as the
great al-Mawardī served on four occasions as the Caliph al-Qāʾim’s emis-
sary to the Seljuk Sultan Ṭughril Beg.17
Niẓām al-Mulk recognized elite madrasa intellectuals by appointing to
his Niẓāmiyya madrasas scholars such as al-Juwaynī and al-Ghazālī and
engaging them in political undertakings. And while the anecdote gives no
indication of the type of business that led al-Juwaynī and al-Qushayrī to
call on Niẓām al-Mulk, we might infer that they were able to influence the
great minister in matters of policy. The kind of flattery for which Niẓām
al-Mulk criticizes them was certainly part of the decorum respected by all
participants in a courtly setting and therefore expected of them.18

As for al-Fāramadhī, he gained influence with Niẓām al-Mulk by his

disregard for the vizier’s status and his willingness to criticize him for his
sins and oppression. But there is reason to suspect that such criticism was,
in a sense, as ritualized as the flattery heaped upon the vizier by the likes
of al-Juwaynī and al-Qushayrī. After all, did Niẓām al-Mulk, a man known
for his embodiment of Realpolitik, act on all of al-Fāramadhī’s admoni-
tions? Did al-Fāramadhī expect him to? Did al-Fāramadhī receive nothing
in return when he approached Niẓām al-Mulk? Didn’t Niẓām al-Mulk, for
his part, profit from his public performance of deference to the scrupu-
lous ascetic? While there is evidence that religious figures’ admonitions to
political rulers did sometimes bear fruit,19 political realities and demands
of state necessarily dominated the politicians’ decision-making process;
there was perhaps as much ritual as substance in such meetings.
Scholars of the hereafter such as al-Fāramadhī and al-Ghazālī after his
repentance were acting within a broader mythic context of hagiographic
accounts of relations between Seljuk rulers and saints, a relationship Omid
Safi has described as “Bargaining with Baraka.”20 One of the foundational
narratives of the Seljuks was that Ṭughril Beg was given dominion over
his empire by the saint Bābā Ṭāhir in the form of a ring in exchange for
the sultan’s promise of just rule.21 In later years a legend circulated of the
saint Aḥmad-i Jām miraculously rooting out covert Ismailis in the court of
Sanjar and the city of Marv.22 Niẓām al-Mulk’s rise to prominence is attrib-
uted to the intervention of the Sufi Abū Saʿīd ibn Abī al-Khayr.23 Rulers
who benefitted from the intervention of saints were depicted as respond-
ing with deference and patronage. In this context, living aspirants to such
a role could present themselves in ways they hoped would resonate with
these mythic archetypes.24
Al-Ghazālī repented of many of the trappings of the elite religious
scholar in 488/1095: he left his post at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad
with all of the regime ties it entailed; he condemned theological debat-
ing in the Revival;25 and he renounced all ties to sultans in his vows at
the tomb of Abraham. But his letters show him continuing to influence
men of state through the second model of religious authority, much as
al-Fāramadhī had. The letters further show that his self-reinvention was
successful.
A constant in all of al-Ghazālī’s letters to men of state is that they
contain lengthy admonitions to lead a pious life to avoid ruin in the here-
after, often warning specifically of the dangers of sin inherent in holding

office. Many of these letters end with a request to their recipient.26 There
is a paradox in offering admonitions to turn away from the concerns of
the world and toward the world to come—sometimes explicitly counsel-
ing against seeking political power—and then requesting at the end of
these letters that the recipients to use their authority to do al-Ghazālī a
favor. The request at the end of the letter is predicated on the recipient
ignoring the advice at the beginning. In writing these letters and deliv-
ering these admonitions, al-Ghazālī is performing a role that gives him
authority over the men of state with whom he corresponds. In acknowl-
edging al-Ghazālī’s admonitions, these men of state are performing their
justice and piety by demonstrating their willingness to submit to a moral
authority. These performances work, of course, because both actors and
the wider society are genuinely invested in the moral system their perfor-
mances help to reproduce; if they were viewed with sheer cynicism, they
would have no efficacy.
Writing Works on the Science of the Hereafter for

Different Audiences
Al-Ghazālī’s first biographer, ʿAbd al-Ghāfir al-Fārisī, writes of his com-
posing works after his departure from Baghdad “such as The Revival of the
Religious Sciences and abridged versions of it such as the Forty and other
works.”27 In his great work of jurisprudence from late in his career, The
Choice Essentials of the Science of the Methods (al-Mustaṣfā min ʿilm al-uṣūl),
al-Ghazālī himself writes of having written works on Science of the Path
to the Hereafter on three levels of comprehensiveness, mentioning by title
the Revival, the Persian Alchemy of Felicity, and Jewels of the Qur’ān.28 If we
add to this The Kernels of the Revival (al-Lubāb min al-iḥyāʾ),29 The Beginning
of Guidance, (Bidāyat al-hidāya), and Oh Child, we find a significant body
of writing devoted to making the Science of the Hereafter accessible to
other audiences, including young students and non-scholars who were
not Arabic literate.
The Alchemy of Felicity bears closer scrutiny because it is the work most
like the Revival in size and structure, its main body consisting of 40 chap-
ters arranged into four quarters on ritual, conduct of daily life, vices, and
virtues. Furthermore, it is significant for our present focus on al-Ghazālī’s
life in Ṭūs because he wrote it for a Persian-literate audience, and we find
him recommending it in one letter to Fakhr al-Mulk.

While the Revival and Alchemy share a similar structure, some telling
differences between the books show that they were written for different
audiences and for different purposes. Whereas the Revival was written
for religious scholars and aimed to reform the religious sciences as well
as individual lives, the Alchemy was written for a Persian-speaking audi-
ence with marginal Arabic literacy, with the aim of reforming its reader.
Whereas the Revival is devoted mainly to the Science of Praxis and remains
cagey about the content of the Science of Unveiling, the Alchemy contains
much frank discussion of the various subjects that fall under the rubric of
the Science of Unveiling.
Unlike the Revival, the Alchemy begins with a lengthy “Foreword” that
explains the theoretical outlines of the quest for felicity. Given al-Ghazālī’s
pointed refusal in the Revival to give a plain exposition of metaphysics, or
the Science of Unveiling, we might expect an introduction to a work for
non-scholars to be limited to an overview of the Science of Praxis. But,
in fact, the opposite is the case—the “Foreword” provides a systematic
overview of many metaphysical issues that are scattered throughout the
Revival: the nature of the soul and its relation to the body, the means by
which God creates and acts upon His creation through the mediation of
the Throne, the Pedestal, and the Preserved Tablet, the survival of the heart,
and the nature of its felicity or punishment in the grave or the hereafter.
Discussions of these issues can be found in various books of the Revival,
but the discussion in the Alchemy is much more direct and systematic. It
is gathered together in a lengthy section at the beginning of the book. And
while the telos of felicity is downplayed in the Revival, as we have seen, it is
prominently featured in the very title of The Alchemy of Felicity.
The overall message of the “Foreword” of the Alchemy is that of the
Revival, but more concisely summarized. The essence of the human
being is the heart, whose mission in life is to gather the knowledge of God
that will be the source of its felicity in the afterlife. Knowledge is initially
gained through the senses, which require physical organs of the body.
The body in turn requires sustenance and protection from wild animals
and enemies, which are provided by the appetites and anger. One should
approach the world and the body as transient vehicles for the journey to
the afterlife. But too many are captivated by the passions and engrossed in
the world, so they neglect to turn to God and the hereafter. The object of
the alchemy of the book’s title is to transform the soul as alchemy trans-
forms base metal to gold, removing the defilements of worldliness such

that it can fulfill its goal of aspiring to knowledge of God—in other words,
to perform the healing of Ibn Sīnā’s great philosophical work.
It is surprising that a book written for a lay audience often presents
the theoretical framework of its “Foreword” in more plainly philosophical
terms than are found in the Revival. Al-Ghazālī’s proof that the soul exists
is Ibn Sīnā’s famous “flying man” thought experiment, in which a man
suspended in air with no sensory stimulation would still grasp his own
disembodied existence as a soul. His account of the soul and its teleology
is Avicennan. While he is careful in the Revival to distinguish between the
knowledge of the saints and the vastly greater knowledge of the prophets,30
he does not draw this distinction in the “Foreword” of the Alchemy, saying
only that prophets reveal law while saints do not. This too is Avicennan. So
is his psychologized account of prophetic miracles (muʿjizāt) and saintly
wonders (karāmāt), which holds that, just as the soul controls the move-
ment of the physical body, certain highly developed souls can control the
movement of physical objects beyond the body.
This more explicitly philosophical content would suggest that al-Ghazālī
wrote the Alchemy for an elite audience of initiates who pursued felicity
through both the rational quest for knowledge of God and Sufi ascetic
practices, in other words, for the elite among his Theoreticians. But this
is not the case. In his late work on jurisprudence, the Choice Essentials,
al-Ghazālī describes the Alchemy as a work on the Science of the Hereafter
of “intermediate” (wasīṭ) length, while he describes the Revival as a “com-
prehensive” one (basīṭ), and Jewels of the Qur’ān as “succinct” (wajīz).31
There is no mention here of the Alchemy being more advanced or sophis-
ticated. If anything it is presented as simply shorter.
Furthermore, there is evidence in the text that the Alchemy is intended
for a less sophisticated audience. The intended audience of the book is
readers of marginal Arabic literacy; scriptural quotes are given in Arabic
but sometimes accompanied by Persian clarifications. Literacy in Persian
and some religious sophistication is assumed, but not systematic training
in the religious sciences. Apart from the “Foreword,” there are other tell-
ing differences in content. While book 20 of the Revival is devoted to the
subject of imitation of the Prophet, book 20 of the Alchemy is devoted to
“Governance and Management of the State,”32 giving advice on how to use
government office to secure salvation and how to avoid the temptations of
office that lead to perdition. This suggests that al-Ghazālī wrote the book
to appeal to members of the dīvān (regime officials), and in fact we do

find him recommending the book to Sanjar’s vizier Fakhr al-Mulk in his
letters,33 while he refers an advanced student of the religious sciences and
prospective disciple of the Science of the Hereafter to the Revival.34
The only conclusion to draw from this is that Ibn Sīnā’s writings were
widely known and accepted among Persian members of the Seljuk court.
His systematic and consistent account of God, the cosmos, and human
beings had become, for this audience, the scientific standard of the day.
With these readers al-Ghazālī could be frank about the philosophically
derived telos of his Science of the Hereafter and the Avicennan inspiration
of much of its framework. He addressed them in a language they knew,
accepted, and expected.35
Polemics Against the Ibāḥiyya

Lax practice of religion was one of al-Ghazālī’s longstanding concerns,
which he voiced before his crisis in The Scale of Action,36 and which he
claims in The Deliverer from Error drew him to return to teaching.37 We
find al-Ghazālī attacking a particular variety of religious lassitude after his
return to Khurasan, a tendency he refers to as ibāḥa and whose adherents
are the Ibāḥiyya. He dedicated a section of the Alchemy to the matter and
wrote a short Persian polemic against the trend, published as A Book in
which is Discussed the Stupidity of the Ibāḥiyya.38 He further addresses the
danger of the Ibāḥiyya in his letters.39 In the Alchemy and the polemic, he
enumerates the categories of people who flout the religious law (prayer
in particular), the justifications they give for this, and the best means of
persuading them to change their ways. In the Alchemy he discusses seven
such categories and in the Stupidity of the Ibāḥiyya eight. There is a good
deal of overlap between the two lists, but each list has groups not found in
the other, and the order and emphasis change.
The word ibāḥiyya means the “licentious” or “permissive” ones. Otto
Pretzl, who edited and translated the short polemic, acknowledges that
the exact identity of the Ibāḥiyya is unclear. But he points to a passage in
the Deliverer in which al-Ghazālī defines the “people of permissiveness”
(ahl al-ibāḥa) as “those who went astray through Sufism” (hum alladhīna
ḍallū ʿan al-taṣawwuf) and from this and the fact that four of the eight cat-
egories discussed in the work are Sufis he concludes that al-Ghazālī wrote
his tract against antinomian Sufis.40 But the texts of the polemic and the
Alchemy both make it clear that he is not responding to any particular sect,

but rather to a general trend that takes different forms among different
groups including Sufis, but also philosophers and others.
Even in the Stupidity of the Ibāḥiyya, in which half of the categories
of Ibāḥiyya are identified as Sufis, al-Ghazālī attacks those who stop fol-
lowing the revealed law because they claim the soul dies with the body,
a small subcategory of this group being atheists41—clearly these are not
Sufis. In the Alchemy, al-Ghazālī discusses atheists and those who deny
the immortality of the soul as two separate groups, the first two in his list
of seven. He does not refer to them as philosophers, but in his discussion
of schools of philosophy in the Deliverer he ascribes these positions to
the Materialists (al-dahriyūn) and Naturalists,42 and it is likely these two
formal schools he had in mind in both of his attacks on the Ibāḥiyya. As
we saw in chapter 2, he attacks this group in The Scale of Action as well.43
There are also groups in both works who are neither Sufis nor philoso-
phers, such as those who argue that the omnipotent God neither gains
nor loses from their following the law or not.44 But it is fair to say that
al-Ghazālī paid especial attention to Sufis and philosophers, and he calls
for the execution of the unrepentant, so great is the harm they can do to
believers by their example.45 Sufis and philosophers who do not follow
the law have turned what should be the path to salvation and felicity into
a path to perdition, and this seems to have struck al-Ghazālī as especially
reprehensible.
Promoting the Careers of Scholars of the Hereafter

From al-Ghazālī’s letters we learn that he was accompanied throughout
his early life by a man from Jurjān named Ibrahīm al-Sabbāk (d. 513/1119),
who travelled with him also in the years after his renunciation of his posi-
tion in Baghdad to Syria and the Ḥijāz. Al-Ghazālī’s travels in the Levant
in this period of “seclusion,” then were in the company of at least one
companion. From his fact and al-Ghazālī’s description of him as being
unparalleled in his piety and his contrast of him to “worldly people” (ahl-i
dunyā),46 it is clear that he was one of al-Ghazālī’s comrades in the Science
of the Hereafter. In a letter to Fakhr al-Mulk, al-Ghazālī urges the vizier to
appoint him to the post of judge in Jurjān.47 To do so would be to respect
the divine command and to show compassion for God’s creatures and
would count in his favor on the Day of Judgment. Al-Subkī’s biography of
Ibrahīm al-Sabbāk makes no mention of him ever being appointed judge,

but does write of his being well received and having a madrasa built for
him.48
In a letter after 500/1107 to the vizier Diyāʾ al-Mulk, we find al-Ghazālī
defending Ibrahīm again, writing that the “enemies of the religion and the
Sunna have risen up against him (Ibrahīm)” and telling the vizier that it is
his religious duty to protect Ibrahīm and to give him what he requires for
his work. In return for this, he will earn the protection of Ibrahīm’s prayer
on the Day of Judgment.49
On one hand, of course, these efforts to assist Ibrahīm are measures
to help a friend. But Ibrahīm al-Sabbāk is also a comrade in the Science
of the Hereafter, and al-Ghazālī’s efforts on his behalf are also undertaken
for the sake of promoting the Science of the Hereafter and his revivalist
agenda.
Recruiting, Instructing, and Retaining Disciples

Far from writing the Revival and related works and allowing them to speak
for themselves, al-Ghazālī recruited students, encouraged and instructed
scholars of the hereafter, encouraged them to recruit more students, and
encouraged others to support them. His correspondence shows him main-
taining such a network in several cities in the Persian-speaking world of
his day and beyond. And while most of the identifiable figures addressed
or discussed in such letters seem to have belonged to al-Ghazālī’s own
Shāfiʿī madhhab, there is also a letter concerning a Ḥanafī for whom
al-Ghazālī is seeking support.50
A striking letter has been preserved that shows al-Ghazālī’s efforts
to recruit students. The compiler identifies its addressee as as Abū
al-Maḥāsin Masʿūd ibn Muḥammad ibn Ghānim (464/1071–553/1158), the
son of one of the favorite court poets of Niẓām al-Mulk, and who himself
wrote a book praising Muʿīn al-Mulk, the deputy vizier of Sanjar and a
friend and correspondent of al-Ghazālī’s.51 The letter was likely written
before al-Ghazālī returned to teaching in Nishapur.52 Al-Ghazālī writes of
following Masʿūd’s progress in his studies and of a long break in their cor-
respondence, so the two had known one another for some time; it is likely
that this was not the first letter in which al-Ghazālī urged him to devote
himself to the Science of the Hereafter.
It is clear from the letter that the older scholar thought very highly of
the younger man’s intelligence and piety, and he expresses this in a way

his addressee must have found very flattering. Masʿūd had just completed
his studies of literature and law, and al-Ghazālī makes the case as strongly
as he can that, having fulfilled the collective duty (farż-i kifāyat) of study-
ing the worldly science law, he should now fulfill the individual duty (farż-i
ʿayn) of studying the Science of the Hereafter. Law is the study of worldly
scholars and the simple people who bicker with one another over worldly
goods. The study of theological debating, al-Ghazālī reminds him, is no
better. He should study the science whose goal is knowledge of the self,
of God, and of felicity. At stake in the Science of the Hereafter is not the
one reward a legal expert (mujtahid) receives for a faulty legal ruling or the
two rewards he receives for a correct one, but rather eternal damnation
for being wrong or eternal felicity for being right. This short letter encap-
sulates the central message of the Revival and refers to the first quarter of
that work, assuming that Masʿūd would already be familiar with that work
in its entirety.53
We find al-Ghazālī writing to encourage pious men to assist their
comrades. In one interesting case, al-Ghazālī writes a letter to a qāḍī and
imām, ʿImād al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Wazzān (d. 525/1130), a member of an
important Shāfiʿī family of Rayy, who at some point in his life wrote a com-
mentary on al-Ghazālī’s work of fiqh, al-Wajīz.54 The wording of the letter
implies that the two had never corresponded before, but al-Ghazālī writes
that the reports he had received of his well-ordered life led him to trust
his addressee completely. He reminds ʿImād al-Dīn that spiritual brother-
hood and solidarity are a duty and asks him to assist an unnamed man
who is one of the exemplary and outstanding Ḥanafīs (aṣḥāb al-raʿy) who
is going to present himself to the addressee—perhaps with this very letter
of introduction in hand. As we will see in chapter 6, the Shāfiʿī-Ḥanafī
rivalry that divided the religious scholars of Khurasan played an impor-
tant role throughout al-Ghazālī’s career, and it is significant to see him
here assisting a member of the rival madhhab.55 The fact that al-Ghazāli
and ʿImād al-Dīn had never corresponded makes it unlikely that he was
an initiate specifically in the Science of the Hereafter. He may well have
been a Sufi.
In other letters, we find al-Ghazālī writing to encourage practitioners
and to urge them to seek converts. One of his letters addresses a man
whom al-Ghazālī describes specifically as practicing Sufism.56 Another
uses the term of the Revival, the Science of the Hereafter,57 while another
refers to “praxis” (muʿāmalat) specifically and maʿrifat, the term al-Ghazālī

uses for the kind of knowledge that leads to felicity,58 but most do not give
a name to the science al-Ghazālī advocates. In a letter discussed above,
al-Ghazālī writes that news of the pious life of its addressee, one Khwāja
ʿAbbās of Khwārizm, has brought life and strength to al-Ghazālī’s heart.
He thanks God that there remains on the earth those who follow the sci-
ence of the law (ʿilm-i sharʿ), a Sufi life (sīrat-i taṣawwuf), and imitation of
the Companions together when it is rare that there be any who follow even
one of these. He calls on Khwāja ʿAbbās to summon others to the path of
felicity and uses the term “proselytizing” (daʿwat-i khalq).59
The advice he gives seems to be calibrated to his assessment of his
addressee’s ability. Sometimes he discusses ethics or the Science of Praxis
(ʿilm al-muʿāmala) alone. In other cases, his ethical advice is integrated
with a theoretical framework, discussing the relationship of the self and of
existence to God as that of non-existence to existence—monism, in other
words, or the stuff of the Science of Unveiling (ʿilm al-mukāshafa).
An example of the latter is found in a letter to Imām Aḥmad Arghiyānī
(death date unknown), the son of al-Ghazālī’s fellow student of al-Juwaynī,
Abū al-Fatḥ Sahl ibn Aḥmad (d. 499/1105). This young man took up a life
of asceticism after his return from pilgrimage to his home city of Bān,
where he had served as judge.60 The letter begins by giving a theoretical
framework for ethical practice.61 To follow the advice of the Prophet and
live according to the statement “God is my Lord” entails keeping the nul-
lity of the self and existence of the Truth Most High constantly in mind.
Keeping God constantly in mind means not allowing the heart to become
preoccupied by the demands of the appetites.
In a letter to one Ibn al-ʿĀlimī, al-Ghazālī writes of being impressed
and inspired by his addressee’s knowledge and merit, but restricts himself
to warning that knowledge gathered for other than the purpose of know-
ing of God is a burden for him who possesses it. He does discuss insight
that comes when the external eye is closed, but it is insight into the true
moral state of others, such that a greedy man appears in the form of a pig
and a man who seeks the world through religious sciences is standing
on his head. The instruction here is mainly in the realm of ethics, of the
Science of Praxis.62
Recruiting students was not al-Ghazālī’s only concern. He also had to
worry about retaining them in the face of the concerns of their fathers,
some of whom, at least, seemed to harbor more worldly aspirations for
their sons than becoming world-renouncing ascetics. In a letter whose

addressee is not named, al-Ghazālī tells a father of the exceptional talent

of his son. He is one of the few who have enough understanding to grasp
the deepest of secrets of the sciences as well as the right character to allow
him to avoid the temptation to seek worldly goods through the practice of
religious sciences. This young man, of whom “among thousands there are
only few,” sounds like one of the elite of the elite with the talent, character,
and circumstances to pursue first the philosophical curriculum followed
by Sufi practice as per al-Ghazālī’s discussion in The Scale of Action that we
saw in chapter 2. God has allowed Satan to place obstacles in the way of
such people, and al-Ghazālī asks the father not to allow himself to be a tool
of Satan. He should give his son money to support his studies and should
not insist that he come home for a visit, where he would run the risk of
becoming entangled in familial obligations and breaking off his studies.63
In the only Arabic letter in the collection, we find another example of
al-Ghazālī writing the father of one of his students, urging him to give
his blessing to his son’s devotion to the hereafter. This letter, addressed to
the Shaykh Muʿtamid al-Mulk Amīn al-Dawla, concerns this man’s son,
the judge (qāḍī) Marwān.64 After a lengthy condemnation of worldly pur-
suits and admonition to devote one’s self to preparations for the hereaf-
ter with more scriptural citation than is found in most letters, al-Ghazālī
encourages Muʿtamid al-Mulk to support his son’s piety, calling him a
blessing and gift for the hereafter, promising him the benefit of his son’s
prayers for him and calling on him to follow his son’s example and turn
away from the world. He specifically urges flight from trafficking with
princes and sultans. Given the honorific title of his addressee—typical of
the titles of members of the Seljuk dīvān—this would amount to a major
life transformation.65
Fakhr al-Mulk: al-Ghazālī’s Vizier-Disciple

While al-Ghazālī corresponded with several members of the dīvān, his
relationship with Fakhr al-Mulk (d. 500/1106), son of his former patron,
Niẓām al-Mulk, and vizier to Sanjar, was unique in that Fakhr al-Mulk
became a disciple of al-Ghazālī. Four letters to Fakhr al-Mulk have been
preserved. One urges Fakhr al-Mulk to appoint a pious colleague of
al-Ghazālī, the previously discussed Ibrahīm al-Sabbāk, to a post as judge,
and addresses him by the honorific title “highest of the ministers” (ṣadr-i
vuzarāʾ).66 Two others stand in contrast to this letter in that they explicitly

reject address by honorific titles, and rather than making requests, one
urges repentance in very specific terms and the other provides instruction
in the Science of the Hereafter. They seem to reveal a progression in the
relationship of the two men from one that was similar to that between
al-Ghazālī and other members of the dīvān to the relationship of master
and disciple.
Of these two letters that read as though written to a disciple, Krawulsky
dates what appears to be the first to the middle of 495/1102.67 Rather than
addressing Fakhr al-Mulk by honorifics, it begins by quoting the Prophet
as saying, “I and the God-fearing of my community are free of formality”
and continues that, while it is customary to begin with a long list of hon-
orific titles, this is misplaced in discussions of religion. Still, al-Ghazālī is
careful not to avoid flattery and tokens of respect altogether, writing that
this is true even for one such as Fakhr al-Mulk who has brought his office
to perfection, and that he has reached such a position in the world that it
is no mistake to address him without formality.68
Al-Ghazālī informs Fakhr al-Mulk of the oppression of the people of
Ṭūs at the hands of local authorities and urges him to take measures to
correct the situation. If he is unable, he and his house will surely pay the
price for this. Furthermore, if he continues in his craving for money and
makes no attempt to repent of his sins, he will be destroyed in the here-
after. Al-Ghazālī says he can speak these true and useful words only after
having renounced his own greed before all rulers, and anyone who coun-
sels otherwise has been separated by God from his greed.
The instructions al-Ghazālī gives for repentance are much more con-
crete than anything found in any of his other letters. Fakhr al-Mulk should
rise in the middle of the night, dress, perform ablutions, pray two prayers
in solitude, place his face on the ground and plead in humility while weep-
ing that God open the path to felicity (saʿādat) to him and say, “Oh King
whose kingdom is eternal, take pity on a king whose kingdom is coming
to an end and awaken him from his heedlessness and grant him success
in the reform of his subjects.”69 Then he should reflect for an hour on the
situation of his subjects, on famine and injustice, that he might know to
find the right path.70
Of course these admonitions could be read as nothing more than
al-Ghazālī performing the recognized role of the admonishing religious
scholar to achieve the ends of better treatment of the people of Ṭūs. But
what would seem to be a subsequent letter suggests that Fakhr al-Mulk

acted on al-Ghazālī’s advice. Like the previous letter, it quotes the Prophet
saying that he and the God-fearing are free of formality; honorifics will
be dispensed with. A true prince (amīr) is one who controls the armies
of the passions, anger, and guile even if he does not seem to be a prince,
while a prince with all the trappings who does not control these armies is
truly a prisoner. The letter continues giving theoretical instruction in the
Science of the Hereafter. In addition to the tripartite soul as discussed in
book 22 of the Revival, al-Ghazālī explains how, in life, our perception of
the world is inverted so that we take the non-existent to be existent and
the existent to be non-existent. Though we do not normally perceive Him,
God is all that is truly existent and those with true understanding see him
in things. The deficiency of our intelligence prevents us from perceiving
this; therefore, Satan is able to lead us astray. If Fakhr al-Mulk wants felic-
ity in the hereafter, he must follow the command of God in all his actions.
For further instruction, al-Ghazālī refers him to The Alchemy of Felicity.71
While al-Ghazālī advises world renunciation in all of his letters, the degree
of instruction in this one, the apparent assumption that Fakhr al-Mulk is
seeking felicity, and the referral to the Alchemy show that there is a qualita-
tively different relationship at work here. Fakhr al-Mulk had, by this time,
become al-Ghazālī’s disciple. This puts the vizier’s summoning al-Ghazālī
to return to teaching in Nishapur in 499/1106 in a very different light.
But a letter to Diyāʾ al-Mulk after Fakhr al-Mulk’s assassination in
500/110672 raises a troubling question about al-Ghazālī’s mentorship of
Fakhr al-Mulk and about his relation to men of the regime generally. In
it, al-Ghazālī raises a frequent theme of the letters to men of state and
also of the Alchemy, namely that God gives political power to some to cor-
rupt them and to others to lead them to salvation through its just exer-
cise.73 Al-Ghazālī calls the new vizier’s attention to three other ministers
who lived as though death would never come to them: Niẓām al-Mulk,
Tāj al-Mulk, and Fakhr al-Mulk.74 Fakhr al-Mulk was al-Ghazālī’s disciple
who appointed al-Ghazālī to revive the religious sciences in Nishapur, who
read The Alchemy of Felicity, and who profited from his master’s personal
instruction. What are we to make of al-Ghazālī’s casual assertion that he
is in hell? Is he invoking him to lend weight to his admonition to Diyāʾ
al-Mulk while in fact believing that his practice under al-Ghazālī’s guid-
ance has won him salvation? Or that his repentance and practice were
inadequate? Or did al-Ghazālī always think that those who hold political
office and are subjected to its temptations are incapable of achieving salva-
tion? His writings on the subject, both the Alchemy and his admonitions to
men of state in his letters, are ambiguous. As with many issues al-Ghazālī

addressed, it is impossible to weigh the context and intent of his conflict-

ing statements to answer the question decisively.
Conclusion
Al-Ghazalī’s repentance of 488/1095, his renunciation of his position at
the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad, his rejection of the trappings of the
elite scholars and their practices such as theological debating, and the
humble lifestyle he embraced by all accounts came as a shock to his con-
temporaries.75 But his “turning away from the world and toward God Most
High” was not the beginning of a life of anonymous devotion, as much
as al-Ghazālī may imply otherwise in the Deliverer. As George Makdisi has
pointed out, al-Ghazālī had contemporaries whose repentance was followed
by a lifetime of pious obscurity, such as ʿAbd al-Mālik al-Ṭabarī, who left his
studies of law at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad to lead of life of asceti-
cism in Mecca for four decades until his death.76 This was a path open to
al-Ghazālī, but instead of exclusive devotion to his own salvation, he chose
the path of trying to reform the religious sciences and practices of his age.
His first effort in this vein was the composition of The Revival of the
Religious Sciences, which called for the demotion of the “Sciences of the
World,” law and kalām, and the promotion of his Science of the Hereafter
as the central pillar of the religious sciences. But this campaign to revive
the religious sciences was al-Ghazālī’s life-long devotion; it went far
beyond writing the Revival. His surviving letters and writings from the
period between his appointments at the Niẓāmiyya of Baghdad and of
Nishapur show that he promoted his agenda on a number of different
fronts. Al-Ghazālī writes of this period that his spiritual exercises were
sporadic compared to the time he spent wandering the Levant and Ḥijāz
between 488/1095 and 490/1097, due to “the events of the age, the needs
of the children, and the necessities of subsistence.”77 Certainly we can
add to this list al-Ghazālī’s tireless efforts to revive the religious sciences
through all of the measures discussed in this chapter.
In 499/1106, the vizier of Sanjar, the Seljuk King of the East, sum-
moned al-Ghazālī to return to teaching in Nishapur. ʿAbd al-Ghāfir
describes Fakhr al-Mulk hearing of al-Ghazālī’s reputation and in short
order pleading with him to teach in Nishapur. He
heard of and verified al-Ghazālī’s place, his rank, the perfection of

his virtue, his state, the purity of his creed and life, and sought his
blessing. He visited him, heard his words, and appealed to him not

to allow his breaths and benefit to remain fruitless and without

profit, and with no learning from his lights. He pleaded with him
and was unrelenting in his demand until he agreed to leave and was
brought to Nishapur.78
The letters, though, show a longstanding correspondence between the two

and a master-disciple relationship between al-Ghazālī and the son of his
former patron. Al-Ghazālī’s move to Nishapur, far from being a chance
summons of the proverbial wise man on the mountaintop to return to
the world, was the culmination of a decade-long campaign to promote
the agenda of the Revival. Al-Ghazālī welcomed it, seeing in it a sign that
he was the divinely appointed Renewer (mujaddid) of the fifth Islamic
century, and we have to wonder whether his role in motivating Fakhr al-
Mulk’s summons was as passive as ʿAbd al-Ghāfir implies.
But the return to teaching did not play out as al-Ghazālī would have
liked. It was in the face of the controversy that resulted that al-Ghazālī
penned four of his surviving works, including The Deliverer from Error,
which has served as the foundation for his biography ever since. The fol-
lowing chapter will reconstruct the events that followed al-Ghazālī’s move
to Nishapur and, by contextualizing the Deliverer, seek to explain why the
account of his life and thought given there differs in tone and detail from
the picture that emerges from his letters and other writings.

6
Defending the Revival
in the midst of an unusually cold winter1 in the year 500/1107 or 501/1108,

al-Ghazālī arrived in the camp of the Seljuk King of the East, Sanjar (1084
or 1086–1157),2 in Turūgh, on the road between Ṭūs and Nishapur. Sanjar
had summoned him to answer the charge that he had slandered Abū
Ḥanīfa, eponymous founder of the Ḥanafī legal school.3 The king him-
self, like all of the Seljuks, was a Ḥanafī.4 More importantly though, the
Ḥanafīs of Khurasān were a social faction that lived in constant friction
with adherents of al-Ghazālī’s own Shāfiʿī school of law—a rivalry that
sometimes resulted in political intrigues and street battles. It was in the
interest of the rulers to keep a lid on such tensions. Extreme partisanship
for one or the other legal school was called “fanaticism” (taʿaṣṣub), and
it was of this that al-Ghazālī stood accused on the basis of his summary
of and commentary on (taʿlīqa) the teachings of his master al-Juwaynī, a
work that had qualified al-Ghazālī to teach Shāfiʿī jurisprudence as his
student.5 This youthful work was entitled The Sifted in the Commentary on
the Fundamental Legal Principles (al-Mankhūl min taʿlīq al-uṣūl), and given
al-Juwaynī’s reported approval of the book,6 its partisan spirit seems to
have been typical enough of the genre as to be unremarkable—indeed,
it seems likely that he was simply passing on al-Juwaynī’s own opinions.
In it, he had charged that Abū Ḥanīfa was not worthy of the highest rank
as a jurist (mujtahid), and that he had turned the sharīʿa inside out,7 and
al-Ghazālī concluded the work with a list of Abū Ḥanīfa’s errors in his
legal opinions.8 Discussions of the founders of the four legal schools and
their positions in the Revival are anything but partisan, but al-Ghazālī’s
youthful sectarian leanings had come back to haunt him.
Even before his arrival, al-Ghazālī had begun to make his case to Sanjar.
On the road from his home in Ṭūs, al-Ghazālī had stopped seven kilome-
ters short of Turūgh in Mashhad, the site of the tomb of Imām Riżā, a
descendent of the Prophet, and, invoking the sanctity of the Imām, asked

to be excused from appearing. Al-Ghazālī invoked much else besides: his

long service to Sanjar’s father Malikshāh, especially his role as an emis-
sary between him and the caliph; 70 books on religious sciences he had
written in this time; and his vow at the tomb of Abraham in Hebron. This
vow is mentioned twice in al-Ghazālī’s collected letters, and in this case
it contains a clause missing in the other citation. In addition to swearing
never again to appear before a sultan, take a sultan’s money, or practice
public theological debating, here he adds a vow to foreswear fanaticism
(munāẓara va taʿaṣṣub na kunad). Invoking this version of the vow in
Mashhad gave al-Ghazālī both a pretext for not appearing before Sanjar
and an opportunity to deny the charges of fanaticism against him, while
invoking the sanctity of both Imam Riżā and Abraham.9
Sanjar had, of course, refused to excuse al-Ghazālī from his summons,
and it is unlikely that al-Ghazālī expected that he would. Sanjar entrusted
his deputy vizier, Muʿīn al-Mulk, with the task of summoning al-Ghazālī
for a hearing. Muʿīn al-Mulk was a member of the prominent ʿAmīdī fam-
ily of Khurasan and had close relations to the city of Ṭūs.10 The two men
were friends, and the summons from the deputy vizier must have been a
comfort to the defendant.11 Al-Ghazālī stayed in Muʿīn al-Mulk’s tent until
called before Sanjar. The king rose to greet him, embraced him, and bade
him sit at his side, which suggests that al-Ghazālī’s letter from Mashhad
had already done much to win the king’s favor. Sanjar was known to be
deferential to ascetics and holy men, and al-Ghazālī’s post-Baghdad other-
worldliness must have sat well with him.12
Having served the great Niẓām al-Mulk, Malikshāh, and two caliphs,
and having maintained regular correspondence with prominent members
of the court even in recent years, it is unlikely that al-Ghazālī was over-
whelmed by the presence of the 20-year-old king. Nonetheless, protocol
called for an awed silence until the cue was given to speak. The compiler
of the letters tells us that al-Ghazālī was overcome with shame (istishʿār)
until Sanjar bade the court Qur’ān reciter Asʿad to speak a verse. He
recited Qur’ān 39:36: “Does not God suffice his servant?” The shame left
al-Ghazālī, and he began his discourse.
Al-Ghazālī framed his speech by calling attention to the conventions
of the genre. It was, he said, the custom of the religious scholars of Islam
to give a four-part address to the “King of Islam” (malik-i islām) consisting
of prayer, praise, advice, and a request. Prayer, he said, was best offered
in solitude, as words spoken in public were corrupted by hypocrisy. He

Defending the Revival 145
expressed his incapacity to praise one so majestic as Sanjar, thereby prais-

ing him all the more exuberantly. His advice was much like the advice
he gave to members of the dīvān in his letters: Sanjar should live his life
with his death in mind. He should think of his ancestors, Malikshāh, Alp
Arslān, and Ṭughril, and the punishment they were surely now experi-
encing. His devotion to building palaces should be in accordance with
their majesty and duration. Is not his eternal abode in the hereafter of
greater consequence than palaces he builds for himself on earth? Finally,
he should rule justly as a king and not levy more tax than his father,
Malikshāh, had.
His request was twofold: one on behalf of the inhabitants of his home
city and one personal. The first was that Sanjar be merciful with the people
of Ṭūs, who had been oppressed by tyranny and famished by drought and
extreme cold that had destroyed hundred-year-old trees. The believers bow
their necks with hunger. How can this be so when Sanjar’s horses bow
theirs under the weight of golden ornaments? With his personal request
he came to his defense:
As for the personal request, for 12 years I lived in a zāwiya,13 with-

drawn from men. Then Fakhr al-Mulk—may God have mercy on
him—forced me to come to Nishapur. I told him that this age will
not bear my words. Anyone in this time who speaks a word of truth
will have walls and gates erected before him. He said, “He is a just
King and I will stand by you.” Today it has reached the point that
I hear words that, if I heard them said in sleep, I would dismiss
them as confused dreams. If someone objects to that which relates
to the rational sciences (ʿulūm-i ʿaqlī) it comes as no wonder, for
there is much in my words that is strange and difficult and not
everyone’s understanding can attain to it. I am, however, prepared
to set straight anyone who remains uncomprehending (bā har kih
dar jahāl ast durust mīkunam) of anything I may have said in my
commentary and to produce proof (wa az ʿahdi bīrūn mīāyam)—
this is simple.
As for those who have said that I have slandered Abū
Ḥanīfa—may God have mercy upon him—this I cannot bear!
By God . . . apart from Whom there is no god, it is my firm belief
(iʿtiqād) that Abū Ḥanīfa—may God have mercy upon him—is the
most profound diver (ghavvāṣ tarīn) into the truths of the essence

of jurisprudence in the community of Muṣṭafā—God’s prayers

and peace be upon him. Anyone who reports anything other than
this about my creed, whether from my writing or speech, is lying.
It is my wish that this point be known. It is further my wish that
you excuse me from teaching in Nishapur and Ṭūs, that I may go
to my own peaceful zāwiya, for the age will not bear my words.
Peace.14
We have this transcript of al-Ghazālī’s testimony before Sanjar because

these words convinced the king to acquit him. He expressed his regret
that the religious scholars of Iraq and Khurasan could not be present to
hear al-Ghazālī’s words and learn his views themselves and ordered the
scholar to write them down so that they could be read to him (Sanjar) and
sent to all parts of his realm. For the news of al-Ghazālī’s appearance had
spread, and Sanjar wished the people to know his view of the scholars. But
Sanjar would not free al-Ghazālī from teaching. If the compiler’s report
of his words affixed to the transcript is to be believed, he said he would
build madrasas for al-Ghazālī and order all religious scholars to attend
them once per year so that al-Ghazālī could clarify for them anything they
did not understand and persuade anyone who held a different opinion. It
would seem that al-Ghazālī was not only acquitted, but had his teachings
officially endorsed.
It is already clear from this passage that the primary charge al-Ghazālī
answers here—having slandered Abū Ḥanīfa—cannot be the sole or even
most important issue of contention. A cursory check of the Sifted would
have belied his assertion that the charges were false. Even the compiler
of the letters, who reveres al-Ghazālī, presents this charge as fact.15 In the
end, Sanjar is more interested in endorsing other of al-Ghazālī’s positions.
What views were these that were strange and difficult for most men, and
that Sanjar wanted to clarify for the scholars of his realm? They loom
much larger in the practical outcome of the hearing than the charge of
slander. What was truly at stake in this trial?
To answer this question, we have to go back to al-Ghazālī’s return to
regime-sponsored teaching in the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Nishapur in
499/1106 at the command of Fakhr al-Mulk, to which al-Ghazālī refers
in his testimony. As we have seen in the previous chapter, there was a
master-disciple relationship between al-Ghazālī and Fakhr al-Mulk.
Sanjar’s vizier was well aware of his mentor’s revivalist agenda, having

read The Alchemy of Felicity, the Persian synopsis of the Revival, in addi-
tion to whatever personal instruction he had received, and we can assume
that he hoped, just as al-Ghazālī did, that appointing his spiritual guide
to teach in Nishapur was a step toward bringing about a revival of the
religious sciences.16 Al-Ghazālī and others in his circle went so far as to
suggest that his appointment at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Nishapur at the
turn of the century was evidence that he was the divinely forecast Renewer
(mujaddid) of that century told of in the hadith.17
Instead, the appointment resulted in a storm of protest against the
Revival, its author, and his agenda. It also resulted in al-Ghazālī’s penning
of his best-known autobiographical writing, The Deliverer from Error, as
well as three other significant shorter works. Were it not for the contro-
versy of Nishapur, we would not have the work that has served al-Ghazālī
scholarship as the key to his biography and thought and our only account
of his famous crisis. But the controversy not only occasioned the Deliverer;
it shaped it in important ways that must be understood by those who
would glean insight from it into al-Ghazālī’s life and thought. The same
can be said of the other three works: The Distinguishing Criterion between
Islam and Clandestine Apostasy, Counsel for Kings, and The Composition on
the Critiques of the Revival. This chapter will examine the controversy that
led to the trial described here, using the four texts it occasioned as source
material.
Hopes for the Return to Teaching

In 499/1106, the vizier of the Seljuk King of the East, Fakhr al-Mulk, pre-
vailed upon al-Ghazālī to assume a position at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa
in Nishapur. He thus returned to a position much like the one he had
famously left in Baghdad eleven years previously. Just as his appointment
by Niẓām al-Mulk to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad had come with
the bestowal of the ostentatious titles “Brilliance of the Religion” (Zayn
al-dīn) and “Eminence among Religious Authorities” (Sharaf al-aʾimma),18
his appointment to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Nishapur by Niẓām
al-Mulk’s son Fakhr al-Mulk likely came with a new title, “Proof of Islam,”
(Ḥujjat al-islām) by which he is known to this day. He is referred to in a let-
ter from 504/1110 as “Brilliance of Religion” and “Proof of Islam,” and the
most likely occasion for his receiving this second title would be his new
appointment of 499/1106.19

The ties between the two men were longstanding and deep. The two
were fellow Ṭūsīs.20 Al-Ghazālī had served Fakhr al-Mulk’s father, Niẓām
al-Mulk, for six years in Isfahan and at his direction had moved to Baghdad
to lead the madrasa the great vizier had founded there. In his years outside
the orbit of official teaching, as we have seen, al-Ghazālī had maintained
correspondence with various sons of Niẓām al-Mulk and, particularly, it
seems, with Fakhr al-Mulk. Most importantly al-Ghazālī became his spiri-
tual mentor.
Fakhr al-Mulk’s call to teach at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Nishapur
was issued with the full knowledge of what al-Ghazālī stood for. We know
that al-Ghazālī had responded to his disciple’s theoretical questions about
ethics, the relationship between God and His creation, and the categories
of believers, and he had referred him to his Alchemy of Felicity for fur-
ther instruction.21 In a preface he wrote to the transcript of his testimony
before Sanjar, al-Ghazālī reports that he was ordered to come to Nishapur
in order to dedicate himself to the spreading of science and the law in
the face of stagnation and apathy, and that he was driven, waking and
sleeping, by the conviction that this would be “the cause of the revival
of science and the religious law” (sabab-i iḥyāʾ-yi ʿilm va sharīʿat).22 This
implies that Fakhr al-Mulk appointed al-Ghazālī to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa
in Nishapur precisely to promote his revivalist agenda.
Al-Ghazālī was optimistic about this platform to promote revival. In
his Deliverer from Error, he goes so far as to claim that his confidants23
had urged him to accept the position based on numerous independent
dreams that God had ordained this opportunity at the “head” of the
century, a sign that he was the divinely appointed Renewer (mujaddid)
of that century. The “Renewer” is a position referred to in a hadith that
reads, “God sends to this religious community at the head of every
century whosoever will renew for it the affairs of its religion.” As Hans
Bauer has pointed out, al-Ghazālī takes liberties with the usual word-
ing of this hadith, writing that God will send one to “revive” His reli-
gion rather than one who will “renew” it.24 Al-Ghazālī thus claims to be
the Renewer—a bold and unprecedented claim in its own right—inso-
far as he was the author and proponent of The Revival of the Religious
Sciences. Elsewhere al-Ghazālī writes of greeting the summons with
a note of caution, demanding and securing not only Fakhr al-Mulk’s
promise of support but also Sanjar’s, both of which he received.25 But
his optimism and ambition in the face of this new opportunity cannot
be mistaken.26

The Controversy—What It Was About

Al-Ghazālī’s return to officially sponsored teaching in a large madrasa,
as opposed to his private “corner school” (zāwiya) in Ṭūs,27 did win him
a larger audience. He writes of students coming to study with him from
all over the world,28 and he won a following for his revivalist agenda in
Nishapur. But his very public and officially sponsored advocacy of revival
also won him enemies. His acquaintance and biographer ʿAbd al-Ghāfir
al-Fārisī writes that there was no criticism of or opposition to his writ-
ings so long as he remained in Ṭūs.29 But when he took up his position
in Nishapur, ʿAbd al-Ghāfir notes the frequency with which “his staff was
struck with opposition, attacks on him, refutation of what he committed
and omitted, and slander and condemnation of him.”30 We might specu-
late that these attacks began when his disciple and patron, Fakhr al-Mulk,
was assassinated by the Ismailis in 500/1106, shortly after al-Ghazālī came
to Nishapur.
These attacks took the form of a concerted campaign against al-Ghazālī
and his revivalist agenda. The clearest description of the scope of this cam-
paign is found in al-Ghazālī’s Composition on the Critiques of the Revival
(al-Imlāʾ fī ishkālāt al-iḥyāʾ), a rebuttal al-Ghazālī wrote only after the con-
troversy had run its course. In the introduction to this work he writes:
You have asked me . . . about some points in the composition entitled

The Revival that were difficult for men of limited understanding and
insufficient knowledge. His dart and arrow enjoyed no royal favor
(lam yafuz bi-shayʾ min al-ḥuẓūẓ al-malikiyya qidḥuhu wa-sahmuhu).
And I showed my sorrow at the contempt shown for [The Revival]
by the populace, the commoners, the ranks of the plebeians, and
the foolishly deluded, and those who frighten the people of Islam to
the extent that they slandered it and prohibited its being read and
studied. They issued capricious fatwās without insight, repudiating
and opposing it. They linked its author to perdition and leading
others into perdition, and they repudiated its readers and those who
adopted it as departing from the sharīʿa and lacking balance.31
Here al-Ghazālī plainly states that the opposition he faced was based
on his authorship and promotion of The Revival of the Religious Sciences.
The passage attests to his success in attracting partisans to his revival-
ist agenda, as it was not only him and his work that were condemned,

but also his readers and those who adopted its framework. What is most
striking, though, is the ferocity and scope of the campaign. The Revival
was slandered and banned, condemned in fatwās, and declared illicit. And
there seems to have been a popular campaign against al-Ghazālī as well,
for he writes of the opinion his book of the commoners and plebians,
none of whom would have been able to read a work on religious sciences
written in Arabic. Here we might imagine harassment in the street or
perhaps mob action organized by Nishapur’s youth gangs. That al-Ghazālī
answered Sanjar’s summons from Ṭūs and not Nishapur is perhaps testi-
mony to the success of these campaigns.
Given the ambition of the Revival, it is unsurprising that there should
be such opposition—though we might also ask why it was not forthcom-
ing sooner. What exactly did al-Ghazālī’s critics object to, and why did the
campaign emerge when it did?
To start with, the Composition, from which the above excerpt is
drawn, consists entirely of a rebuttal of objections to the allegory
found in Book 35, Professing God’s Oneness and Relying on God, which
we analyzed in chapter 3. In it, al-Ghazālī sought to explain the relation
between the physical World of Dominion (ʿālam al-mulk wa-l-shahāda)
to the World of Sovereignty (ʿālam al-malakūt), or that of the intel-
ligibles, mediated by the World of Compulsion (ʿālam al-jabarūt), or
the human soul. This allegory, then, seems to have been at the cen-
ter of the controversy. In chapter 3, we saw that the allegory gives
an emanationist account of the cosmos and of the origin of earthly
events, based on al-Ghazālī’s monistic reading of Ibn Sīnā’s distinction
between the contingent existence of the world and God’s necessary and
unconditioned existence, wherein only the latter is truly existent. In it,
al-Ghazālī declares that there are four increasingly profound degrees
of proclaiming God’s unity (tawḥīd), the second highest consisting
of this philosophized understanding of God’s unity, and the highest
being identical in substance, but given the vivid clarity of direct mysti-
cal apprehension. The controversy, then, was over al-Ghazālī’s use of
philosophical concepts, especially in the Revival.
In the Composition, al-Ghazālī answers 11 objections to this allegory,
devoting a full half of the work to defending his division of those who
declare God’s unity into four stages, which we can then infer was the heart
of the controversy. His critics insist that divine unity axiomatically negates
the possibility of division of any sort. This is the first point defended in

the Composition. Al-Ghazālī presents the remaining objections as follows,

framing them as questions but to him by a troubled follower:
2. What is the meaning of the saying of the people of this affair that reveal-
ing the secret of the Divinity is unbelief (ifshāʾ sirr al-rubūbiyya kufr)?
Where is the root of what they have said in the revealed law (sharʿ)?
For belief and unbelief, guidance and misguidance, drawing near and
distancing, friendship and the rest of the ascending stages of saint-
hood and descending stages of being at odds with God (mukhālafa) are
drawn from the revealed law and prophetic rulings.
3. How can it be conceived that rational beings address inanimate objects
and inanimate objects rational beings? With what is this address heard,
the senses of the ears or the hearing of the heart?
4. What is the difference between the sensible pen and the divine pen?
5. What is the definition of the World of Dominion, the World of
Compulsion, and the World of Sovereignty?
6. What does it mean that God Most High created Adam in His image?
7. What is the meaning of citing “You are in the Sacred Valley of Ṭuwā”
(Qur’ān 20:12)? Is this to imply that perhaps it is in Baghdad or Isfahan
or Nishapur or Tabaristan that Moses—peace be upon him—heard the
speech of God Most High? . . . And how is the traveler able to hear rev-
elation if he is not a prophet?
8. What is the meaning of the order to the traveler that he return from
the world of power and his being prohibited from surpassing the necks
of the righteous (takhaṭṭī riqāb al-ṣiddīqīn)? What brought him to their
stage when he was of the third degree, which is the declaration of
Divine Unity of those drawn near (al-muqarrabūn)?
9. What is the meaning of the departure of the traveler after his arrival in
their company? Where did he go after leaving and what was the nature
of his leaving? What prevented him from remaining in the position
at which he arrived when he is more elevated than those behind him?
And how is this to be reconciled with the saying of Abū Sulaymān
al-Dārānī (d. 205/820), “If they arrive, they do not return, and one who
returns did not arrive?”
10. What is the meaning of saying that it is impossible that there be any-
thing more wonderful than the form of this world, or better ordered,
or more perfectly created, and that if it had been in His power but He
withheld it that would have been miserly and in contradiction to His

Generosity, and if [it were possible but] He had been incapable, that
would contradict the Divine Omnipotence?
11. What is the status of these concealed sciences? Is their study obligatory
for all, or can this obligation be fulfilled by a delegate for the commu-
nity? Or does it have another status? Why did you disguise this issue
(mushkil) in expressions full of terminology and riddles? And if this
were permitted to the Law Giver (i.e., Muhammad) to test and exam-
ine, then what about someone who is not the Law Giver?32
Objection 10 to al-Ghazālī’s theodicy became an issue that was debated

well into the 19th century.33 Four and five are questions about the nature
of the “worlds” al-Ghazālī posits, while eight and nine have to do with the
traveler’s progress through them. Point seven is a charge that al-Ghazālī
is blurring the distinction between scholars of the hereafter and proph-
ets, and in his response, he explicitly answers the charge that he holds
the doctrine of the possibility of the “acquisition of prophethood” (iktisāb
al-nubūwa).34 Points two and eleven deal with al-Ghazālī’s refusal to dis-
cuss openly his Science of Unveiling. If the science is licit, what prevents
al-Ghazālī from discussing it openly?
References to the allegory of the pens can also be found in al-Ghazālī’s
first written response to the controversy, The Distinguishing Criterion
between Islam and Clandestine Apostasy, (Fayṣal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām
wa-l-zandaqa), so it was certainly an early focus of the controversy and a
persistent and significant enough criticism that he addressed it at length
in the Composition after the controversy had run its course.35
But there were other charges brought against al-Ghazālī and his
Revival that dealt with both the book’s broader revivalist agenda and
the circumstances of his promoting it in Nishapur. Given the charge
he ultimately answered before Sanjar—that of having slandered Abū
Ḥanīfa—we might think that one of the issues in the controversy was
Ḥanafī opposition to the Shāfiʿī al-Ghazālī, but this was not the case. The
compiler of the letters tells us that his enemies included both Ḥanafīs
and Shāfiʿīs and even a Mālikī.36 This is corroborated by two names of
Khurasanis found in a list of critics of al-Ghazālī given by Ibn Taymiyya
in various of his works. One is a Ḥanafī disciple (as Ibn Sīnā writes in
some texts) of al-Ghazālī, Ẓahīr al-Dīn ʿAlī b. ʿAbd al-Razzāq Abū Naṣr
al-Marghīnānī (d. 506/1112). The others are the Shāfiʿī sons of the famous
Sufi al-Qushayrī, Abū al-Fatḥ ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Qushayrī
(d. 521/1127) and Abū Naṣr ʿAbd al-Raḥīm b. ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Qushayrī
(d. 514/1120), and their followers.37 Ibn Taymiyya says nothing about their

criticisms, but he does reproduce some anti-Ghazālī poetry by Abū Naṣr,

accusing him of following Ibn Sīnā:
We disavow, in regard to God, a group of people stricken with dis-

ease by The Book of the Cure.
How often I said to them: “O people, you are on the edge of an
abyss from which there is no healing!”
As they were making light of our teaching, we came back to
God. He suffices us.
They died in the religion of Aristotle And we lived according to
the Sunna of the Elected.38
This is more plain evidence that philosophical influence was one of the
main objections to al-Ghazālī and the Revival.
Richard Bulliet writes that the Ḥanafīs and Shāfiʿīs sometimes bridged
their bitter divide to form a common front in the face of threats to their
shared interests as “patricians” of the city.39 It would seem that opposition
to al-Ghazālī’s appointment to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa of Nishapur was
perceived as such a threat.
One reason for opposition may have been the fact that al-Ghazālī was
not a Nishapuri himself. One of his enemies in Nishapur, a Mālikī jurist
and grammarian from Sicily and Qayrawān, Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Māzarī,
routinely referred to al-Ghazālī as “al-Ghazālī the Zoroastrian Ṭūsī cow”
(al-Ghazālī al-Majūsī al-Baqarṭūsī), perhaps echoing the name calling
of al-Ghazālī’s Nishapuri enemies.40 The cow was a symbol of Ṭūs, and
another famous Ṭūsī, Niẓam al-Mulk, father of his current patron Fakhr
al-Mulk, is said to have had a golden figurine of a cow crafted for him
and was likened in poetry to a cow.41 Perhaps al-Ghazālī’s appointment
in Nishapur by his fellow Ṭūsī Fakhr al-Mulk was seen as a meddling in
Nishapuri affairs by a sort of Ṭūsī mafia.
Even if this was the case, the more pressing objection was to al-Ghazālī’s
doctrines. The compiler writes that his enemies charged that al-Ghazālī,
did not have any belief whatsoever in Islam, but rather that he held
the creed of the Philosophers and the Heretics (iʿtiqād-i falāsifa
va mulḥidān) and he mixed all of his books with their words. He
mixed unbelief (kufr) with nonsense (abāṭīl) with the secrets of the
revelation. He called God the true light and this is the belief of the
Zoroastrians (madhhab-i majūs), who speak of light and darkness.42

The Revival—and many of al-Ghazālī’s other works besides—did owe a

profound debt to philosophy, as did the allegory of the pens specifically,
and as we shall see, this is a charge al-Ghazālī addressed directly. The
charge of being a Zoroastrian is one we have already seen leveled by
al-Māzarī al-Dhakī in his name calling, and this seems to be connected
to the symbolic evocation of light and darkness in his late work The Niche
of Lights. The charge that al-Ghazālī was a mulḥid or “heretic” is one we
find echoed, again, by al-Māzarī al-Dhakī, who called al-Ghazālī a mulḥid
whenever he referred to him,43 and the term may seem rather generic.
But in the context of early 12th-century Khurasan, it almost certainly had
a more specific meaning, namely “Ismaili Shiite,” the sect that fielded the
original Assassins, who had killed both Niẓām al-Mulk and Fakhr al-Mulk,
al-Ghazālī’s two major patrons. Wilferd Madelung writes that:
Later the Ismāʿīlīs, traditionally described by anti-Ismāʿīlī polemi-

cists as crypto-atheists, were charged with ilḥād, at first in east-
ern Persian territory. The Transoxanian Māturīdi theologian Abu
al-Muʿīn al-Nasafī (d. 508/1114) wrote a refutation of the Bāṭiniyya
(Ismāʿīliyya) entitled K. al-Ifsād li k̲h̲udaʿ ahl al-ilḥād. S̲h̲ahrastānī
(d. 548/1153) noted that the (Nizārī) Ismāʿīlīs in Khurāsān were
called the Taʿlīmiyya or Mulḥida (S̲h̲ahrastānī, 147).44
There is a parallel structure in the phrase “the creed of the philosophers

and heretics” that suggests the latter term refers to a specific sect with a
definable creed, just as the philosophers are a distinct sect with a defin-
able creed. In early 12th-century Khurasan, the sect referred to as mulḥidān
would have to be the Ismailis.
There is other evidence that al-Ghazālī was charged with being
an Ismaili in the Nishapuri controversy. While few of the voices of
al-Ghazālī’s critics in Nishapur have been preserved, there are surviving
contemporary critiques from further west that seem to have been influ-
enced by them. Abū Bakr al-Ṭurṭūshī (d. 520/1126), an Andalusī living in
Fatimid Alexandria, in an opinion on The Revival of the Religious Sciences
and its author solicited in the context of a controversy over the Revival in
al-Andalus, charged al-Ghazālī with being a philosopher, a follower of the
Brethren of Purity, and an Esotericist (Bāṭinī), another term of reference
to the Ismailis.45 He links two of these charges to specific doctrinal alle-
gations against al-Ghazālī—allegations we find al-Ghazālī refuting in the
Composition.

Al-Ṭurṭūshī accuses al-Ghazālī of adhering to the doctrine of the Brethren

of Purity on the basis of his holding that prophethood is not a distinction
bestowed by God, but is rather acquired through ethical self-perfection.46
As we saw above, in point seven of the Composition, we find al-Ghazālī
rejecting the doctrine of the acquisition of prophethood (iktisāb al-nubūwa),
though he does not connect it to the Brethren of Purity.47 Al-Ṭurṭūshī fur-
ther charges that by claiming that the Science of Unveiling, the pinnacle of
theoretical insight, cannot be spoken of with those who have not attained
it, al-Ghazālī is adhering to the esotericism of the Bāṭinites. To back up this
allegation, al-Ṭurṭūshī quotes al-Ghazālī as saying, “this is a secret of the
divine will whose divulgence we have prohibited.”48 Once again we find
al-Ghazālī defending himself against just such a charge in point two of
the Composition, where the contested phrase is “disclosing the secret of the
Divinity is unbelief” (ifshāʾ sirr al-rubūbiyya kufr).49
The parallels between al-Ṭurṭūshī’s charges and al-Ghazālī’s refuta-
tion of identical (if not identically worded) charges in his response to his
Nishapuri critics in the Composition suggest strongly that the Andalusī
knew of and was influenced by the latter. Al-Ghazālī wrote the Composition
to support his position and undermine his enemies’ critiques, and he had
no interest in fully reproducing his enemies’ allegations complete with
charges of adherence to controversial sects. In al-Ṭurṭūshī’s critique, we
may well come as close to the voices of his Nishapuri opponents as our
sources will presently allow. Not only are the charges of being an Ismaili
and a philosopher relevant, but so, too, is the charge of borrowing from
the Brethren of Purity, as we will see below.
Al-Ghazālī Responds
The campaign described in the Composition sounds anything but muted,
but in a respect it was, or at least less overt than it could have been.
Al-Ghazālī’s enemies were cautious in bringing their case to Sanjar, likely
because al-Ghazālī had been appointed to the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa at the
behest of Fakhr al-Mulk with the backing of Sanjar, as al-Ghazālī reminded
the king in his testimony, and as he reminds his readers in The Deliverer
from Error. As we shall see, his enemies first approached Sanjar only after
the death of Fakhr al-Mulk, and then only through an intermediary who
was an outsider to Nishapur; even then, they preferred the marginal but
likely more effective charge of having slandered Abū Ḥanīfa rather than
present themselves as opponents of al-Ghazālī’s revivalist agenda.

Al-Ghazālī himself seems to have preferred a low-key response as well.

There are several reasons for this. For one, while he had been certain of
the support of Fakhr al-Mulk, his disciple, he could not be sure how Sanjar
would react to the critiques of his doctrines and writings. For another,
publically refuting his critics may have been too close to the public theo-
logical debating (munāẓara) he had renounced at the tomb of Abraham.
Furthermore, it would have been at odds with the detached, otherworldly
stance befitting a scholar of the hereafter. There is evidence in his writings
of all of these attitudes.
Responding to Critics through The Distinguishing Criterion

ʿAbd al-Ghāfir al-Fārisī describes al-Ghazālī responding to the campaign
against him with a detached dignity, writing that he, “. . . was not affected
by it, did not preoccupy himself with responding to the slanderers, and
did not seem distressed by the shortcomings of the confused men.”50
But al-Ghazālī did respond to his critics early in the controversy, if some-
what obliquely, by writing two of his best-known shorter works before he
was denounced to Sanjar and long before he wrote the Composition: The
Distinguishing Criterion between Islam and Clandestine Apostacy and The
Deliverer from Error. The first of these, The Distinguishing Criterion, opens
with an appeal to a disciple for patience and forbearance:
My concerned brother and fanatical (mutaʿaṣṣib) friend, I see your

chest boiling with rage and your thoughts disjointed after you heard
some of the slander by the party of envy of some of our books writ-
ten about the mysteries of the practices of religion (asrār muʿāmalāt
al-dīn). They charged that they contain matter at odds with the
method (madhhab) of past masters (al-aṣḥāb al-mutaqaddimīn) and
the venerable theologians. They also claimed that deviating from
the doctrine of al-Ashʿarī by even so much as a palm’s breadth is
unbelief, and that differing from him even in a trivial matter is
error (ḍalāl) and loss. Don’t be agitated, my concerned and fanati-
cal brother, over what they say. Part company with them civilly. You
should look down on those who are not envied or slandered, and
think little of those not known for unbelief and error (ḍalāl). What
more perfect or rational preacher (dāʿī) could there be than the
Master of the Messengers, and they said of him that he was mad.
What speech could be more majestic and true than that of the Lord

of the Worlds (i.e., the Qur’ān), and they called it “legends of the
ancients.” Do not try to win debates with them or strive to silence
them with arguments, for to do so is to strive for the impossible and
to speak to the deaf.51
Though the text that follows is not plainly apologetic in the way the
point by point rebuttal of the later Composition is, this introduction
leaves little doubt that The Distinguishing Criterion is a response to the
controversy.
The reference to critiques of books on the “secrets of the practices
of religion” (asrār muʿāmalāt al-dīn) is a plain reference to the Science
of Praxis that is the subject of the Revival, and the person to whom it is
addressed is plainly a disciple of the Science of the Hereafter. Using the
language of his critiques of theological debating in the Revival, al-Ghazālī
warns his follower to abstain from debating his critics. He goes on to tell
his addressee that the definition of belief and unbelief, truth and error, are
known only to those who have purified their hearts of worldly vices and
cultivated virtues through discipline, been enlightened by pure remem-
brance of God (dhikr) and made agreeable through correct thought, and
embellished by adhering to the revealed law.52 This is another plain refer-
ence to the program of the Revival. The incomprehension of his critics
results from their not having purified themselves through this course.
The controversy is thus framed as a confrontation between partisans of
the Science of the Hereafter and their opponents.
The text of The Distinguishing Criterion itself is devoted to defining
the distinction between belief and unbelief, specifically as it relates to
scriptural interpretation. Al-Ghazālī elaborates a sophisticated theory of
interpretation unique to The Distinguishing Criterion and not replicated or
applied in any other discussion of Qur’ānic interpretation before or after
its composition.53 This theory consists of six increasingly abstract levels of
textual interpretation and guidance in deciding when correct understand-
ing of a passage is to be sought in a more abstract level: only when the
impossibility of a more concrete reading of the passage has been demon-
strated can a more abstract interpretation be employed. This system also
furnishes a criterion for distinguishing between a believer and an unbe-
liever: anyone who acknowledges the truth of scripture by interpreting it
on one of these six levels is a follower of scripture and cannot be accused
of unbelief. They may be wrong to have employed a more abstract reading,
but they are not unbelievers.

In his discussion of the six levels of interpretation that constitute assent

to the truth of the text, Ghazālī twice clarifies the “noetic”(ʿaqlī) level of
interpretation through the example of hands and pens. It could hardly be
a coincidence that he chose these examples given the attacks on his alle-
gory of the pens in book 35 of the Revival. Is The Distinguishing Criterion
a response in some way to points three and four of the later Composition
on the Critiques of the Revival: how can rational beings address inanimate
objects and vice versa, and what is the difference between the sensible
pen and the divine pen? Without knowing the exact charges al-Ghazālī is
responding to, it is impossible to say for certain.
Responding to Critics by Casting Himself as the

Deliverer from Error
The second work al-Ghazālī wrote in response to the controversy in
Nishapur was his famous Deliverer from Error. Josef van Ess has already
noted the connection of the Deliverer to the controversy, calling it “noth-
ing but a great apology.”54 This is surely an overstatement; the Deliverer
is a very sophisticated work that draws on tropes and conventions of
self-representation from sources as diverse as the Greek philosopher
Galen to the early Sufi al-Muḥāsibī to the polymath ʿUmar Khayyām to the
Ismaili Nāṣir-i Khusraw, and yet makes these tropes its own.55 It contains
unique data on al-Ghazālī’s life not mentioned in other sources, such as
the date and description of the crisis that led him to renounce his position
at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad. Van Ess himself finds numerous
threads in the text, including al-Ghazālī’s didactic intent in crafting a life
story worthy of emulation.56 But many of the important features of the
Deliverer were shaped by al-Ghazālī’s need to deflect the charges of his
enemies in Nishapur and to assert the unique intellectual authority we
have seen him claim in his address to Sanjar, the authority to revive the
religious sciences.
We know that The Distinguishing Criterion was written before the
Deliverer because al-Ghazālī refers to the former in the latter.57 As for the
Deliverer, there is good reason to believe it was written after the assassina-
tion of Fakhr al-Mulk, which occurred on 10 Muḥarram, 500/September
11, 1106 during the celebration of Ashura.58 In the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī
writes of Sanjar’s role in appointing him to his position at the Niẓāmiyya
in Nishapur, but makes no mention of Fakhr al-Mulk.59 The death of Fakhr

al-Mulk would have weakened al-Ghazālī’s position and emboldened his

enemies. The Deliverer, more than The Distinguishing Criterion, was writ-
ten as a response to his critics.
We have already discussed the Deliverer in the introduction and
chapter 2. The Epilogue will offer a fuller re-reading of the text in light
of this study. Here, the Deliverer will be considered as an intervention in
the controversy in Nishapur, in which it attempted to accomplish three
things: (1) to indirectly rebut the charges that al-Ghazālī was a philosopher,
an Ismaili, and a follower of the Brethren of Purity; (2) to justify his return
to teaching; and (3) to establish his unique intellectual authority.
In the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī presents his life as a quest for the Truth that
began when his innate thirst to “comprehend the reality of things” led to a
youthful collapse into radical skepticism. After God cured him of this, he
began his quest for the truth, with the following framework:
the classes of the seekers were restricted for me to four sects: the

theologians . . . the Bāṭinites [Ismailis], the philosophers, and the
Sufis. For I said to myself, “the Truth cannot be absent from the
four classes, for they are the travelers on the road of Truth-seeking,
and if the Truth has eluded them, there is no hope for grasping the
Truth.”60
The purpose of this framing is apologetic and not autobiographical. To

begin with, al-Ghazālī was not the first to frame his experience in such
terms. Many elements of this narrative—the natural disposition to seek
understanding, the rejection of unexamined, received wisdom, the inves-
tigation of the schools of thought of his day—belong to a tradition of intel-
lectual autobiography that derives from Galen, a debt of which al-Ghazālī
was conscious.61 Even the particular schools of thought al-Ghazālī names
as candidates for having grasped the Truth are not unique to him. Josef van
Ess has pointed out that the same four schools of thought were deployed
in a similar way by al-Ghazālī’s contemporary and acquaintance ʿUmar
Khayyām in a treatise he wrote between 492/1099 and 494/1101.62 These
elements of the Deliverer did not arise organically out of al-Ghazālī’s expe-
rience, but were marshaled by him to serve his aims in writing the book.
Both of these tropes served al-Ghazālī’s aim: the four classes of the seek-
ers trope to disassociate himself rom the schools of thought to which he
stood accused of adhering, and the Galenic tropes to establish his unique

intellectual authority. We will begin with the four schools trope. The trope
of seeking direction among these four schools served al-Ghazālī’s unique
needs in the context of the controversy. They allowed him to reiterate
his critique of theology, identify himself unambiguously with Sufism, a
well-established and accepted practice in Khurasan of his day, and, most
importantly, to distance himself from philosophy and Ismaili Shiism,
which he stood accused of following.
Furthermore, in the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī finds no fewer than three
occasions to disparage the Brethren of Purity.63 Given the evidence in
al-Ṭurṭūshī’s letter that he was also accused of being their follower, this
can also be taken as a conscious apologetic strategy, as well as further evi-
dence that this was one of the charges he faced—and not without reason.64
Another stated aim of the Deliverer is to explain al-Ghazālī’s return to
teaching.65 This required explanation: his vows at the tomb of Abraham
were well known, and his assuming his position at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa
in Nishapur at the behest of Fakhr al-Mulk and Sanjar was seen as violat-
ing them. In his letter to Sanjar from Mashhad, he writes of his vows never
again to appear before a sultan, take money from a sultan, or engage in
public theological debate or sectarian fanaticism: “[I] was true to this oath
for 12 years and the Commander of the Believers and all sultans knew [me]
to be excused.”66 Perhaps he had not yet have appeared before a sultan at
this stage of the controversy, but he was serving at the behest and with the
backing of one, as he reminds his reader in the Deliverer. The Niẓāmiyya
Madrasa in Nishapur where he taught had been endowed by the sultan’s
vizier, and even if al-Ghazālī was not paid for his teaching in Nishapur, or
paid from an endowment, his assuming the position would have struck
many as at least a compromise of the position he staked out in Hebron.
But the Deliverer is not only, or even mainly, a defensive work. Just as
The Revival of the Religious Sciences boldly declares al-Ghazālī’s authority
both to announce the death of the religious sciences and to restore them
to life, The Deliverer from Error declares al-Ghazālī’s authority to deliverer
his age from error. Al-Ghazālī presents his lifetime of examining different
schools of thought in pursuit of the truth as a divinely guided trajectory
that shaped him as God’s instrument for reforming his age. God may be
the ultimate deliverer, but insofar as he presents himself as God’s proxi-
mate instrument of delivery, for practical purposes, al-Ghazālī is himself
the deliverer of the title.67 It here that the Galenic tropes serve al-Ghazālī;
his unbiased investigation of the intellectual currents of his time have
given him a unique insight and authority that his contemporaries should
recognize.

Al-Ghazālī writes that he first began to have doubts about his post-Baghdad
seclusion when he realized that a religious lassitude has spread in his age
due to factors related to precisely the schools of thought he had spent his life
examining.68 Because of this life experience, he, uniquely, had the ability to
reveal the errors of his age and guide men to the truth. When an opportunity
arose to return to teaching, he found this sense of his own mission further
confirmed. He consulted with righteous men (ṣāliḥūn), presumably of Ṭūs,
who independently reported dreams69 confirming that he was the Renewer
(mujaddid) of the 5th century, his appointment to teach at the Niẓāmiyya
coming in the year 499.70 As we have already seen, by changing the word-
ing of the hadith of the Renewer, he makes plain that it is his Revival of
the Religious Sciences that is the basis for his being the Renewer and the
blueprint for his renewal. His return to teaching, then, is ordained by God,
and therefore he speaks and teaches with God’s authority. He concludes his
account of his return to teaching by writing, “I believe that . . . I did not move,
but rather He moved me, that I did not act, but rather He acted through me.
First I ask Him to reform me, then to reform through me; to guide me, and
then to guide through me.”71
Al-Ghazālī also calls attention to the worldly circumstances of his
return to teaching. When he saw the need of his age for him, he first hesi-
tated to shoulder this burden, worrying that if he were to summon men
from their ways to the truth, the people of the age would band together
in opposing him, and how would he resist them? Recognizing that God
wanted him to emerge into the world to spread the truth, he sought com-
promise, saying he would stay in seclusion because of his incapacity to do
so. Only the aid of a pious and victorious sultan (sulṭān mutadayyin qāhir)
would make his mission possible. God moved just such a sultan, Sanjar, to
order al-Ghazālī to return to teaching in Nishapur—Fakhr al-Mulk’s role is
not mentioned.72 Al-Ghazālī’s message is clear: he is a divinely appointed
guide for his age, and his contemporaries—especially his detractors—
should recognize this. If the otherworldly authority of God is not persua-
sive, the worldly authority of the sultan should be.
Al-Ghazālī’s Enemies Move against Him through an

Outside Agent
At some point after he wrote the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī’s enemies attempted
to discredit him with Sanjar through an outsider. The anti-Ghazālī fac-
tion’s choice of a representative tells us much about its situation and

concerns. The man who made the case to Sanjar was the Maghribī Mālikī
mentioned above, Abū ʿAbdullāh al-Māzarī al-Dhakī (d. 510/1116). He was
a perfect choice because of his disposition, his outsider status, and his
connections to the court.
Al-Māzarī al-Dhakī was known as al-Dhakī, “the clever,” because of
his natural intelligence, to which his teachers and students in Qayrawan
(present day Tunisia) attested.73 His intelligence, though, gave rise to arro-
gance and contentiousness, which caused him trouble throughout his
life. He seems to have left Qayrawan for the east after he alienated his
teacher, al-Suyūrī, by making a list of mistakes in his fatwās. His teacher
responded by cursing and blacklisting him. In Baghdad, he found that
there were few members of his Mālikī legal school to teach, and that he
was ill-equipped to compete for status given very different scholarly trends
there, specifically rationalism and debating (jadal). Instead, he made a
career as a grammarian of Arabic, eventually being appointed to teach
Arabic to Malikshāh’s children in Isfahan. It is unlikely that he ever taught
Sanjar,74 but his connection to the royal family may have given him access.
During his time in Khurasan and Transoxania, he sought out confron-
tation and clashed with scholars on several occasions.75 Given the conten-
tiousness of his personality, he would have required little provocation to
turn on al-Ghazālī. This, combined with the fact that he was an outsider,
made him a perfect candidate to take the case against al-Ghazālī to the
royal court, many of whose members knew and supported al-Ghazālī.
These supporters included Sanjar himself, as al Ghazālī reminds the king
and his readers in his letters and the Deliverer. Al-Ghazālī’s Nishapuri
enemies feared the consequences of denouncing him before Sanjar or his
officials.
The anti-Ghazālī faction provoked al-Māzarī al-Dhakī by telling him
that al-Ghazālī had slandered Mālik Ibn Anas, founder of the Mālikī
school of law, and the Mālikī jurist and theologian Abū Bakr al-Bāqillānī
(d. 403/1013), and that he had further catalogued the latter’s mistakes.76
Al-Māzarī approached al-Ghazālī with manuscripts of two of his works,
The Niche of Lights and his recently written Deliverer from Error, asking
him to sign the copies, attesting that they were accurate and certifying
him to teach them (khaṭṭ-i ijāza). In al-Ghazālī’s account, he examined the
copies, found “words of unbelief” (kalimāt-i kufr) that al-Māzarī had inter-
polated into the text, and refused to sign.77 But there is reason to doubt
al-Ghazālī’s account. It is in the very same letter that we find al-Ghazālī

claiming that the anti-Ḥanafī material in The Sifted was likewise a forged
interpolation—which is demonstrably false. In another letter, we find
al-Ghazālī instructing a follower on how to clarify and defend positions
he had taken in the Niche, which shows that passages of that work were
attacked that al-Ghazālī acknowledged as genuine and sought to defend.78
There is a lengthy passage in the Deliverer in which al-Ghazālī justifies
his borrowings from philosophy (which we will analyze in this book’s
Epilogue), and it is easy to imagine how his enemies could have used it as
evidence for their accusation that he was a crypto-philosopher. It is more
likely that al-Māzarī al-Dhakī raised questions about genuine passages in
these two works.
The caution of the anti-Ghazālī faction in moving against him was
warranted. Al-Ghazālī tells us that a high Seljuk official, the “Head of
Khurasan” (raʾīs-i Khurāsān) learned of the incident, arrested al-Māzarī
al-Dhakī, and banished him from Nishapur.79 This is further evidence
of al-Ghazālī’s broader support in Sanjar’s court dīvān. Al-Māzarī then
brought accusations against al-Ghazālī before Sanjar. It is unclear what
these were. Al-Ghazālī writes that the Maghribi “went to the military camp
and before the King of Islam and unfurled his tongue against him in accu-
sation,” (zabān-i ṭaʿn darāz kard).80 The compiler writes of him spread-
ing “suspicions and depictions of corruption among the pillars of the
state” (nazdīk-i arkān-i davlat takhyīlāt va taṣvīrāt-i fasād mīkunad).81 Given
al-Māzarī’s habit in later years of referring to al-Ghazālī as an Ismaili
(mulḥid) and a Zoroastrian (not to mention a cow), we can assume that
he charged him with being a Zoroastrian and an Ismaili. His accusations
certainly raised suspicions—if they had not, we would not find al-Ghazālī
refuting them in his hearing before Sanjar. But this was not enough to
provoke his summons.
Al-Ghazālī’s Summons and Trial

It was after this that native Nishapuri members of the anti-Ghazālī fac-
tion brought charges of fanaticism before Sanjar, supported by passages
in the Sifted. They further demanded that al-Ghazālī be forced to appear
and debate them. A group of al-Ghazālī’s supporters from Ṭūs came to
the camp and offered to debate al-Ghazālī’s enemies on his behalf. Their
praise for al-Ghazālī was such that Sanjar was moved to summon him in
order to see him, hear his words, and request his blessing and prayers.82

This description by the compiler of Sanjar’s motives for summoning

al-Ghazālī says nothing of a desire to have him answer charges of slan-
dering Abū Ḥanīfa, which he did, so clearly he exaggerated the extent to
which Sanjar had already been won over at this point.
Al-Ghazālī set out for Sanjar’s camp at Turūgh, stopping, as we have
seen, at Mashhad to request that he be excused from appearing. Here we
see al-Ghazālī draw upon his biography to shape Sanjar’s opinion of him,
much as he does in the Deliverer. But the picture he draws of his life is
quite different here. This material has been partially quoted above and in
chapter 1, but it is worth quoting here in full. He writes,
Know that 53 years of the life of this supplicant have passed. For
40 of these, he plunged into the sea of the religious sciences
until he reached the point that his words remained closed to the
understanding of the majority of his contemporaries. He lived for
20 years in the days of the martyred sultan (Malikshāh), whose
favor was bestowed upon him in Baghdad and Isfahan. He was
often a messenger in important matters between the sultan and the
Commander of the Believers and wrote some seventy books about
religious sciences. Then he saw the world as it was and rejected it
utterly. He spent some time in Jerusalem and Mecca, and swore at
the grave of Abraham, the Friend of God—may God’s prayers be
upon him—no longer to go to any sultan, not to take the money
of a sultan, and not to practice theological disputing or fanati-
cism (munāẓara va taʿaṣṣub na kunad). He was true to this oath for
12 years and the Commander of the Believers and all sultans knew
him to be excused.83
For such a brief autobiographical fragment, it is striking how much infor-

mation it conveys that is absent from the much longer Deliverer, which
shows how differently al-Ghazālī was capable of presenting his life. He
does not appear here as a disembodied spiritual seeker shorn of worldly
attachment. He prefaces the passage by appealing to the sultan on the
behalf of his fellow Ṭūsīs. He gives us his age and tells us roughly when
he began his studies. He reminds Sanjar of his service to his father,
Malikshāh, specifically of his mediation between the sultan and the caliph.

He makes it clear that his position in Baghdad was the result of his ser-
vice to the sultan, mentioning Malikshāh’s favor to him in Isfahan and
Baghdad.84
The other important differences between this passage and the Deliverer
lie in their respective representations of al-Ghazālī’s famous crisis and
repentance of 488/1095. There is no mention of Sufism or a period of vac-
illation before finding the resolve to follow the Sufi path. There is no men-
tion of God robbing him of his powers of speech or digestion. He simply
saw the world as it was and rejected it. While the Munqidh emphasizes his
spiritual exercises in Damascus, here he neglects even to mention the city,
writing only of Jerusalem and Mecca. We cannot conclude that this is sim-
ply for the sake of concision. Al-Ghazālī does make space for an important
and dramatic event he does not mention in the Munqidh: the series of
vows he took at the tomb of Abraham: nevermore to appear before a ruler,
to accept no more money from a ruler, not to engage in any further theo-
logical disputation, and to forswear all fanaticism (taʿaṣṣub).85
These vows are illuminating in several ways. Apart from his travel
through the Levant and Hijaz, they are the only actions al-Ghazālī men-
tions in relation to his departure from Baghdad. As such they point to
a very different set of motives behind the transformation of 488/1095,
namely a repentance of involvement with the Seljuk state, which we dis-
cussed in chapter 1.
If al-Ghazālī had truly wished to avoid appearing before Sanjar, he could
have written him from Ṭūs rather than a town a short ride from the king’s
camp. The letter comes across as a performance of piety and otherworldli-
ness that aims to frame al-Ghazālī’s appearance before Sanjar rather than
avoid it. As we have seen, al-Ghazālī’s testimony won Sanjar over. In it,
he focuses only on the single charge of having slandered Abū Ḥanīfa and
alludes only vaguely to other critiques of his doctrines. But when Sanjar
asked him to write down a transcript of his testimony, al-Ghazālī took the
opportunity to elaborate further on the campaign and the charges brought
against him, in a document requested and distributed by the sultan.
The transcript itself was an intervention in the controversy. In a fore-
word al-Ghazālī appended, he writes once again of his own optimism and
that of his followers that his assumption of the chair at the Niẓāmiyya
Madrasa in Nishapur would bring about the “revival of science and law.”
There is no mention here of hesitation or objections that the age would
not bear his views. He emphasizes his success in Nishapur and describes
his opponents as being moved by envy and having no means to slander

him other than trickery. It is here that he writes of their inserting words
of unbelief into the Deliverer and Niche, denying any substance to their
claims. After the failure of this ruse and of al-Māzarī al-Dhakī’s failure
to turn Sanjar against him, they came forward with a copy of the Sifted,
which already some 30 years earlier, he claims, had had anti-Ḥanafī mate-
rial inserted into it. Thus, al-Ghazālī shaped both the historical record of
his appearance as well as public understanding of it. According to the
compiler, the transcript of the testimony, along with this foreword, was
distributed throughout the empire. Al-Ghazālī was thereby able to gain
official sanction for his framing of the controversy: his enemies were
driven by sheer jealousy, and their critiques were baseless fabrications.
At this, al-Ghazālī returned to Ṭūs where he was feted.86 Clearly this
was his base of support. In a further exchange between the king and the
religious scholar, Sanjar had some wild game that he had hunted sent to
al-Ghazālī as a proof of his favor.87 Al-Ghazālī responded by composing a
short Fürstenspiegel for him, entitled Counsel for Kings (Naṣīḥat-i mulūk),
which aimed mainly to give guidance in leading a pious life as ruler.88
Only after the controversy had run its course and al-Ghazālī was sure of
Sanjar’s backing did he write a detailed refutation of some of his enemies’
critiques of the Revival in the form of The Composition on the Critiques of
the Revival. Sanjar had refused to absolve him of his duties in Nishapur or
Ṭūs, and it seems that he did return to Nishapur. Sources tell of his retire-
ment in 503/1109. In 504/1110 we find him once again summoned to teach,
this time in Baghdad to fill a vacancy at the Niẓāmiyya there created by the
death of al-Kiyā al-Ḥarrāsī, his fellow student of al-Juwaynī. Al-Ghazālī
refused, citing again his vows at the tomb of Abraham. In 505/1111, he died.
Conclusion
Such is a reconstruction of the controversy al-Ghazālī faced in Nishapur
when he returned to teaching there in 499/1106. At the time, word of this
dispute spread to the far fringes of the Islamic world. In 503/1109, a con-
troversy over the Revival in the Islamic West led to the work’s being burned
in Cordoba,89 which led to the Revival’s being debated in Mālikī-Maghribī
sources of the period, and in several cases reference is made in them to
charges made in the course of the Nishapuri controversy. As we have
seen, Abū Bakr al-Ṭurṭūshī knew of many of the critiques that had been
raised in Nishapur when he wrote from Alexandria to give his opinion on

al-Ghazālī to a fellow Andalusi around 503/1109.90 Al-Māzarī al-Dhakī’s

more famous homonym, al-Māzarī al-Imām, repeats some of these same
charges and refers to questions he had received in Mahdiyya (modern day
Tunisia) about al-Ghazālī from both the Mashriq and Maghrib.91 Al-Qāḍī
ʿIyāḍ knew of the controversy when he wrote his biography of al-Māzarī
al-Dhakī in the Maghrib some 30 or more years later.92
Al-Ghazālī’s contemporary and acquaintance ʿAbd al-Ghāfir al-Fārisī
alludes to the controversy in his biography of al-Ghazālī and would pre-
sumably have recognized the ways in which The Deliverer from Error and
The Distinguishing Criterion between Islam and Unbelief were shaped by it.
But the memory of the controversy faded, and with it the understanding of
the context of these works. When al-Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī includes so naked
a work of disputation as The Composition on the Critiques of the Revival in
his 18th-century commentary on The Revival of the Religious Sciences, it
functions as a straightforward elucidation of the allegory of the pens in
book 35, Professing God’s Oneness and Relying on God. The ends to which
al-Ghazālī wrote the work had been forgotten.
My reconstruction of the controversy is limited by the textual artifacts of
the event that have survived to the present. The Deliverer and Distinguishing
Criterion, apart from some scattered references, were crafted to respond
to the controversy without alluding to it more than obliquely. The infor-
mation given by the compiler of the letters is often plainly the product
of faulty collective memory of the event and hagiographical deference
to al-Ghazālī. Al-Ghazālī’s own letters referring to the controversy were
composed, like the Deliverer and Distinguishing Criterion, with the aim of
swaying his audience, first Sanjar, who was about to pass judgment on
him, and then the audience of the transcript of his testimony that Sanjar
had distributed. Even the much blunter Composition does not present the
objections of al-Ghazālī’s enemies fully. As we have seen, the charge that
al-Ghazālī subscribed to the doctrine of the “acquisition of prophethood”
(iktisāb al-nubūwa) seems to have been presented as evidence that he was a
follower of the Brethren of Purity, and the critique of his claim that “reveal-
ing the secret of the Divinity is unbelief” (ifshāʾ sirr al-rubūbiyya kufr) was
presented as evidence that he was an Ismaili. Al-Ghazālī makes no refer-
ence to these charges, and we are left to wonder what other dimensions of
the controversy have been irretrievably lost.
If the legal opinions against the Revival that al-Ghazālī refers to in the
Composition had come down to us, we would certainly have had a much

fuller understanding of the dynamics of the controversy, and perhaps a

substantially different understanding of what was at stake in it. These
efforts here to reconcile or fill gaps in the sources are certain to have
introduced some elements to the narrative of the controversy that were
absent from its lived experience. Conversely, there are doubtless dimen-
sions I am unaware of that would cast events in a substantially different
light. But despite these inevitable shortcomings, I hope I have illuminated
several important realities: the centrality of the Revival to al-Ghazālī’s life,
thought, and career; the polemical nature of his book and the dissent it
engendered; and the way in which this controversy shaped his late writ-
ings, in particular the Deliverer, in ways that have misshaped our under-
standing of who al-Ghazālī was and what he stood for.

Epilogue: Rereading the Deliverer
this study has been an argument that, in al-Ghazālī’s own opinion and
that of the Muslim community that has revered him as one of its imams
for nine centuries, the most consequential of his many works is his Revival
of the Religious Sciences. As the author of the Revival, al-Ghazālī is the
Islamic tradition’s first self-proclaimed reviver, boldly declaring the death
of the religious sciences he practiced and propounding his own agenda for
restoring them to life by recentering them on the Science of the Hereafter,
a discipline of his own invention. As the proponent of that agenda, he
audaciously declared himself to be the divinely appointed Renewer of his
century. He was not the last to do so,1 but he was the first. Al-Ghazālī was,
of course, preceded by many Muslim intellectuals who claimed to cham-
pion the original essence of the religion—a natural rhetorical stance for
those who wish to bring change to a prophetic religion.2 But none had so
systematically marshaled the language of revival and renewal. This read-
ing of al-Ghazālī’s life and thought both illuminates his writings and sur-
viving letters and, in turn, allows them to illuminate our understanding of
this great thinker in a vital new way.
Al-Ghazālī’s driving concern from the time he left Baghdad in
488/1095 until his death in 505/1111 was not a personal quest for certain
knowledge; this he seemed confident of having attained already when
writing The Scale of Action that year. Rather, his aim was guiding those of
his fellow Muslims who could be so guided to as high a degree of felicity
in the hereafter as they were capable of reaching. This they would attain
through practice, taming their passions so as to be able to turn their atten-
tion to God, and through knowledge, that is, knowledge of God, which
would ensure their felicity in the hereafter—in fact, would itself be this
very felicity. Each human being had but a short lifespan to try to pursue
this mission, which was nothing less than the purpose for which they
had been created, and most were heedless of even the existence of the
mission. Awakening his readers to their life’s imperative and providing
them guidance in his Science of the Hereafter was the aim of the Revival.
He employed every tool at his disposal to make his revivalist agenda

compelling to his audience, from the way he crafted the book itself as
well as its variants, such as The Alchemy of Felicity, to his various efforts
at recruiting and instructing disciples, promoting the careers of his com-
rades, and working his connections to the powerful, and through these
eventually arranging to return to public teaching with a royal mandate in
Nishapur, one of the greatest centers of Muslim intellectual life of his age.
For years, the reading of al-Ghazālī among Western scholars has been
dominated by a very different image of the man and his importance, an
image more in keeping with modern Western notions of religion as a
thing properly understood as a matter of personal conscience. This image
emerged from a reading of The Deliverer from Error that stood at the conflu-
ence of al-Ghazālī’s immediate apologetic concerns in writing the work,
and the desires of his modern Western readers. Among al-Ghazālī’s objec-
tives in writing the Deliverer were to exaggerate the totality of his break
with his pre-488/1095 life and thought, downplay his extensive debt to
philosophy, and proclaim his unparalleled religious authority. Among the
desires of his modern Western readers has been to find a Muslim intel-
lectual with an interiorized, mystical spirituality rather than a “scholastic”
or legal one, and, for some, to find a Muslim spirituality that could be
understood in Christian terms.
But the Deliverer is a complex work that, like so many of al-Ghazālī’s
writings including the Revival, can be read in different ways by different
audiences. To this point, this study has focused mostly on those elements
of the Deliverer that aim to misdirect the readers understanding of its
author’s life and thought. In conclusion, I will turn to another thread of
the Deliverer, to show how that work can be read as an accurate description
of al-Ghazālī’s revivalist thought and career.
If we begin our reading of the Deliverer with the stated aims of its intro-
duction, we find no mention of al-Ghazālī’s intention to bare his soul or
produce any sort of confessions. The passage reads as follows:
You have asked me, my brother in religion, to unfurl for you the
utmost expanses of the sciences and their secrets, and the dangers
of the various schools and their depths, and to relate to you what
I endured in extracting the truth from among the welter of the sects
with their diverse approaches and methods, and what I ventured
in rising from the depths of received knowledge to the heights of
independent interpretation. You ask what I gained first from the

Epilogue 171
science of theology; second of the flaws I found in the methods of

those who follow the authority of the [Fatimid] Imam and limit the
grasping of truth to this source alone; third, what I found wanting
in methods of philosophizing (tafalsuf); and finally how I was con-
tented with the method of Sufism. You ask me what gems of truth
revealed themselves to me through my inquiry into the sayings of
men. What deterred me from spreading knowledge in Baghdad,
with my many students, and what called me to resume this in
Nishapur after such a long time.3
What al-Ghazālī promises to do here is share his unique knowledge,

gleaned from his investigations whose trajectory has taken him through
the various schools of thought of his day. As we have seen, ʿUmar Khayyām
previously wrote of the same four schools of thought that promised a cer-
tain method for ascertaining the truth, suggesting that it was something
of a cliché at that time that these four exhausted the possibilities for this
kind of inquiry.4 Al-Ghazālī implies that he possesses peerless insight due
to his journey through this intellectual landscape with its heights, depths,
and dangers. As a result of it, the reaches and secrets of a sciences are his
to unfurl. Conveying his itinerary with as much compelling drama as pos-
sible serves him in staking a claim to this authority. Additionally, he seeks
to justify his departure from Baghdad and his acceptance of a nearly iden-
tical position in Nishapur 11 years later in response to a question we can
confidently infer: if his departure from the Niẓāmiyya in Baghdad in 1095
represented a principled stand, what happened to his principles when he
assumed a position at the Niẓāmiyya in Nishapur in 499/1106?
This introduction to the Deliverer is the section of that book that comes
the closest to outright falsehood. Al-Ghazālī did not sequentially survey
these four schools in the framework of a systematic quest for a criterion
for the Truth, though his audience likely understood this established lit-
erary device for the mise-en-scène of his intellectual journey that it was.
But he did expect his readers to accept his dismissal of philosophy and
Ismaili Shiism, as well as his open claim here and in other passages of
the Deliverer to be a Sufi, the only one found in all of his works. As we
have seen in chapter 6, he wrote the Deliverer in response to accusations
of being a philosopher and an Ismaili, and his self-depiction as a refuter
rather than practitioner of these schools aimed to rebut these charges.
Furthermore, as we have seen, the Science of the Hereafter he advocates

in the Revival is not Sufism by another name, but a discipline unique to

al-Ghazālī that incorporates philosophy as well as Sufism. Reducing this
complexity to Sufism alone in Khurasan, one of the birthplaces of Sufism
where it was practiced and expounded by establishment religious scholars
such as al-Qushayrī, was also a shrewd defensive move.
But if we look more closely at al-Ghazālī’s discussion of Sufism and
philosophy, we find that the truth of his more complex relationship to
them does come through in the Deliverer. In the case of philosophy there
is some misdirection: The Doctrines of the Philosophers was not written as a
prelude to The Precipitance of the Philosophers as he claims in the Deliverer,
nor was The Precipitance of the Philosophers a refutation or rejection of phi-
losophy. But al-Ghazālī does subtly admit to his philosophical borrowings
as well. We can begin by noting that in the above passage, he does not
write of his low opinion of “philosophy” (falsafa), but of “philosophizing”
(tafalsuf), which could be taken as a rejection only of incompetent phi-
losophy or of philosophers holding particular doctrines he finds objection-
able, such as those he criticizes in the Scale. This would not include the
Theoreticians he refers to in the Scale and the Revival.
More important, though, is a passage in the section of the Deliverer
in which he describes his engagement with philosophy, calling it by its
proper name:
A group of those whose minds have not achieved a command of

the sciences and whose vision has not been opened to the utmost
degrees of the schools of thought have objected to some statements
scattered in our compositions on the secrets of the religious sci-
ences. They have alleged that these statements were taken from
the ancient philosophers, though some of them were born of my
own reflection—it is not unlikely that one hoof should fall where
another has trod! Some of them are found in the books of religion
(al-kutub al-sharʿiyya) and the sense of most of them is found in the
books of the Sufis. Even if they were not to be found except in their
books, as long as these statements were reasonable in their own
right and confirmed by demonstrative proof (muʾayyad bi-l-burhān),
not in contradiction with the Book and the Sunna, then why would
it be necessary to renounce and relinquish them?5
This is a guarded but nevertheless clear admission of having borrowed

from philosophy and a defense of having done so. As we saw in chapter 2,

Epilogue 173
al-Ghazālī did see a close relationship between Sufism and philosophy as

methods for attaining felicity, so his claim that many of the philosophical
ideas he borrowed are also found in the books of Sufism is not entirely dis-
ingenuous. Certainly his engagement with philosophy was original and
not imitative. Notice that he uses a philosophical criterion for determining
the appropriateness of borrowing from philosophy: apodeixis or demon-
strative proof (burhān), the gold standard of philosophical evidence.
In a passage immediately preceding this one, al-Ghazālī had already
established the principle that the discerning mind may derive the truth
from wherever it is to be found, while the dull-witted should be protected
from the writings of unbelievers and those who hold dubious creeds:
A rational man [first] knows the truth, then he examines a state-

ment, and, if it is true, he accepts it whether the one who makes
it is a liar or a truth-teller. He may even aspire to extract the truth
from the sayings of those in error (ahl al-ḍalāl), knowing that gold
is mined from sand. There is no harm to the moneychanger if he
puts his hand in the purse of the counterfeiter and draws forth pure
gold from the forged coins, as long as he trusts his judgment. It is
the country bumpkin who should be prevented from dealing with
a counterfeiter, not a discerning moneychanger. The landlubber
should be prevented from approaching the shore, not the skilled
swimmer. The young boy must be prevented from touching the
snake, not the skilled snake charmer.
By my life, most people are convinced that they are skilled and
capable, fully rational (kamāl al-ʿaql) and possessed of a perfect
ability to distinguish truth from falsehood, guidance from error
(ḍalāla), and because of this, the door must be barred to the greatest
extent possible against their reading the books of those in error (ahl
al-ḍalāla).6
Plainly, al-Ghazālī sees himself in possession of the discernment he

describes here. The passage examined above in defense of his borrowings
from philosophy (which follows this one immediately in the Deliverer)
makes this clearer still, and shows that it is extraction of truth from phil-
osophical doctrines he has in mind. Note the recurring use of the word
“error” (ḍalāl, ḍalāla) as in the title of the work. It is from “error” that
the discerning, such as himself, are able to extract truth, while the weak-
minded are deceived by it and must be, we might say, delivered from it.

Not only does a discerning scholar such as al-Ghazālī have an abil-

ity to extract truth from errant writings, he has an obligation to do so.
A skilled snake charmer, he writes, has an obligation to his community to
extract an antidote (tiryāq) from the venom of a snake, but he must refrain
from doing so in front of a child who may be fatally tempted to imitate
him. So, too, must a skilled scholar extract truth from among false doc-
trines for the guidance of the community, while taking care not to tempt
the weak-minded to follow his example and be snared by the falsehoods
among which the truth is found. Finding guidance in philosophical writ-
ings, however filled with falsehood they may be, is permissible for a mas-
ter scholar such as al-Ghazālī. More than that, it is obligatory, but must be
done in secret lest lesser scholars perish in trying to imitate him or lest
those who would benefit from this guidance recoil from it, knowing its
source.7 Hence the unacknowledged appropriation of philosophy in the
Revival and other of al-Ghazālī’s writings.
Once these crucial passages are figured in, the treatment of philosophy
in the Deliverer seems quite different from the blanket rejection that a
hastier reading suggests. This discussion of al-Ghazālī’s appropriation of
philosophy is entirely in keeping with the appropriation of philosophy we
find in The Revival of the Religious Sciences and the explicit discussions of
philosophy in The Scale of Action before it.
Al-Ghazālī’s discussion of his engagement with Sufism is likewise con-
ditioned in ways that are in keeping with what we know about the role of
Sufism in the Revival and other works. Al-Ghazālī certainly did embrace
Sufi practice, which, as he describes it in both the Scale and Revival, was a
practice that suffused all aspects of daily life. His student during his brief
final stay in Baghdad, the Andalusī Abū Bakr Ibn al-ʿArabī, describes him
as having embraced Sufism. But as his post-Baghdad writings show—both
the Revival and its derivative texts and works such as the Niche of Lights—
philosophical concepts and frameworks never ceased to play a central role
in his system, not least in his conception of felicity as a state above salva-
tion in the hereafter that is the highest human aspiration.
In justifying his return to teaching in Nishapur in the Deliverer,
al-Ghazālī presents himself as having attained knowledge and insight that
he uniquely held in his age. He begins summarizing this knowledge as
follows:
When I had dedicated myself to seclusion and solitude for nearly

10 years, it became clear to me as a necessary conclusion for

Epilogue 175
innumerable reasons—sometimes through [mystical] tasting, some-

times by logical demonstration (al-ʿilm al-burhānī), and sometimes
through acceptance by faith—that the human being is a creation [con-
sisting of ] a body and a heart. I mean by the heart the true essence
of his soul, which is the locus of knowledge of God, not the flesh
and blood that are also possessed by corpses and beasts. That the
body can possesses health in which lies its felicity and sickness in
which lies its destruction. That the heart likewise has its health and
soundness, and that no one is saved “except whosoever comes to
God with a sound heart” (Qur’ān 26:89). That it has its sickness in
which lies its eternal destruction in the hereafter, as He, Most High,
has said, “There is a disease in their hearts” (Qur’ān 2:10 and ten
other passages). That ignorance of God is a destructive poison, and
rebellion against God in following the passions a sickening disease.
That knowledge of God Most High is the heart’s reviving antidote
(tiryāq muḥyī), and that obedience to God in opposing the passions
is a healing medicine. That there is no means of therapy for remov-
ing the sickness of the heart and attaining its soundness except by a
medicine, just as there is no means to treat the body except through
this. The medicine of the body results in the attainment of health
through a special property it possesses, which cannot be grasped
by rational men through the attribute of reason, but rather must
be accepted on the authority of the doctors who have obtained it
from the prophets who, through the special property of prophecy,
attained [knowledge of ] the essences of things. [Emphases added.]8
This is a very rich passage that brings together many fundamental ele-
ments of al-Ghazāli’s revivalist project. Healing the soul is the most crucial
goal of a human being, the means of escaping eternal ruin and attaining
eternal felicity.9 The aim of healing the soul, of course, provided the title
of Ibn Sīnā’s great guide to felicity, the Book of the Cure, and the Revival
is al-Ghazālī’s answer to this work. Opposing the passions is the means
to the “reviving antidote,” knowledge of God. This is not the only passage
in the Deliverer in which al-Ghazālī alludes to his Revival of the Religious
Sciences.10
Certainly here, as elsewhere in the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī insists that
ultimate guidance must be found not in rational inquiry, but in proph-
ecy, a taste of which can be had through Sufi insight. The doctors, he
states here, have learned their medicine from the prophets—much as he

argued in the Precipitance that the philosophers could not have rationally
demonstrated their (mostly correct) principles through reason, but must
have received them from earlier prophets. But the passage alludes as well
to the role of rational proof. The “reviving antidote” (tiryāq) referred to
here calls to mind the “antidote” (tiryāq) derived from snake venom, and
the metaphorical “antidote” mentioned in al-Ghazālī’s discussion of the
skilled scholars’ obligation to extract truth from among the falsehoods of
philosophy. If this reading seems too forced, consider al-Ghazālī’s account
of the sources of his insight in his period of retreat at the beginning of the
passage: Sufi “tasting,” in keeping with his account of his Sufi turn; accep-
tance by faith, in keeping with his insistence later in this passage and
elsewhere that fundamental truths cannot be attained by human beings
independent of prophetic guidance; but also rational demonstration—in
keeping with the evidence from his corpus, including the Deliverer, that
the theoretical, philosophical approach to attaining knowledge remained
a part of al-Ghazālī’s method even after his embrace of Sufi practice in
488/1095.
A closer and contextualized reading of the Deliverer from Error supports
rather than undermines the presentation of al-Ghazālī as a reviver in this
study. It supports placing The Revival of the Religious Sciences at the cen-
ter of our understanding of his life, work, and significance to the Islamic
tradition. It supports understanding his Science of the Hereafter not as
Sufism by another name, but as a discipline of al-Ghazālī’s creation, a
new synthesis of Sufism and philosophy that is reducible to neither. And
it supports a view of al-Ghazālī not as an inwardly focused seeker of Truth
and salvation, but as an engaged scholar of the hereafter who sought to
transform the religious landscape of his age, as a deliverer and as a reviver,
one of the most successful in the history of Islamic thought.

Notes
in t roduc t ion
1. Stephen Menn makes the case first for there being a Galenic model for estab-
lishing intellectual authority through autobiographical self-representation, and
second that the Deliverer is an instance of this model. Stephen Menn, “The
Discourse on the Method and the Tradition of Intellectual Autobiography,”
in Hellenistic and Early Modern Philosophy, ed. Jon Miller and Brad Inwood
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 141–91.
2. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, ed. Farid
Jabre (Beirut: Commission internationale pour la traduction des chefs-d’œuvre,
1959), 13.
3. Josef van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” in Ghazâlî: La
raison et le miracle, Table ronde UNESCO, 9–10 Décembre 1985, ed. Abdel-Magid
Turki (Paris: Éditions Maisonneuve et Larose, 1987), 65–66. Al-Ghazālī and
ʿUmar Khayyām met in Nishapur and discussed astronomy.
4. Frank Griffel argues that parallels between al-Ghazālī’s cosmology and that
of Ismaili thinkers are interesting but superficial, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical
Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 260–64.
5. There is an extensive literature on al-Ghazālī and his engagement with falsafa,
especially the thought of Ibn Sīnā, which will be surveyed below.
6. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 38.
7. Griffel cites Ibn Athīr as his source for al-Ghazālī’s teaching and reading from
the Revival in Damascus and also discusses those works he may or may not
have composed while in Jerusalem. See Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical
Theology, 44–45.
8. These activities will be treated at length in chapter 5.
9. In his introduction, after his first reference to the title Deliverance from Error,
Watt adds parenthetically, “literally, ‘What delivers from error,’ ” showing that
he was fully aware of the change in meaning he was introducing. Abū Ḥāmid
al-Ghazālī, The Faith and Practice of Al-Ghazālī, trans. Montgomery Watt
(Oxford: Oneworld, 1994 [1953]), 9.

178 Notes to Pages 3–4
10. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, “Deliverance from Error,” in Freedom and Fulfillment: An
Annotated Translation of al-Ghazālī’s al-Munqidh Min al-Ḍalāl and Other Relevant
Works of al-Ghazālī (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, 2004).
11. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Deliverance from Error and Mystical Union with the
Almighty, trans. Muhammad Abulaylah (Washington, DC: The Council for
Research in Values and Philosophy, 2001). The fifth translation of the Deliverer
mentioned above is: Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, “The Rescuer from Error,” in
Medieval Islamic Philosophical Writings, trans. and ed. Muhammad Ali Khalidi
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).
12. William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience (New York: Modern Library,
1994), 438–42.
13. Kenneth Garden, “Coming Down from the Mountaintop: al-Ghazālī’s
Autobiographical Writings in Context,” Muslim World 101, no. 4 (2011).
14. Al-Ghazali: The Alchemist of Happiness, directed by Ovidio Salazar (2004;
UK: Matmedia Productions, 2006) DVD.
15. Watt translates “In due course I entered Damascus, and there I remained for
nearly two years with no other occupation than the cultivation of retirement
and solitude, together with religious and ascetic exercises . . . I used to go into
retreat for a period in the mosque of Damascus, going up the minaret of the
mosque for the whole day and shutting myself in so as to be alone.” Al-Ghazālī,
Faith and Practice, 59. For a similar translation, see R. J. McCarthy, Freedom
and Fulfillment, 80. The passage should read, “Then I entered the Levant and
resided in it for around two years without any occupation but retreat and soli-
tude, spiritual exercises and personal struggle in an effort to cleanse my ego
(nafs), train myself in the virtues, and purify my heart for the remembrance
of God Most High, as I had learned in the books of the Sufis. For a period,
I dedicated myself to going to the mosque of Damascus where I would climb
the minaret for the day and close its door on myself.” Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min
aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 38. What seems most noteworthy in this passage is
the fact that al-Ghazālī’s practice of Sufism at this point was based on his read-
ing of Sufi works, not on the guidance of a shaykh, as I will discuss in chapter 2.
Frank Griffel estimates his time in Damascus from late 488/1095 to the sum-
mer of 489/1096 at no more than six months, followed by a second brief stay in
490/1097. Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 44–48.
16. McCarthy cites Poggi on the special interest al-Ghazālī has awoken among
Christian clergymen, writing, “[Poggi] begins by remarking that he has sev-
eral times asked himself the cause of the special interest in Ghazali shown
by Christian Ecclesiastics, both Protestant and Catholic. And in fact Bouyges,
Allard, Chelhot, Chidiac, Farid Jabre, Asin Palacios, Anawati and Gardet and
Poggi were, and those living still are, Catholic priests (as I also am). Macdonald,
Zwemer, Gairdner, and W. Montgomery Watt were Protestant clergymen, and

Notes to Pages 4–5 179
Frick and van Leeuwen both received doctorates in theology from Protestant fac-
ulties.” R. J. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment, 42. It is indeed a remarkable list.
17. Miguel Asín-Palacios, La Espiritualidad de Algazel y su sentido Cristiano (Madrid,
Granada: Publicaciones de las Escuelas de Estudios árabes de Madrid y Granada,
1934-35). This study does devote a great deal of attention to the Revival, so while
it is an example of a Christianized reading of al-Ghazālī, it is not accurate to say
that it is a reading guided by the Deliverer.
18. Zwemer, A Moslem Seeker After God, 12.
19. Duncan B. Macdonald, “The Life of al-Ghazzālī with especial reference to his
religious experiences and opinions,” Journal of the American Oriental Society,
20, no. 1, 1899. See, for example, 72, where he writes of al-Ghazālī’s giving the
“Church of Islam” a fresh term of life by saving it from dry theology. On scho-
lasticism specifically, see 122–23.
20. The case for the new translation is made by Alexander Treiger, Inspired Knowledge
in Islamic Thought: Al-Ghazali’s Theory of Mystical Cognition and Its Avicennian
Foundation (London and New York: Routledge, 2012), 108–15. His argument will
be briefly discussed below.
21. Maqāṣid al-falāsifa is usually rendered as The Aims of the Philosophers. Ayman
Shihadeh has recently argued that this is a mistaken reading of maqāṣid as the
plural of maqṣūd, “goal” or “intended meaning,” rather than correctly read-
ing it as the plural of maqṣad, which has a technical definition in theological
and related discourses of “topic” or “doctrine,” including in other works by
al-Ghazālī. Hence, it is more accurate to translate the work as Doctrines of the
Philosophers. Ayman Shihadeh, “New Light on the Reception of al-Ghazālī’s
Doctrines of the Philosophers (Maqāṣid al-falāsifa),” in In the Age of Averroes: Arabic
Philosophy in the Sixth/Twelfth Century, ed. Peter Adamson (London: Warburg
Institute, 2011), 90–92. I am grateful to Frank Griffel for referring me to this
important article.
22. An argument made recently by Steven Weinberg, “Without God,” New York
Review of Books, vol. 55, n. 114, September 25, 2008.
23. See Franz Rosenthal, “Die Arabische Autobiographie,” Analecta Orientalia 14
(1937): 7–15. Watt himself recognized that al-Ghazālī’s account of his assessment
of the four “classes of the seekers” could not have been chronological, but still
held that it was true if taken as a schematic account. Watt, Muslim Intellectual.
24. The charge of profound philosophical borrowings in the work of the self-
proclaimed enemy of philosophy was made by his own student Abū Bakr Ibn
al-ʿArabī and by the refuter of his Precipitance of the Philosophers, Ibn Rushd.
Abū Bakr Ibn al-ʿArabī is cited in Ibn Taymiyya, Darʾ taʿāruḍ al-ʿaql wa-l-naql,
ed. Muḥammad Rashād Sālim, 11 vols. (Beirut: Dār al-Kunūz al-Adabiyya,
1980), vol. 1, 5. Ibn Rushd famously wrote that al-Ghazālī was all things to all
people, “an Asharite with the Asharites, a Sufi with the Sufis, and a philoso-
pher with the philosophers.” See Ibn Rushd, Faṣl al-maqāl, ed. George Hourani

(Leiden: Brill, 1959), 28. More recently, see Mohamed Sherif, Ghazali’s Theory of
Virtue (Albany: SUNY Press, 1975), who matter-of-factly notes al-Ghazālī’s reli-
ance in The Scale of Action and The Revival of the Religious Sciences on philosophi-
cal ethical psychology and definitions of virtue and vice. Watt, too, recognized
the presence of philosophical passages in al-Ghazālī’s oeuvre and suggested
different ways for accounting for them. He admitted that he may have gone
through a “neoplatonic phase” and insisted that the chronological development
of his thought was crucial. He also claimed that many writings attributed to
al-Ghazālī were inauthentic, including several that contain philosophical ele-
ments, such as The Scale of Action and The Niche of Lights. See Montgomery
Watt, “The Authenticity of Works Attributed to al-Ghazâlî,” Journal of the Royal
Asiatic Society (1952) and Montgomery Watt, “A Forgery in al-Ghazâlî’s Mishkât?,”
Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1949).
25. See Henri Laoust, La politique de Ġazālī (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste de Paul
Geuthner, 1970); Erika Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg: Studien zur Religionspolitik
und Religiosität der Späteren Abbasiden-Zeit, Freiburger Islamstudien
(Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1981); Carole Hillenbrand, “Islamic
Orthodoxy or Realpolitik: al-Ghazālī’s Views on Government,” Journal of the
British Institute of Persian Studies 26 (1988); Mustapha Hogga, Orthodoxie,
Subversion et Réforme en Islam: Ġazālī et les Seljūqides, Études Musulmanes
(Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 1993); Omid Safi, The Politics of
Knowledge in Premodern Islam: Negotiating Ideology and Religious Inquiry, Islamic
Civilization and Muslim Networks (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 2006).
26. Richard Frank, Creation and the Cosmic System: al-Ghazâlî and Avicenna,
Abhandlungen der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften
(Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag, 1992).
27. Ibid. and R. M. Frank, “Al-Ghazali on Taqlid: Scholars, Theologians and
Philosophers,” Zeitschrift f ür Geschichte der arabisch-islamischen Wissenschaften 7
(1992).
28. Michael Marmura, “Ghazali and Ashʿarism Revisited,” Arab Sciences and
Philosophy 12 (2002); and Ahmad Dallal, “Al-Ghazâlî and the Perils of
Interpretation,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 122, no. 4 (Oct–Dec 2003).
29. Jules Janssens, “Al-Ghazzâlî’s Tahâfut: Is it Really a Rejection of Ibn Sînâ’s
Philosophy?,” Journal of Islamic Studies 12, no. 1 (2001).
30. Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 97–101.
31. Alexander Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 108–15.
32. Frank Griffel, “MS London, British Library Or. 3126: An Unknown Work by al-
Ghazali on Metaphysics and Philosophical Theology,” Journal of Islamic Studies
17, no. 1 (2006).
33. M. Afifi al-Akiti, “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of Falsafa: Al-Ghazālī’s
Maḍnūn, Tahāfut, and Maqāṣid, with Particular Attention to their Falsaf ī

Treatments of God’s Knowledge of Temporal Events,” in Avicenna and His

Legacy: A Golden Age of Science and Philosophy, ed. Y. Tzvi Langermann
(Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 2009).
34. Josef van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” 63. As van
Ess points out, the first to make this claim was Henri Laoust. See Laoust, La
politique de Ġazālī, 138 and 41–44. Laoust emphasizes al-Ghazālī’s use of the
Deliverer to justify his return to teaching in Nishapur at the behest of the sultan.
35. Van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” 64–68.
36. Stephen Menn, “The Discourse on the Method and the Tradition of Intellectual
Autobiography.”
37. Dorothea Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī: übersetzt und
erläutert, Islamkundliche Untersuchungen (Freiburg im Breisgau: Klaus
Schwarz Verlag, 1971).
38. Frank Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology 284.
39. Alexander Treiger, “The Science of Divine Disclosure: Al-Ġazālī’s Higher
Theology and Its Philosophical Underpinnings” (PhD, Yale University,
2008), 334.
40. In the edition of Itḥāf al-sāda al-muttaqīn consulted for this study, the quota-
tion was, qīl innahu law dhahabat kutub al-islām wa-baqiya al-Iḥyā’ la-aghnā
ʿammā dhahaba. Al-Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī, Itḥāf al-sāda al-muttaqīn bi-sharḥ iḥyāʾ
ʿulūm al-dīn, 2nd ed., 14 vols. (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2002), vol. 1,
37. Al-Zabīdī does not give the source of his quotation. Al-Zabīdī also quotes
Ibn al-Subkī expressing much the same sentiment: “If the people had none of
the books composed by the people of knowledge but the Iḥyāʾ, it would suffice
them.” Ibid., p. 37. Suʿād al-Ḥakīm quotes al-Ṣafadī’s al-Wāf ī bi-l-wafayāt as giv-
ing the same claim. Suʿād al-Ḥakīm, Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn f ī al-qarn al-wāḥid wa-l-
ʿashrīn, 2nd ed. (Cairo: Dār al-Shurūq, 2005), 18.
41. Cited in Michael Cook, Commanding the Right and Forbidding the Wrong in
Islamic Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 451, n. 158,
who cites ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Badawī, Mu’allafāt al-Ghazālī (Cairo: al-Majlis al-Aʿlā
li-Riʿāyat al-Funūn wa-l-Ādāb wa-l-ʿUlūm al-Ijtimāʿiyya, 1961), 114–18.
42. Al-Fayḍ regretted that al-Ghazāli wrote the Revival before his conversion to
Shiism. See Cook, Commanding the Right, 454.
43. Gregory Barhebraeus, Ethicon: Mēmrā I, trans. Herman G. B. Teule
(Louvain: Peeters Publishers, 1993). On this work and its debt to al-Ghazālī, see
also Herman Teule, “La vie dans le monde: perspectives chrétiennes et influ-
ences musulmanes: Une étude de Memrā II de l’Ethicon de Grégoire Abū l-Faraj
Barhebraeus,” Parole de l’Orient, no. 33 (2008). My thanks to Hidemi Takehashi
for informing me of Barhebraeus’s adaptation of al-Ghazālī and sending me refer-
ences to these works. See also Cook, Commanding the Right, appendix 2, 600–603.
44. For extracts of what appears to be the first volume of this work, found in 1983 in a
private library in Marrakech about which I could obtain no further information,

see Muḥammad al-Manūnī, “Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn fī manẓūr al-gharb al-islāmī

ayyām al-murābiṭīn wa-l-muwaḥḥidīn,” in Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī: dirāsāt f ī
fikrihi wa-ʿaṣrihi wa-taʾthīrihi (Rabat: Jāmiʿat Muḥammad al-Khāmis, Manshūrāt
Kulliyyat al-Ādāb wa-l-ʿUlūm al-Insāniyya bi-l-Ribāṭ, 1988), 130 and 35–37. On
al-Ṭurṭūshī’s declaration of intent to write such a book, see his letter to Ibn
Muẓaffar in Saʿd Ghurāb, “Ḥawl iḥrāq al-murābiṭīn li-iḥyāʾ al-Ghazālī,” Actas del
IV coloquio Hispano-Tunecino (Palma de Mallorca, 1979) (Madrid, 1983): 158–63,
as well as Aḥmad al-Wansharīsī, al-Miʿyār al-Muʿrib wa-l-jāmiʿ al-mughrib ʿan
fatāwā ʿulamāʾ ifrīqiya wa-l-andalus wa-l-maghrib, 13 vols. (Rabat: Wizārat al-Awqāf
wa-l-Shuʾūn al-Islāmiyya li-l-Mamlaka al-Maghribiyya, 1981), vol. 12, 187.
45. al-Ḥakīm, Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn f ī al-qarn al-wāḥid wa-l-ʿashrīn.
46. Al-Ghazālī refers to the famous hadith of the Renewer, but in writing that
“God Most High has promised the revival of his religion at the head of every
century” he substitutes “revival” for “renewal.” See al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min
aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 49. Hans Bauer was the first to draw attention to
this: H. Bauer, “Zum Titel und zur Abfassung von Ghazalis Ihja,” Der Islam IV
(1913). For the hadith of the Renewer, see Abū Dāwūd, al-Sunan, ed. M. M. ʿAbd
al-Ḥamīd (Cairo, al-Maktaba al-tijāriyya al-kubrā,1951), vol. 4, 156. For a discus-
sion of the competing claims to the title over the centuries, see al-Wansharīsī,
Miʿyār, vol 10, 7–10. For a study of the mujaddid tradition more broadly, see Ella
Landau-Tasseron, “The ‘Cyclical Reform’: A Study of the mujaddid Tradition,”
Studia Islamica 70 (1989): 79–117.
47. Regarding “the Science of the Path to the Hereafter and the knowledge (maʿrifa)
of the interior secrets of the religion (asrār al-dīn al-bāṭina), I wrote on it books
that were comprehensive (kutub basīṭa) like The Revival of the Religious Sciences,
succinct like the book Jewels of the Qur’ān, and intermediate like the book The
Alchemy of Felicity.” Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, al-Mustaṣfā min ʿilm al-uṣūl, ed.
Najwā Ḍaww (Beirut: Dār Iḥyāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 1997). 14. Al-Ghazālī pres-
ents each of these books as being about the Science of the Hereafter, but clearly
the Revival is the flagship work, written before the others and the most extensive
treatment of the topic.
48. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Mukhtaṣar iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn (Beirut: Muʿassasat al-Kutub
al-Thaqafiyya, 1990). This synopsis (mukhtaṣar) is known by the title al-Lubāb
min al-Iḥyāʾ, and while this edition gives Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī as the author,
it is often attributed to his brother Aḥmad al-Ghazālī. Frank Griffel has pointed
out that, contrary to this common ascription, most manuscripts of the work
attribute it to Abū Ḥāmid. See Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 62.
49. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 39.
chapter 1
1. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Makātib-i fārsī-yi Ghazzālī bi-nām-i fażāʾil al-anām
min rasāʾil Ḥujjat al-Islām (Tehran: kitābforūshī Ibn Sīnā, 1333/1954), 4–5. For

a fuller discussion of this letter and the Deliverer as instances of al-Ghazālī’s

autobiographical writings, see Garden, “Coming Down from the Mountaintop:
Al-Ghazālī’s Autobiographical Writings in Context.” Muslim World 21, no. 1
(2010).
2. Heinz Halm, “Der Wesir al-Kundurī und die Fitna von Nišāpūr,” Die Welt des
Orients 6 (1970–71).
3. This is his The Sifted from the Notes on Jurisprudence, Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī,
al-Mankhūl min taʿlīq al-uṣūl (Damascus: Dār al-Fikr, 1970). The exact criticisms
of Abū Ḥanīfa and the role this work played in the Nishapuri controversy will be
discussed in chapter 6.
4. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 131–32.
5. Evidence for this will be discussed in chapter 5.
6. Fear of infiltration by Ismaili sympathizers, proselytizers, and Assassins led to
witch-hunts. Many suspected Ismailis were killed. See Frank Griffel, Apostasie
und Toleranz im Islam: Die Enwicklung zu al-Ghazalis Urteil gegen die Philosophie
und die Reaktionen der Philosophen, 1st ed., Islamic Philosophy Theology and
Science (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 266–67.
7. For analysis of this controversy and its doctrinal, sectarian, political, and social
dynamics, see Halm, “Der Wesir al-Kundurī und die Fitna von Nišāpūr.”
8. Tāj al-Dīn al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-shāfiʿiyya al-kubrā, 1st ed., 10 vols. (Cairo: Maṭbaʿa
ʿIsā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1968), vol. 6, 205.
9. In the first book of The Revival of the Religious Sciences, al-Ghazālī describes the
lavish settings in which public theological debate took place, pointing out the
hypocrisy of scholars finding subtle faults in the theological doctrines of their
rivals, but not condemning the assembled audiences for wearing gold or silk,
which is not in keeping with the sunna of the Prophet. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī,
Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn. 16 parts in 5 vols. (Cairo: Lajnat Nashr al-Thaqāfa al-Islāmiyya,
1937-39). vol. 1, 72-73. This widely available, relatively authoritative edition of the
Iḥyāʾ uses two different conventions for page numbering and uses them incon-
sistently. In many volumes, it gives a pagination for that volume as well as a
continuous pagination beginning with volume 1. In some volumes, it gives only
the continuous pagination. In my citations I always give the continuous pagina-
tion and, where available, the volume-specific pagination in parentheses.
10. One of his predecessors at the Baghdad Niẓāmiyya, Abū Isḥāq al-Shīrāzī
(d. 476/1083), had been sent by the Caliph al-Muqtadī to Niẓām al-Mulk in
475/1083 to solicit his support in dismissing the Banū Jahīr as caliphal viziers, so
Niẓāmiyya professors had served as intermediaries between Baghdad and Isfahan
before al-Ghazālī. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 100. This is part of a broader pattern
of religious scholars serving as emissaries between the Abbasids and Seljuks; the
Caliph al-Qāʾim (d. 467/1075) sent the jurist al-Mawardī as an envoy to Ṭughril
Beg in 435/1044. Hogga, Orthodoxie, Subversion et Réforme en Islam, 34.
11. There has been a great deal written on al-Ghazālī and Seljuk-Abbasid politics
focusing on three different questions: his political theory expressed in books

like Faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya, al-Iqtiṣād fī al-iʿtiqād, and Naṣīḥat al-Mulūk; the role
his political engagement played in shaping his writings that were not overtly
political, such as the Iḥyāʾ and others; and the role Seljuk politics played in his
life, particularly in his crisis of 488/1095. Already in the first decades of the
20th century, Duncan Black Macdonald, writing in the Encyclopedia of Islam 1,
noted that al-Ghazālī’s retreat from teaching between 488/1095 and 499/1106
coincided closely with the reign of Barkyārūq (488/1095–498/1105) and specu-
lated that al-Ghazālī’s closeness to the Caliph al-Muqtadī, who had declared his
support for Barkyārūq’s uncle Tutush, may have been the cause of his absence
from public teaching during this period. Duncan Black Macdonald, “al-Ghazālī”
in Encyclopaedia of Islam 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1913–1936). There have been numerous
suggestions since then of the influence of the politics of the day on al-Ghazālī.
See Laoust, La politique de Ġazālī; Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg; Hogga, Orthodoxie,
Subversion et Réforme en Islam; Safi, Politics of Knowledge; Hillenbrand, “Islamic
Orthodoxy or Realpolitik.”
12. It was first proposed by Ignaz Goldziher that Niẓām al-Mulk established his
madrasas in order to promote a Shāfiʿī-Ashʿarī state orthodoxy; see Ignaz
Goldziher, Introduction to Islamic Theology and Law, trans. Andras and Ruth
Hamori (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1981). Mustapha
Hogga accepts this thesis and argues that promoting Ashʿarism and Shāfiʿism
as Seljuk state orthodoxies was one of al-Ghazālī’s major objectives. Hogga,
Orthodoxie, Subversion et Réforme en Islam. There is much that this claim
ignores, most seriously the fact that the Seljuks themselves were Ḥanafīs and
not Shāfiʿīs and would not have allowed such an orthodoxy to be established.
13. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 72–78. Safi, Politics of Knowledge, 93–97.
15. Ibid., 77.
16. Ibid., 76.
17. Ibid., 74.
18. Ibid., 72.
19. Ibid., 131–32.
20. Ibid., 139.
21. Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 34.
23. Jaʿfar b. al-Muqtadī.
24. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 144. Glassen cites Rāwandī’s Rāḥat al-ṣudūr wa-āyat
al-surūr.
25. Ibid., 142–43.
26. Carole Hillenbrand, “1092: A Murderous Year,” The Arabist: Budapest Studies in
Arabic 15/16 (1995): 290–92.
27. al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 4–5.
28. Amīr Öner.

29. From the Ḥanafī jurist Mushattab b. Muḥammad al-Faraghānī.

30. His wife Zubayda. See Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 144.
31. Ibid., 156.
32. Ibid., 163–64.
33. Ibid., 157. Mostapha Hogga, citing Ibn Athīr, al-Kāmil f ī tārīkh, year 487, gives an
account of al-Muqtadī’s death that seems much more plainly to point to death by
assassination. Hogga, Orthodoxie, Subversion et Réforme en Islam, 141.
35. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya (Cairo: Al-Dār al-Qawmiyya
li-l-Ṭibāʿa wa-l-Nashr, 1964/1383).
36. As Yazeed Said points out, the word fatra here echoes Qur’ān 5:19, which
uses the term to refer to a period between prophets God sends to humanity.
Yazeed Said, Ghazālī’s Politics in Context, (London: Routledge, 2013), 11. Carole
Hillenbrand translates fatra as “the effacement of the signs of religion.” “Islamic
Orthodoxy or Realpolitik?” 84.
37. Ibid., 186.
38. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 152.
39. Erika Glassen is more cautious about rendering a verdict on these
millennium-old deaths. As she points out, the sources also explain this cata-
strophic string of deaths as the result of an unfortunate alignment of the stars.
Niẓām al-Mulk’s martyrdom is explained as a mercy from God, allowing him
salvation despite his sinful life. Malikshāh’s death is explained as the fulfillment
of Niẓām al-Mulk’s prophecy that he would not long survive him, or as a miracle
of the Abbasid house. In their effort to explain these shocking deaths that took
the Seljuk Empire from the pinnacle of strength to chaos and civil war in a mat-
ter of months, contemporaries and subsequent chroniclers “fumbled in the dark
as much as we do today.” Ibid., 143.
40. al-Ghazālī, Faḍāʿiḥ al-bāṭiniyya, 186–87.
41. Hillenbrand, “Al-Ghazālī’s Views on Government,” 82.
42. Ibid., 83.
43. Ibid., 86.
44. Ibid., 90.
45. Ibid., 85.
46. al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 4–5.
47. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol.6, 1090-1091 (100-101). Also quoted in Said, Ghazālī’s
Politics in Context, 13.
48. After Niẓām al-Mulk arranged the dismissal of the Abbasid vizier, Abū Shujāʿ,
because of his critique of the Seljuk conquest of Samarqand, Abū Shujāʿ retired
to a life of asceticism in Mecca. Inspired by his example, Niẓām al-Mulk asked
to join him but was rejected. See Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 137–38. George
Makdisi has pointed out that al-Ghazālī had scholarly contemporaries whose
repentance was followed by a lifetime of pious obscurity, such as ʿAbd al-Mālik

al-Ṭabarī, who left his studies of law at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad to
lead a life of asceticism in Mecca for four decades until his death. “Muslim
Institutions of Learning in Eleventh-Century Baghdad,” Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies 24 (1961), 40, n. 3.
49. A point Erika Glassen makes. See ibid., 179–80.
50. Ibid., 131–175.
chapter 2
1. The exact date of the composition cannot be determined with certainty, but
488/1095 seems the most likely. Hourani dates the Scale to 488/1095 by situat-
ing it before his departure from Baghdad, but after two other works to which it is
related. He points out that the Scale refers six times to The Standard of Knowledge
(Miʿyār al-ʿilm), its companion work on logic. He presents the Standard, in turn,
as an appendix to the The Precipitance of the Philosophers (Tahāfut al-falāsifa),
which refers to the Standard as a work already written. In the introduction to the
Standard, al-Ghazālī states that one of the reasons he wrote the work was to clar-
ify terms used in The Precipitance, which strengthens the inference that the two
works are of a piece. In the conclusion of the Standard, al-Ghazālī announces his
intention to write the Scale on the topic of practice (ʿamal), though as a stand-alone
work for those with no desire to read the Standard. The Precipitance is thought
to have been written in 487/1094, which makes a very good case for dating
the Scale to 488/1095. See George Hourani, “A Revised Chronology of Ghazâlî’s
Writings,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 104, no. 2 (1984): 289–302,
esp. 292–295; Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Miʿyar al-ʿilm (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub
al-ʿIlmiyya, 1990), 27, 334. Some have suggested that the Scale was written sig-
nificantly after 488/1095 and represents a later stage of al-Ghazālī’s thought, a
claim made most recently in the introduction to a German translation of that
work: Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Das Kriterium des Handelns: Aus dem Arabischen
übersetzt, mit einer Einleitung, mit Anmerkungen und Indices herasugegeben von
ʿAbd-Elṣamad ʿAbd-Elḥamīd Elschazlī, trans. ʿAbd-Elṣamad ʿAbd-Elḥamīd
Elschazlī (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2006). That the
Scale was written in 488/1095 at the latest is shown by the fact that material
found in that book was further refined in book 21 of The Revival of the Religious
Sciences, The Marvels of the Heart (Kitāb sharḥ ʿajā ʾib al-qalb), a work that super-
seded the Scale as the exposition of al-Ghazālī’s ethical thought. The Scale was
therefore written before al-Ghazālī’s departure from Baghdad, as he is known
to have begun reading publically from the Revival in Damascus shortly after
his departure.Frank Griffel has suggested an intriguing third possibility to me,
which is that the Scale could have been written significantly before 488/1095 and
only published in that year, in which case it would represent an earlier phase of
al-Ghazālī’s thinking. Evidence for this is that, as we shall see, the Scale plainly
states that al-Ghazālī had not begun practicing Sufism at the time of writing,

Notes to Pages 31 187
while al-Ghazālī’s student for a short time during his brief stop-over in Baghdad
on his way back to Khurasan in 490/1097, Abū Bakr Ibn al-ʿArabī, reports that
al-Ghazālī had begun practicing Sufism five years earlier, that is, in 485/1092.
(See n. 54 below.) I cannot disprove this possibility. Still, I think it is unlikely.
Parallels between the Scale and the Revival that I will discuss below suggest a
rather shorter period of development between the two works. Furthermore, the
urgency with which al-Ghazālī discusses the imperative of bringing his fellow
Muslims to pursue felicity in the hereafter through knowledge and practice fits
well with the assumption that he devoted himself to this mission a short time
later by leaving his position in Baghdad and writing and promoting The Revival
of the Religious Sciences, which aims at precisely this.Montgomery Watt has
claimed that much of The Scale of Action consists of forged interpolations, a claim
rebutted at length by Mohamed Sherif. Montgomery Watt, “The Authenticity of
Works Attributed to al-Ghazâlî,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1952): 24–45;
see esp. 38–40 and 45. Sherif, Ghazali’s Theory of Virtue, 170–76.
2. See Muḥammad Ibn al-Munawwar, The Secrets of God’s Mystical Oneness (Asrār
al-tawḥīd), trans. John O’Kane (Costa Mesa, CA & New York: Mazda Publishers,
1992), 300–302. Though this meeting was legendary, it has been accepted that
the two men corresponded even if they never met. But there is reason to believe
that the letters of Ibn Sīnā presented as having been written to Abū Saʿīd Ibn
Abī al-Khayr were in fact letters to other addressees that were altered at a later
date. See David Reisman, “A New Standard for Avicenna Studies,” Journal of
the American Oriental Society 122, no. 3 (2002): 567. The legendary interaction
between the two men seems to have become a trope for exploring the relative
merits of philosophy and Sufism. For an account of Abū Saʿīd’s deference to Ibn
Sīnā (and thus Sufism to philosophy) related by ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī,
see Firoozeh Papan-Matin, Beyond Death: The Mystical Teachings of ʻAyn Al-Quḍāt
Al-Hamadhānī (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 211–12. For an account of Ibn Sīnā’s defer-
ence to Abū Saʿīd, see al-Munawwar, Secrets of God’s Mystical Oneness, 301–2.
3. Al-Munawwar, The Secrets of God’s Mystical Oneness, 301.
4. See William Chittick, “Mysticism vs. Philosophy in Earlier Islamic History: The
al-Ṭūsī, al-Qunawī Correspondence,” Religious Studies 17, no. 1 (1981); and espe-
cially Sajjad Rizvi, “Mysticism and Philosophy: Ibn ʿArabī and Mullā Ṣadrā,” in
The Cambridge Companion to Arabic Philosophy, ed. Peter Adamson and Richard
C. Taylor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).
5. Pierre Hadot, “Spiritual Exercises,” in Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual
Exercises from Socrates to Foucault (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995).
6. Muḥāsibī, excerpted and translated in Michael Sells, Early Islamic Mysticism: Sufi,
Qur’ an, Miʿraj, Poetic and Theological Writings (New York: Paulist Press, 1996), 171–95.
7. Sarrāj, Book of Flashes (Kitāb al-lumaʿ), excerpted and translated in ibid., 196–211.
8. On the subject of ecstatic utterances, see Carl Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism
(Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1985).

9. Maʿrifa is not always used as a technical term for knowledge intuited through
divine inspiration. Al-Ghazālī sometimes uses it as a technical term and some-
times does not. His use does not imply mystical knowledge, however, but rather
the kind of knowledge that leads to felicity in the hereafter (saʿāda), an issue we
will come to below. See Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 33–34.
10. Abū al-Qāsim al-Qushayrī, al-Risāla al-qushayriyya (Beirut: Dār al-Ṣādir, 2001).
11. See Alexander Treiger, “Al-Ghazālī’s Classifications of the Sciences and
Descriptions of the Highest Theoretical Science,” Divan 2011, no. 1 (2011): 31.
See also Binyamin Abrahamov, “Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Attitude toward al-Ghazālī,”
in Avicenna and His Legacy: A Golden Age of Science and Philosophy, ed. Tzvi
Langermann (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepolis, 2009).
12. Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Jabbār al-Niffarī (d. after 366/977) believed that a Sufi’s
contemplation of God in this life was necessary for the beatific vision of God in
the hereafter. He and his writings enjoyed little popularity until he was redis-
covered by Sufis of the 13th century, such as Ibn al-ʿArabī and al-Shushtarī (d.
668/1269). See Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: A Short History, (Leiden,
Boston, Koln: Brill, 2000), 104–5.
13. On sainthood and Sufism, see Vincent Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and
Authority in Moroccan Sufism, (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1998). There
were many collective hagiographies of Muslim saints produced. Qushayrī’s
Epistle contains one. Al-Qushayrī, Al-Risāla al-Qushayriyya, 259–95.
14. On Hadot’s notion of philosophy as a way of life applied to the falsafa tradition,
see Sajjad Rizvi, “Philosophy as a way of life in the world of Islam: Applying
Hadot to the study of Mullā Ṣadrā Shīrāzī (d. 1635),” Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies 75, no. 1 (2012).
15. A more extensive, though concise and lucid account of many of the matters that
follow can be found in the introduction to Jon McGinnis and David Reisman,
eds., Classical Arabic Philosophy: An Anthology of Sources (Cambridge: Hackett
Publishing, 2007), xvii–xxxi.
16. Though Muslim scripture does not plainly portray God’s creation of the world in
time, as does Genesis 1–3, a point made by some of al-Ghazālī’s successors and
critics and perhaps recognized later by al-Ghazālī himself. Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s
Philosophical Theology, 116–20.
17. For a fuller discussion, see Robert Wisnovsky, “Avicenna,” in The Cambridge
Companion to Arabic Philosophy, ed. Peter Adamson and Richard C. Taylor
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 101.
18. The position of Alexander of Aphrodisias; see Jean Michot, La destinée de
l’homme selon Avicenne: Le retour à Dieu (maʿād) et l’imagination (Leuven: Peters,
1986), 34.
19. Ibid., 45–47.
20. Ibid., 48–49.
21. For an account of Ibn Sīnā’s doctrine of a two-tiered afterlife, see ibid., 49–54.
On the existence of imaginal worlds in Ibn Sīnā’s thought, see 79–87. For a clear

account of Ibn Sīnā’s conception of the emanation of reality from God through
the intervening celestial spheres to the material sublunar world, see 87–101.
22. See Jean Michot, “La pandémie Avicennienne au VIe/XIIe siècle,” Arabica 50,
no. 3 (1993).
23. Dimitri Gutas, “Avicenna v. Mysticism,” Encyclopaedia Iranica (1989), vol. 3, 80.
24. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance. On his three years spent
studying philosophy with the aim of refuting it, see 18. On his composition of
the Precipitance and his critiques of philosophy, see 23–24.
25. For a discussion of a manuscript of the Doctrines that does not contain these
references to the Precipitance and may belong to a manuscript tradition going
back to the original version of the text, see Ayman Shihadeh, “New Light on the
Reception of al-Ghazālī’s Doctrines of the Philosophers.”
26. Maurice Bouyges, Essai de chronologie des œuvres de al-Ghazali (Algazel)
(1959), 23–24.
27. Janssens makes the connection between the Dānishnāmah and the Doctrines in
Jules Janssens, “Le Dānesh-Nāmeh d’Ibn Sīnā: un Texte à revoir?” Bulletin de
Philosophie Médiévale (Louvain-la-Neuve) 28 (1986): 163–177. He refers to the
work as a taʿlīqa and strongly asserts that it could in no way have been written
as a preparatory work to the Precipitance in Janssens, “Al-Ghazzâlî’s Tahâfut,”
esp. 13.
29. Ibid., 97–101.
30. Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 93.
31. See Frank Griffel, “Toleration and Exclusion: Al-Shāfiʿī and al-Ghazālī on the
Treatment of Apostates,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 64
(2001).
32. Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 102–9.
33. Mīzān, p. 15. See n. 2 above for a discussion of the relationship between the Scale
and the Standard.
34. Several studies have shown the Scale to be an adaptation of the ethical
thought of Ibn Sīnā and al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī. See the extensive critical intro-
duction to al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, The Path to Virtue: The Ethical Philosophy of
al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, an Annotated Translation, with Critical Introduction, of
Kitāb al-Dharīʿah ilā Makārim al-Sharīʿah, trans. Yasien Mohamed (Kuala
Lumpur: International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilization, 2006).
See also Yasien Mohamed, “The Ethics of Education: Al-Iṣfahānī’s al-Dharīʿa as
a Source of Inspiration for al-Ghazālī’s Mīzān al-ʿAmal,” The Muslim World 101,
no. 4 (2011): 633–57; Jules Janssens, “Al-Ghazālī’s Mīzān al-ʿAmal: An Ethical
Summa Based on Ibn Sīnā and al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī,” in Islamic Thought in
the Middle Ages: Studies in Text, Transmission and Translation in Honour of Hans
Daiber, ed. Anna Akasoy and Wim Raven (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 123–137 esp. 137,
n. 29; and Wilferd Madelung, “Ar-Ragib al-Isfahani und die Ethik al-Gazalis,” in
Islamwissenschaftliche Abhandlungen, ed. Richard Gramlich (Wiesbaden: Franz

Steiner Verlag GmbH, 1974).

35. Jules Janssens, “Al-Ghazālī’s Mīzān al-ʿAmal.” While the inspiration for most of
the Scale can be traced to passages in al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī or Ibn Sīnā, Janssens
can find no source for chapters 1–3 (Janssens, p. 124) or chapters 6–8 (Janssens,
p. 126), leading him to conclude that these represent al-Ghazālī’s original ideas.
36. “Success and salvation are not attained except through knowledge and prac-
tice together . . . knowledge is nobler than practice, for it is as though practice
serves the attainment of knowledge and is guided by knowledge until it arrives
in its mark. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Mīzān al-ʿamal, ed. Muḥammad Bījū
(Damascus: Dār at-Taqwā, 2008), 26. Though al-Ghazālī uses the term “salva-
tion” (al-najāt) here rather than “felicity,” this sentence comes in response to the
following question: “You have clarified to me that following the way of felicity is
the resolution of rational men, and that indifference in this is the heedlessness
of the ignorant, but how can someone who does not know the path follow it?
How can I know that knowledge and practice are the path such that I can dedi-
cate myself to it?” This being the case, it is clear that the reference to “salvation”
in the response refers more specifically to felicity.
37. Ibid., 27.
38. Ibid., 54.
39. Ibid., 49.
40. Ibid., 39.
41. Ibid., 27.
42. Ibid., 42.
43. Ibid., 34.
44. Ibid., 27.
45. Ibid., 27.
46. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, 104–5.
47. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalā/Erreur et délivrance, 35.
48. Mīzān, 26 and 43–45.
49. Ibid., 43.
50. Ibid., 44.
51. Ibid., 43. Muqaddam has the sense of supervisor or guardian, which I take to
mean the man was a shaykh who guided novices in their practice. This makes
sense given that al-Ghazālī consulted him about practicing Sufism, presumably
under his guidance. In more contemporary use, a muqaddam is a person depu-
tized by a shaykh to train disciples on his behalf. The term may have had this
connotation in al-Ghazālī’s day as well. See Mark Sedgwick, Against the Modern
World: Traditionalism and the Secret Intellectual History of the Twentieth Century
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 87.
52. It is tempting to draw inferences from the few details present here. In the
following chapter of the Scale, as we shall see shortly, al-Ghazālī tentatively
describes a third way of pursuing felicity, namely the pursuit first of philosophy
and then of Sufism once the insights of philosophy have been exhausted. We

might speculate that he inquired into Sufism in conjunction with his specu-
lation about such a third way. We might also speculate that he was rejected
because he asked about trying a single Sufi practice, namely continually reciting
the Qur’ān, while the shaykh demanded total dedication. The evidence, though,
is too slender to make such inferences.
53. His youthful acquaintance with al-Fāramadhī—see Treiger, Inspired Knowledge
in Islamic Thought, p. 1 and n. 3.
54. Abū Bakr Ibn al-ʿArabī, al-Ghazālī’s student for a short time in Baghdad in
490/1097, reports that al-Ghazālī had begun practicing Sufism already in
486/1093; Frank Griffel accepts Abū Bakr’s account. I am skeptical. As we shall
see, already in the Scale al-Ghazālī is evasive about his discussion of philosophy,
preferring to present the Scale as a work devoted to Sufism. Furthermore, the
Scale describes philosophy and Sufism as identical with respect to practice but
differing with respect to the pursuit of knowledge. Thus al-Ghazāli may have
felt that he could, in good faith, present his earlier philosophically guided ethical
practice as Sufi, and he may have preferred to do so in his discussions with Abū
Bakr, seeing him as better suited to Sufism than philosophy. Abū Bakr presents
himself as having an ascetic bent during his travels in the East. As I will show
in chapter 3, there is further evidence for al-Ghazālī’s later adoption of Sufism
in that the secondhand description of Sufism found in the Scale is reproduced
in book 21 of the post-Baghdad Revival of the Religious Sciences, though now in
al-Ghazālī’s own voice rather than being attributed to a shaykh. That al-Ghazālī
had no more personal experience of the Sufi path at the time of writing this
passage of the Revival suggests that his Sufi practice remained limited even in
his first months after leaving Baghdad. See Abū Bakr Ibn al-ʿArabī, al-ʿAwāṣim
min al-qawāṣim, ed. ʿAmmār Ṭālibī (Cairo: Maktabat Dār al-Turāth, 1997), 24;
Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 42; and ʿAmmār Ṭālibī, Ārāʿ abī bakr
ibn al-ʿarabi al-kalāmiyya (Algiers: al-Sharika al-Waṭaniyya li-l-Nashr wa-l-Tawziʿ
1974), vol. 1, 58–59 (Tālibī quotes Abu Bakr’s unpublished Sirāj al-murīdīn).
55. Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 46–47. Al-Ghazālī makes it clear later in the Scale that most
people will not pursue felicity and that this is a mercy from God: if all people
abandoned their professions, civilization would go to ruin. Ibid., 132–133. The
vast majority of people, then, will not pursue felicity at all. A minority will pur-
sue it through Sufism, an even smaller elite minority will pursue philosophy,
and, as we shall see below, al-Ghazālī suggests that an elite of this elite will pur-
sue first philosophy and then Sufism. It is important to bear this in mind: in his
urgent summons to pursue felicity, al-Ghazālī is addressing the small fragment
of his premodern society that was literate and inclined to the study of religious
sciences.
56. Ibid., 50.
57. Ibid., 73–78. See especially p. 74, where he introduces the concept, and p. 75,
where he weaves the conception of virtue as a mean between a vice of excess
and a vice of deficit into the Islamic tradition by equating the mean with al-ṣirāṭ

al-mustaqīm (cf. Q 1:6).

58. Ibid., 50–51. For further discussion of balancing the faculties to attain the cardi-
nal virtues as well as parables that clarify this concept, see 53–55. For the main
discussion of the virtues, see chapter 16, bayān ummahāt al-faḍā’il, 73–78.
59. See for example ibid., 70. Here he gives advice to Sufi shaykhs on how to guide
their disciples in their training. After a preceding discussion on how a doctor
should treat a sickness by countering, for example, an excess of heat with a
substance that induces coldness, he explains how a shaykh who treats the souls
of his disciples should treat an excess of pride by prescribing actions the dis-
ciple would find humiliating. The reference is to the Sufi shaykh, but the ethical
framework of understanding virtue as a mean between two possible extremes is
philosophical.
60. Ibid., 131, 133 (chapter 27), and 163 (chapter 32).
61. In this section of chapter 8, between the description of the “few of the few” who
are qualified for the study of philosophy and the passage presented here, there
is a brief aside in which al-Ghazālī criticizes scholars who are dependent on
the authority and conclusions of other scholars (muqallid) as opposed to being
masters of their field, qualified for independent investigation and conclusions.
This description of the approach to the study of the sciences of the young man
qualified for both the Theoreticians’ method and Sufism seems to be contrasted
to the muqallid—he should study the sciences philosophically, that is, finding
demonstrative proofs for the various principles to which he assents.
62. Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 47.
63. Ibid., 45.
65. Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 29. This passage will be discussed below.
66. Alexander Treiger also analyzes this passage and likewise that there is no dis-
tinction between the Theoreticians and the philosophers. See Treiger, Inspired
Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 66–68, esp. n. 16.
67. al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 19.
68. Ibid., 20.
69. For a discussion of al-Ghazālī’s views on the afterlife in discussion twenty of the
Precipitance and other of his works, see Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic
Thought, 84–93. On his overview of this discussion of the Scale, see p. 86.
Treiger notes that, while al-Ghazālī shows his familiarity with Ibn Sīnā’s theory
of an imaginal afterlife for unperfected souls in the Scale and elsewhere, he does
not discuss, let alone condemn it in the Precipitance, suggesting his acceptance
of Ibn Sīnā’s position. See 91–92.
70. al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 26.
71. Ibid., 49–50.
72. Avner Gilʿadi, “On the Origins of Two Key Terms in al-Ġazālī’s Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm
al-dīn,” Arabica 36, no. 1 (1989): 86.

73. Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 20–21.

75. See Michot, La destinée de l’homme, 24–25. Michot argues that in a particular pas-
sage of the Risālat al-mabdaʾ wa-l-maʿād, Ibn Sīnā’s reference to “certain sages”
refers, in fact, to Ibn Sīnā’s own views, pointing to his employing a similar strat-
egy in another work in which he ascribes his views to “Oriental Sages,” repre-
senting the school of “Oriental Wisdom.”
76. Gutas, “Avicenna v. Mysticism,” 80.
77. Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 50. A point made by Sherif, Ghazali’s Theory of Virtue, 5, 7.
Avner Gilʿadi, “On the Origins of Two Key Terms,” 86.
78. Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 129–30.
79. Ibid., 158. This is almost certainly a reference to al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī’s The
Means to the Noble Qualities of the Law (al-Dharīʿa ilā makārim al-sharīʿa), which
was a major influence on al-Ghazālī’s ethical thought. See n. 34 above.
83. Ibid., 139. Under the duties of the teacher in this chapter, we also find the injunc-
tion not to teach students material that is too advanced for their understanding.
Ibid., 138–39.
84. al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 36–37.
85. Ibid., 47–48.
86. For example, ʿAbd al-Ghāfir al-Fārisī writes of his maintaining both a small
madrasa and a Sufi lodge (Khānqāh) in Ṭūs. Al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya
al-kubrā, vol. 6, 210.
87. Al-Ghazālī writes in the Deliverer of the stir that his departure caused. The
theory of those outside Baghdad was that he had fled the anger of the authori-
ties, but those close to the authorities, al-Ghazālī writes, saw their insistence on
retaining him and devotion to him. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et
délivrance, 40. This allusion to the political dimension of his decision takes on
new significance in light of the vows he took at the tomb of Abraham, discussed
in chapter 1.
88. Kamā kuntu ḥaṣaltu ʿalayhi min kutub al-ṣūfiyya. Ibid., 38.
chapter 3
1. I have taken these translations with some modification from Treiger, Inspired
Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 38.
2. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 11, 2062. The other two requirements for escaping from
delusion are sound intelligence/reason (ʿaql) and knowledge (maʿrifa) of one’s
Lord, one’s soul, the world, and the hereafter. Knowledge of one’s Lord and one’s
soul belong to the Science of Unveiling, and al-Ghazālī directs his reader to the

following books of the Revival (giving titles that differ somewhat from the ones
found in the book) The Book of Love, The Book of the Marvels of the Heart, The Book
of Contemplation, and The Book of Gratitude (for knowledge of God and the soul).
For guidance on knowing the inferiority of the world and the superiority of the
hereafter, al-Ghazālī refers his reader to The Book of the Condemnation of the World
and The Book of Death.
3. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 5.
4. Ibid., vol. 1, 3. “I have prefaced the whole with The Book of Knowledge.”
5. Ibn Taymiyya writes that “The imams of the religion” say of al-Ghazālī that
“His disease is The Healing,” a reference to the influence of Ibn Sīnā’s great
work. Quoted in Jean Michot, Musique et danse selon Ibn Taymiyya: Le Livre du
Samāʿ et de la Danse (Kitāb al-Samāʿ wa-l-Raqṣ) compilé par le shaykh Muḥmmad
al-Manbijī, Études Musulmanes (Paris: J. Vrin, 1991), 191–92. The source is Ibn
Taymiyya, Majmūʿ al-fatāwā (Rabat: Makātib al-Maʿārif, 1981), vol. 10, 551–52.
6. Janssens, “Al-Ghazzâlî’s Tahâfut,” 1.
7. See Fernando Rodriguez Mediano, “Biografías Almohades en el Tašawwuf
de al-Tādilī,” Estudios onomásticos-biográficos de al-Andalus 10 (2000): 174–78.
Rodriguez Mediano writes that for Sufis of the Islamic West in the 12th and 13th
centuries, the Revival came to stand for Sufism itself.
8. Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 44–47.
9. In a late work on jurisprudence, al-Ghazālī described the Alchemy as a medium-
length treatment of the “science of the path to the hereafter.” al-Ghazālī,
al-Mustaṣfā: 14.
10. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ,vol. 1, 2.
11. Ibid., vol. 1, 90.
12. Ibid., vol. 1, 87.
13. Ibid., vol. 12, 2306 (162). This translation is taken with minor modification from
Treiger, “The Science of Divine Disclosure,” 66.
14. For example, in book 21 of the Revival, Marvels of the Heart, al-Ghazālī writes
that no one can gain felicity except through knowledge, and that the degrees of
knowledge will determine the degrees of felicity. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 8, 1383
(39). In discussing the necessity of cultivating good character in book 22 of the
Revival, Disciplining the Soul, he writes that acting virtuously and performing
ritual acts only lead to felicity if they are performed lightly and with pleasure,
and if this disposition is constant. He quotes the Prophet saying that felicity it is
“life-long obedience of God Most High.” Ibid., vol. 8, 1450 (106). In book 30, The
Condemnation of Delusion, al-Ghazālī declares that sound reason and cleverness
are the basis of all of the felicities; ibid., vol. 11, 2060.
15. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ vol. 1, 90–91. This passage is analyzed in Treiger, Inspired
Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 44–45. The translation here as in the previous
passage draws on Treiger’s.
16. Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 45. Al-Ghazālī had a particu-
lar agenda in his critique of taqlīd, but taqlīd was an issue more generally in

his Ashʿarī school of kalām. See R. M. Frank, “Knowledge and Taqlid: The
Foundations of Religious Belief in Classical Ashʿarism,” Journal of the
American Oriental Society, no. 109 (1989). See also Frank, “Al-Ghazali on
Taqlid.”
18. See Gilʿadi, “On the Origins of Two Key Terms.” For the comparison of these
two passages, see 87–88.
19. Treiger regrets the translation of ʿilm al-kalām as “theology” because it fore-
closes the possibility of considering other discourses about the nature of God
within the Islamic tradition, particularly the philosophical, but also the Sufi, the
Ismaili, and that of groups such as the Brethren of Purity. He calls for recogniz-
ing a distinction between the unique methods of these different groups and the
field of inquiry they all shared, namely theology understood simply as discourse
on God. See Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 29–32.
20 Ibid., 49.
21 Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 34.
22. Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 129. “. . . and knowledge of the resurrection and Day of Judgment
(al-ḥashr wa-l-nashr) and heaven and hell and the bridge and the scale . . . .”
23. Gilʿadi, “On the Origins of Two Key Terms,” 83–84. Gilʿadi points out that the
broader division of the Science of the Hereafter, into a Science of Unveiling
and the Science of Praxis, is philosophical in origin, going back to Aristotle and
reproduced in the writings of al-Fārābī and Ibn Sīnā.
24. Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 80–83.
25. Ibid., 86–87.
26. Ibid., 68.
27. Gilʿadi, “On the Origins of Two Key Terms,” 87. Gilʿadi does not suggest that any
previous Sufi thinker had paired the terms Praxis and Unveiling as al-Ghazālī
did. Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 49–55.
28. Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 55.
29. Ibid., 87.
30. Ibid., 330–34.
32. For a discussion of all of the passages in the Revival in which “Unveiling” is
discussed, see Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 55–62.
33. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 8, 1450 (106).
34. Ibid., vol. 8, 1459 (115). The bridge over hell that all human beings must traverse
on Judgment Day, some crossing, some falling in, is likewise interpreted as a
reference to the Golden Mean.
35. The word for “science” and “knowledge” are the same in Arabic: ʿilm. This can
lead to difficulties of translation when both science and knowledge seem to be in
play in the use of the word ʿilm as it is here. This hadith is usually translated as
“Seeking knowledge is a duty for every Muslim.” But the following conversation
revolves around the question of the religious discipline or science to which this

refers. In this instance I have translated ʿilm, perhaps somewhat awkwardly, as

“science.”
37. Ibid., vol. 1, 25–26.
38. Ibid., vol. 1, 33.
39. Ibid., vol. 1, 33.
40. Ibid., vol. 11, 2045.
41. Ibid., vol.11, 2041.
42. Ibid., vol. 1, 24.
43. Ibid., vol. 1, 27.
44. Ibid., vol. 1, 38-39.
45. A point made by Sherif, Ghazali’s Theory of Virtue, 13–14.
46. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 8, 1442-1443 (98-99).
47. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance: 25–27. In this passage,
al-Ghazālī first claims that the resemblance of his treatment of ethics to philo-
sophical ethics is coincidence, only to go on and justify borrowing from phi-
losophy. His position, he writes, is like that of a skilled snake charmer who can
handle a poisonous snake (philosophy) without harming himself. He should not
do so in front of a child for fear that the child may mimic him and be poisoned.
What is more, he has an obligation to handle the snake for the sake of extract-
ing an antidote from it that would be of value to the community. It would seem
that ethics is the antidote the community needs for curing itself of bad ethical
character that blocks its path to felicity. This passage will be analyzed in the
Epilogue.
48. For a discussion of al-Ghazālī’s attacks on the Ibāḥiyya in various works and the
meaning of the term, see chapter 5 below.
49. Al-Ghazālī cites some legal details that jurists concern themselves with, such
as varieties of divorce, forms of sale, and money-changing, and asks who could
possibly imagine that these could aid a jurist in drawing near to God. Al-Ghazālī,
Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 33.
50. Ibid., vol. 2, 260 (68).
51. Ibid., vol. 2, 254-258 (62–66).
52. Ibid., vol. 2, 224 (32).
53. Ibid., vol. 2, 229 (37).
54. Ibid., vol. 2, 223 (31).
55. Ibid., vol. 2, 280-310 (93–118).
56. Ibid., vol. 2, 305 (113).
57. Ibid., vol. 8, 1522-1523 (178–79).
58. Ibid., vol. 4, 662 (70).
59. Ibid., vol. 4, 662-663 (70––71).
60. Ibid., vol. 4, 664 (72).
61. Ibid., vol. 4, 760 (168).

62. Ibid., 761-764 (169–72).

63. Ibid., 766-780 (174–88).
64. Many definitions of iḥsān in literature on Sufism draw on its use in the famous
hadith of Gabriel. Al-Ghazālī does not cite that hadith here and provides his own
definition of iḥsān as “an act that benefits the one with whom he does business
(muʿāmil) and is not mandatory for him, but is a kindness from him.”
66. Ibid., vol. 5, 793–99 (3–9).
67. Ibid., vol. 5, 799–807 (9–17).
68. Ibid., vol. 4, 765 (173).
69. Cook, Commanding the Right and Forbidding the Wrong in Islamic Thought, 427.
70. Ibid., 445.
72. Al-Ghazālī writes that he originally intended to produce a summary for the ease
of the student of his book, but then decided that the repetition that would have
entailed would have been too tiresome. Presumably the book as it stands still
serves the same end in a less direct way. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 7, 1284 (96).
73. Ibid., vol. 7, 1285–86 (97–98).
74. Ibid., vol. 7, 1287–88 (99–100).
75. Ibid., vol. 8, 1376 (32).
76. Ibid., vol. 8, 1378–79 (34–35).
77. Ibid., vol. 8, 1379–82 (35–38).
80. This is a point made by Jules Janssens, who notes that bayāns 3–4 and 7–9 of
Marvels of the Heart are nearly identical to sections of The Scale of Action. He also
concludes that the two works were written in the same period and even ques-
tions which of them was first. See Jules Janssens, “Al-Ghazālī’s use of Avicennian
texts,” in Problems in Arabic Philosophy, ed. M. Maróth (Piliscsaba: The Avicenna
Institute of Middle East Studies, 2003), 47.
81. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 11, 2007–11.
82. Ibid., vol. 11, 2022–23.
83. Ibid., vol. 11, 2042.
84. Ibid., vol. 11, 2024–25.
85. Ibid., vol. 11, 2047.
86. See chapter 5 below. In The Alchemy of Felicity and the epistle, al-Ghazālī
describes groups of Ibāḥiyya that seem to be philosophers rather than Sufis.
The Ibāḥiyya do not flout the revealed law flagrantly or present it as a hindrance
to attaining true godliness, and so cannot be described as antinomians. On this
group, see Ahmet Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends (Salt Lake City: University
of Utah Press, 1994). The term is often translated as “permissivists.”

88. Ibid., vol. 11, 2055. For a discussion of al-Ghazālī’s consistent critique of al-Ḥallāj
and Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī, see Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 33.
90. Ibid., vol. 11, 2062. See note 2 above.
91. Ibid., vol. 11, 2062.
92. Ibid., vol, 11, 2062–67.
93. On al-Ghazālī’s own position on the death penalty for apostasy, see Griffel,
“Toleration and Exclusion.” Al-Ghazālī advocated a harsher stand on the punish-
ment for renouncing the faith than his predecessors in the Shāfiʿī school of law.
94. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 13, 2494–95 (158–59).
95 Ibid., vol. 13, 2497 (161).
96. Binyamin Abrahamov, Divine Love in Islamic Mysticism: The Teachings of
al-Ghazālī and al-Dabbāgh (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), 74.
97. Alexander Treiger, “Monism and Monotheism in al-Ghazālī’s Mishkāt al-anwār,”
Journal of Qur’anic Studies 9, no. 1 (2007). On the four levels of tawḥīd in book
35 of the Revival, see 5–6. For the superiority of experiential knowledge of God’s
unity but necessity of prior rational investigation, see 16.
98. Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 303.
99. Treiger, “Monism and Monotheism in al-Ghazālī’s Mishkāt al-anwār,” 14–15.
101. Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 105–7; Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s
Philosophical Theology, 219, n. 25.
102. For a discussion of this parable and the three worlds, see Timothy J. Gianotti,
Al-Ghazali’s Unspeakable Doctrine of the Soul: Unveiling the Esoteric Psychology
and Eschatology of the Ihyaʿ, (Leiden, Boston, Köln: Brill, 2001), 152–57. For
a discussion of the three worlds and the World of Compulsion in particular,
see Kojiro Nakamura, “Imâm Ghazâlî’s Cosmology Reconsidered with Special
Reference to the Concept of Jabarût,” Studia Islamica, no. 80 (1994).
103. Al-anbiyāʿ, 23.
104. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 13, 2502-2507 (166–71).
105. Ibid., vol. 13, 2517 (181).
106. For a full investigation of al-Ghazālī’s theodicy and the controversies it pro-
voked to up to the threshold of the modern period, see Eric Ormsby, Theodicy
in Islamic Thought: The Dispute Over al-Ghazali’s “Best of all Possible Worlds”
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984).
107. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 14, 2602–9 (62–68). See Abrahamov, Divine Love in
Islamic Mysticism, 44–45.

111. Ibid., vol. 8, 1378 (34). Al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 44.

112. Binyamin Abrahamov notes that Maimonides uses the same image in The
Guide to the Perplexed and further that Shlomo Pines had identified the source
of Maimonides’s image as Ibn Sīnā’s Pointers and Reminders. Abrahamov, Divine
Love in Islamic Mysticism, 160, n. 90. This would likely have been al-Ghazālī’s
source as well.
Islamic Mysticism, 70.
Islamic Mysticism, 76.
116. Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 228. Treiger finds that al-Ghazālī uses
the term both in a general sense (synonymous with ʿilm) and also in a technical
sense, leading Treiger to translate it as “knOwledge” when it occurs to distin-
guish it from “knowledge” or ʿilm. For his general discussion of the signifi-
cance of maʿrifa in al-Ghazālī’s writings, see ibid., 224–29.
117. See, for example, al-Qushayrī’s discussion of al-maʿrifa bi-l-lāh, al-Qushayrī,
al-Risāla al-qushayriyya, 201–10.
120. Ibid., vol. 15, 2808 (64).
121. Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 105–7.
123. Ibid., vol. 16, 2930–32.
chapter 4
1. For a discussion of claims to authority in the name of traditions that are often
of recent vintage, see Eric Hobsbawm and Hugh Trevor-Roper, The Invention of
Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). For a discussion of
the use of tradition to enable cultural change, see Marilyn Robinson Waldman,
“Tradition as a Modality of Change: Islamic Examples,” History of Religions 25,
no. 4 (1986).
2. Al-Zabīdī notes this as one of two objections (muʾākhadha) that had been raised
to this passage, the other being that al-Ghazālī did not explicitly extend his
invocation of peace upon the rest of the prophets along with his invocation of
prayers, though he seems to do this in point number two. Al-Zabīdī, al-Murtaḍā,
Itḥāf al-sāda al-muttaqīn bi-sharḥ iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, vol. 1, 78–79.
3. Iḥyāʾ, khuṭba, vol. 1, 1-2.
4. At this point, al-Ghazālī resumes his rhymed prose, which continues on and off
for the rest of the passage.

5. It is in just such a style that al-Ghazālī himself is writing this very passage!
6. Iḥyāʾ, khuṭba, vol. 1, 2. Alexander Treiger borrowed my translation of this pas-
sage, modifying it in some places. I have accepted some of his modifications in
this and the following passage
7. Discussing scholars of whom he disapproves in the same breath as practitioners
of lowly or disreputable professions is a tactic that al-Ghazālī often employs. See
Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 64, in which he says that the word “wisdom” has been so corrupted
by the “scholars of iniquity” (ʿulamāʾ al-sūʾ) that it is applied to doctors, poets,
astrologers, and even street jugglers.
8. “. . . .al-amr idd, wa-l-khaṭb jidd, wa-l-ākhira muqbila, wa-l-dunyā mudbira, wa-l-ajal
qarīb, wa-l-safar baʿīd, wa-l-zād ṭafīf, wa-l-khaṭar ʿaẓīm . . . .”
9. And seeing right, al-maʿrūf, as wrong, al-munkar, they are not able to undertake
the duty of commanding right and forbidding wrong, al-amr bi-l-maʿrūf wa-l-
nahy ʿan al-munkar, the subject of book 19 of the Iḥyāʾ. For the importance of
this topic in the Revival, see chapter 3.
10. Iḥyāʾ, khuṭba, vol. 1, 2-3.
11. Al-Makkī, 116ff. Apparently Sahl al-Tustarī (d. 283/896) had also made use
of the word fuqahāʾ to refer to Sufis rather than jurists. See T. J. Winter’s
translation of al-Ghazālī, Disciplining the Soul and Breaking the Two Desires ,
36, n. A.
12. In the introduction to his German translation of Qūt al-qulūb, Richard
Gramlich writes: “The Iḥyāʾ is essentially nothing but a reworking of the Qūt,
adopting the latter’s material, expanding or abbreviating it as needed, ordering
it systematically and re-presenting it in a clearer formulation and a language
that is easier to understand. Here and there the Iḥyāʾ corrects the Qūt and
adds to it from other sources.” Die Nahrung der Herzen, 19. Mustapha Hogga
says much the same. He points out that Makkī often spreads his discussion
of topics through several books rather than treating them systematically in
single sections. Al-Ghazālī’s genius in the Iḥyāʾ lay in the logical, even sym-
metrical structure of the book and his treatment of topics therein. Mustapha
Hogga, Orthodoxie, subversion et réforme en Islam, 191–92 n. 3. Frank Griffel has
demonstrated, though, that al-Ghazālī’s use of Makkī is a creative appropria-
tion rather than an unmediated influence. Without understanding the role of
philosophy in al-Ghazālī’s thought, it is impossible to understand adequately
the role of Sufism in his broader agenda. See Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical
Theology, 227.
13. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 54-55.
14. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 23.
15. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 29.
16. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 30.
17. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 31

18. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 117.

19. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 70.
20. Al-Ghazālī lists them in this order. Sufyān al-Thawrī is not usually listed as one
of the four founders of the surviving legal schools (madhāhib). An extinct law
school, the Thawriyya, did see him as its founder, and he was an early legal
thinker. However, he is better known as a hadith transmitter, a commentator of
the Qur’ān, and one of the “Eight Ascetics,” much revered by later generations
of Sufis for, among other things, his refusal to accept an office offered him by
the ʿAbbāsids. EI (2), Sufyān al-Thawrī, vol. 9, 770–71.
21. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 41-42.
22. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 41-49.
23. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 54.
24. See Garden, “Rhetorics of Revival: al-Ghazālī and his Modern Heirs,” Festschrift
in Honor of Wadad Kadi (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming).
25. Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb, 127–128.
26. al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-shāfiʿiyya al-kubrā, vol. 6, 205.
27. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 133-135.
28. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 38.
29. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 39.
30. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 71-75. Al-Ghazālī says that as long as debate is undertaken in a spirit
of cooperation and joint seeking that aims to discover the truth rather than over-
coming an opponent, it is praiseworthy.
31. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 76-81.
32. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 68.
33. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 87.
34. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 39.
35. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 2, 30.
36. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 2, 31.
37. al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 129–30 and 58.
38. See Otto Pretzl, “Die Streitschrift des Gazali gegen die Ibahiya,” Sitzungsberichte—
Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Abteilung 7
(1933) and Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, The Alchemy of Happiness, trans. Jay R. Crook,
2nd ed., 2 vols. (Chicago: KAZI Publications, 2008). For a fuller discussion of
this campaign and other of al-Ghazālī’s activities after his return to Ṭūs, see
chapter 5.
39. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 30.
40. Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 30. This shows that al-Ghazālī never fully gave up on political rul-
ers playing their part in creating a safe context for religion in theory, even if, in
practice, the point of departure of his revivalist vision was the pious individual
and not the virtuous ruler.
41. My thanks to Yahya Michot for suggesting this term.

chapter 5
1. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 38–39. The “events of the
age” included political turmoil that led al-Ghazālī to leave the city for a year at
some point and also a famine caused by drought and extreme cold. Al-Ghazālī,
Fażāʿil al-anām, 54–55 and 4. But this category could also include al-Ghazālī’s
own activities that will be examined in this chapter.
2. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 46–49.
3. Ibn Athīr writes of al-Ghazālī reading publically from the Iḥyāʾ in Damascus.
See Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 44. The Andalusi Abū Bakr Ibn
al-ʿArabī was al-Ghazalī’s student in Baghdad for a period of a couple of months
beginning in Jumada II 490/May 1097. He writes of having studied (qaraʾtu
ʿalayhi) all of his books with him but writes that he heard (samiʿtu) the Iḥyāʾ.
The distinction must be significant. Hourani accepts that the Iḥyāʾ was com-
pleted after al-Ghazālī’s return to Ṭūs, but writes that there is no way to know
when during his nine-year stay there he would have finished; George Hourani,
“The Chronology of Ghazâlî’s Writings,” Journal of the American Oriental Society
79, no. 4 (1959): 229–30. The assumption of a later date of completion seems
to be based on the sheer length of the Iḥyāʾ. However, there is evidence of
other authors of al-Ghazālī’s time writing books of similar length in a matter
of months. George Makdisi writes that Ibn ʿAqīl’s Kitāb al-funūn, a work of 267
folios that came to almost 800 printed pages, was written in about four months.
Makdisi points out that Ibn ʿAqīl wrote around 200 works of this type—some
160,000 pages. If each of these took 4 months, Ibn ʿAqīl would have required
200 years to write them, so most of these would have to have been written more
quickly still. If this was the norm for some ʿulamāʾ of this period, it would not
be surprising to find that al-Ghazālī, also a prolific writer, completed the Iḥyāʾ
shortly after his return to Ṭūs. See George Makdisi, “Hanbalite Islam,” in Studies
on Islam, ed. Merlin L. Schwartz (New York: Oxford Universtiy Press, 1981), 218.
Alexander Treiger suggests the book was completed in or shortly after 490/1097.
Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought, 12.
4. Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 42-49.
5. As we will see in chapter 6, al-Ghazālī wrote some of his letters in the context of
a controversy and sometimes gives an account of events aimed at strengthening
his position at the expense of factual accuracy. For instance, charged with hav-
ing slandered Abū Ḥanīfa in a youthful work of jurisprudence, al-Ghazālī claims
that harsh critiques of Abū Ḥanīfa had been inserted into this work thirty years
previously by his enemies in an effort to discredit him. The compiler disregards
al-Ghazālī’s account and writes that he actually was the author of the anti-Ḥanafī
sections as well. The text of this work, al-Mankhūl min taʿlīq al-uṣūl, as it has come
down to us, does contain the anti-Ḥanafī material, which gives credence to the
compiler’s account over al-Ghazālī’s. See discussion of this material in chapter 6.

6. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 4–5 and 45.

8. Al-Ghazālī refers to al-Fāramadhī in book 33 of the Iḥyāʾ, writing that he taught
him obedience to the shaykh. See Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought,
1, n. 3, and “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 2. The passage in The Scale of Action
analyzed in chapter 2, in which al-Ghazālī writes of the Sufi method on the basis
of a description given him by a Sufi authority who denied his request to take up
certain Sufi practices, shows that al-Ghazālī did not advance far in his practice
with al-Fāramadhī. It is possible that al-Fāramadhī is the Sufi authority whom
al-Ghazālī cites in this passage, but al-Ghazālī refers to the man as a muqaddam,
and if the term had the same sense then that it has now of a subordinate autho-
rized by a shaykh to train disciples on his behalf, this would not be a description
of al-Fāramadhī.
9. In other works, he is represented not as an elite scholar, but as a Sufi miracle
worker. Omid Safi relates another anecdote in which al-Qushayrī is asked to
pray on behalf of a dying Seljuk official and to ease his transition to the afterlife.
It would seem that religious scholars could play different roles in different cir-
cumstances or points in their lives and be represented by posterity in different
roles. See Safi, Politics of Knowledge, 141.
10. See George Makdisi, “The Sunnī Revival” in Islamic Civilization 950–1150, ed. D.
S. Richards, Papers on Islamic History: III (Oxford: Cassirer, 1973), 166–67.
11. George Makdisi, The Rise of the Colleges: Institutions of Learning in Islam and the
West (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1981). In a letter in the collection,
the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Mulk lists among the accomplishments of al-Kiyā al-Harrāsī
as head of the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa in Baghdad the fact that scholars challenged
one another to debates. See al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 39. Al-Ghazālī writes
that munāẓara is unavoidable for a scholar in Baghdad, ibid., 45.
12. George Makdisi, “Muslim Institutions of Learning,” 40. See also Glassen, Der
Mittlere Weg, 131, n. 3. Glassen cites Ibn al-Jawzi, Muntaẓam vol. 9, 55 and 170.
She also cites Yāfiʿī, Mirʾāti, vol. 3, 135 on honorific titles ending with “dīn”,
which, in Yāfiʿī’s opinion, came into fashion in the time of Niẓām al-Mulk
(himself known as The Support of Religion [qiwām al-dīn]).
13. Hogga, Orthodoxie, Subversion et Réforme en Islam, 24. Hogga cites Ibn al-Jawzī
writing that when al-Ghazālī entered Baghdad, the value of his horse and cloth-
ing was estimated at 500 dinars. Such finery was suspect, and, if it consisted in
men wearing silk or gold jewelry, against the sunna, as al-Ghazālī points out in
the Iḥyāʾ. Al-Ghazālī and other elite scholars may have seen these as important
markers of their prestige and the authority of their religious learning. Ibn ʿAqīl
reports asking a Khurasani faqīh about his silk clothing and gold rings and being
told they were “gifts from the sultan for me, and grief for my enemies.” George
Makdisi, Ibn ʿAqil: Religion and Culture in Classical Islam (Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press, 1997), 203.

204 Notes to Pages 128
14. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 131, n. 8.

15. Hogga, Orthodoxie, Subversion et Réforme en Islam, 23.
16. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʿil al-anām, 4.
17. Hogga, Orthodoxie, Subversion et Réforme en Islam, 34 and n. 2.
18. When al-Ghazālī appeared before Sanjar, he listed the four standard compo-
nents of a discourse held before the king, the second of which was praise.
Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 6. In two of his letters to Sanjar’s vizier Fakhr
al-Mulk, al-Ghazālī writes that praise and pompous titles can be dispensed with,
in one letter because they are superfluous for a man of Fakhr al-Mulk’s rank and
in the second because they are meaningless in comparison to achievement in
seeking the hereafter. The assumption in both cases seems to be that flattery of
the sort Niẓām al-Mulk complains of was expected of religious scholars address-
ing a vizier. See ibid., 29 and 24–25.
19. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 41. When Ṭughril Beg’s troops first entered Baghdad,
his Turkish army engaged in some looting and destruction of the city. The
caliph had Ṭughril Beg’s vizier come to his palace, where he told him that the
sultan would be responsible for the deeds of his troops and held the punishment
in the afterlife before his eyes. The tactic worked. Ṭughril Beg at first said that he
couldn’t restrain his troops because they were too numerous, but that night he
had a dream in which Muhammad told him that he would be held accountable
in the afterlife. After this he tried earnestly to keep his troops from the populace.
20. Safi, Politics of Knowledge, 125–57.
21. Ibid., 133.
22. Ibid., 149–53.
23. Ibid., 141–44.
24. As Safi’s book makes clear, the saintly authority of the deceased archetypes of
such myths is much more secure than the authority of living scholars who cast
themselves in that mold, such as ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadānī, whose dealings
with members of the Seljuk dīvān led to his execution. The claims of the living
to saintly status could always be challenged, their efforts to cast themselves in
harmony with saintly archetypes could sound off-key to some, and the results
could be deadly. Al-Ghazālī, as we shall see, survived challenges to his status
as a scholar of the hereafter. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt did not. I see many more parallels
between the two than does Safi, who presents them as contrasting archetypes.
25. Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, vol. 1, 71–75.
26. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 29, 31–32, 34–35, 36.
27. Al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-shāfiʿiyya al-kubrā, vol. 6, 206.
28. Al-Ghazālī, al-Mustaṣfā, 14.
29. This book has been attributed to Abū Ḥāmid’s brother Aḥmad, but Frank Griffel
has examined several manuscripts of the work and uniformly finds in them
al-Ghazālī writing in the first person of his intention to produce an abridgement
of the Iḥyāʾ. See Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 62 and n. 7.

30. On the distinction in al-Ghazālī’s writings between prophetic powers of insight

and those that can be grasped by non-prophets, see Treiger, Inspired Knowledge
in Islamic Thought, 53–55 and 75.
31. Al-Ghazālī, al-Mustaṣfā, 14. Al-Ghazalī divides his early works on fiqh in
the same way, titling them accordingly: al-Basīṭ f ī al-madhhab, al-Wasīṭ, and
al-Wajīz. He refers to these works in The Mysteries of Prayer. Al-Ghazālī,
Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, vol. 2, 260 (68). See also Hogga, Orthodoxie, Subversion et
Réforme en Islam, 22.
32. Al-Ghazālī, Alchemy, vol. 1, 433–47.
33. Ibid., 24–28.
34. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 73–75.
35. For an account of the wide diffusion of Ibn Sīnā’s ideas and writings in the
middle of the 12th century, see Michot, “La pandémie Avicennienne au VIe/
XIIe siècle.” The fact that al-Ghazālī presented his Avicennan ideas so much
more cautiously in the Revival suggests that they were not yet as well known
or accepted among religious scholars of his day. Chapter 6 will show just how
controversial philosophical ideas remained in his time. I am grateful to Yahya
Michot for suggesting this explanation for the franker philosophical content of
the Alchemy.
36. Al-Ghazālī begins the work with a chapter entitled “That Slackness in Pursuing
Felicity is Stupidity,” al-Ghazālī, Mīzān, 17. And in the following chapter in
which he argues that slackness of faith is stupidity, he begins by writing, “I
say that slackness of faith too, although it is also stupidity, does not necessi-
tate slackness in following the paths of felicity were it not for heedlessness.”
Ibid., 19.
37. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance: 46.
38. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, Otto Pretzl (editor and translator) “Die Streitschrift des
Ġhazālī gegen die Ibāḥīja: im persischen Text herausgegeben und übersetzt,”
Sitzungsberichte der Bayrischen Akademie der Wissenschaften—Philosophisch-
historische Abteilung, no. Heft 7 (1933): p. 1 Persian (no translation of the title
page given in the German translation).
39. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 210; and al-Ghazālī,
Fażāʾil al-anām, 86.
40. Al-Ghazālī, “Streitschrift,” 16 Persian, 37 German.
41. Ibid., 23–26 Persian, 46–50 German.
43. Mīzān al-ʿamal, 21–23. As we saw, here he does not identify them as philoso-
phers or Sufis but rather defines them in many ways in contradistinction to the
philosophers and Sufis who see the necessity of pursuing felicity in the hereaf-
ter, explicitly denying that they can be considered “Theoreticians.”
44. Al-Ghazālī, Alchemy, 51; and al-Ghazālī, “Streitschrift,” 8–10 Persian, 28–30
German.

45. Al-Ghazālī, Alchemy, 54, in a discussion of libertine Sufis; and al-Ghazālī,

“Streitschrift,” 26 Persian, 49–50 German, in a discussion of those who deny
the immortality of the soul.
46. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 28.
47. Ibid., 28-29. Ibrahīm al-Sabbāk is not named in this letter, but Krawulsky, fol-
lowing Thābitī, argues that the Jurjānī referred to in this letter is mentioned
by name as Ibrahīm al-Sabbāk in a later letter to Ḍiyāʾ al-Mulk. See Krawulsky,
Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 26. I am convinced by this suggestion.
48. Tāj al-Dīn al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-shāfiʿiyya al-kubrā, Cairo, 1324, vol. 4, p. 200.
49. al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 35.
50. Ibid., 78–79.
51. See Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 38–39.
52. Al-Ghazālī writes of Masʿūd having just completed his studies of law and adab.
Given that he was born in 464/1071, he would likely have accomplished this
before 499/1106 when al-Ghazālī took up his position in Nishapur, at which
point Masʿūd would have been 35.
54. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 39–40.
56. The letter to Khwāja ʿAbbās discussed below, ibid., 75.
57. The letter to Masʿūd ibn Muḥammad ibn Ghānim cited above, in which
al-Ghazālī invites his addressee to go beyond the science that belongs to this
world to the science concerned exclusively with the hereafter. Ibid., 73–74.
58. Ibid., 79.
59. Ibid., 75.
60. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 38.
61. The compiler of the letters writes that the addressee was one of al-Ghazālī’s
opponents, but there is nothing in the letter to suggest this, and, on the contrary,
the letter imparts spiritual instruction as though to a disciple. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil
al-anām, 72.
62. Ibid., 75–77.
63. Ibid., 77–78.
64. Krawulsky was unable to identify the two men and rejects Iqbāl’s suggested
identification. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 37. The
context the compiler suggests for the letter is utterly implausible. Al-Ghazālī,
Fażāʾil al-anām, 71.
66. Ibid., 28–29.
67. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 29.
69. Notice that al-Ghazālī urges Fakhr al-Mulk to ask God to grant him success in
reforming his subjects. This shows that he had not abandoned the Aristotelian

framework of the Practical Science, in which politics provides the required

context for the pursuit of individual ethical perfection. He downplayed this
aspect of the Practical Science because he despaired of finding a just ruler in
his era.
70. Ibid., 32.
71. Ibid., 24–28.
72. Al-Ghazālī wrote the letter to congratulate Ḍiyāʾ al-Mulk on his appointment
as vizier of Sultan Muhammad. Ḍiyāʾ al-Mulk was appointed in Shawal 500.
Since the letter is written to congratulate him on assuming the office, it must
have been written shortly after this. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid
al-Ġazālī, 29.
74. Ibid., 33–34.
75. In the Deliverer, al-Ghazālī writes of speculation about the motive of his depar-
ture from Baghdad. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 37–38.
For testimony from other sources of the surprise caused by al-Ghazālī’s depar-
ture, see Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 64 and n. 11.
76. Makdisi, “Muslim Institutions of Learning,” 40 n. 3.
chapter 6
1. In his letter to Sanjar, al-Ghazālī asks him to be merciful to the people of Ṭūs,
who are facing famine due to drought and extreme cold that has destroyed their
orchards. He asks him not to take away the last hide of a farmer who has crawled
into his oven with his children to keep warm in wintertime, an act equivalent to
confiscating his very skin. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 4.
2. C. E. Bosworth gives two possible birth years to a concubine of Malikshāh.
Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, ed. E. van Donzel, C. E. Bosworth, W. P. Heinrichs and
Ch. Pellat (Leiden: Brill, 1997) vol. 9, 15.
3. On Ḥanafī-Shāfiʿī rivalry and its role in the ultimate destruction of Nishapur
between 548/1153 and 557/1162, see Richard Bulliet, The Patricians of
Nishapur: A Study in Medieval Islamic Social History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1972), 31–32 and 76–81.
4. I know of no evidence that Sanjar was an especially partisan Ḥanafī, unlike his
grandfather Alp Arslān, who was displeased with Niẓām al-Mulk’s Shāfiʿism.
See Gillies Tetley, The Ghaznavid and Seljuq Turks: poetry as a source for Iranian
history (London and New York: Routledge, 2009), 23.
5. On the taʿlīqa as a genre, see Makdisi, Rise of the Colleges, 114–15. The taʿlīqa also
served as lecture notes for use in the author’s own teaching. For Makdisi’s com-
ments on al-Ghazālī’s Mankhūl, see ibid., 20, 27, 114, 251.

6. Ibid., 127. Al-Juwaynī is said to have exclaimed, “You have buried me alive!
Couldn’t you have waited until I was dead!” ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. ʿAlī Muḥammad
Abū al-Faraj Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī tārīkh al-mulūk wa-l-umam, (ed. F.
Krenkow) 10 vols. (Hyderabad: Maṭbaʿ Dāʾira al-Maʿārif al-ʿUthmāniyya, 1357–
1360 h./1938–1941), vol. 9, 168–69. This Makdisi takes to mean that al-Ghazālī’s
taʿlīqa had surpassed his teacher’s own legal writings. It is unsurprising that
al-Juwaynī would not be troubled by the anti-Ḥanafī material in al-Ghazālī’s
summary of his teaching, or that he himself would have taken the time to criti-
cize Abū Ḥanīfa and Ḥanafī jurisprudence in his teaching. He had suffered
exile from Nishapur during an anti-Shāfiʿī campaign under Niẓām al-Mulk’s
predecessor as vizier to Ṭughril Beg, al-Kundurī. It was during this exile that he
spent time in the Hijaz, earning his title Imām al-Ḥaramayn. See Halm, “Der
Wesir al-Kundurī und die Fitna von Nišāpūr.”
7. Van Ess consulted the Mankhūl and confirmed that al-Ghazālī denies Abū Ḥanīfa
is worthy of being called a mujtahid. See van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le
Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” 60; and al-Ghazālī, al-Mankhūl, 471. In the Mankhūl,
al-Ghazālī further charges that Abū Ḥanīfa “turned the sharīʿa inside out, jum-
bled its method, and altered its rules.” Ibid., 500.
8. Al-Ghazālī concludes this list by writing, “Perhaps the reader of this chapter
will think that we are fanatical partisans of al-Shāfiʿī, furious at Abū Ḥanīfa,
due to our long-windedness in the arrangement of this chapter. Nonsense! We
are nothing if not even-handed judges, limiting ourselves to a small portion of
abundant [examples].” Al-Ghazālī, al-Mankhūl, 504. The compiler of the letters
gives this two-page list of Abū Ḥanīfa’s errors as the reason for the outbreak of
the controversy. This is clearly false, as he goes on to write that Shāfiʿīs joined
the Ḥanafīs in attacking al-Ghazālī. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām: 3. It is hard to
imagine Shāfiʿīs turning against one of their own if partisan attacks on Abū
Ḥanīfa were the main cause of opposition to al-Ghazālī. As we shall see below,
there is good evidence that other issues were at stake.
9. For this passage of the letter written in Mashhad, see al-Ghazālī, Fażāʿil al-anām,
4–5. For the second invocation of the vow at the tomb of Abraham omitting the
renunciation of taʿaṣṣub, see ibid., 45.
10. See Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abū Ḥāmid al-Ġazālī, 35 and Tetley,
Ghaznavid and Seljuq Turks, 170.
11. A letter from al-Ghazālī to Muʿīn al-Mulk has been preserved in which he reports
the dream of a pious man that hinted at danger to Muʿīn al-Mulk. Al-Ghazālī
warns him to live a less indulgent life and at a minimum to give up wine, advice
he describes as demanded by friendship. See al-Ghazālī, Fażāʿil al-anām, 60–61.
12. Safi, Politics of Knowledge, 187.
13. A small, privately financed madrasa. See Frank Griffel’s discussion of the
zāwiya, and his comparison of it to the medieval Latin term for teaching out-
side the purview of the official church: teaching in vinculi (in corners). Griffel,

Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 49.

15. Ibid., 3.
16. Ibid., 24–28.
17. Al-Ghazālī writes of this claim in The Deliverer from Error; al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ
min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance: 49. On the office of the Renewer, its origins,
and its invocation over the centuries, see Ella Landau-Tasseron, “The ‘Cyclical
Reform’: A Study of the Mujaddid Tradition,” Studia Islamica 70 (1989).
19. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 37. It is often suggested that “Proof of Islam” was a
title that came to be attached to al-Ghazālī’s name in recognition of posterity’s
appreciation of the role he played in the development of Islamic thought. This
letter shows that it was a title used in his lifetime and likely officially bestowed
just as “Brilliance of Religion” was.
20. This was a family rather than personal tie to Ṭūs for Fakhr al-Mulk.
21. See al-Ghazālī’s letter on these topics to Fakhr al-Mulk: al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil
al-anām, 24–28.
22. Ibid., 11.
23. In both the Deliverer and his letters, al-Ghazālī refers to this group of spiritual
advisors who assist him and advise him based on their insight and dreams.
He describes them as dear, noble, and insightful men and “lords of hearts and
visions” (arbāb al-qulūb wa-l-mushāhidāt). See ibid., and al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ
min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 49.
24. Bauer, “Zum Titel und zur Abfassung von Ghazalis Ihja.”
25. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʾil al-anām, 10. Al-Ghazālī presents himself as reluctant to return
to teaching during the hearing before Sanjar discussed above. He does so for pur-
poses of reminding Sanjar of the pledge Fakhr al-Mulk gave on his behalf to support
him against opposition. In the Munqidh and in a letter written immediately after
his acquittal, he presents himself and his circle as optimistic over the appointment.
26. Frank Griffel has argued that al-Ghazālī was unhappy about having to teach
in public in a state-sponsored institution, which forced him both to break his
vow at the tomb of Abraham and to open his lectures to anyone who cared to
attend, thus also forcing him to be circumspect about points of his doctrine
related to ʿilm al-mukāshafa. Griffel takes al-Ghazālī’s description of his reserva-
tions at assuming the position in Nishapur in his testimony before Sanjar as
a more honest and accurate description of his response than his enthusiastic
descriptions in the Deliverer and his preface to the transcript of his testimony.
See Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 57. Of course, both descriptions
of his response to Fakhr al-Mulk’s summons have their context, but I accept the
more optimistic description as the more accurate. Al-Ghazālī was not only con-
cerned with the esoteric dimensions of the Science of the Hereafter. Promoting
the Science of Praxis was just as important to him if not more so. He had taken

the very public step of writing the Revival to promote it and seems to have seen
the position at the Niẓāmiyya as a further opportunity to do so.
27. On the zāwiya, its relation to the official madrasa, and role in medieval Islamic
education, see Griffel, al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, p. 49.
30. Ibid., vol. 6, 209.
31. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, al-Imlāʾ f ī ishkālāt al-iḥyāʾ, in Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn.
(Cairo: Lajnat Nashr al-Thaqāfa al-Islāmiyya, 1937-39), vol. 16, 3026.
32. The 11 arguments are summarized at the beginning of the Composition: ibid.,
vol. 16, 3028-3029. Further information is found in al-Ghazālī’s responses to
these questions.
33. On the history of this controversy and the issues it involved, see Ormsby,
Theodicy in Islamic Thought.
34. Al-Ghazālī, al-Imlāʾ, vol. 16, 3068.
35. Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī, “Fayṣal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām wa-l-zandaqa,” in
Majmūʿat rasāʿil al-imām al-ghazālī, ed. Aḥmad Shams al-Dīn (Beirut: Dār
al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1997).
37. Yahya Michot, “An Important Reader of al-Ghazālī: Ibn Taymiyya,” Muslim World
105 (2013): 12–14.
38. Ibid., 28.
39. Richard Bulliet, Patricians of Nishapur, 39.
40. Salāḥ al-Dīn b. Aybak al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāf ī bi-l-wafayāt, ed. Sven Dedering, 2nd unchanged
ed., Biblioteca Islamica (Wiesbaden: Fritz Steiner Verlag, 1981), vol. 4, 320.
41. Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 95, n. 78.
43. Al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāf ī bi-l-wafayāt, vol. 4, 320.
44. Wilferd Madelung, “mulḥid,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam 2,. Madelung adds
that in the Mongol era, Chinese and European travelers brought the name
mulḥid to their native countries as the name of the Niẓārī Ismailis. There
are other references to the Ismailis as malāḥida in the historical and hagio-
graphical sources. When writing of the assassination of Niẓām al-Mulk in
his Saljūq-nāma, Ẓāhir al-Dīn Nīshāpūrī alleges that the assassination was
the result of collusion between Malikshāh’s wife Turkān Khātūn and her
vizier Tāj al-Mulk and the Ismailis, whom he refers to as malāḥida, “her-
etics.” Tetley, Ghaznavid and Seljuq Turks, 124. The hagiographic account of
the life of Aḥmad-i Jām, Maqāmāt-i zhanda pīl, recounts the saint’s role in
rooting out Ismailis in Sanjar’s capital of Marw, referring to them as mulḥid.
Safi, Politics of Knowledge, 150–52. Al-Ghazālī himself uses the term mulḥid
to refer to the Ismailis in his Scandals of the Esotericists. Yazid Said, Ghazālī’s
Politics in Context, 17.

45. Ghurāb, “Ḥawl iḥrāq al-murābiṭīn li-iḥyāʾ al-Ghazālī,” 160–62.

46. Ibid., 160–61.
47. Al-Ghazālī, al-Imlāʾ, vol. 16, 3068-3069. Here al-Ghazālī condemns the doc-
trine of the acquisition of prophethood in the context of a discussion of a
passage in the allegory in which the protagonist is compared to Moses. Given
the evidence in al-Ṭurṭūshī’s letter, we can infer that this passing rejection
of the doctrine was motivated by the fact that al-Ghazālī stood accused of
holding it.
48. Ghurāb, “Ḥawl iḥrāq al-murābiṭīn li-iḥyāʾ al-Ghazālī,” 161.
49. Al-Ghazālī, al-Imlāʾ, vol. 16, 3065–3068.
51. Al-Ghazālī, “Fayṣal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām wa-l-zandaqa,” 75.
52. Ibid., 76.
53. Martin Whittingham, Al-Ghazālī and the Qur’ān: One Book, Many Meanings
(London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 27.
54. Van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” 63. Van Ess points
to Laoust p. 138 and 141f. as the first to make this claim.
55. On al-Ghazālī’s debt to Galen in the Munqidh, see Menn, “Discourse on the
Method and the Tradition of Intellectual Autobiography.” Menn mentions
that this connection had already been identified by Misch in his Geschichte
der Autobiographie. For the debt to al-Muḥāsibī, ʿUmar Khayyām, and Nāṣir-i
Khusraw, see van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,”
64–65, 65–67, and 67–68 respectively. Van Ess also points to others who have
seen these parallels, 67 n. 47.
58. Van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” 62.
60. Ibid., 15.
61. Menn, “Discourse on the Method and the Tradition of Intellectual
Autobiography,” 150–51.
63. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 26, 27, 33.
64. See Treiger, “Science of Divine Disclosure,” 83–85; Whittingham, Al-Ghazālī
and the Qur’ān, 68–69; Griffel, Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology, 199–200.
65. “You have asked me, oh brother in religion . . . what turned me away from
spreading knowledge in Baghdad, despite my numerous students, and what
summoned me to my return in Nishapur after such a long period.” Al-Ghazālī,
al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 9.
67. We might also find a parallel to the title in, once again, Ibn Sīnā’s Book of the
Cure, in which the book itself provides the cure in the form of its systematized

presentation of philosophical knowledge. But the Deliverer does not offer a simi-
lar body of knowledge; the book establishes that al-Ghazālī’s unique trajectory
has made him an infallible guide, but it does not guide its reader to reproduce
al-Ghazālī’s accomplishment.
69. The term he uses to describe the dreams is mutawātir, a term used in had-
ith criticism to refer to anecdotes about the sayings or deeds of the Prophet
Muhammad attested to by multiple, independent chains of transmission. Such
hadith are the gold standard of authenticity and authority, and al-Ghazālī is
appropriating the same authority for his claim to be the Renewer.
71. Ibid., 50.
72. Ibid., 49.
73. His teacher al-Suyūrī said he had the keenest memory he had ever seen. One
of his students said that he was the most knowledgeable in fiqh of any Mālikī.
Abū al-Faḍl b. Mūsā b. ʿIyāḍ al-Sabtī al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb al-madārik wa taqrīb
al-masālik f ī maʿrifat aʿlām madhhab mālik, ed. Saʿīd Aḥmad Aʿrāb, 8 vols.
(Ribāṭ: Wizārat al-Awqāf wa-l-Shuʾūn al-Islāmiyya, 1384/1403–1965–1983).
For fuller treatment of al-Māzarī al-Dhakī and his role in the controversy, see
Kenneth Garden, “Al-Māzarī al-Dhakī: Al-Ghazālī’s Maghribi Adversary in
Nishapur,” Journal of Islamic Studies 21, no. 1 (2010).
74. It is often repeated in the literature on Sanjar that he was illiterate, a view cor-
roborated by a book for pious contemplation al-Ghazālī wrote for him entitled
Counsel for Kings, in which he recommends that Sanjar have the book read to
him on Fridays, not that he read it himself. See Abū Ḥāmid Al-Ghazālī, Ghazālī’s
Book of Counsel for Kings (Naṣīḥat al-mulūk), trans. F. R. C. Bagley (London,
1964), 5. If he were illiterate, he would certainly never have profited from the
services of an Arab grammarian. He was seven or younger when Malikshāh
was assassinated and was sent by Barkyārūq to be governor of Khurasan in
490/1097 when he was, at most, 13. EI2, vol. 9, pp. 15–17.
75. Al-Suyūṭī reports a confrontation between him and Muḥammad b. Manṣūr
al-Samʿānī (d. 510/1116) in Marw. See Jalāl al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Suyūṭī,
Bughyat al-wuʿā f ī ṭabaqāt al-lughawiyyīn wa-l-nuḥā, ed. ʿAlī Muḥammad ʿUmar,
2 vols. (Cairo: Al-Nāshir maktabat al-Khānjī, 1426/2005), vol. 1, 198. Ibn al-Qifṭī
writes of debates al-Māzarī al-Dhakī had with scholars in Khurasan, includ-
ing one over the etymology of a Persian word in a hadith, and writes that he
had some unique exegeses of akhbār, in which nobody followed him, which
Ibn al-Qifṭī attributes to his narcissism (iʿjābuhu bi-nafsihi). See al-Wazīr Jamāl
al-Dīn Abī al-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Yūsuf Ibn al-Qifṭī, Inbāh al-ruʿā ʿalā anbāh al-nujā,
ed. Muḥammad Abū al-Faḍl Ibrahīm (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Kutub al-Thaqāfiyya,
1406/1986), 73–74.


77. Ibid., 11.
78. Ibid., 12–23.
79. Ibid., 11–12.
80. Ibid., 11.
81. Ibid., 12.
82. Ibid.
83. Ibid., 4–5. For a fuller discussion of this letter and the Deliverer as instances of
al-Ghazālī’s autobiographical writings, see Garden, “Coming Down from the
Mountaintop.”
84. Mālikshāh reigned 465–485/1072–1092.
85. Al-Ghazālī, Fażāʿil al-anām, 4–5.
87. Ibid.
88. The authenticity of Counsel as it has come down to us has been the object of
some debate. The majority opinion is that only the first of its two sections, con-
sisting mainly of pious advice, is authentic, while the second section, consist-
ing of advice of a more political nature and drawing frequently on examples of
pre-Islamic Sassanian kings, is a forged interpolation. There are serious schol-
ars, though, such as Erika Glassen and Omid Safi, who maintain that both sec-
tions of the work are authentic. See Glassen, Der Mittlere Weg, 93, n. 66 and
Safi, Politics of Knowledge, 115–19. Given the harm done to al-Ghazālī scholarship
by previous attempts to dismiss sections of al-Ghazālī’s authentic writings and
sometimes entire works as forgeries, the question should be seriously consid-
ered. I take the majority opinion that the second section of Counsel for Kings
is forged for two reasons. First, early in the work al-Ghazālī advises Sanjar to
devote one day a week—Friday—to devotion to God. He should fast on that day
and Thursday, too, if possible. He should dress himself in lawful clothes, not
of silk, and appropriate for prayer. He should rise early, pray the dawn prayer
in company, then speak to no one and maintain his gaze in the direction of
the qibla until sunrise. He should recite God’s names and recite the shahada
1000 times. In addition to this, al-Ghazālī writes, “When the sun rises, order
a reader to read this book to you aloud, and let him read it again every Friday
until it abides in your memory.” Al-Ghazālī, Ghazālī’s Book of Counsel for Kings
(Naṣīḥat al-mulūk): 5. Counsel for Kings is not presented as a primer on regal
etiquette and Machiavellian political intrigue, but as a guide to pious conduct
whose very reading is itself an act of devotion. Given this function of the book, it is
hard to imagine that the worldly material found in the second half of the work
as it has come down to us could have been included by al-Ghazālī. The first half
of Counsel for Kings, too, gives practical advice on ruling justly, but for a ruler,
ruling justly is also a crucial act of devotion upon which salvation is contingent,

as al-Ghazālī writes in his letters and book 20 of the Alchemy. The second rea-
son for rejecting the authenticity of the second half has to do with the context
in which al-Ghazālī wrote Counsel for Kings. As we have seen, after al-Ghazālī’s
repentance and especially after his return to Khurasan he staked his authority
on his embodiment of detached, otherworldly piety. The first section of Counsel
for Kings is in keeping with this self-presentation, which we find throughout his
letters. The second half is not, and it is implausible that he would undermine his
pious self-presentation by including such worldly advice.
89. Ibn al-Qaṭṭān, in Naẓm al-Jumān, ed. Mahmoud Ali Makki (Beirut: Dar al-Gharb
al-Islami, 1410/1990), 70–72.
90. Ghurāb, “Ḥawl iḥrāq al-murābiṭīn li-iḥyāʾ al-Ghazālī,” 158–63.
91. Al-Imām Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Dhahabī, Shuʿayb al-Arnaʿūt, and
Ḥusayn al-Asad, eds., Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ, 25 vols. (Beirut: Muʿassasat
al-Risāla, 1981–1988), vol. 19, 340. For further discussion of al-Māzarī al-Imām’s
critique of al-Ghazālī, see Garden, “Al-Māzarī al-Dhakī,” 104–7.
92. ʿIyāḍ, Tartīb al-madārik wa taqrīb al-masālik f ī maʿrifat aʿlām madhhab Mālik,
vol. 8, 103.
epilogue
1. For a 20th-century invocation of the hadith of the Renewer as an authorizing
strategy, see Abu Aʿla al-Mawdudi, A Short History of the Revivalist Movement in
Islam, trans. al-Ashʿari (Lahore: Islamic Publications Ltd., 1963). For a study of
the “mujaddid tradition,” see Landau-Tasseron, “The ‘Cyclical Reform.’ ”
2. Marilyn Robinson Waldman makes this point: Waldman, “Tradition as a
Modality of Change.”
4. Van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min aḍ-ḍalâl,” 65–66. It is also
possible that al-Ghazālī took this directly from ʿUmar Khayyām, and that this
trope had no wider circulation. Van Ess points out that ʿUmar Khayyām, like
al-Ghazālī, finds Sufism the highest method, but that he reaches this conclusion
in a work of philosophy! For ʿUmar Khayyām, as for al-Ghazālī, these methods
are not mutually exclusive.
6. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 25–26. Alexander Treiger
has translated and closely analyzed this passage. See Treiger, Inspired Knowledge
in Islamic Thought, 98–99. His more extensive analysis of these and other
related passages and demonstration of al-Ghazālī’s borrowing from Ibn Sīnā in
this very section are illuminating.
7. al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 27.

9. If bodily felicity (saʿāda) results from bodily health, then, following the parallel
between body and soul maintained throughout this passage, spiritual felicity
results from spiritual health.
10. The other being his reworded invocation of the hadith of the Renewer discussed
in chapter 6. See al-Ghazālī, al-Munqiḏ min aḍalāl/Erreur et délivrance, 49.

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Index
ʿAbbās, Khwāja, 137 ʿālam al-jabarūt, see World of

Abbasid Dynasty, 17, 20–25 Compulsion
ʿAbd al-Ghāfir al-Fārisī: al-Ghazālī ʿālam al-mulk wa-l-shahāda), see World
biography by, 20, 115, 130, 141–42, of Dominion and Witnessing
149, 156, 167; on al-Ghazālī’s ʿālam al-malakūt, see World of
response to critics, 156; on al- Sovereignty
Ghazālī’s return to Nishapur, 141– Alamūt, 19, 24–25
42, 149; on al-Ghazālī’s theological The Alchemist of Felicity (film), 4
debates, 115; on Nishapur The Alchemy of Felicity: on atheism, 134;
controversy, 167 on the body and appetites, 131; on
Abraham’s tomb. See under al-Ghazālī, felicity in the hereafter, 131, 140;
Abū Ḥāmid “Governance and Management
Abū al-Fatḥ Sahl ibn Aḥmad, 137 of the State,” 132–33; on the heart,
Abū al-Maḥāsin Masʿūd ibn 131; on the Ibāḥiyya, 91, 120,
Muḥammad ibn Ghānim, 135–36 133–34; introduction of, 131–32;
Abū Ḥanīfa: al-Ghazālī’s controversy on knowledge, 131–32; Persian lay
regarding, 143, 145–46, 152, 155, audience of, 130–32; philosophy
164–65, 203n5, 208n6, 209n8; and, 133–34; The Revival of the
pilgrimages to grave of, 21; Science Religious Sciences and, 9–10, 126,
of the Hereafter and, 113 130–32, 170; on salvation, 132;
Abulaylah, Muhammad, 3 Science of the Hereafter and, 70,
Abū Saʿd al-Ṣūfī (Sufi hospice), 28 132–33; Science of Unveiling and,
Abū Saʿīd Ibn Abī al-Khayr, 31, 129, 187n2 131; on the soul, 131–32
Abū Sulaymān al-Dārānī, 151 ʿAlī, 21
Active Intellect (al-ʿaql al-faʿʿāl), 35, Allāh. See God
95–96 allegory of the pens, 95–98, 150, 152–54,
Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, 21, 113, 115 158, 167
Aḥmad-i Jām, 129, 211n44 Almoravid Dynasty, xi, 28
al-Akiti, M. Afifi, 7 Alp Arslān, 145, 208n4
Garden Index.indd 225 6/7/2007 4:15:15 AM

226 Index
ʿAmīd al-Dawla, 24–25 The Book of Disciplining the Soul (section

Andalusi kingdoms, 28 in Revival), 66, 82, 85, 87–89
Arghiyānī, Aḥmad, 137 The Book of the Foundations of the
Aristotle: Ibn Sīnā and, 37; Naturalists Doctrines (section in Revival), 81
and, 51; political theory and, 54; The Book of Knowledge (section in
Practical Science and, 53; vices Revival), 66, 71, 77, 81, 110–12, 117,
and, 90; virtue and, 47, 54, 120
80, 89 The Book of the Lawful and the Prohibited
al-Ashʿarī, 156 (section in Revival), 85
Asín-Palacios, Miguel, 4 The Book of Manners of Earning a
Assassins, 19, 24–25, 154 Livelihood (section in Revival),
Augustine, 3 83–85
Avicenna. See Ibn Sīnā The Book of Manners of Eating (section
in Revival), 83–84
Bābā Ṭāhir, 129 The Book of Manners of Living and
Baghdad. See under al-Ghazālī, Abū Prophetic Morals (section in
Ḥāmid Revival), 87
The Balanced Book of What-to-Believe (al- The Book of Manners of Travelling
Iqtiṣād fī al-i ʿtiqād), 26, 117 (section in Revival), 27
al-Bāqillānī, Abū Bakr, 162 The Book of the Marvels of the Heart
Barhebraeus, Gregory, 9 (section in Revival), 58, 66, 80,
Barkyārūq, 23–25 87, 88–89, 91, 99, 187n1, 195n14,
Bauer, Hans, 148 198n80; parallels to The Scale of
The Beginning of Guidance (Bidāyat al- Action in, 88–89
hidāya), 130 The Book of the Mysteries of Purity
Bidāyat al-hidāya (al-Ghazālī), see The (section in Revival), 81, 118–20
Beginning of Guidance The Book of the Mysteries of Worship
al-Bisṭāmī, Abū Yazīd, 33, 43, 75 (section in Revival), 81–82
A Book in which is Discussed the Stupidity The Book of Patience and Gratitude
of the Ibāḥiyya, 133 (section in Revival), 71
The Book of Breaking the Two Desires The Book of Professing God’s Oneness and
(section in Revival), 83, 89 Relying on God (section in Revival),
The Book of the Cure (Kitāb al-shifāʾ, Ibn 92, 150, 167
Sīnā), 6, 34, 67–78, 80 153, 175, The Book of Remembrance of Death and
194n9, 212n67 the Afterlife (section in Revival),
The Book of Commanding Right and 100–101
Forbidding Wrong (section in “Brilliance of the Religion” (Zayn al-dīn,
Revival), 54–55, 66, 76, 85–86 al-Ghazālī honorific), 22, 128, 147
The Book of the Condemnation of Bulliet, Richard, 153
Delusions (section in Revival),
65–66, 81, 90–92 The Choice Essentials of the Science of the
The Book of Contemplation (section in Methods (al-Mustaṣfā min ʿilm al-
Revival), 100 uṣūl), 130, 132

Index 227
Companions of the Prophet: The Revival authority in, 3, 9, 14, 55, 148, 160–
of the Religious Sciences on, 82, 61, 170; on prophetic guidance, 175–
113–15, 117–18, 122; Science of the 76; Qurʾān and, 175; on kalām, 2,
Hereafter and, 117–18, 122 159–60; as response to Nishapuri
The Composition on the Critiques of the controversy, 158–60; revivalist
Revival (al-Imlā ʾfī ishkālāt al-iḥyāʾ): elements in, 170, 175–76; The
on allegory of the pens, 150–51; Revival of the Religious Sciences and,
on the doctrine of acquisition 11, 14, 147, 175; The Scale of Action
to prophethood, 155; al-Ghazālī’s and, 31; as spiritual crisis narrative,
reasons for writing, xii; on God’s 3, 7, 30, 141, 158, 165, 170; Sufism
unity, 150–51; as response to and, 2, 4–5, 10, 31, 41, 44, 159–60,
Nishapuri controversy, 14, 92, 147, 171–76; Western understanding of
149–52, 154–55, 166–67 al-Ghazālī and, 3–4, 170
The Confessions of al-Ghazālī (Field The Distinguishing Criterion between
translation), 3 Islam and Clandestine Apostasy
Cook, Michael, 9, 85–87 (Fayṣal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām wa-
Counsel for Kings (Naṣīḥat-i mulūk), 14, l-zandaqa): allegory of the pens
147, 166, 214n48 and, 152; call for forbearance in,
Creation and the Cosmic System (Frank), 5–6 156–57; on Qurʾānic interpretation,
157–58; as a response to Nishapuri
Dānishnāmah (Ibn Sīnā), 6, 39 controversy and, 147, 156–57, 159,
Deliverance from Error (Watt translation), 167; Revival and, 14; on Science
3, 177n9 of Praxis, 157; on truth of
Deliverer from Error (al-Munqidh min scripture, 40
al-ḍalāl): as apologia, 7, 14, 158–59, Diyāʾ al-Mulk, 135, 140
170; on Brethren of Purity, 159–60; The Doctrines of the Philosophers (Maqāṣid
on error, 173; as al-Ghazālī’s al-falāsifa), xii, 5–6, 38–39, 172
autobiography, 1–3, 5, 7–8, 30, 125,
142, 147, 158, 164–65; al-Ghazālī’s ego (nafs), 32–33, 43, 106, 178n15
Persian letters and, xii; on al- Eminence among Religious Authorities
Ghazālī’s return to teaching, 19, 155, (Sharaf al-āʾimma, al-Ghazālī
160–61, 171, 174–75; introduction honorific), 22, 128, 147
of, 170–71; on Ismaili Shiism, Epistle on Sufism (al-Risāla fī al-
2, 159–60, 171; on lax practice of taṣawwuf, al-Qushayrī), 33, 128
religion, 133; Materialists and, 134; eschatology, 73
mysticism and, 3–4; Naturalists The Ethicon (Barhebraeus), 9
and, 51, 134; Nishapuri controversy La Espiritualidad de Algazel y su sentido
trial and, 164–65, 167; on obligation Cristiano (Asín-Palacios), 4
to truth, 173–74; Persian letters Exordium (Khuṭba, section in Revival),
controversy and, 7; on philosophy, 66, 70, 77, 105–7, 109, 114
2, 4–5, 31, 38, 41, 58, 80, 159–60,
163, 170–76; Precipitance and, Faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya wa faḍāʾil al-
38–39; proclamation of religious mustaẓhariyya (al-Ghazālī), see

228 Index
The Scandals of the Esotericists and 209n8; at Abū Saʿd al-Ṣūfī (Sufi
Virtues of the Mustaẓhirites hospice), 28; on acquisition of
Fakhr al-Mulk: The Alchemy of Felicity prophethood, 167; on apostasy, 39–
and, 130, 133, 140, 147–48; 40; Aristotle and, 47; on atheism,
assassination of, 11, 13, 140, 149, 134; in Baghdad, 2–3, 11–12, 17–18,
154, 158–59; al-Ghazālī and, 11, 13, 28, 126, 147, 174; on the body and
19, 130, 133–34, 138–42, 145–48, 153, passions, 42–43, 56, 83–84, 86–87,
155–56, 160–61; as Seljuk vizier, 23, 89, 99, 101, 131; on the Brethren of
133, 138–39, 141, 146–47 Purity, 155, 159–60, 167; on caliph-
al-Fārābī, 6, 36, 50, 74 sultan relations, 26, 57; Christian
al-Fāramadhī, 127–29, 203n8 scholars and, 4, 178n16; on the
Fatimid dynasty, 19 Companions of the Prophet, 82,
al-Fayḍ, Muḥsin, 9 113–15, 117–18, 122; cosmology of,
Fayṣal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām wa-l- 92–98; in Damascus, 3–4, 58, 89,
zandaqa (al-Ghazālī), see The 165, 178n15; ethics and, 12–13, 30,
Distinguishing Criterion between 40, 42, 47, 53–54, 58, 66, 76, 80,
Islam and Clandestine Apostasy 83, 87–90, 197n47; Fakhr al-Mulk
felicity in the hereafter (al-saʿāda al- and, 11, 13, 19, 130, 133–134, 138–142,
ukhrawiyya): compared to salvation 145–148, 153, 155–156, 160–161; on
(najāt), 31, 36–37, 41, 67, 70, 75, 93, felicity in the hereafter and, 12–13,
121, 174; Ibn Sīnā on, 36–37, 50, 28, 31, 40–43, 49–50, 55–58, 63, 65,
71, 121; knowledge of God and, 98; 67–71, 75, 81, 93–94, 99, 101, 103–
knowledge of the intelligibles and, 104, 107, 109, 111, 121, 131, 140, 169,
41, 91; philosophy and, 38–39, 41, 190n36; on financial transactions,
44, 46; The Revival of the Religious 84–85; on God, 2, 26, 39, 42–43,
Sciences on, 13, 28, 63, 65, 67–71, 73, 150–51; on the heart, 88, 91,
75, 81, 93–94, 99, 101, 103–4, 107, 95–96, 131; honorifics for, 22, 128,
109, 169; The Scale of Action on, 12, 147; on Ibāḥiyya, 81, 90–91, 120,
31, 40–43, 49–50, 55–56, 63, 68, 126, 133–34, 198n86; Ibn Sīnā and,
70, 71, 101, 111, 121, 190n36; Science xii , 6, 9, 37, 40, 50, 58, 74, 80,
of the Hereafter and, 71, 75, 78; 95, 99, 121, 132, 153, 175; on inner
Sufism and, 41, 43–45 purity, 119–20; on the intellect, 91,
Field, Claude, 3 95–96, 98–99; in Isfahan, 11–12,
fiqh. See jurisprudence 17–18, 20, 125, 127, 148, 151, 162,
Frank, Richard, xii, 5–6 164–65; Ismaili Shiism and, 1–2,
11, 18, 20, 26, 125, 154, 159–60,
Galen, 2, 7, 158–59 163, 171; on jurisprudence (fiqh),
geometry and arithmetic, 80 54, 63, 66, 68, 76–78, 80–81, 83,
al-Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid: Abraham’s 103, 107–108, 111–112, 114, 120, 125,
tomb vows of, 11–12, 17–18, 20, 27, 136, 141; on jurists, 78, 81, 90, 107,
126–27, 129, 144, 156, 160, 164–66, 112–114, 116–117; on knowledge, 40,
210n26; Abū Ḥanīfa and, 143, 145– 42–43, 91–101, 111, 131–32, 195n14;
46, 152, 155, 164–65, 203n5, 208n6, in Levant, 2, 4, 27, 126, 134, 165;

Index 229
on love, 98–99; Malikshāh and, in afterlife between salvation and

12, 18, 20, 23, 125, 128, 144–145, felicity), 72, 85; on Righteous
164–165; monistic metaphysics of, Forebears, 109–111, 113; on ritual
92, 95, 98; neoplatonism and, 8; duties, 77–78, 81–82, 85, 90,
in Nishapur, 1–3, 8, 11, 13, 18, 20, 101, 104; on ritual purity, 79, 82,
23, 28, 92, 125–27, 140–41, 145–55, 118–120; on salvation, 28, 70–72,
158–61, 163, 165–66, 170–71, 174; 83, 84, 92–93, 102, 132; Science
Nishapuri controversy and, 147, of Praxis and, 54, 63, 66, 69–72,
149–55, 161–67; Niẓām al-Mulk 75–80, 85, 91, 102, 104, 121, 131,
and, 11–13, 18–20, 22, 25, 27, 57, 157; Science of the Hereafter and,
115, 125, 128, 147–148; on obligation xi–xii, 10, 12–13, 63, 68–71, 78–81,
to truth, 173–74; philosophy and, 83, 90, 93, 102, 104, 107–122, 125,
2, 4–7, 10–13, 31, 38–41, 43–47, 130, 132–33, 141, 152, 157, 169, 176;
49–53, 58, 66–69, 73–76, 79–80, Science of Unveiling and, 63, 69,
86, 88–92, 94, 99–106, 116, 71–75, 77, 80, 90–91, 93–94, 102–
133–134, 138, 150, 153–154, 159–160, 104, 121, 131, 137, 155; Sciences of the
163, 170–176, 192n55, 197n47; World and, 93, 109–112, 141; Seljuk
political connections of, 10–11, Dynasty and, 10–11, 14, 17–20,
13, 18–20, 25, 27–29, 57, 125–30, 23–24, 28, 54, 57, 67, 85, 125–26,
134–36, 138–40, 144–46, 170; on 138–40, 143–47, 161–63; Seljuk
political theory, 26–27, 57, 86–87; succession crisis and, 23–24, 54,
Practical Science and, 30, 50, 67, 85, 125; Shāfiʿī legal tradition
53–57, 73, 75–76, 85–86, 104; as and, 18–19, 143; on the soul, 43, 47,
“preacher of faultless conduct,” 131–132; spiritual crisis of, 29–30;
57; proclamations of religious Sufism and, xi–xii, 2, 4–5, 9–10,
authority by, 3, 9, 14, 55–56, 105, 12–13, 31–32, 41, 43–47, 49–50, 57–
148, 160–61, 169–70; profession of 58, 66–69, 75–76, 79–80, 88–94,
political disengagement by, 27, 29, 99–102, 104, 138, 159–160, 171–176,
54, 56–57, 125, 127, 139, 141, 160; on 187n1, 191–92n54, 192n55; on
prophetic guidance, 175–176; on theologians, 78–79, 81, 90, 93, 107,
the Prophet Muḥammad, 42, 73, 109, 114–117, 121; theological debate
87, 107, 110, 114, 132; recruitment and, 20, 116, 128–29, 136, 144, 156,
of students by, 136–38, 170; on 183n9, 202n30; theoretical science
kalām, xi, 2, 28, 68, 77–80, 93, and, 42, 50, 52, 55, 57, 72–75;
101, 103, 107–109, 111, 115–117, 122, Theoreticians and, 45–47; trial of,
125, 141, 159–60, 169; as Renewer 163–66; turning point (488/1095)
(mujaddid), 9, 11, 14, 55, 142, of, 56–59; in Ṭūs, 10, 13, 125–26,
147–48, 161, 169; response to 139, 145, 166, 208n1; on vices, 90,
critics by, 155–61; on revelation, 39; 101; on virtue, 47, 82, 92; Western
revisionist scholarship on, 5–7; understanding of, 3–5, 170;
revivalism of, 1, 5, 8–12, 104–105, Zoroastrianism and, 153–54, 163
109, 111, 115, 148, 152, 155, 169–70, Ghaznavid Empire, 19
175–176; on “reward” (third fate Ghuzz (Turkic nomads), 19

230 Index
Gilʿadi, Avner, 50, 72–74, 196n23, Ibn Ḥanbal, Aḥmad, 21, 113, 115
196n27 Ibn Masʿūd, 118
Glassen, Erika, 21, 24, 28, 185n39 Ibn Rushd, 8
God: creation of universe by, 100; four Ibn Sīnā: Aristotelianism and, 37; The
degrees of realizing unity of, Book of the Cure and, 6, 34, 67–78,
93–94; infinity of, 99; love and, 80 153, 175, 194n9, 212n67; flying
98–99; as Necessary Existent, man experiment of, 132; al-Ghazālī
34–35, 92, 95; philosophy and, and, xii, 6, 9, 37, 40, 50, 58, 74,
34–37, 39; unity of, 39, 92–95, 97, 80, 95, 99, 121, 132, 153, 175; on
102, 120, 150–51 God as Necessary Existent, 95, 150;
Gramlich, Richard, 201n12 philosophy and, 34, 36–38, 67, 133;
Griffel, Frank, xii, 6, 8, 39, 125, 187n1, Ptolemy and, 37; on salvation versus
210n26 felicity in the hereafter, 36–37, 50,
71, 121; Sufism and, 31; syllogisms
hadith: of Gabriel, 197n64; on and, 52
obligations for every Muslim, 77, Ibn Taymiyya, 152–53
196n35; on the Renewer, 147–48, Ibn ʿAqīl, 21, 203n3
161, 182n46; on ritual purity, Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn (al-Ghazālī), see The
118; sufficiency of for religious Revival of the Religious Sciences
guidance, 116; on virtues of God, 32 Ilhām: see mystical inspiration
Hadot, Pierre, 32 ʿilm al-ākhira, see Science of the
al-Ḥakīm, Suʿād, 9 Hereafter
al-Ḥallāj, 33, 43, 75, 91 ʿilm al-muʿāmala, see Science of Praxis
Ḥanafī legal tradition: al-Ghazālī and, ʿilm al-mukāshafa, see Science of
18, 21; Seljuk Dynasty and, 20–21, Unveiling
143; Shāfiʿī legal tradition and, al-Imlā ʾfī ishkālāt al-iḥyāʾ(al-Ghazālī),
20–21, 136, 143, 152–53, 209n8 see The Composition on the Critiques
Ḥanbalīs: 21; reputation for of the Revival
incorruptibility among, 128 Incoherence of the Philosophers. See
al-Ḥarrāsī, al-Kiyāʾ, 166 Precipitance of the Philosophers
Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, 19, 25 intelligibles: felicity in the hereafter and,
Hillenbrand, Carole, 24–26 41, 91; philosophy and, 36, 38, 52
Hogga, Mustapha, 25, 201n12 al-Iqtiṣād fī al-i ʿtiqād (al-Ghazālī), see
Hourani, Albert, xii The Balanced Book of What-to-
Hourani, George, 186n1, 203n3 Believe
Ḥusayn, 21 Isfahan. See under al-Ghazālī, Abū
Ḥāmid
Ibāḥiyya, 81, 90–91, 120, 126, 133–34, al-Iṣfahānī, al-Rāghib, 40
198n86 Ismaili Shiism: Assassins and, 19, 154;
Ibn al-ʿĀlimī, 137 al-Ghazālī and, 1–2, 11, 18, 20, 26,
Ibn al-ʿArabī, Abū Bakr, 28, 174, 179n24, 125, 154, 159–60, 163, 171; Niẓām al-
187n1, 191–92n54, 202n3 Mulk and, 25; Niẓārīs and, 19
Ibn al-ʿArabī, Muḥyī al-Dīn, 33, 44 ʿIyāḍ, al-Qāḍi, 167

Index 231
James, William, 3–4 of Manners of Living and Prophetic

Janssens, Jules, xii, 6, 38–39 Morals
The Jewels of the Qurʾān, 10, 126, Kitāb ādāb al-safar (in Iḥyāʾ), see The
130, 132 Book of Manners of Travelling
Junayd, 94 Kitāb al-amr bi-l-ma’rūf wa-l-nahy ‘an al-
jurisprudence (fiqh): early legal schools munkar (in Iḥyāʾ), see The Book of
and, 113–14, 143, 146; ethics and, Commanding Right and Forbidding
54; on the permitted and the Wrong
forbidden, 118; Practical Science Kitāb asrār al-ṣalāt wa-muhimmātiha (in
and, 53–54, 76, 85–86; The Revival Iḥyāʾ), see The Book of the Mysteries
of the Religious Sciences on, 54, 63, of Worship
66, 68, 76–78, 80–81, 83, 103, 107– Kitāb dhamm al-ghurūr (in Iḥyāʾ), see
8, 111–12, 114, 120, 125, 141; on ritual The Book of the Condemnation of
purity, 118; Science of Praxis and, Delusions
76–78; Science of the Hereafter Kitāb dhikr al-mawt wa-mā ba’dahu (in
and, 120, 122; as a Science of the Iḥyāʾ), see The Book of Remembrance
World, 68, 112, 117–18, 120, 122 of Death and the Afterlife
al-Juwaynī: al-Ghazālī and, 18, 20, 143, Kitāb al-ḥalāl wa-l-ḥarām (in Iḥyāʾ),
208n6; in Nishapur, 18, 20, 128; see The Book of the Lawful and the
Niẓām al-Mulk and, 127–29 Prohibited
Kitāb al-ʿilm (in Iḥyāʾ), see The Book of
kalām: Deliverer from Error on, 2, Knowledge
159–60; on divine unity, 118, 120; Kitāb kasr al-shahwatayn (in Iḥyāʾ),
The Revival of the Religious Sciences see The Book of Breaking the Two
on, xi, 28, 68, 77–80, 93, 101, Desires
103, 107–9, 111, 115–17, 122, 125, Kitāb qawāʾid al-ʿaqāʾid (in Iḥyāʾ), see
141, 169; Science of Praxis and, The Book of the Foundations of the
77–78; Science of the Hereafter Doctrines
and, 110, 122; as a Science of the Kitāb riyāḍat al-nafs wa-tahdhīb al-akhlāq
World, 68, 117–18, 120, 122. See also wa-muʿālijat amrāḍ al-qalb (in
theologians Iḥyāʾ), see The Book of Disciplining
al-Karkhī, Maʿrūf, 21 the Soul
The Kernels of the Revival (al-Lubāb min Kitāb al-ṣabr wa-l-shukr (in Iḥyāʾ), see
al-iḥyāʾ), 10, 130 The Book of Patience and Gratitude
Khayyām, ʿUmar, 2, 7, 158–59, 171, 215n4 Kitāb sharḥ ʿajāʾib al-qalb (in Iḥyāʾ),
Khusraw, Nāṣir-i, 7, 158 see The Book of the Marvels of the
Kitāb ādāb al-akl (in Iḥyāʾ), see The Book Heart
of Manners of Eating Kitāb al-shifāʾ (Ibn Sīnā), see The Book
Kitāb ādāb al-kasb wa-l-ma’āsh (in Iḥyāʾ), of the Cure
see The Book of Manners of Earning Kitāb asrār al-ṭahāra (in Iḥyāʾ), see The
a Livelihood Book of the Mysteries of Purity
Kitāb ādāb al-ma’īsha wa-akhlāq al- Kitāb al-tafakkur (in Iḥyāʾ), see The Book
nubuwwa (in Iḥyāʾ), see The Book of Contemplation

232 Index
Kitāb al-tawḥīd wa-l-tawakkul (in Iḥyāʾ), Miʿyār al-ʿilm (al-Ghazālī), see Standard
see The Book of Professing God’s of Knowledge
Oneness and Relying on God Mīzān al-ʿamal (al-Ghazālī), see The
Krawulsky, Dorothea, 7, 126–27, 139 Scale of Action
A Moslem Seeker After God (Zwemer), 4
law. See jurisprudence Muḥammad b. Malikshāh, 24
love, 98–99 al-Muḥāsibī, 7, 32, 158
al-Lubāb min al-iḥyāʾ (al-Ghazālī), see Mullā Ṣadrā, 32
The Kernels of the Revival al-Muqtadī, 21, 23–25, 125, 128
Musā b. Jaʿfar, 21
Macdonald, Duncan Black, 4 al-Mustaẓhir bi-l-Lāh, 18, 21, 24–25, 125
Madelung, Wilferd, 154 Muʿīn al-Mulk, 135, 144, 209n11
al-Maḍnūn bihi ʿala ghayr ahlihi (al- al-Munqidh min al- ḍalāl (al-Ghazālī),
Ghazālī), see The Restricted from see Deliverer from Error
Those Not Worthy of It al-Mustaṣfā min ʿilm al-uṣūl (al-Ghazālī),
Maimonides, 199n112 see The Choice Essentials of the
Makdisi, George, 141, 203n3 Science of the Methods
al-Makkī, Abū Ṭālib, 10, 110, 115 Muʿtamid al-Mulk Amīn al-Dawla, 138
Mālik Ibn Anas, 113, 115, 162 mystical inspiration (ilhām), 41, 43, 52,
Malikshāh: death of, 22–23, 25, 185n39; 67, 88, 92
al-Ghazālī and, 12, 18, 20, 23,
125, 128, 144–45, 164–65; al-Nasafī, Abū al-Muʿīn, 154
pilgrimages by, 21; Sejuk-Abassid Naṣīḥat-i mulūk (al-Ghazālī), see
relations and, 22; territorial Counsel for Kings
conquests of, 17 Naturalists, 51–52, 134
al-Mankhūl min taʿlīq al-uṣūl (al- neoplatonism, 8, 180n24
Ghazālī), see The Sifted in the The Niche of Lights (Mishkāt al-anwār),
Commentary on the Fundamental 94, 154, 162–63, 166, 174
Legal Principles al-Niffarī, Muḥammad b.ʿAbdal-Jabbār,
Maqāṣid al-falāsifa (al-Ghazālī), see The 44, 188n12
Doctrines of the Philosophers Nishapur. See under al-Ghazālī, Abū
al-Marghīnānī, Ẓahīr al-Dīn ʿAlī b. ʿAbd Ḥāmid
al-Razzāq Abū Naṣr, 152 Nishapuri controversy: al-Fārisī on, 167;
Marwān Amīn al-Dawla al-Mulk, 138 The Composition on the Critiques of
al-Mawardī, 128, 184n10 the Revival and, 14, 92, 147, 149–52,
al-Māzarī al-Dhakī, Abū ʿAbdullāh, 154–55, 166–67; Deliverer from
153–54, 162–63, 166–67 Error and, 158–60, 164–65, 167;
Maʿrūf al-Karkhī, 21 Distinguishing Criterion and, 152,
McCarthy, R. J., 3–4 156–158; al-Ghazālī’s views of Abū
Menn, Stephen, 7 Ḥanīfa and, 152, 155, 164–65
metaphysicians, 50–52 Niẓām al-Mulk. See also Niẓāmiyya
Mishkāt al-anwār (al-Ghazālī), see The Madrasa (Baghdad) and Niẓāmiyya
Niche of Lights Madrasa (Nishapur): Abu Saʿd

Index 233
al-Ṣufi hospice and, xx, 28; 58, 80, 159–60, 163, 170–76; felicity
assassination of, 22–25, 154, in the hereafter, 38–39, 41, 44, 46;
185n39; al-Ghazālī and, 11–13, geometry and arithmetic in, 80;
18–20, 22, 25, 27, 57, 115, 125, 128, on God, 34–37, 39; the intelligibles
147–48; Ismaili Shiism and, 25; and, 36, 38, 52; Islamic philosophy
Malikshah and, 21, 24; palace of, (falsafa), 33–34; knowledge and,
21; pilgrimages by, 21; religious 35–36; logical demonstration
scholars and, 127–29; Sejuk- (burhān), 35; metaphysics and,
Abassid relations and, 21–22, 25, 80; on perception, 35–36; physics
67; Shāfiʿī legal tradition and, and, 80; Practical Science and,
19–21; Ṭūs and, 153 53–54, 73–74, 76; Precipitance of the
Niẓāmiyya (army of Niẓām al-Mulk), 23 Philosophers on, 5–6, 38–39, 50, 52,
Niẓāmiyya Madrasa (Baghdad), 2, 12, 18, 20, 67, 176; Qurʾān and, 36; rational
22, 57, 129, 141, 147–48, 158, 166, 171 investigation and, 37–39, 41, 74,
Niẓāmiyya Madrasa (Nishapur), 2–3, 100; The Revival of the Religious
13, 20, 125, 146–49, 153, 155, 160, Sciences on, 10–11, 13, 66–69, 74,
165, 171 76, 79–80, 86, 88–90, 92, 94,
Niẓārīs, 19 99–100, 102–6, 116, 150, 153–54,
noetics, 74, 158 174, 197n47; salvation and, 34, 36;
Nourishment of Hearts (al-Makki), 10, 110, 115 The Scale of Action on, 12, 31, 38,
nuẓẓār, see Theoreticians 40–41, 43–44, 46–47, 49–53, 67–
68, 73–75, 88, 90–91, 101–2, 138,
Oh, Child, 130 174, 192n55; Science of Praxis and,
76–77; Science of the Hereafter
Party Kings (Andalusi kingdoms), 28 and, 13, 74, 80, 102, 196n23; on the
perception: Persian letters, 140; soul, 35–36; spiritual exercises and,
philosophy on, 35–36; The Revival 33; Sufism and, 31–32, 37–38, 46–
of the Religious Sciences on, 98; 47; Theoreticians and, 44, 49–52
Sufism and, 94 Plato, 47, 80, 89
Persian letters (al-Ghazālī): admonitions Poggi, Vincenzo, 4
to pious life in, 129–30, 138–39; Practical Science: ethics and, 76, 85–86;
dating of, 126–27, 139; on Ibāḥiyya, jurisprudence and, 53–54, 76,
133; on perception, 140; Prophet 85–86; philosophy and, 53–54,
quoted in, 139–40; recruitment 73–74, 76; politics and, 53–54,
of students in, 136–38; request 76, 85–86; salvation and, 53; The
for political favors in, 130, 134–36, Scale of Action and, 30, 50, 53–56,
138; on Science of Praxis, 137; on 73, 75–76, 85–86, 104; Science of
Science of the Hereafter, 136–37, Praxis and, 66, 69, 76, 80,
139–41; on Science of Unveiling, 137 85, 104
philosophy: Active Intellect and, 35; The Precipitance of the Philosophers
on the body and passions, 35–36; (Tahāfut al-falāsifa): Book of the
cosmology and, 37–38; Deliverer Cure and, 67; critical engagement
from Error and, 2, 4–5, 31, 38, 41, with philosophy in, xii, 5–6, 38–39,

234 Index
50, 52, 67, 176; Doctrines of the The Revival of the Religious Sciences
Philosophers and, 172 (Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn): The Alchemy
Pretzl, Otto, 133 of Felicity and, 9–10, 126, 130–32,
profession of faith (shahāda), 77–78 170; allegory of the pens in, 95–98,
Proof of Islam (ḥujjat al-islām, al- 150, 152, 154, 158, 167; Andalusī
Ghazālī honorific), 147 burning of, xi–xii, 166; on the body
Prophet Muḥammad, 87, 107, 110, 114, and appetites, 83–84, 87, 89, 99,
132 101; The Book of the Breaking the
Ptolemy, 37 Two Desires, 83, 89; The Book of
purity: degrees of, 119–20; ritual forms Commanding Right and Forbidding
of, 79, 82, 118–20 Wrong, 54–55, 66, 76, 85–86;
The Book of the Condemnation
al-Qāʿim, 128, 184n10 of Delusions, 65–66, 81, 90–92;
“Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min The Book of Disciplining the Soul,
aḍ-ḍalâl” (van Ess), 7 66, 82, 85, 87–89; The Book of
Qurʾān: The Afterlife and, 36–37; the Foundations of the Doctrines,
allegory of the pens and, 97; on 81; The Book of Knowledge, 66, 71,
creation, 100; The Distinguishing 77, 81, 110–112, 117, 120; The Book
Criterion between Islam and of the Lawful and the Prohibited,
Clandestine Apostasy and, 157–58; 85; The Book of the Manners of
first sura in, 76; al-Ghazālī’s Earning a Livelihood, 83–85; The
approaches to, 40; The Revival Book of the Manners of Eating,
of the Religious Sciences and, 87, 83–84; The Book of the Manners
108–10, 116, 151 of Travelling, 27; The Book of the
al-Qushayrī, Abu al-Qāsim, 33, 127–29, Marvels of the Heart, 58, 66, 80,
152, 172 87, 89, 91, 99, 187n1, 195n14,
al-Qushayrī, Abū al-FatḥʿAbd Allāh b. 198n80; The Book of the Mysteries
ʿAbd al-Karīm, 152 of Purity, 81, 118–120; The Book of
al-Qushayrī, Abū Naṣr ʿAbd al-Raḥīm b. Patience and Gratitude, 71; The Book
ʿAbd al-Karīm, 152 of Professing God’s Oneness and
The Restricted from Those Not Worthy Relying on God, 92, 150, 167; The
of It (al-Maḍnūn bihi ‘ala ghayr Book of the Remembrance of Death
ahlihi), 7 and the Afterlife, 100–101; Byzantine
and Chinese artists parable in,
revivalism: al-Ghazālī’s as proponent of, 74, 88, 94; campaigns against,
1, 5, 8–12, 104–105, 109, 111, 115, 148, 11, 13, 149–54; claim to religious
152, 155, 169–70, 175–176; definition authority in, 105, 160–61, 169; on
of, 105; in Deliverer from Error, 170, the Companions of the Prophet,
175–76; al-Ghazālī’s narratives of, 82, 113–15, 117–18, 122; composition
13, 105, 115; in The Revival of the of, 3; cosmology in, 92–98; on
Religious Sciences, 104–5, 109, 111, death, 101, 109–10; dedications in,
115, 169 105–7; Deliverer from Error and, 11,

Index 235
14, 147, 175; on delusions, 90–91; 109, 111, 115, 169; on Righteous
on eschatology, 73; ethics and, Forebears, 109–11, 113; on ritual
12–13, 54, 58, 76, 80, 83, 87–90, duties, 77–78, 81–82, 85, 90, 101,
197n47; Exordium, 66, 70, 77, 104; on ritual purity, 79, 82, 118–
105–107, 109, 114; felicity in the 20; salvation and, 28, 70–71, 83,
hereafter and, 13, 28, 63, 65, 67–71, 84, 92–93, 102; The Scale of Action
75, 81, 93–94, 99, 101, 103–4, 107, and, 1, 30, 58–59, 63, 66, 70–75,
109, 169; on financial transactions, 80, 88–90, 94–95, 101–2, 104, 107,
84–85; al-Ghazālī’s defenses of, 121–22; Science of Praxis and, 54,
149–52, 154, 166; al-Ghazālī’s 63, 66, 69–72, 75–80, 85, 91, 102,
departure from convention in, 104, 121, 131, 157; Science of the
105–6; al-Ghazālī’s efforts to Hereafter and, xi–xii, 10, 12–13, 63,
promote, 1, 3, 8–11, 13, 28, 59, 67, 68–71, 78–81, 83, 90, 93, 102, 104,
126, 142, 169; on God’s unity, 107–22, 125, 130, 141, 152, 157, 169,
92–94, 102, 150–51; on Hadith, 176; Science of Unveiling and, 63,
116; on the heart, 88, 91, 95–96; 69, 71–75, 77, 80, 90–91, 93–94,
Ibāḥiyya and, 90, 120; on inner 102–4, 121, 131, 155; Sciences of the
purity, 119–20; on the intellect, World and, 93, 109–12, 141; sense of
91, 95–96, 98–99; on inward crisis in, 107, 109; Sufism and, xi–
disposition for prayer, 82; Ismaili xii, 4, 9–10, 13, 47, 58, 66, 68–69,
Shiism and, 11; jurisprudence 76, 79–80, 88–94, 99–100, 102,
(fiqh) and, 54, 63, 66, 68, 76–78, 104, 174; on syllogisms, 100; on
80–81, 83, 103, 107–8, 111–12, 114, theologians, 78–79, 81, 90, 93,
120, 125, 141; on jurists, 78, 81, 90, 107, 109, 114–17, 121; on theological
107, 112–14, 116–17; on knowledge, debate, 116, 129; Theoreticians
91–101, 111, 132, 195n14; on love, and, 58, 88, 94, 172; on “third
98–99; narratives of revival and, way” between Theoreticians and
13; organizational structure of, Sufism, 75; understanding (fiqh)
64–66; on perception, 98; on the and, 110–11, 114; on vices, 90, 101; on
permitted and the forbidden, 118; virtue, 82, 92; walnut analogy in,
philosophy and, 10–11, 13, 66–69, 93; Western reception of, 4–5
74, 76, 79–80, 86, 88–90, 92, 94, The Revival of the Religious Sciences
99–100, 102–6, 116, 150, 153–54, in the Twenty-first Century
174, 197n47; political theory and, (al-Ḥakīm), 9
26–27; Practical Science and, 53; Righteous Forebears (al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ),
praise of, 9; on problem of writing, 109–11, 113, 122
115; on the Prophet, 87, 107, 110, rightly guided caliphs, 113
114, 132; on psychology, 87–88; Riżā, Imām 143–44
Qurʾān and, 87, 108–10, 116, 151; on
kalām, xi, 28, 68, 77–80, 93, 101, al-Sabbāk, Ibrahīm, 134–35, 138, 206n47
103, 107–9, 111, 115–17, 122, 125, 141, Safi, Omid, 21, 24, 129
169; revivalist elements in, 104–5, Salaf, see Righteous Forebears

236 Index
salvation: compared to felicity in the theoretical science, 42, 50, 52,

hereafter, 31, 36–37, 41, 67, 70, 75, 55, 72–75; Theoreticians and, 44,
93, 121, 174; government service 46–47, 49–52, 68–69, 75, 88, 95,
and, 132, 140; philosophy and, 34, 102; on “the preacher of faultless
36; Practical Science and, 53 conduct,” 56–57; on “third way”
Sanjar: Fakhr al-Mulk and, 11, 23; al- between Theoreticians and Sufism,
Ghazālī and, 14, 17–19, 143–46, 47–49, 68, 74, 95, 102, 191n52; on
152, 155–56, 158, 160, 163–67; al- virtue, 47
Ghazālī’s opponents and, 161–62, The Scandals of the Esotericists and
166; Ḥanafī views of, 143, 208n4; Virtues of the Mustaẓhirites
Khurasan and, 24; Ṭūs and, 145 (Faḍāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya wa faḍāʾil al-
al-Sarrāj, 32, 69 mustaẓhariyya), 18, 25–26
The Scale of Action (Mīzān al-ʿamal): Schmölders, August, 3
on the body and passions, 42–43, Science of Praxis (ʿilm al-muʿāmala):
56, 86; Byzantine and Chinese bodily actions and, 66; ethics and,
artists parable in, 48–49, 74, 88; 80, 85; individual piety and,
dating of, 186–87n1; Deliverer 54; jurisprudence (fiqh) and,
from Error and, 31; eschatology 76–78; philosophy and, 76–77;
and, 73; ethics and, 12–13, 30, Practical Science and, 66, 69, 76,
40, 42, 47, 53–54, 66; felicity in 80, 85, 104; kalām and, 77–78; The
the hereafter and, 12, 31, 40–43, Revival of the Religious Sciences and,
49–50, 55–56, 63, 68, 70, 71, 101, 54, 63, 66, 69–72, 75–80, 85, 91,
111, 121, 190n36; on God, 42–43, 102, 104, 121, 131, 157; spiritual states
73; on Ibāḥiyya and lax practice of and, 66; Sufism and, 76–77, 79
religion, 133–34; jurisprudence and, Science of the Hereafter (ʿilm al-ākhira):
66; knowledge and, 40, 42–43, The Alchemy of Felicity and, 70,
101; metaphysicians and, 50–52; 132–33; authorizing strategies
philosophy and, 12, 31, 38, 40–41, and, 120–21; Companions of the
43–44, 46–47, 49–53, 67–68, Prophet and, 117–18, 122; in the
73–75, 88, 90–91, 101–2, 138, 174, era of the Prophet, 113–14; felicity
192n55; Practical Science and, in the hereafter and, 71, 75, 78;
30, 50, 53–56, 73, 75–76, 85–86, al-Ghazālī’s efforts to promote,
104; proclamation of al-Ghazālī’s 126, 135, 141, 157, 169; al-Ghazālī’s
authority in, 55–56; on the Prophet, Persian letters on, 136–37,
42, 73; The Revival of the Religious 139–41; on inner purity, 119–20;
Sciences and, 1, 30, 58–59, 63, 66, jurisprudence and, 120, 122; as
70–75, 80, 88–90, 94–95, 101–2, obligatory science, 10; as original
104, 107, 121–22; the soul and, essence of Islam, 13; philosophy
43, 47; Standard for Knowledge and, 13, 74, 80, 102, 196n23; kalām
and, 40, 47, 50, 100; Sufism and, and, 110, 122; The Revival of the
12–13, 31, 38, 40–41, 43–47, 49–50, Religious Sciences on, xi–xii, 10,
57, 68–69, 75, 88–89, 91, 99, 12–13, 63, 68–71, 78–81, 83, 90,
101–2, 138, 174, 187n1, 192n55; on 93, 102, 104, 107–22, 125, 130, 141,

Index 237
152, 157, 169, 176; reward in the 100; Deliverer from Error and, 2,
hereafter and, 72; ritual duties and, 4–5, 10, 31, 41, 44, 159–60, 171–76;
81; scholars and disciples of, 134– divine will and, 33; felicity in the
41; Sufism and, 13, 102, 171–72, 176 hereafter and, 41, 43–45; Khurasan
Science of Unveiling (ʿilm al- and, 172; knowledge and, 44–45;
mukāshafa): criticisms of al- mystical inspiration (ilhām) and,
Ghazālī’s framing of, 155; felicity in 41, 43, 52, 92; perception and,
the hereafter and, 72; philosophy 94; personal motivation and,
and, 74; The Revival of the Religious 32–33; philosophy and, 31–32,
Sciences on, 63, 69, 71–75, 77, 80, 37–38, 46–47; The Revival of the
90–91, 93–94, 102–4, 121, 131, 155; Religious Sciences and, xi–xii,
Sufism and, 74, 80 4, 9–10, 13, 47, 58, 66, 68–69,
Sciences of the World (ʿulūm al-dunyā): 76, 79–80, 88–94, 99–100,
demotion of, 122, 141; felicity in the 102, 104, 174; salvation and, 33;
hereafter and, 118; jurisprudence The Scale of Action and, 12–13,
(fiqh) and, 68, 112, 117–18, 120, 122; 31, 38, 40–41, 43–47, 49–50, 57,
kalām and, 68, 117–18, 120, 122 68–69, 75, 88–89, 91, 99, 101–2,
Seljuk Dynasty. See also specific rulers: 138, 174, 187n1, 192n55; spiritual
Abbasid Dynasty and, 17, 20–25; exercises and, 32–33, 37, 41, 44–45;
Assassins and, 19; Baghdad and, Theoreticians and, 44, 46, 52;
21–22; control of eastern Islamic worldly renunciation of, 58
lands by, 17, 19; al-Ghazālī’s al-Ṭabarī, ʿAbd al-Mālik, 141, 186n48
relations with, 10–11, 14, 17–20,
23–24, 28, 54, 57, 67, 85, 125–26, Tahāfut al-falāsifa (al-Ghazālī), see The
138–40, 143–47, 161–63; Ḥanafī Precipitance of the Philosophers
legal school and, 20–21, 143; Tāj al-Mulk, 21–24, 140, 211n44
Persian administrators and, 19; al-Thawrī, Sufyān, 113, 115, 201n20
saints’ intervention and, 129 theologians (mutakallimūn): compared
al-Shāfiʿī, 113 to pilgrimage guards, 79, 116–17;
Shāfiʿī legal tradition: al-Ghazālī and, The Revival of the Religious Sciences
18–19, 143; Ḥanafī legal tradition on, 78–79, 81, 90, 93, 107, 109,
and, 20–21, 136, 143, 152–53, 209n8 114–17, 121. See also kalām
Shahrastānī, 154 Theoretical Science: philosophy and,
al-Shushtarī, 44 73–74; The Scale of Action on,
The Sifted in the Commentary on the 42, 50, 52, 55, 72–75; Science of
Fundamental Legal Principles (al- Unveiling and, 69
Mankhūl min taʿlīq al-uṣūl), 143, Theoreticians (nuẓẓār): felicity in the
146, 163, 166 hereafter and, 46, 51; philosophy
The Standard of Knowledge (Miʿyār al- and, 44, 49–52; The Revival of the
ʿilm), 40, 47, 50, 67, 100 Religious Sciences and, 58, 88, 94,
al-Subkī, Tāj al-Dīn, 128, 134–35 172; The Scale of Action and, 44,
Sufism: annihilation in the divine unity 46–47, 49–52, 68–69, 75, 88, 95,
and, 93–94; contemplation and, 102; Sufism and, 44, 46, 52

238 Index
Treiger, Alexander, xii, 6, 8, 48–49, Watt, Montgomery, 3–4

72–74, 94–95, 100 al-Wazzān, ʿImād al-Dīn
Ṭughril Beg, 128–29, 145, 205n19 Muḥammad, 136
Turkān Khātūn, 21–24, 211n44 World of Compulsion (ʿālam al-jabarūt),
al-Ṭurṭūshī, Abū Bakr, 9, 154–55, 160, 96–97, 151
166–67, 174 World of Dominion and Witnessing
Ṭūs. See under al-Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid (ʿālam al-mulk wa-l-shahāda),
Tutush, 23 96–97, 150–51
World of Sovereignty (ʿālam al-malakūt),
ʿulūm al-dunyā, see Sciences of the World 96, 150–51
ʿUmar II, 113, 115, 118 al-Zabīdī, al-Murtaḍā, 167, 181n40,
Umayyad Mosque (Damascus), 3–4, 58 200n2
van Ess, Josef, xii, 7–8, 158–59 Zoroastrianism, 153

Varieties of Religious Experience Zubayda Khātūn, 23
(James), 3–4 Zwemer, Samuel, 4


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The First Islamic Reviver

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Garden260413OUS.indd iv 6/7/2007 4:22:22 AM

Garden260413OUS.indd v 6/7/2007 4:22:22 AM

Preface and Acknowledgments xi

PART ONE: Al-Ghazālī Before His Revival

Chapter 1—Al-Ghazālī and the Seljuk Regime 17

Garden260413OUS.indd vii 6/7/2007 4:22:23 AM

PART TWO: The Revival of the Religious Sciences

Chapter 3—The Revival and Its Agenda 63

Garden260413OUS.indd viii 6/7/2007 4:22:23 AM

PART THREE: Promoting the Revival in the World

Chapter 5—Promoting the Revival 125

Works Cited 217

Garden260413OUS.indd ix 6/7/2007 4:22:23 AM

i first came to the Persian thinker al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) through my

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Fernando Rodriguez Mediano, Delﬁna Serrano Ruano, and Rachid

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He further sought to justify his return to teaching at the Niẓāmiyya

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retreat and solitude,” (ʿuzla wa-khalwa) and dedicating himself to spiritual

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variety of mysticism—mysticism being, for James, the authentic heart of

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Al-Ghaza–lī the Reviver

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Chapter 1 places al-Ghazālī in the context of the politics of his age.

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missed by subsequent generations of readers: The Distinguishing Criterion

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Al-Ghazālī Before His Revival

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Al-Ghazālī and the Seljuk Regime

in the winter of the year 500/1106, al-Ghazālī was summoned for a

He lived for twenty years in the days of the martyred sultan

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The extensive and complex relationship to the political authorities of his

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Al-Ghazālī’s Service to the Seljuk Regime

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Collapse into Civil War

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