CHAPTER ONE A MORAL HISTORY

Political liberty exists only when there is no abuse of power, but everyone who possesses power abuses it until checked. Thus, to prevent against the abuse of power, it is necessary for it be checked by another power so as to ensure that no one is constrained to do things the law does not oblige or not to do what the law permits.

—Montesquieu, The Spirit of the Laws

Opening Reflections

This book is about a big question: What is politics in Islam? We have endless studies on politics across diverse contexts where Muslims have lived and rule has been established in the name of Islam. We also have endless studies on the many political treatises that Muslims have composed over the centuries. Digesting all of these studies only leaves one with the impression that politics in Islam takes endless form. In some contexts, Muslims embrace democracy as a modern version of the principle of consultation (shūrā ), which has deep roots in Islam as a communal decision-making process. In other contexts, Muslims claim that they can only be ruled by what God has revealed. By this view, human decision making is a kind of political idolatry whereby one ends up “worshipping” by a rule other than God’s rule. In still other contexts, Muslims pledge allegiance to kings who claim to be successors to the Prophet Muhammad. In this case, disobedience to the ruler is tantamount to infidelity. In the end, what, then, can be said of politics in Islam? To be sure, all communities disagree on fundamental matters, but it would seem naive to hope that the study of the history of Islam might offer a coherent picture of politics in Islam.

Such apparent incoherency features in the language that—it is commonly assumed— establishes the categories of politics in Islam. For example, the caliphate, a basic concept in that respect, eludes definition. Indeed, a survey of “caliphate” shows that a simple examination of politically relevant terms from the history of Islam will not disclose the meaning of politics in Islam. The idea of being a caliph, which was not unknown in pre-Islamic Arabia, is used in a particular way by the Qur’an, which connects it with the biblical idea of the righteous inheriting the land (e.g., Q 21.106).1 In that sense, caliphs are those who succeed the peoples of past nations (e.g., Q 24.55), now no more because of their failure to heed the message of God. Thus, according to the Qur’an, caliphs are not rulers but those whom God has ordained to prosper in “the land” because they live righteously, while the unrighteous are doomed to disappear.2

However, recent studies show that Muslims have taken the qur’anic narrative on being caliph in multiple and sometimes apparently contradictory directions. For example, the caliphate of ISIS, the so-called Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, was fashioned as a globalizing power where modern states and international boundaries are religiously inconsequential and even constitute a roadblock to the supremacy of Islam over the world. It was also fashioned as a doctrinally pure society where those deemed insufficiently monotheistic, including Muslims who recognize creeds and authorities other than those of ISIS, are to be eliminated.3 In contrast, other Muslims see the caliphate as a kind of democracy.4 They look to the qur’anic discourse that speaks of Adam, humanity’s father, as caliph. In this view, then, all humans are caliphs, all of Adam’s progeny and not only Muslims. As a result, no one has a privileged right to rule, and those who do rule are accountable to their fellow citizens, who, being offspring of Adam, are also caliphs. In sum, we seem to have two very different views of the caliphate in this current moment. One, as promoted by ISIS, signals a kind of authoritarianism under shari‘a rule, while the other, echoes of which featured, for example, during the Arab Spring, signals a democratic society where all are political equals and shari‘a is cast as a set of human values.5 The point is not that one of these two modern interpretations of “caliphate” is more consistent with the qur’anic narrative, only to suggest the disparate ways in which Muslims “hear” the term today.

In contrast to the caliphate of ISIS, which could be called a global nationalism to which one belongs by doctrine, the caliphate, historically, is associated with empire. The earliest caliphs presided over vast territories—a realm—that we might see in terms of empire, that is, the conquest of lands, their consolidation into a centrally ordered yet complex administrative system, and the cultural orientation of the conquered peoples to the language and religion of the conquerors. In addition, empire, historically, is never separate from a moral order—a territory where peace is to prevail thanks to a divine law. Thus, when caliphs ceased to be warrior leaders as early as the ninth century and real power in the Abode of Islam fell to warlords, the former still enjoyed a religious stature as successors to the prophet. In this sense, authority in Islam became increasingly complex—as I detail over the course of this book. The warlords, once established as rulers over the Abode of Islam, might have seen their reign as divinely ordained by virtue of their conquest of territory, but the Abode of Islam was not simply a domain of conquest. It was also a moral order with roots in the message of the Prophet Muhammad. In such a context, the generalissimos of the age sought to be invested by the caliphs, the successors to the prophet, with titles befitting the glory of those who pretended to rule over the Abode of Islam. In other words, the caliphate became the symbol of a moral order that was understood to prevail over lands stretching from North Africa to Central Asia and North India— and, in time, to Southeast Asia in the archipelago of Indonesia. For example, Muslims living beyond the territories under the rule of the Ottoman Empire (1299–1924), known as “the refuge of the caliphate,” might still appeal to the sultan in Istanbul for protection wherever infidels threatened the supremacy of Islam within his “caliphal” domain.6 Here, shari‘a signaled not a cultural identity, as some would view it today, but a moral order that included non-Muslim communities, classified as the People of the Book, protected peoples who, having submitted to the rule of Islam, could govern their internal affairs by their own shari‘a. In sum, the Abode of Islam, a phrase found in neither the Qur’an (scripture) nor the Sunna (communal tradition), was envisioned as a moral domain that accompanied the rise of empire in Islam. Here, the caliphal office was the institution that represented moral continuity with the Abode’s prophetic origins.

A persistent question involving the caliphate, the symbol of the prophetic order of Islam, was the lineage of its head. For centuries, it was thought—at least in the circles of Sunnism, as opposed to those of Shi‘ism— that the caliph should be a descendant of the prophet’s wider clan, known as

Quraysh.7 Some still see descent from Quraysh as one of the conditions for holding the caliphal office. Abū Bakr al-Baghdādī (1971–2019), recognized by ISIS loyalists as caliph, claimed descent from Quraysh, as was noted in the formula used for the pledge of allegiance to him. However, despite the significance of prophetic lineage for leadership in Islam, it was not difficult for the caliphate to be conceived and constituted apart from such lineage. A cogent example comes from the Ottoman Empire, which traced its origins to a Turkic warrior, Osman Ghazi of thirteenth-century Anatolia, and which ended only in 1924 with the rise of Turkey in Asia Minor as a modern republic whose leaders saw no use for the caliphate in its territories. Be that as it may, the culture of empire under the Ottomans envisioned sultans as caliphs, despite their lack of prophetic lineage. Instead, caliphal stature was affirmed through elaborate titles and ceremonies that featured sultans as God’s delegates on account of their noble character, the justness of their laws, and the universal reach of their power. They were caliphs because they were superior beings, still human but ordained by God to bring about a divine order on earth.8

It is commonly assumed that the concept of caliphate is applicable only to empire under Islam as just discussed. However, it has long featured in other contexts with no less significance for the moral life of the umma, the community of believers. As early as the ninth century, roughly two centuries after the rise of Islam, the title of caliph was applied to saintly figures who held no worldly power but who were seen as successors to the prophet on account of their high spiritual stature. The emergence of such figures, known as the allies of God (awliyā’ allāh), is partly attributable to the need for religious guidance on a local level. Islam was at first the religion of the conquering warriors, largely Arabs, but as conquered peoples accepted Islam, local forms of religious guidance took shape under saintly figures. In addition, writers from as early as the ninth century spoke of the need for ethical training. As they argued, the mere existence of a legal order under Islam was not enough to make Muslims righteous. One could appear to be a Muslim, performing the prescribed prayers but doing so without sincere devotion. Thus, in addition to shari‘a, the order of Islam came to be marked by education in prophetic character—ethics (akhlāq)—which certain figures were seen as modeling for the wider society. The awliyā’, guides of their communities in this sense, were called caliphs,9 successors to the prophet not because of any worldly power they held but because of their otherworldly character. In this view, their otherworldly character was obvious simply by looking at them. It was enough to behold them to be reminded of God.10 They were the guarantors of the community’s righteousness. It was their otherworldly orientation that made them, rather than the heads of empire, Islam’s true rulers, the prophet’s true successors as agents of divine guidance on earth. Similarly, as early as the tenth century, philosophers began to speak of the mind as the Caliph of God. The idea was expressed in different ways. Some spoke of the mind, once properly formed, as participating in the rationality of the universe. As such, it could range across the cosmos, engaging all bodies of knowledge. All that was good in the human condition was recognized as positively related to Islam, including other religions and nonrevealed knowledge. A prominent example of this outlook is the Brethren of Purity, a tenth-century group whose encyclopedic writings constitute part of the canon of the branch of Islam known as Ismailism. They understood the mind, having mastered all branches of knowledge, as enjoying a caliphal stature. Other philosophers of this period tied the caliphal stature of the mind more closely to the teachings of Islam. In this view, the mind, once trained in the logic of Aristotle, would necessarily conclude that Islam’s teachings represent the middle way in comparison to other religious traditions, the mean between the extremes. The human mind could be caliph since, once freed by the power of logic from all prejudice for its own tradition, it would come to recognize and defend Islam as the true religion, reaching this conclusion on the basis of philosophical argumentation rather than blind acceptance of the teachings of one’s tradition. One proponent of this outlook was a figure named Abū al-Ḥasan al-‘Āmirī (d. 992) from the eastern parts of today’s Iran.11 While he is largely forgotten, his philosophical conception of Islam had a noticeable impact on later scholars who are still revered today, notably Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), one of Islam’s towering figures, remembered for his use of philosophy in defending its teachings, for speaking of the highest ranks of Islam’s scholars as the prophet’s true caliphs, and for his close relation to Niẓām al-Mulk (d. 1092), the powerful vizier of the Seljuq Empire.12

In speaking of saintly figures and philosophers who lived in the shadow of dynasties that ruled their realms in the name of Islam, we should not imagine them operating on the margin of society even if they were not the holders of power. Communities formed out of a common devotion to the awliyā’ and society as a whole looked to them for guidance. They enjoyed a religious authority that placed them, in Islam’s hierarchy, above those at the head of empire. Indeed, they might admonish sultans and viziers for failing to rule justly. After all, the saints represented the heavenly court, and rulers were in principle to govern on its behalf. As for the philosophers during this period, they were patronized for their wisdom by rulers who had come to power by conquest, had no prophetic lineage, and therefore wanted to show that their rule aligned with philosophical notions of the good. As Aristotle had tutored Alexander the Great, philosophers could help warlords present their power as embodying the wisdom of the ages.13

This brief survey shows that politically significant concepts in Islam, such as caliphate, have never been fixed. Such concepts are important, but on their own they do not tell us much about politics in Islam. Is it empire or democracy? Is it shari‘a supremacy or common human values? Who enjoys ultimate authority under Islam, ruling powers or saintly figures? Indeed, no one paradigm has prevailed even within a single context. Today, for example, in a single nation, some might recognize the ruler as the mediator of the contract that the umma, the community of believers, has with God, associating him within the purview of their religious allegiance, while others see the ruler as a tyrant, a worldly power who has nothing to do with the umma’s contract with God and thus no claim on its religious allegiance.14 Such tension featured in the Arab Spring, which, beginning in late 2010, toppled dictators in Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen, and Libya. Some religious authorities warned that protests would only open the door to chaos. They saw them as acts of disobedience against God. Others felt that the dictators, long ruling in the name of Islam, had made a mockery of the religion. They saw the protests as religiously legitimate.15

Despite the cacophony of meanings when it comes to politics in Islam, this book argues that we can speak of it coherently in terms of a moral history. I do so through the specific lens of sovereignty, which I define as the authority to decide on the order of Islam. Considering cases from Islam’s formative, classical, and modern periods through the lens of sovereignty, we can note patterns that show a coherency of meaning when it comes to politics in Islam, which I define as a set of assumptions about the order of society and its moral purposes and the struggle to realize them in the name of Islam. Thus, if politics in Islam is a struggle for a moral order, the sovereignty of Islam is the authority to determine it. However, the sovereignty of Islam, while a singularly divine affair, is represented in distinct ways by both rule and religion.16 In other words, sovereignty is not exclusive to the regime in power; other elements in society, including pious communities, are also shapers of the order of Islam.17 There is, then, reason to think of politics in Islam as a struggle for a moral order even—perhaps especially—when the regime in power governs tyrannically for its own particular interests despite its claim to rule in the name of Islam. When it does govern tyrannically, other elements in society can call people to the order of Islam because they too enjoy a share in the sovereignty of Islam and have a hand in shaping its order. The order of Islam is therefore a function of both governmental and religious authority, the latter being as much moral and even legal as it is spiritual and ethical. Also, it needs to be emphasized that religious authority belongs not only to shari‘a scholars, who may align with the regime in power as lawmaker/enforcer, but also to pious communities, which align, in principle, with the ethics of Islam and, as such, are oriented to a sovereignty beyond that of the regime in power. The epigraph to this chapter suggests a moral order is never a given but always a struggle between society’s diverse players. Politics in Islam, in its own way, also works in such a fashion.

Over the course of this chapter, I consider politics in Islam as a struggle for a moral order with a focus on the way in which the sovereignty of Islam is represented by various elements in society, pious communities especially, in addition to the regime in power. I begin with a handful of examples to illustrate what I mean by politics in Islam. I then discuss two points that will be at play over the course of the book. First, I consider the way in which rule in Islam, even when not corrupt, is able to represent the order of Islam only ambiguously, despite the fact that rule has long been seen as divinely ordained, that is, as integral to the order of Islam. Second, I consider what is meant by pious community in Islam, which, unlike rule in Islam, exists not to discipline society into order but to orient the souls of believers to God, forming them in a righteousness that distinguishes society as a prophetic order. Through the centuries, pious communities in Islam, even if ordered primarily to the otherworld, have nevertheless been thoroughly involved in shaping the order of this world. I thus speak of these communities in terms of engaged distance. They are “distant” from worldly affairs, attuning the souls of the umma to a sovereignty beyond that of the ruling power, yet also “engaged” in society, including its politics, even if not seeking to replace the regime in power.18 Here we need to consider the spiritual life, that is, the education of the soul—the inner life where character is formed—as part of the ethics of Islam, which, again, encourages one to be devoted to the otherworld—to God—even while in this one. I emphasize two points in this regard: first, the spiritual life is not morally or societally irrelevant; and, second, the relevancy of the spiritual life in this sense is best understood as spiritual capital, 19 whether concentrated, organized in clearly defined communities under a recognized leadership, or loosely operative in society through the ethical sentiments of its affiliates.20

In the next chapter, I discuss political theology, the method that informs this study. Theology was long ago banished from the modern university since, it was held, it deals with otherworldly matters, which, being essentially nonempirical in nature, have no explanatory value for the study of politics. However, political theology has come into fashion in recent decades, yet it is used in varied and even cacophonous ways. What is it exactly? And how does it offer perspective for the study of politics in Islam? Also in the next chapter, I consider the conundrum of sovereignty confusion whereby the governmental authority of the ruling power, known today as the state, is understood to be singularly sovereign over society, leaving no room for parallel expressions of sovereignty in society, such as religion. Sovereignty confusion, it is held, prevails especially in the modern period. It can thus be asked: If the state is now singularly sovereign over society, does it still make sense to speak of politics in Islam as a struggle for a moral order under the twofold sovereignty of rule and religion? Some, answering in the negative, would balk at my inclusion of the modern period in this study, which, it is commonly believed, is essentially unlike the past because, today, religion is no longer politically relevant. In this view, today’s politics is wholly ordered to worldly power apart from questions of otherworldly piety. A number of issues are at play in sovereignty confusion, notably, the state’s attempt to become the nation’s religious no less than its governmental authority, thereby turning religion, paradoxically, into a secular affair—sometimes known as political religion. Nevertheless, it is premature, I contend, to dismiss the ethical and even spiritual side of politics. Today it is common to think of politics wholly in terms of sovereignty confusion whereby the ordering power of the modern state, it is assumed, is all-encompassing. However, this outlook can actually blind us to the greater political reality on the ground, where the twofold sovereignty of Islam—and of other traditions—is still operative even if taking forms that the “modern” eye has trouble beholding.

The Idea Of Twofold Sovereignty

In this section, I turn to a handful of examples, from both past and present, to illustrate the idea of politics in Islam in terms of its twofold sovereignty. The distinctions are never neat, but they are noticeable. I begin with Senegal in the early 1970s at a time of severe drought. Abdou Lahatte Mbacké, leader of one of the nation’s largest spiritual associations, with several million adherents, known as the murīdiyya, castigated the ruling elite for their neglect of the nation during its crisis.21 In addition, he called on his followers, many of whom were farmers, to plant sustenance crops rather than peanuts, which constituted a large part of the nation’s foreign trade, making it a major source of the hard-currency reserves that benefited the ruling elite in Dakar even as they ignored the country’s farming communities. In the end, Mbacké would restore good relations with the ruling elite but only after they had conceded to his demands, including forgiveness of the mounting debts of farmers.22 His goal was not to capture the state for himself and his community but to defend their basic needs by invoking the sovereignty of Islam against the ruling elite and their neglect of the good of the nation as a whole. In other words, even if, in modern parlance, he was a non-state actor, Mbacké played a role in determining the order of society in Senegal where, even if the state is constitutionally secular, the life of the nation is inseparable from Islam.23 On the one hand, the spiritual capital in question in this case was concentrated, that is, organized in a clearly defined community under a recognized leadership. On the other hand, it needs to be emphasized that Mbacké succeeded not only by mobilizing the communal solidarity of his followers but also by admonishing the ruling elite in the language of Islam for the sake of securing the good of the nation as a whole, even if his immediate concern was the welfare of the members of his own pious community, the murīdiyya. In sum, in a context of crisis, his voice became a sovereign decider on the order of the nation, despite the fact that he held no governmental authority. The dynamic of twofold sovereignty, as illustrated by this example, captures the meaning of politics in Islam as I explore it in this book over the centuries, where the ruling power is only ambiguously sovereign, existing alongside a parallel sovereignty, which, traditionally, is represented by figures like Mbacké but, in our democratic age, increasingly by citizens who embody the ethics of Islam in service of the moral life of the nation.

Before turning to the next example, it is worth noting that my focus on the twofold sovereignty of Islam is not meant to imply that Islam encourages a political dualism whereby a religious domain exists apart from the rest of society under the ruling power. The latter also has a place in the moral imaginary of Islam in light of its governmental authority. Sultans of the past maintained networks of loyalty to their person at least in the circles of the ruling elite,24 who, by virtue of their association with the worldly power of the sultans, were viewed by the wider society with a kind of dread (hayba). Today loyalty to the head of state, whether king or president, can take on the likeness of a personality cult with society-wide displays of devotion to the ruler at least in the public space if not also in the private home. Indeed, the role of being a government official in service to the ruler can be understood as a sacred duty, giving it a quasi-religious quality that makes it associable with Islam. Nevertheless, worldly power, even when recognized as legitimate, is intrinsically ambiguous as the object of one’s devotion. This is hardly specific to Islam. Something in humanity balks at the idea of pledging allegiance wholly—awarding devotion entirely—to the ruling power and its governmental authority even if one recognizes the need for rule. Society, collectively, looks for something beyond power as the object even of its political devotions, and networks of moral authority that take shape as pious communities have long offered a place where society’s devotions are satisfied—to its benefit.

A religious figure in fifteenth-century Central Asia, ‘Ubaydallah Aḥrār (d. 1490), stood at the head of one such network. His sovereignty, based on his saintly character, was formidable enough to challenge the worldly potentates of his day—much like Mbacké in contemporary Senegal. The network of pious communities under his aegis operated as a moral “space” that offered protection from the injustices of the ruling elite. Aḥrār’s “regime” guaranteed freedom from oppressive taxation while carving out a space of peace in society apart from the widespread violence of competing warlords that at times threatened to ruin it.25 Here too the sovereignty of Islam was twofold. Along- side sultans, whose manner of ruling often brought more harm than benefit to society, figures such as Aḥrār effectively established a regime of righteousness. To be sure, no order is without its pretenders, even one that seeks to represent the righteousness of Islam. Muslims, like other peoples, poke fun at religious authorities since, they know all too well, some of them are more interested in wealth and prestige than in piety. Such charlatans have their place in the history of Islam, exploiting people’s expectations of righteousness by falsely presenting themselves as its purveyors. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to confuse the corruption of the institution with its purpose, even when both exist in society simultaneously.

The sovereignty of Islam as represented by pious communities and their leaders, such as Mbacké and Aḥrār, is not reducible to wealth and prestige. The purpose of divine guidance as mediated by pious communities and their leaders lies in its benefit (naf‘) to the community if not to society as a whole.26 Whether in communities under the likes of Mbacké and Aḥrār or through more diffuse expressions of the ethics of Islam as they feature in today’s faithbased nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), foundations, and even banks, pious activity can be self-serving. One does not become righteous simply by using the language of Islam. Pious activity, believers recognize, needs to be ordered to society’s well-being (al-maṣlaḥa) for it to win their allegiance and devotion.27 In this sense, the twofold sovereignty of Islam, worldly and otherworldly in its orientation, including divine guidance alongside rule, serves to ensure that society does not exist simply as a struggle for power but, primarily, for the sake of a moral order, a vision of goodness that embraces all of society. However, society in this sense, at least when it comes to politics in Islam, cannot exist by the ordering power of rule alone. Politics in Islam also depends on righteous figures who encourage people to prefer the wellbeing of society as a whole over their own interests when the latter would lead to injustice or harm the good of others.

Countless instances of the twofold sovereignty of Islam exist across the ages even if the details vary from one context to the next. In the cases of Mbacké and Aḥrār, the sovereignty of religion, as opposed to that of rule, took the shape of pious communities with spiritual capital that was highly concentrated in the sense described above. However, every context also includes cases where such capital is more loosely operative, shaping the moral imaginary of society through the ethical sentiments of its members, not only its religious elite, but also the umma, the community of believers, as a whole. We see this, for example, during the Mamluk Dynasty (1250–1517), which ruled over Egypt and Syria as a military oligarchy. Its members—the ruling elite of the age—had originally been brought into the Abode of Islam from Central Asia as slaves, purchased to staff the army of the Ayyubid Dynasty (1171–1250), which Salāḥ al-Dīn (Saladin, d. 1193), famous for his victories over the Crusaders, had founded after he toppled, in the name of Sunnism, the Fatimid Caliphate (909–1171), a dynasty that had ruled in the name of Ismailism from its capital in Cairo. Eventually, the Mamluks, which means “slaves,” did away with their Ayyubid masters. They ruled in the name of Islam and cast their sultanate as a divinely ordained enterprise on the basis, first, of their military success—jihad—against the Mongols and the Crusaders and, second, of their patronage of Islam, including the funding of mosques and schools for the study of the prophetic heritage.28 In addition, they made use of Islam in ceremonies that were meant to cast their own power as a transcendent affair. For example, attending the inauguration of new sultans were the heads of the four shari‘a schools of Sunnism and also the caliph, now a puppet figure but still symbolic of the umma’s continuity with its prophetic origins. Thus, in some measure, the Mamluks were recognized as the rulers of Islam, despite their slave background, especially for their defense of Islam against infidel forces.

Nevertheless, their claim to represent the sovereignty of Islam was always in question. Their approach to governance was notoriously rapacious—and given to infighting. The commanders who made up the ruling elite under the Mamluks were known for their abuse of power. For example, in lieu of salaries, they were assigned vast tracks of land—not to own but to use for agricultural production. For this purpose, they entered into contracts with the farmers who worked the land, but they used their power to exploit them. In response, shari‘a authorities undertook a wide-ranging and in-depth review of the law of the realm on sharecropping contracts to ensure more equitable treatment of the farmers, including their right to share in the produce of their labor.29 In short, the Mamluk Dynasty, the ruling power, was not the only sovereign in its realm. To be sure, their subjects were not disposed to revolt, not only because they had little chance of success against the dynasty’s military might, but also because they recognized that the Mamluks, despite their abuses of power, had preserved the Abode of Islam from the onslaughts of

Mongols and Crusaders.30 Nevertheless, the righteousness of the realm, including the idea that all were to receive their due, was the work not of the dynasty but of shari‘a authorities.31

In addition to the efforts of shari‘a authorities to establish a more equitable sharecropping law under the Mamluks, whose manner of ruling put the overall welfare of society at risk, the sovereignty of Islam—over against the pretensions of the ruling power to represent it—was enacted in other ways.

For example, the Qur’an describes prophets as advisers to the ruling powers of their day. They offer counsel (nuṣḥ) that is meant to bring about righteousness in society, and rulers who fail to heed such counsel pose a threat to their own societies (e.g., Q 11.34). In other words, the governmental authority of the ruling power is meant to be a transcendent affair, yet it represents the sovereignty of Islam only ambiguously because, as I explore later, its worldly power alone cannot ensure the righteousness of Islam. For this reason, Islam’s scholars, heirs to the prophets (warathat al-anbiyā’ ), were to offer counsel to rulers, which might take the form of reprimand when they neglected their duty to govern justly for the good of all. One example is Tāj al-Dīn al-Subkī

(d. 1370), chief judge of Damascus and author of The Restorer of Bounties and the Dispeller of Chastisements 32 This work is a thinly veiled warning to the ruling elite that they risk being condemned as infidels if they continue to terrorize their subjects. The issue, here too, involved lands assigned to the ruling elite. According to al-Subkī, they failed the message of Islam in many respects, especially their abuse of farmers. As he pointed out, they had effectively made themselves lords over the peasants in disregard of the message of Islam, which says that God alone is lord over creation. To be sure, al-Subkī was not calling for revolt, but he was concerned with the ruling elite’s use of its power to dominate the commoners instead of protecting them from harm. He called for rule by God’s law, shari‘a, to ensure more lenient treatment of the commoners. His was not a call to separate rule from religion but rather to remind the ruling elite that they enjoyed divine favor only to the extent that they recognized the dignity of all and carried out the duties of their office accordingly. In short, he was saying that the umma is not simply a society that has been disciplined into order by governmental authority. It also includes the ethical expectation that all are to be dignified. The warning of al-Subkī, along with the work of the shari‘a scholars who brought about the reform of the sharecropping law, cannot be attributed