The Sun That Set Rumi

The Sun That Set Rumi Ablaze: A Story of Love, Loss, and the Eternal Dance with God

In the golden haze of 13th-century Persia, in the city of Balkh (now in Afghanistan), a boy was born in 1207 under a sky heavy with stars. His name was **Jalaluddin**, meaning *“Glory of the Faith”*—but the world would come to know him as  Rumi, the mystic whose words still burn in the souls of seekers eight centuries later.

His father, Bahauddin Walad, was a renowned scholar and Sufi teacher. Fleeing Mongol invasions, the family wandered west—through Nishapur, Baghdad, Mecca—until they settled in  Konya, in the heart of Anatolia (modern Turkey). Young Jalaluddin grew into a brilliant theologian, a master of Islamic law, philosophy, and scripture. By his thirties, he was a respected professor, surrounded by students, delivering sermons in mosques filled with the devout.

But God had other plans.

One autumn day in 1244, a wandering dervish arrived in Konya. His name was Shamsuddin Tabrizi Shams meaning “Sun.” He was wild-eyed, fearless, and radiant with a strange, untamed light. While Rumi sat teaching in the marketplace, Shams approached and asked a single question that shattered the scholar’s world:

Was Bayazid Bistami greater, or Prophet Muhammad?”

Rumi, trained in logic, began to answer with scholarly precision. But Shams interrupted:  

Bayazid said, ‘Glory to me—how great is my state!’  

Muhammad said, ‘I cannot praise You as You deserve.’  

One was full of himself. The other was empty for God.  

Tell me, O scholar—who truly knew the Divine?”**

In that moment, Rumi’s heart cracked open. The books fell silent. The Sun had risen inside him.

For the next three years, Rumi and Shams vanished into divine friendship. They spoke not of law or dogma, but of **love as the substance of God**. Shams taught Rumi that **God is not a distant king on a throne, but the Beloved hidden in every breath, every tear, every heartbeat.**

“Burn your books,” Shams whispered. “ Love is the only scripture.

Rumi began to **dance**. He spun in the streets, in mosques, in vineyards—drunk on divine wine, even without touching a drop. His students were scandalized. His family was alarmed. But Rumi had tasted **fana**—the annihilation of the self in God’s ocean.

Then, tragedy struck. In 1247, Shams disappeared. Some say jealous disciples murdered him. Others say he vanished into the desert, unable to bear the intensity of their union. Rumi wandered Konya’s alleys, weeping, calling:

**“Shams! My Sun! Where have you gone?”**

But in his grief, a miracle unfolded. Rumi realized: **Shams was never a man. Shams was God in human form—a mirror reflecting the Divine Face.** And now, that Sun lived **inside** him.

From this wound poured **70,000 verses** of poetry—the **Masnavi**, the **Divan-e Shams-e Tabrizi**—rivers of fire and honey. In them, Rumi revealed his **philosophy of divinity**:

#### **Rumi’s Vision of God: Not a Judge, But a Lover**

**“Come, come, whoever you are—  

Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.  

Ours is not a caravan of despair.  

> Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times.  

> Come, yet again, come.”**

To Rumi, **God is not wrathful or separate**—God is **the Friend**, the **Beloved**, the **Wine**, the **Ocean** into which the drop dissolves.

*Love is the path and the destination.**  

 “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

*The ego is the veil.**  

  “Knock, and He’ll open the door. Vanish, and He’ll make you shine like the sun.”

**Every soul is a reed flute, torn from the reed bed of Paradise.**  

The *ney*’s mournful cry is the soul’s longing to return to God.  

“Listen to the reed how it complains—  

‘Ever since they tore me from the reed bed,  

My song has made men and women weep.’”

*Death is a wedding night.**  

 “On the day I die, do not say ‘He’s gone.’  

Say, ‘He’s arrived.’  

The tomb is not a grave—it is a doorway.”

*All creation is God’s mirror.**  

The rose, the nightingale, the drunkard, the monk—**all are lovers seeking the same Face.**

After Shams, Rumi found God in **everyone**—in a goldsmith’s hammer, in a child’s laughter, in the spinning of a dervish’s robe. He founded the **Mevlevi Order**, where *Sema*—the whirling dance—became a *living prayer**:

Right hand to heaven: *“I receive from You.”*  

Left hand to earth: *“I give to all.”*  

Spinning: *“I orbit only You.”*

Rumi died on **December 17, 1273**, as the sun set over Konya. But his funeral was no mourning—it was a **festival of reunion**. Jews, Christians, Muslims, Zoroastrians wept and danced together. His last words?

**“When you see my funeral, don’t say ‘Separation!’  That is the time of my union with the Beloved.”**

### **Rumi’s Message to You, Today**

**“You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?”**

Close your eyes. Feel the spin.  

The same Love that set Rumi ablaze still burns in your chest.  

**God is not “out there.”**  

God is the silence between your thoughts.  

The ache when you hear beautiful music.  

The tear you can’t explain.

**“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”**

Spin, weep, laugh, love—  

Until you, too, disappear into the Sun.

**Rumi never asked you to believe.  

He asked you to **burn.****

And in that burning, find **God smiling back.**