"Centuries could sweep through this garden before another rose like us dares to bloom.”
These words uttered by Bayazid Bastami may seem like an exaggeration to modern minds, yet time has vindicated him: No one has walked through this world with such profound wisdom, whose very expressions could overwhelm people and still been met with such unmatched tolerance. He was among the greatest Sufis of his age, known for his ecstatic utterances. Other great Sufis often rushed to interpret or defend his words, fearing that without such explanations, his fate might mirror that of Hallaj.
His greatness spared him from the fate that befell other Sufis with similar tendencies, but what set him apart from those who endured such tragic ends? The answer lies in one of his favorite allegories: He neither tasted a single cup from the sea of love and fell into rapture nor consumed the whole sea and drowned in ecstasy. He became the boundless ocean itself. His words, like much of Sufi expression, were not mere utterances but symbols; they are the doors opening onto the ineffable. To grasp their meaning, one must look beyond language itself, toward the metaphors he lived by.
In his "Tadhkirat-ul-Awliya," Attar describes him as the "axis of the world,” a Sufi concept denoting the supreme saint (wali) of an era and the embodiment of the perfect man. Though Bayazid left no written works, his words were preserved like a sacred conundrum, inviting contemplation in every Sufi text. His ecstatic utterances have been seen either as the cry of one lost in divine annihilation or as glimpses of an enigmatic reality reachable only through the Sufi path. Yet Bayazid himself seemed indifferent to the nature of his state or the words that escaped his lips, words that often revealed the most sacred truths.
It is said that he once proclaimed, "Glory be to me! How great is my nature!” When he regained his senses and heard of this utterance, he commanded his disciples to cut his throat should he ever speak such words again. Yet when he once more entered that state and repeated them, his followers, knives in hand, found the entire house filled with his presence, so that their blows struck nothing but air, as though they were stabbing through water. It seems that for all his audacity, he was not only endured by his contemporaries but also embraced by the divine.
If his words were lightning flashes of truth, his life was the long discipline that made such flashes possible. His innate Bayazid-ness may well be the decisive quality that makes him an axis mundi. Yet, as Attar recounts, Bayazid himself said, "For 40 years I sought the mighty and glorious Lord” and elsewhere, "For 30 years now, each time I have wished to utter the name of the Most High, I have purified my mouth and tongue with three sips of water, for the sake of glorifying the Real,” and so on. Through decades of striving, asceticism and ceaseless seeking, he was refined into the Bayazid we have come to know. In The Perennial Philosophy, Aldous Huxley expresses his deep appreciation for Bayazid. He recounts that when Bayazid was asked his age, he replied, "I am 4 years old.” When asked to explain, he said, "For 70 years I was veiled from God by the world, but for the last four I have seen Him. The years of veiling do not belong to life.” For Bayazid, those years were merely a preparation, not even worth counting.
Throughout the decades, he lived like no other. He said that he neither ate what others ate nor possessed what others possessed. Though he passed through the same stations as other Sufis, his journey was unlike any of theirs. When asked about renunciation, he replied: "Renunciation is worthless. I was a renunciant for three days: on the first day, I renounced this world; on the second, the next world; and on the third, everything that was not the Lord.” Even though he made renunciation sound simple and within reach, modern readers might be startled by Bayazid’s example of it. It is recounted that one night, finding no taste of sweetness in his prayer, he ordered his disciples to search the house for the cause. They discovered a small bunch of grapes, and that was enough. This small "redundancy” had swept away his state. Bayazid commanded that the grapes be given away, saying that his house had turned into a marketplace. For Bayazid, even the faintest trace of worldly indulgence was a veil between himself and the Real. This hyper-sensitivity reflects the Sufi conviction that divine presence withdraws at the slightest hint of attachment.
When one reflects on all one’s possessions, one cannot help but wonder whether they are the very veils that obscure the truth the Sufis sought.
Another striking example reveals how Bayazid traversed the stages in three simple steps. He said: "The first time I went on pilgrimage, I saw the House. The second time, I saw both the House and the Lord of the House. The third time, I saw nothing but the Lord.” Once more, he was effaced from all but the Real. When one is released from the grip of the world and its claims, the world dissolves before the eyes, and what never vanishes, though always hidden in plain sight, is revealed.
Reading the early Sufi writings, one realizes how thorn-strewn the path is. It calls for turning away from the world, cutting every tie and surrendering body and soul to one aim alone. The Sufis were celebrated after their passing for leaving nothing behind, for they had owned nothing to begin with. Yet, once they reached the encounter, it was as though they gently mocked the path itself. Renunciation signifies not only abandoning but also ceasing to demand. And, much like Bayazid, the great Sufi Shibli subverted the idea of renunciation itself, saying that nothing in this world is worthy enough to be forsaken. Seen from this angle, renunciation appears simple enough. Yet who can truly live it? Behind such provocative words lie years of self-effacement and unwavering devotion
Among the Sufis, travel was also a form of renunciation, a way of leaving behind the comfort of home and surrendering to the wilderness of the path. Bayazid, a tireless wanderer himself, once asked a fellow dervish, "When will your journey end?” The man replied, "Water stagnates when it stands still.” Bayazid replied, "Then become the ocean, and you will never stagnate, nor be polluted.” It seems like in the end, he also went beyond another practice of renunciation. Perhaps the key to this paradox lies in this metaphor: Becoming the ocean.
Meaning behind this metaphor lies in this example: It is recorded that Yahya ibn Mu'adh wrote a letter to Bayazid asking, "What do you say about someone who drank a cup of wine and became drunk on eternity without beginning or end?” Bayazid wrote back: "There is a man here who drinks up the sea of eternity without beginning or end in a single day and cries out, ‘Is there more?’”’ Clearly, both Sufis spoke of the ocean of Divine love, which the mystics often symbolize through the metaphor of wine. Countless accounts tell of Sufis who became "drunk” on this wine, their intoxication effacing the world from their sight while opening their eyes to the Reality hidden from the sober.
When the ocean is a source of awe, one is overwhelmed by awe. If it is an ocean of love, one may become intoxicated or even drown within it. In both cases, awe or love overtakes the mind and the heart, yet duality still remains. But when one becomes a single drop that rejoins the ocean, that drop itself becomes the ocean.
In the end, Bayazid did not seek to become intoxicated by the ocean. In his annihilation, the seeker, the path and the sought became one and the same. That is where his greatness lies: He transcended even the flaws and limitations of the ocean itself, becoming a boundless, clear, and reflective sea that is so pure that every thirsting soul yearns to take a sip.