The Sufi Choir formed in 1969 among the followers of Samuel Lewis. A white-bearded, thick-lensed, compact dynamo of a man, Lewis had long since been ostracized from his wealthy San Francisco family and now, in his early seventies, was coming into his own as a teacher of hippies. We were, most of us, educated kids with a kindred sense of alienation, hungry to lift ourselves above what we perceived as the narrows of our circumstances. We knew there were answers in the larger world beyond the textbooks and suburbs of our growing up, and in ourselves. The Sufi-based mysticism of Sam Lewis had at once a tremendous reach and a pinpoint utility. The practices he gave us helped with our daily lives, and his words rang bells in our brains. We called him “Murshid,” a Persian word for teacher.
When I first came into Murshid’s circle, I didn’t pay much attention to him or his teaching—I was attracted to the intelligence and good feeling of the people around him. I had never been in a group that glowed. And the circle-dancing opened my heart. And there were so many good musicians… Only gradually did I realize how my inner life was being energized by Murshid’s ideas and by his example. As I listened and watched, I began to glow too.
During our gatherings, Murshid valiantly led group singing practice, often inventive and contrapuntal. “Why not form a little choir?” I thought. “Yes,” said Murshid, “and you’re the maestro.” On a Tuesday evening in November 1969, he appeared at 7:30 on the dot for the first rehearsal and sang dutifully with the basses. Likewise the second Tuesday. At 7:25 on the evening of the third rehearsal, he called to give his excuses and blessings. Likewise the following week. But by this time the choir was cooking on its own. At 7:25 on the next Tuesday, I said, “You don’t have to call anymore, Murshid, it’s all happening. It’s already happened.”
— notes by W. Allaudin Mathieu
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