A Shelter for the Spirit: Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s Practical Theology and Adaptive Sufi Praxis in Early 20th-Century Istanbul

Abstract

This article examines the adaptive Sufi praxis of Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī (1867–1950) in early 20th-century Istanbul through the lens of practical theology. Navigating the political, social, and legal transformations of the late Ottoman and early Republican periods, Rifā‘ī sustained Sufi practices not by rigid institutional preservation but through a dynamic integration of spiritual tradition into the rhythms of urban modernity. His lodge, the Ümmü Ken‘ān Dergāh, functioned as a “moral commons”—simultaneously a site of devotional practice, social refuge, and ethical formation. Utilizing the frameworks of Don S. Browning’s fundamental practical theology, Elaine L. Graham’s emphasis on lived praxis, and John Swinton’s theology of qualitative reflection, this study explores how Rifā‘ī recontextualized classical Sufi rituals, ethical teachings, and communal hospitality to meet the needs of a rapidly secularizing and urbanizing society. Particular attention is given to his inclusive pedagogies, non-monetary ethos, integration of women as active participants, and the lodge’s role as a “shelter” amid widespread displacement, war, and social dislocation. By reading Rifā‘ī s practices as forms of contextual theology and lived religious adaptation, this article contributes to broader conversations on the resilience of spiritual communities under conditions of modern transformation, offering insights into how religious traditions may remain both rooted and responsive in times of profound societal change.

1. Introduction

Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī (1867–1950) was one of the most remarkable representatives of the Rifā‘ī Sufi order in the late Ottoman and early Republican periods. Born in Plovdiv, he belonged to an elite Ottoman bureaucratic family and was introduced to Sufi education from an early age.1 His father, Hacı Abdülhalīm Bey (d. 1904), held high-ranking positions within the state bureaucracy, while his mother, Hatice Cenān Hanım (d. 1919), served as his first spiritual guide. Her studies with Shaykh Edhem Efendi, affiliated with the Qādiriyya and Uwaysiyya traditions, and her deep engagement with the Dīvān of Niyāzī-i Mısrī (d. 1694) profoundly shaped Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s early exposure to Sufi thought and poetry (Yalçınkaya 2021, pp. 46–50). These formative influences laid the intellectual and spiritual groundwork for his later writings and teachings. His education at the Mekteb-i Sultānī (today’s Galatasaray High School), founded in 1868 to train the Ottoman bureaucratic elite, played a central role in shaping his literary and intellectual world.2 During his service at the Ministry of Education (Maʿārif Neẓāreti), he developed a distinctive vision for educational reform, which he later realized through the establishment of the Idādī-i Ḥamīdī school in Medina—a project he initiated during his voluntary posting there (Tahralı 2002). While in Medina, he completed his final Sufi training within the Rifā‘ī tradition and received formal authorization (ijāza) from Shaykh Ḥamza al-Rifā‘ī. Upon returning to Istanbul, he began serving simultaneously as an educator and a publicly recognized spiritual guide.3 The lodge he founded in 1908 in the Fatih district—named the Ümmü Ken‘ān Dergāh after his mother—resonated deeply within intellectual Sufi circles during the liberal atmosphere of the Second Constitutional Era (Yüksel 1994).4 This lodge developed not only as a Sufi center but also as a multifaceted spiritual and cultural institution that bridged tradition and modernity. Embodying a multilayered identity as a Sufi shaykh, civil servant, poet, musician, and educator, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī emerged as a singular figure in the reinterpretation of Rifā‘ī Sufism in the modern era.

The enduring influence of Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s teachings is evident in the transmission of his spiritual legacy through his foremost disciple and successor, Samiha Ayverdi (1905–1993), and later through her student, Cemalnur Sargut (born 1952).5 While Ayverdi authored over forty books and played a key role in shaping 20th-century Turkish Islamic thought—most notably through the founding of the Turkish Women’s Cultural Association (TÜRKKAD)—Cemalnur Sargut has brought this lineage into the global academic and spiritual landscape of the 21st century.6 Trained initially in chemical engineering, Sargut studied closely with Ayverdi and has since emerged as the most prominent living representative of the Rifā‘ī order in Turkey. Her efforts have extended beyond popular Sufi education into institutional academic work: she has spearheaded the establishment of Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī Chairs in Islamic Studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Peking University, and Kyoto University (Burak Adli 2020).7 In Turkey, she was instrumental in founding the Institute for Sufi Studies at Üsküdar University, the country’s first interdisciplinary research center dedicated to Sufism. Through public lectures, publications, and educational initiatives, Sargut continues to reinterpret and extend Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s ethos of spiritual hospitality, intellectual openness, and moral refinement into contemporary contexts.

This article examines how Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī adapted and sustained traditional Sufi practices amid the modern societal changes of the late Ottoman Empire. It approaches the question through the lens of practical theology, asking in particular: How did Rifā‘ī practice Sufi rituals, ethical teachings, and community life? This article focuses on Rifā‘ī’s methods of aligning Sufi practices—such as sohbet (spiritual conversation), dhikr (remembrance chants), sacred music and poetry, and rituals of hospitality (from communal meals like lokma sweet offerings to charity)—with the rhythms and needs of an increasingly changing socio-cultural dynamics of the late Ottoman empire. Special attention is given to how he sustained these practices without the formal institutional support of an established tekke, relying on personal initiative, informal networks, and scheduling and organizational strategies. The present study will explore specific elements of his approach: the use of weekly and daily prayer-time rhythms (e.g., regular gatherings on Thursday evenings and Friday after prayers) to structure spiritual life; the cultivation of a non-monetary ethos that eschewed member dues or endowments while emphasizing generosity and service; the creation of a hospitable, sensory-rich environment (through music, poetry, coffee and shared food) that welcomed diverse participants; and the integration of spiritual practice into the social fabric and temporal routines of the people. Metaphorically, Rifā‘ī’s dergāh (Sufi lodge) became a “shelter” and “center of consolation”—a kind of moral commons—for many: from war refugees and displaced families seeking solace, to intellectuals craving a sense of tradition and community amid social upheavals. This study draws primarily on the original sources authored by or attributed to Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī particularly Sohbetler, a compilation of his spiritual conversations meticulously recorded by his close disciples, and Yirminci Asrın Işığında Müslümanlık, a work authored by four of his foremost female students—Samiha Ayverdi (d. 1993), Safiye Erol (d. 1964), Sofi Huri (d. 1983), and Nezihe Araz (d. 2009)—which collectively reflects and interprets his teachings and social–spiritual praxis (Rifâî 2000; Ayverdi et al. 2003).8 These sources offer first-hand insights into the ethical, pedagogical, and ritual dimensions of Rifā‘ī’s approach, including his contextual adaptations of Sufi tradition amid socio-political transformations.9

In pursuing this inquiry, the article is structured as follows. First, the historical context of Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s life in his era, to ground the socio-cultural challenges he confronted. Next, the methodology: a practical theological framework drawing on key scholars that will guide our analysis of Rifā‘ī’s lived religious practices as a form of contextual theology in action (Browning 1991, pp. 3–25; Graham 1996, pp. 12–45; Swinton and Mowat 2016, pp. 1–18). The core of the paper consists of analytical sections examining different facets of Rifā‘ī’s adaptation of Sufi practice: (1) the ritual rhythms and spaces he cultivated (weekly gatherings, prayer-tied meetings, holy night observances), (2) the ethos of sustainability and service (personal funding, charitable hospitality, avoidance of institutional burdens), (3) the social inclusivity and integration he achieved (engaging women, neighbors, people of various backgrounds), and (4) the role of his dergāh as a spiritual refuge during times of war and displacement (embodying solace and moral support for the afflicted). In a subsequent theological engagement section, we dialogue with the practical theology literature to interpret the significance of Rifā‘ī’s approach—for instance, how his blending of spiritual tradition with social care exemplifies principles of lived theology, ritual resilience, and contextual adaptation will be explored. Finally, the conclusion will summarize the findings and reflect on the broader implications of Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s legacy for contemporary understandings of practical theology and the sustenance of spiritual communities in changing societies. Through this comprehensive examination, we hope to shed light on how a Sufi teacher’s “timeless” teachings were made “timely” for a turbulent epoch10, and what that can teach scholars of religion about the interplay of practice, tradition, and context.

2. Historical Context of Moral and Religious Transformation During the Late Ottoman Empire

The late Ottoman Empire witnessed profound institutional and intellectual transformations that reshaped religious life and moral pedagogy11 A decisive moment came in 1826 when Sultan Mahmud II abolished the Janissary corps and, citing their close ties, banned the Bektashi order (Varol 2011, pp. 10–69; Hofer 2021, p. 68; Ömür 2009, pp. 78–79). That same year, the Ministry of Imperial Waqfs (Evkāf-ı Hümāyun Nezāreti) was founded to regulate pious endowments, bringing madrasas and Sufi lodges—once semi-autonomous institutions—under centralized state control (Silverstein 2009). These reforms, aimed at consolidating authority, gradually eroded the independence of religious institutions, laying the groundwork for further interventions into spiritual education and practice.

The Tanzimat period (1839–1876) intensified this trend. At the same time, Ottoman intellectuals vigorously discussed identity. Young Ottoman thinkers argued that Western concepts of representative government and natural rights could be harmonized with Islamic tradition (Özkan 2012, p. 39)12 Ottoman reformers sought to modernize the empire by establishing secular schools alongside the traditional madrasa system. The 1869 education law introduced compulsory, state-controlled schooling and a hierarchy of institutions modeled on European systems. Though not immediately dominant, these reforms created a dual educational landscape13 Over time, the ulama-run madrasas—once guardians of moral discipline and scholarly piety—lost their central role in shaping public ethics and communal authority. In parallel, Sufi lodges faced growing scrutiny14 Sultan Abdülhamid II (r. 1876–1909) both enabled and constrained these trends. The Sultan built railways, telegraphs, and modern universities to bind the empire together, yet he also deployed an expansive spy network and Pan-Islamic rhetoric to suppress dissent15 Yet, amidst mounting tensions and increasing socio-political pressures, tekkes remained deeply embedded in the ethical life of Ottoman society. They served as spaces where theology was embodied in ritual, moral training, and communal conversation. Through practices such as sohbet and dhikr, Sufi lodges offered spiritual mentorship and cultivated habits of character, hospitality, and interior refinement. In this sense, they functioned as sites of practical theology, translating Islamic metaphysics into lived, formative practice. The durability of these institutions, even during periods of political upheaval, attests to their social and pedagogical significance.

The Young Turk Revolution of 1908 restored the constitution, but the new Committee of Union and Progress government soon coupled modernization programs with an assertive Turkish nationalism (Uzer 2016, p. 17). Intellectual life grew more polarized: some writers and professors pushed aggressively toward European models, while conservatives cautioned against abandoning Islamic or Ottoman traditions. The foundation of the Turkish Republic in 1923 marked a radical rupture in religious practices. In 1924, the Unification of Education Law dissolved the madrasa system, and in 1925 all Sufi lodges were officially closed (Zürcher 2000, p. 152; Zürcher 2010, p. 141). These policies, animated by a secular-modernist ethos, dismantled the institutional frameworks of religious education and severed the link between communal ethics and spiritual discipline. The abrupt closure of tekkes not only eliminated visible structures but also delegitimized forms of religious formation deeply embedded in Ottoman urban life. A void emerged in the transmission of embodied piety, ethical sensibility, and intergenerational spiritual mentorship. Nevertheless, the Sufi ethos persisted. Many shaykhs and disciples shifted toward more discreet forms of engagement through literature, conversation, and informal networks. One of the most emblematic figures of this adaptive continuity was Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī (Eraslan 2001). He established the Ümmü Ken‘ān Lodge in Istanbul, where he emphasized sohbet (spiritual conversation) and ethical training, attracting a following in the early 20th century. Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s adaptive leadership exemplified the continuity of religious practice and moral formation despite institutional suppression. Through oral lessons and written works, these disciples kept alive an “insider’s” understanding of Sufi life and ethics during the Late Ottoman spiritual upheaval.

3. Methodology: A Practical Theological Approach to Lived Sufism

To investigate Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s adaptation of Sufi practices, this study employs a methodology grounded in practical theology16 Practical theology, in the broadest sense, is the branch of theological inquiry that attends to lived religious practice—it asks how beliefs, rituals, and spiritual principles are actually enacted in daily life, and how those lived realities, in turn, inform and reshape theology (Heitink 1999, pp. 104–5). As such, it is an ideal lens for examining a figure like Rifā‘ī, whose significance lies not in abstract doctrine but in the creative praxis of faith in an evolving context.

Several key insights from practical theology scholarship guide our approach. Don S. Browning’s model of “fundamental practical theology” emphasizes that theology is not a one-way application of theory to practice, but rather a dialectical process in which theory and practice continually inform each other. Browning challenges the notion that practical theology is merely the final, “applied” step of academic theology; instead, he describes it as a holistic discipline binding together theory and practice in a dynamic hermeneutical circle, one that “interacts concretely with the experiences of daily living” (Browning 1991, pp. 1–12). In other words, our theological understanding grows out of engaging actual situations—such as Rifā‘ī’s early 20th-century Istanbul milieu—and reflecting on them in light of tradition and moral vision. This study follows Browning’s approach by first describing Rifā‘ī’s context and practices (the descriptive-empirical task), then interpreting them against the backdrop of Sufi tradition and modern social change (the historical-contextual task), and finally evaluating their theological and ethical significance (the normative and strategic tasks). In doing so, we treat Rifā‘ī’s own life as a form of “practical theology in action”—a case where religious tradition meets contemporary exigency, yielding new insights.

Concurrently, this article draws on Elaine L. Graham’s emphasis that practical theology foregrounds lived experience and human context as essential sources for theology (Graham 2017). Graham notes that practical theology regards practice as deeply significant because it is in lived human reality that faith “takes place” and acquires meaning. She distinguishes between unreflective “practice” and reflexive “praxis,” where the latter denotes action infused with values and theory. In this view, the repetitive rituals of Rifā‘ī’s dergāh—weekly dhikr circles, shared meals, etc.—are not just habitual customs; they are praxis, imbued with theological intent (such as embodying compassion, remembrance of God, and communal solidarity). Practical theology invites us to read these practices for the “embodied knowledge” they express. Moreover, Graham and others insist that theology begins and ends in practice: theology is not only applied to practice, but practice itself is “theologically significant” and often the origin of theological insight (Graham 2017). Applying this insight, our method gives full weight to the possibility that Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s adaptive strategies carry an implicit theology—a lived theology of how to be a Sufi in the modern world—which we must attempt to articulate.

Finally, John Swinton and others in practical theology underscore the importance of qualitative, contextually aware research methods for understanding lived religion. Swinton advocates moving “from practical theology as applied theology… towards a model which understands the practical theological task in terms of the theology of practice” (Swinton and Mowat 2016, pp. 10–14). In practice, this means using methods akin to ethnography or case study: attentiveness to narratives, practices, and the meanings ascribed by participants themselves. Our study, while historical rather than ethnographic, follows a similar logic. This study draws on primary accounts of Rifā‘ī’s activities (e.g., memoirs of disciples like Samiha Ayverdi, recorded sohbet talks of Rifā‘ī, and Rifā‘ī’s own writings and poetry) and on secondary historical analyses, treating them as testimonies of lived religious experience (Rifā‘ī 2000; Ayverdi et al. 2003). By assembling these narratives, this article constructs a detailed picture of how religion was practiced in Rifā‘ī’s circle. Then, this study engages in what Swinton and colleague Harriet Mowat term theological reflection on practice—drawing connections between Rifā‘ī’s concrete practices and broader theological themes (such as sustaining tradition, caring for community, and the nature of spiritual authority) (Swinton and Mowat 2016, pp. 10–14). In this reflection, contextual theology will be a guiding concept: as Stephen Bevans and others have argued, all theology is done in context, and successful religious leadership often involves an intentional inculturation or adaptation of faith to new contexts. We will see Rifā‘ī’s work as an instance of contextual theology within Islam—effectively, ijtihad (creative interpretive effort) applied not just to texts but to practices and community life. Throughout the analysis, the core literature mentioned Browning, Graham, Swinton, and others like Richard Osmer’s four-task model of practical theology, or John Swinton’s narrative approach, which provides a vocabulary and set of lenses. By integrating these methodological perspectives, we aim to produce an analysis that is richly descriptive and critically theological—shedding light on Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s legacy not only as a chapter in history, but as a source of insight for the ongoing dialogue on faith and practice in the modern world.

4. Integrating Spiritual Rhythms: The Tekke as a Site of Practical Theology

Opened in 1908 in the courtyard of Rifā‘ī’s family mansion in Fatih, the tekke was named in honor of his mother, Hatice Cenān (d. 1919), who had urged its establishment (Yüksel 1994, vol. 7, pp. 111–12). Hatice Cenān was deeply respected and her spiritual influence suffused the lodge. Naming the dergāh after her was perhaps a nod to the nurturing, maternal quality of the community—it aimed to nourish souls as a mother nourishes children. It also signaled that women had a place of honor in this Sufi context. Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s Ümmü Ken‘ān Dergāh was deliberately founded and organized as a space where spiritual knowledge was lived and taught through structured practice (Yalçınkaya 2025). From its physical layout to its weekly ritual schedule, the lodge embodied an Islamic practical theology. The lodge was legally established as a charitable endowment (vakıf) in 1908 under an official decree by Sultan Abdülhamid II. Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī personally funded the tekke and was appointed its shaykh for life per the foundation. Notably, he declined to accept any donations from his dervishes; instead, Rifā‘ī covered all expenses himself, ensuring the lodge’s financial independence.

Architecturally, Ümmü Ken‘ān was a tekke-konak, blending a Sufi lodge with a domestic mansion. The building was a three-story wooden structure integrated with Rifā‘ī’s residence; a passage on the second floor connected the semāhāne (ritual hall) to the family living quarters (Yüksel 1994).17 This physical unity of sacred and residential space meant that spiritual practice permeated the rhythms of home life. The semāhāne itself was designed in a classical Rifā’iyya style, featuring a square wooden-floored courtyard and a mihrab (prayer niche) flanked by symbolic objects central to Rifā‘ī’ identity. The interior of the Ümmü Ken‘ān Lodge reflects the traditional layout of a Rifā‘ī tekke. It includes a square wooden-floored ritual hall, characteristic of the lodges in the Rifā‘īyya order, especially the ones in Anatolia and Istanbul. Flanking the mihrab are two banners and plaques bearing the names of Aḥmad al-Rifā‘ī (d. 1182) and members of the Prophet’s family (Ahl al-Bayt). Surrounding the mihrab are symbolic Rifā‘ī objects such as swords, iron spikes, skewers, chains, and drums. Rifā‘ī’s son-in-law, Ziya Cemal Büyükaksoy (d. 1953), offers an interpretation of these elements and provides insight into the symbolic and architectural features of the lodge’s ritual space (Rifâî 2008, pp. 267–70). On either side of the mihrab hung two sancak banners inscribed with the credo “Lā ilāhe illāllāh—Muhammedun resulullāh”, representing the descending and ascending arcs of existence in Sufi cosmology. The mihrab were emblematic artifacts of the Rifā‘ī order—the sword, needle, hook, and chain—whose presence taught dervishes through visual symbol: for example, the paired swords alluded to mastery of both exoteric and esoteric knowledge, while the oppositely placed objects embodied the union of apparent contraries in the Rifā‘ī’ path. In essence, the lodge’s very walls and décor communicated Sufi theological principles, turning architecture into a didactic tool. The spatial arrangement—with a semāhāne for ritual, a tawhidhāne or prayer room, and service areas on the ground floor, mirrored the integrated approach of practical theology, an environment where worship, community, and daily living were interwoven.

There was a specific adab (customs) of entering the semahane: a dervish stepping through the threshold would cross the right foot over the left and bow with hand on heart before entering, careful not to tread on the doorstep itself. This small ritual gesture of deference—repeated each time one entered the sacred space—trained disciples in humility and presence of mind. Likewise, in conversations, loud or boastful speech was discouraged; one waited for one’s turn to speak and always addressed the shaykh and others politely. Eyewitnesses describe how well-kept and neatly groomed Rifā‘ī’s dervishes were. Even the layout of the tekke reinforced courteous interaction. The selāmlık (greeting room) in the mansion was where guests and dervishes would exchange pleasantries before the formal sohbet began, ensuring a hospitable welcome for all (Yüksel 1994). By weaving refined etiquette into daily life at the lodge, Rifā‘ī helped his students cultivate moral sensibilities: patience, modest speech, cleanliness, and respect for elders and peers. Over time, observing and practicing adab in countless small moments shaped the dervishes’ character. The repetitive nature of these courtesies—day in and day out—means they became embodied dispositions: one learned courtesy by habit until it became one’s natural impulse. In Bourdieu’s terms, the tekke’s social micro-rituals generated “durable, transposable dispositions”—a habitus of courtesy and kindness (Bourdieu 1977, p. 72).

A central aspect of Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s strategy was to weave Sufi devotional life into the ordinary temporal rhythms of daily life. Rather than retreating into a cloistered environment or expecting followers to abandon their daily routines, Rifā‘ī structured Sufi practice around the week’s natural ebbs and flows—especially those times already imbued with religious significance in an Islamic setting (like Friday prayers) or convenient for gatherings after work hours. His lodge, known as the Ümmü Ken‘ān Lodge, became famous for its Thursday evening and Friday gatherings, carefully scheduled so as not to clash with other Istanbul tekkes’ activities (Korkusuz 2016, pp. 561–62). In fact, historical accounts credit Ken‘ān’s mother, Hatice Cenān, with astutely arranging the lodge’s program to “avoid conflicts with other lodges,” ensuring that the devout could attend multiple circles and that a cooperative spirit reigned among the Sufi community (Ayverdi 2003, p. 551). It is transmitted by Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s grandson, Cemil Büyükaksoy (d. 2018), that while the lodge occasionally included the recitation of the Shādhilī awrād and performance of Shādhilī dhikr, the regular liturgical practice was centered around the Rifā‘ī awrād and the Istanbul-style standing Rifā‘ī dhikr (qiyām) (Gencer 2020, p. 45). Before the dhikr, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī would offer a lesson on the Mathnawī of Rūmī, typically close to the afternoon prayer on Fridays. This session was followed by the recitation of hymns (ilāhīs)—many composed by Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī himself—which were performed by melodically gifted zāḳirs. The main ʿāyīn (ritual ceremony) would begin after the night prayer. During the dhikr, participants adhered to a disciplined aesthetic: they wore clean, orderly, and uniform garments—specifically black attire—which symbolized both spiritual unity and the formal identity of the Rifā‘ī order. This visual uniformity served not only as a sign of collective devotion but also as a performative expression of the order’s moral and aesthetic sensibility.

Thursday evenings at Ümmü Ken‘ān were a blend of the ordinary and the sacred. Each Thursday at dusk, Sheikh Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī would don the traditional attire of a Sufi master and formally enter the lodge for the evening prayers (Korkusuz 2016, pp. 561–62). Accompanied by two of his senior dervishes (seen as potential successors), he would pass through the selamlık (the greeting hall of the lodge, which in this case was attached to his own residence), receiving salutations from followers as he moved from the secular space of the household into the sacred space of the prayer hall (Güldütuna and Çetin 2022). This weekly procession symbolized a deliberate transition out of mundane concerns into a liminal, spiritually charged time. Once seated on the post reserved for the Sheikh, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī typically led an evening program centered on sohbet and zikr (Yalçınkaya 2021, pp. 144–52). He would recite and interpret passages from Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s Mathnawī—a foundational Sufi text—often expounding on its meaning for about an hour. As a recognized mesnevīhan (trained commenter of the Mathnawī).18 Rifā‘ī drew on this classical Persian mystical poetry to speak to the hearts of a modern Turkish audience. Listeners describe these sessions as a compelling blend of conventional Sufi teaching and Ken‘ān’s personal charisma—his voice giving life to Rūmī’s 13th-century verses, then linking them to contemporary moral or spiritual issues (Güldütuna and Çetin 2022).

After the discourse, the gathering would typically perform dhikr. Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī led these dhikr rituals, often using the Evrād-ı Şerīf (The Noble Litanies), a special litany he himself compiled. This Evrād-ı Şerīf incorporated Qur’ān passages, the 99 Names of God, and blessings on the Prophet, providing a structured yet diverse set of recitations that could speak to multiple spiritual sensibilities (Tahralı 2008; Yalçınkaya 2021, pp. 144–52). Importantly, the dhikr was not done in austere silence—it was accompanied by music. Rifā‘ī, who was an accomplished neyzen and composer, integrated Turkish Sufi musical traditions into the Wednesday ceremonies. The ney flute’s plaintive melodies and the chanting of ilahis in various maqams (modes) helped create a deeply affective atmosphere (Alvan 2017, p. 144). The Rifā‘ī remembrance ritual (dhikr) begins with the recitation of Salāt al-Kamāliyyah and Awrād al-Sharīf, a compilation of sacred verses, Qurʾānic chapters, divine names (asmāʾ al-ḥusnā), and blessings upon the Prophet (ṣalawāt) that was last arranged by Rifā‘ī himself.19 Portions of this collection are selected and recited according to the preferences of the lodge master (meydan sāhibi). Following this, the practice continues with standing dhikr (qiyām) focused on the kalimat al-tawḥīd (lā ilāha illa Allāh), then transitions into the invocation of the Divine Name (ism al-jalāl) and the rotational dhikr (devrān). Variations in bodily movement, melodic improvisations, and the inclusion of additional supplications (especially during religious festivals and sacred nights) reflect the adaptability and performative richness of the ceremony. Throughout the ritual, leadership is coordinated between the zāḳirbaşı (head reciter) and the zikir reisi (ritual guide), with the latter initiating movement and the former controlling rhythm and pace. This balance ensures a responsive, disciplined, and spiritually attuned performance.

Entering the meydan—the central ritual space—requires a carefully choreographed act of reverence. The dervish steps in without touching the threshold, performing a bow with hands placed over the heart and abdomen, symbolizing submission of the ego and honor to the Prophet and the lodge’s spiritual authority. Inside the meydan, participants observe silence, avoid casual speech, and adopt a posture of humility and attentiveness. Before the dhikr begins, the sheikh opens the ritual with the recitation of al-Fātiḥa, followed by the ṣalawāt al-sharīfa, chanted communally with melodic unity. The prayer is accompanied by ritualized bodily gestures that emphasize embodied devotion. This moment of Fātiḥa marks the full transition into a sacred, disciplined space, where even latecomers must seek permission and enter silently, bowing and touching the ground before joining (Gencer 2020, p. 48). The entire sequence, from prayer to postures and coordinated responses, reflects a choreography of presence, training both the body and spirit in attentiveness to the divine.

After the formal ceremonies concluded, the mood would transition to relaxed social interaction—itself a valued aspect of Sufi life. It is recorded that Rifā‘ī and his guests would retire to the selamlık (parlor) of his house (physically connected to the lodge) to share coffee and conversation (Yüksel 1994). These late-evening sohbet sessions could range in topic from spiritual and literary subjects to current political matters. In one account conveyed by Samiha Ayverdi, guests and Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī gather in the selamlık area to drink coffee and discuss political and intellectual matters (Ayverdi 2003, pp. 83–85). Such interactions served multiple purposes: they extended the hospitality of the lodge, provided a forum for informal mentoring—seekers could ask the Sheikh questions or hear his views on pressing issues, and reinforced the sense of the lodge as a community hub where worldly life and spiritual life were not divorced. In practical theology terms, this blending of fellowship with ritual underscores how religion was interwoven with ordinary social bonds in Rifā‘ī’s approach—a deliberate effort to prevent spiritual practice from becoming an isolated niche activity.

Fridays at the lodge had a slightly different character, being the sacred day of assembly in Islam. On Friday afternoons (or evenings), the ritual intensity was even greater. Friday noon prayer at the mosque was often followed by a gathering at the lodge for extended zikr and sema (Korkusuz 2016, pp. 561–62). In this, Rifā‘ī led the semāhāne and initiated a ceremony where chants honoring the Prophet Muhammad were followed by the recitation of the Mesnevī and subsequent dhikr (Ulusoy 2010, pp. 173–74). Here we see a layering of practices: first, naṭ hymns praising the Prophet would be sung (a customary act of veneration on Fridays), possibly accompanied by the measured movements of whirling dervishes (semā).20 Then, Rifā‘ī would again read from Rūmī’s Mathnawī, linking its insights to the assembled faithful, and proceed into the dhikr. The Friday dhikr, too, was guided by the Evrād-ı Şerīf litany, meaning that across both Wednesdays and Fridays the community was inculcated into a shared repertoire of sacred words and sounds (Yalçınkaya 2021, pp. 147–48). Repeating the same compiled prayers weekly is evident in how practical theology functions. In Rifā‘ī’s lodge, this script was traditional—drawn from Quranic and prophetic sources and was curated for the time and place by the Sheikh himself.

Beyond the regular weekly cycle, seasonal and calendrical events punctuated the lodge’s life, showing Rifā‘ī’s commitment to preserving the broader Ottoman–Islamic ritual calendar. During kandil (holy nights)—e.g., the Mawlid (Prophet’s birthday), Miʿraj (Ascension night), Laylat al-Qadr (Ramadan night of power)—the Ümmü Ken‘ān Dergāh would hold special late-night gatherings, often extending until midnight (Yalçınkaya 2021, pp. 147–48). These were opportunities for extra ibada (worship) and communal remembrance on nights that held spiritual significance for the community at large. Typically, such gatherings included the recitation of the Mevlid, the famous Ottoman Turkish poem in honor of the Prophet by Süleyman Çelebi (d. 825/1422) (Büyükaksoy 2013, pp. 147–49). A designated zākir (cantor) might melodiously recite this text while participants listened or quietly joined refrains. Engaging in these city-wide religious observances kept Rifā‘ī’s community connected to the wider fabric of Muslim devotional life in Istanbul, even as their lodge had its unique features. Furthermore, on the day of ʿĀshūra (the 10th of Muḥarram)—which in local custom is marked by cooking a sweet pudding symbolizing community and harmony—Rifā‘ī’s followers would prepare the traditional aşure dish in large, old cauldrons at the lodge. As they stirred the mixture of grains, fruits, and nuts that legend says Noah made after the Flood, the community would chant verses of tawḥīd (divine unity) and marsiye (elegies, likely recalling the martyrs of Karbala). This practice was highly symbolic: it mingled sensory experience (taste, smell) with spiritual remembrance, reinforcing teachings of unity and sacrifice through a tangible, edible medium. Aşure cooking, while a popular folk tradition, took on spiritual pedagogy under Rifā‘ī’s guidance—a means of embodying faith in daily life (literally consuming a symbol of communal unity).

During Ramadan, the holiest month of fasting, the dergāh became especially vibrant. Although tekke ceremonies might typically slow during Ramadan in some places due to the focus on fasting and mosque prayers, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī ensured that his lodge actually complemented and enhanced the Ramadan experience for his disciples. Each night, after the tarāwīḥ prayers (extra nightly prayers in Ramadan), which the dergāh hosted for those in the vicinity, the community would break fast together (iftār) and then convene for an evening sohbet session (Gencer 2020, p. 48). Thus, every night of Ramadan effectively became a gathering for teaching and fellowship, blending ritual (tarāwīḥ) and informal interaction (sohbet over coffee). The reference to Şakir Dede serving coffee suggests that even at late hours hospitality was maintained, likely helping participants stay alert for the suhūr (pre-dawn meal) or simply to enjoy the conviviality of Ramadan nights. This pattern again shows Rifā‘ī’s skill in contextual timing: using a period when people are already oriented toward piety and community (Ramadan) to deepen their engagement with Sufi teachings, without creating separate or onerous commitments. Finally, the lodge marked the Islamic festivals (bayram). Particularly, Eid al-Fitr (the festival at Ramadan’s end) and Eid al-Adha (the Feast of Sacrifice) were times when large numbers of people would pay respects to the Sheikh. Accounts note that post-Bayram Fridays at the lodge featured daylong open-house rituals. These might include extended dhikrs, distribution of sacrificial meat to the poor and communal meals (Yalçınkaya 2021, p. 149).

This point, to be expanded in the next section, highlights how integrated Rifā‘ī’s life was with the lodge’s life. The timing and variety of practices he maintained effectively created a microcosm of traditional Islamic life within the modern city schedule. By holding prayers, dhikrs and sohbet at times when people could come (evenings, weekends, holy days) and by aligning them with familiar religious observances, Rifā‘ī ensured that tradition remained a continuous, rhythmic presence in the lives of his followers. Rather than isolating the sacred to remote times or places, he normalized it as part of one’s weekly calendar—a very practical adaptation that helped sustain participation.

5. Sustaining a Non-Monetary Ethos and Hospitality

A striking dimension of Rifā‘ī’s approach was his commitment to an ethos of generosity, service, and non-dependence on material institutional support (Ulusoy 2010, pp. 173–74). In an era when many religious institutions (including some Sufi lodges) relied on state stipends or endowments (waqf), and when others charged fees or solicited donations from members to stay afloat, the Ümmü Ken‘ān Dergāh under Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī took a notably different path. It operated under what we might term a “non-monetary ethos”: no dues, no fundraising campaigns, no wealthy patrons bankrolling the activities. Instead, as contemporary accounts emphasize, the lodge was solely sustained personally by Rifā‘ī (Kara 2013, pp. 49–51). This had both practical and symbolic implications. Practically, it freed the community from the pressures and inequalities that money issues can introduce—the dergāh did not become a site of contestation over endowment management, nor were poorer disciples made to feel like charity cases or richer ones courted as benefactors. Symbolically, it enacted the Sufi ideal of fakr (spiritual poverty or detachment), a principle which Rifā‘ī himself embodied (Rifâî 2000, p. 28).

One concrete expression of this generosity was Rifā‘ī’s habit of ensuring that any visitors in need left the lodge with some form of help. The lodge became known as a place where spiritual and material aid went hand in hand. During the various gatherings, if poor or displaced persons attended (and given the historical context, many refugees and jobless war survivors likely did), the Sheikh or his deputies would quietly see to it that they did not leave empty-handed (Yalçınkaya 2025, p. 39; Yalçınkaya 2020; Yalçınkaya 2021, pp. 100–5). This is a powerful model of what practical theologians might call diakonia (service) integrated into worship—the dergāh was simultaneously a house of prayer and a kind of informal social agency. Importantly, such aid was given without fanfare or institutionalization. Rifā‘ī did not establish a formal charity fund or society; he simply responded person-to-person as needs arose. The tekke offered what we might term a “moral commons”—a community resource where people’s immediate basic needs (a meal, some coins for the road, a sympathetic ear) were met through voluntary, collective kindness, governed by spiritual values rather than bureaucratic rules.

This non-monetary, service-oriented ethos was undergirded by rituals of hospitality that characterized Rifā‘ī’s gatherings. Providing food and drink to participants was a regular feature, not as lavish banquets, but as simple expressions of fellowship. We have already noted the role of coffee: whether after Wednesday dhikr or during Ramadan nights, coffee was served as a stimulant for conversation and a symbol of welcome (Ayverdi 2003, pp. 83–85).21 In Turkish Sufi culture, offering a cup of coffee or tea has deep significance—it is an act of trust and cordiality, inviting the guest to linger and feel at home. At the Ümmü Ken‘ān Lodge, the dervishes had the specific duty of preparing and serving coffee, highlighting its institutionalized role in their practice. Alongside beverages, sweet treats and meals were common. Such sensory hospitality—the aroma of coffee, the taste of sweets, the convivial act of eating together—played a subtle but vital theological role: it engaged the whole person in the religious gathering, not just mind and soul, but body too. It communicated care and inclusion wordlessly. One could say it sacramentalized daily acts.

The principle of faqr (spiritual poverty) that Rifā‘ī cherished also encouraged personal responsibility and trust in God among his disciples (Rifâî 2000, pp. 131, 317). They saw their teacher living modestly and giving generously, which itself was a form of teaching beyond words. It modeled zuhd (detachment) and īthār (preferring others to oneself). For instance, if a wealthy admirer tried to donate a large sum, it is likely Rifā‘ī would redirect it to someone needy or a pious cause rather than aggrandize the lodge (Rifâî 2000, p. 142). This stance would have protected the community from one of the pitfalls of spiritual movements—the erosion of sincerity by materialism or power. By staying backstage socially and materially, Rifā‘ī kept the focus on the practice itself—the conversations, the music, the prayer—rather than on any cult of personality or worldly success. In doing so, he demonstrated a key aspect of practical theology’s ethic: the alignment of means with ends. He preached reliance on God and brotherly love, and structured his community in a way that exemplified those very principles, fostering a sustainable practice that could outlast external shocks (like the loss of legal status following the abolishment of Sufi lodges in 1925).

Central to the Sheikh’s educational method in the tekke, thus, was the formation of a moral self—cultivated through the inculcation of virtuous character traits and Sufi dispositions in his disciples through habitual practice (Zülfikar 2017). In contrast to formal book learning, Rifā‘ī emphasized an embodied pedagogy of Islam: one grounded in repetitive devotional acts, disciplined social behavior, and the guidance of the Sheikh’s personal example (Canefe 2001; Erickson 2021, pp. 1–54; Hamed-Troyansky 2024, pp. 89–151). By attending to others’ needs before their own, disciples learned the virtues of humility, selflessness, and discipline. Contemporary accounts highlight how Rifā‘ī himself modeled hizmet: after each dhikr assembly, he would distribute charity to dozens of poor attendees gathered outside, giving money to the dhakirs and to dervishes in need and ensuring that people received alms before they departed. This consistent charitable outreach was a practical lesson in generosity for the disciples who witnessed and helped facilitate it. Likewise, the lodge’s tradition of offering a free communal lunch every Friday to all comers, funded entirely by Rifā‘ī, turned the act of feeding others into a weekly ritual of compassion. Through hizmet, repeated in daily and weekly cycles, the dervishes gradually internalized an ethic of service as second nature—they learned to see service not as an occasional act of piety but as an habitual disposition, a default mode of being with others.

In summary, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī sustained his Sufi practices by deliberately minimizing material and organizational obstacles. He maximized the role of simple hospitality, personal generosity, and intimate fellowship. The result was a dergāh that functioned almost like a large family or neighborhood, with open doors and a warm hearth, rather than a formal religious order. This approach made the community resilient because it demanded little and gave much; people were motivated to keep it alive even under adverse conditions. It also made the community a center of consolation in a very literal sense—one could come there hungry or hurting and find both spiritual comfort and a loaf of bread or a few coins for the road. In a post-war empire full of shattered families and economic hardship, this combination was profoundly sustaining.

6. “A Shelter in a Turbulent World”: Spiritual and Moral Refuge in Times of Crisis

Against the backdrop of the historical upheavals detailed earlier, one of the most compelling aspects of Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s legacy is how his Sufi lodge functioned as a spiritual and moral refuge during times of collective crisis. The metaphor of Rifā‘ī’s dergāh as a “shelter” or “center of consolation” is not an exaggeration crafted by later admirers, but is borne out by the tangible acts of care, stability, and hope the community provided amid war, displacement, and social upheaval. In practical theological terms, this highlights religion’s role in psychosocial resilience and theodicy (helping people make meaning and find solace amid suffering).

During World War I and the Independence War, Istanbul was flooded with refugees: from Balkan Muslims fleeing new nation-states, from Anatolian towns ravaged by conflict, and from the Caucasus as Ottoman borders contracted (Zürcher 2010, pp. 136–50). Many arrived with nothing, traumatized and uncertain about the future. Formal relief efforts existed, but these were overwhelmed. In this context, the Ümmü Ken‘ān Lodge organically became a hub of support. People in distress could come to the lodge not only for food or money, but also for emotional and spiritual support. The importance of this cannot be overstated: whereas material aid addresses immediate physical needs, spiritual companionship addresses existential needs—the need to find hope, to rebuild identity, to cope with grief and loss. Rifā‘ī’s gatherings, replete with soulful music, communal remembrance of God, and words of comfort from scripture and poetry, would have been profoundly therapeutic for those carrying invisible wounds. Modern psychology recognizes the value of community and ritual in healing trauma; Rifā‘ī’s dergāh intuitively offered both. The rhythmic chanting and deep breathing of dhikr can calm anxiety; the collective singing of hymns can forge bonds of solidarity; the narratives from Rūmī or the Qur’ān can situate personal suffering in a larger, meaningful story. For a war widow or an orphaned youth, sitting in that circle might have been the first time they felt a semblance of peace or belonging after chaos.

The concept of the lodge as a center of consolation also extended to moral guidance during a period of ethical confusion. The collapse of the old order and the rise of a secular, Westernizing ethos left many Ottomans, especially of the older generation, feeling unmoored. Traditional moral frameworks were being questioned; religious observance was sometimes ridiculed by the new elite; younger people were tempted by ideologies like materialism or radical nationalism. In this milieu, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s consistent message of love, integrity, and God-consciousness provided a moral compass and character formation. He taught what he called a “ḥayāt ṭayyiba”—a Quranic term meaning “goodly life”—which his disciples interpreted as living ethically and spiritually amid worldly trials (Güldütuna and Kayahan 2022). A recent study of his writings notes that he emphasized sincerity in work, kindness to others, patience in hardship, and trust in God’s wisdom. These virtues, though timeless, took on renewed significance in his context: for example, patience (ṣabr) was deeply needed by those who lost everything; fidelity (amānat) and honesty were needed as society rebuilt itself; compassion (raḥma) was needed to bridge communal rifts. By modeling and extolling such virtues in his sohbet talks, Rifā‘ī offered what we might call a “moral refuge”—a place where one could reaffirm fundamental values that were at risk of erosion outside. Displaced and dispossessed people often suffer loss of dignity and moral direction; the lodge’s ethos restored a sense of agency and dignity.

During the hard days of the Turkish War of Independence (1919–1922), for instance, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s lodge was one of dozens enlisted by the Ottoman Council of Sheikhs to offer collective prayers for victory. Archival records show Ümmü Ken‘ān listed among 55 Istanbul lodges assigned to continuously recite salawāt (blessings on the Prophet) for the nation’s success. From the perspective of practical theology, the institutionalization of awrād and salawāt recitations—particularly their designation in specific numbers and sequences—reflects a ritual framework that is not merely devotional but deeply embedded in communal and political life. The fact that these litanies (awrād) were structured according to precise counts, often perceived as spiritually efficacious or even salvific (as noted in the official decree of the Meclis-i Meşāyikh, which referred to the “number of salvation”), indicates how theological meaning was intertwined with performative regularity. In this context, repetition is not mechanical but sacramental: a patterned practice believed to bring divine blessing through its alignment with both cosmological order and state-sanctioned legitimacy. The selection and circulation of specific awrād texts by state institutions such as the Council of Sheikhs (Meclis-i Meşāyikh) further endowed these rituals with an added layer of spiritual gravitas.22 That the texts were endorsed or curated by a centralized authority was not perceived as diminishing their spiritual authenticity; rather, it was thought to augment their feyz (spiritual radiance), as the collective authority of the scholarly and mystical establishment was seen as a conduit of grace. This serves as a compelling example of how practical theology operates in a lived context: theology is not formulated in isolation, but emerges through ritual practice, communal endorsement, and the perceived harmonization between divine will and worldly structure. This convergence of state initiative and spiritual rhythm suggests a form of “public practical theology” in which religious life is sustained not solely through individual devotion but through shared acts that symbolically and functionally bind the community to the sacred. Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī himself would add special supplications after his Masnavi lessons, imploring God to grant triumph to the Ottoman troops and uplift the community’s spirit. These invocations in a time of national crisis reveal the lodge’s practical–theological orientation: it operated as a spiritual community center that nurtured hope and moral resilience in society at large (Burak-Adli 2024).

Another metaphor, shelter, can be taken almost literally at times. It is known that after 1925 some tekkes were physically shut. There are anecdotes that Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī then hosted small gatherings in private homes (sometimes moving around to avoid attention). In doing so, he was effectively sheltering the practice of Sufism itself from extinction. The physical space of the lodge, which was his family residence, was an umbrella under which the embers of Sufi tradition were kept glowing until a time when it could be more openly practiced again (which, in Turkey’s case, only came decades later in some forms). This preservation of tradition in safe havens parallels, for instance, how monasteries in medieval times sheltered literacy through hard times. Rifā‘ī and his students preserved the Mesnevī teachings, the musical repertoire, the litany of prayers, and the story of Rūmī and other saints, passing them to the next generation, even while, outside, such knowledge was being marginalized. Thus, “shelter” applied to both people and to the heritage itself.

In conclusion to this analytical Section, Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’s adaptation and sustenance of Sufi practices was not a matter of rigidly preserving rituals for their own sake. It was a practical response to the signs of the times. He reimagined the Sufi lodge as a sanctuary for the city’s moral and spiritual life amid modern challenges. Through ingenious timing, prudent simplicity, radical hospitality, and inclusive embrace, he kept the heart of Sufism beating in Istanbul during a period when its external structures were under siege. This ensured that when conditions later allowed, the tradition could resurge (indeed, many of his students went on to teach and inspire a new generation of spiritual seekers in Turkey). The “shelter” he provided was thus both temporary relief and a bridge to the future.

7. Conclusions

Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī’ example offers a richly detailed case study of how a religious tradition can be practiced as both deeply rooted and dynamically responsive in the face of societal change. By formulating the inquiry around the question of how Rifā‘ī sustained traditional Sufi practices amid late Ottoman and early Republican transformations, this article concludes that the answer lies in a combination of practical ingenuity, moral character formation, and spiritual vision. Through a practical theological lens, this article analyzed how his methodology resonates with key principles of lived religion. From a practical theology perspective, Rifā‘ī maintained the cadence of sacred time—weekly dhikr, holy night vigils, Ramadan sessions—thereby sacralizing ordinary time and preventing the isolation of spirituality from society. Institutionally, he opted for light, flexible structures sustained by personal generosity and voluntary participation, illustrating a model of sustainable religious community that eschews bureaucracy and monetization. This freed his community to focus on relationships and devotion rather than maintenance of buildings or fundraising—a lesson for faith communities today on the value of simplicity and trust in providence. Socially, he opened the doors to the different segments of society, effectively creating a microcosmos of harmony in a fractious time. This inclusivity not only gave his community resilience, but it also provided a powerful witness to the broader society: that religion could be a force of unity and compassion rather than division. In an era when the new Republic was inclined to view religious orders as reactionary or divisive, Rifā‘ī’s lodge quietly subverted that narrative by functioning as a place where people of different backgrounds found common ground in shared values and spiritual pursuit.

The metaphors explored—the lodge as a “shelter” or “center of consolation” and as a “moral commons”—encapsulate Rifā‘ī’s legacy. His dergāh was indeed a shelter in both stormy external times (wars, exile, cultural disorientation) and in the inner storms of individuals’ hardships. It was a center of consolation where wounds were tended through fellowship and remembrance, reflecting the Prophetic tradition of being a mercy to those around. As a moral commons, it served as a communal wellspring of guidance and support, accessible to all who sought its solace, much like a public square of the soul. In a modern city that was rapidly secularizing, such spaces were rare and precious, and Rifā‘ī demonstrated that even without state sanction or formal organization, a committed group of people can sustain a “little commonwealth” of faith that radiates outward.

From a broader perspective, this study underscores a pivotal insight of practical theology: that the endurance of a religious tradition in new contexts depends not on rigid adherence to form, but on faithful reinterpretation and praxis. Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī shows us a model of what we might call “practical Sufism” or “contextual Islam” at its best—a mode of religiosity that is neither modernist (in the sense of discarding tradition) nor fundamentalist (in the sense of freezing it), but transformative and translational. He translated the “timeless” into the “timely,” renewing the relevance of Sufi teachings for a generation that might otherwise have lost touch with them.

In conclusion, it can be said that Ken‘ān Rifā‘ī fulfilled in his context what practical theologian Frederick Buechner described as the calling of the church (or here, the tekke): “to be a pilot plant of the Kingdom of God”—a small experimental model of how life could be under Divine values. His dergāh was such a pilot plant, demonstrating on a modest scale what a society of compassion and God-consciousness might look like. It adapted old vines to new trellises, so to speak, yielding fruit that nourished a generation in Istanbul’s turbulent first half of the 20th century. The fruits of that effort—seen in the works of his students and the revival of interest in Sufi literature and music in Turkey in subsequent decades—continue to be harvested to this day. For scholars of religion, Rifā‘ī’s success confirms that the study of lived religion is as critical as the study of texts in understanding how faith endures and flourishes.