The Waters of Renunciation, ESW 4-7

At the end of the previous paragraph, Baha'u'llah tells Muhammad-Taqi to “recite”. He has told him to give ear, reminded him what that ear was created for, asked him to purify his soul with the waters of renunciation, and turned his face towards the Most Great House. And then, after all that preparation, He gives him something to say.

And I have to admit that on my first reading, it almost sounded like grovelling.

“O my God, O my God!” it begins. And from there, for four lengthy paragraphs, Baha'u'llah places words on Muhammad-Taqi's lips in which he acknowledges his own weakness before God, asks for forgiveness, confesses his failings, and pleads for assistance. This is a powerful Muslim cleric, a man accustomed to others listening to him, and Baha'u'llah is asking him to say these words aloud.

Which takes me right back to the ear.

There is a huge difference between being told, “You have behaved arrogantly before God”, and hearing your own voice say words acknowledging your condition before Him. Baha'u'llah could simply have told Muhammad-Taqi what was wrong with him. Instead, He changes the speaker. These are Baha'u'llah's words, but Muhammad-Taqi is being asked to give them his own voice. And if he has followed the instruction in the previous paragraph, he will also be listening to himself say them.

Perhaps that's why the “waters of renunciation” come first.

Baha'u'llah begins the Kitab-i-Iqan by asking the reader to become detached. Before He begins answering the questions of the uncle of the Bab, before He starts laying out His arguments, He tells him what he needs to do if he is going to understand them. That has always made sense to me. The uncle of the Bab was a seeker. He had questions and had come looking for answers. But if we are too attached to the answers we already have, we aren't going to be particularly good at recognising new ones. At least, that's how I've tended to think about it.

Muhammad-Taqi presents a rather different problem. He was not coming to Baha'u'llah with questions, as far as I'm aware. He wasn't a seeker asking to be shown the way. Quite the opposite. He was a powerful Muslim cleric, the son of the man Baha'u'llah had named the Wolf, and had himself been an enemy of the Faith. The uncle of the Bab knows that he has questions. Muhammad-Taqi seems convinced that he already has the answers.

And yet Baha'u'llah begins with both men in much the same place.

In paragraph 2 of the Iqan, Baha'u'llah says that nobody can truly partake of all these bounties “unless and until he ceases to regard the words and deeds of mortal men as a standard for the true understanding and recognition of God and His Prophets”. In the Epistle, He tells Muhammad-Taqi, “Purify thou, first, thy soul with the waters of renunciation...” In both cases there is a prerequisite. Something has to happen to the reader before the argument can really begin.

Muhammad-Taqi is himself one of the religious leaders whose words and deeds others might regard as a standard. Simply repeating the instruction from the Iqan would therefore hardly have the same effect. He isn't merely attached to what religious authorities have told him. He is a religious authority.

Which makes me wonder if I've been thinking about detachment incorrectly all this time. Perhaps detachment isn't a requisite for seeking. Maybe it is a requisite for seeing.

The uncle of the Bab needs to become detached because he is trying to see something he does not yet understand. Muhammad-Taqi is asked to practise renunciation when he seems convinced that he already understands. Their starting points could hardly be more different, but both need something to change before they can see differently.

After asking Muhammad-Taqi to practise renunciation, Baha'u'llah doesn't immediately begin giving him proofs. He asks him to examine himself.

Again and again, Baha'u'llah places words on his lips that require him to consider his own condition before God. What initially struck me as grovelling now looks rather different. The effect is to turn Muhammad-Taqi's attention away from judging Baha'u'llah and towards examining the person doing the judging.

In the Iqan, Baha'u'llah is speaking to someone who is trying to understand why people have rejected the Messengers of God. He can take him back through history and show him the pattern. Again and again a Messenger appears, and again and again the religious leaders and people of the age reject Him.

But Muhammad-Taqi isn't merely trying to understand that pattern. He is part of it.

Perhaps that is why Baha'u'llah turns his attention towards himself. Before this powerful religious leader judges the claim before him, he is asked to consider the condition of the person doing the judging. And he doesn't merely read Baha'u'llah's assessment of that condition. He is given words with which to voice it himself.

This makes the comparison between the two books even more fascinating. In the Iqan, detachment prepares a seeker to reconsider what he thinks he knows. In the Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, renunciation may be preparing an already-certain man to reconsider who he thinks he is.

Perhaps that is what I missed when I first read these paragraphs and thought they sounded like grovelling. Humiliation doesn't seem to be the point. Seeing is.

The uncle of the Bab needs help seeing what he thinks he knows. Muhammad-Taqi may need help seeing the person he thinks he knows.

And Baha'u'llah begins by asking him to listen to that person's voice.

Give Ear, ESW, 3

At the end of the first two paragraphs of the Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, I found myself thinking that Baha'u'llah was beginning on common ground because He didn't want to be confrontational. He begins with God, moves naturally to the Messenger, and describes things that a Muslim cleric such as Muhammad-Taqi could presumably accept.

Then I read paragraph 3.

Baha'u'llah doesn't avoid confrontation. He prepares the ground before confronting.

“Give ear, O distinguished divine...” He says. Listen. And then, curiously, He stops to explain why the ear exists in the first place: “The ear of man hath been created that it may hearken unto the Divine Voice on this Day...” Muhammad-Taqi presumably knows what an ear does, so this isn't an anatomy lesson. Baha'u'llah is telling him what his ear is for. More particularly, He is telling him what it is for “on this Day”.

And then comes “Purify thou, first, thy soul with the waters of renunciation...”

First.

Before Muhammad-Taqi can listen properly, he has to practise renunciation. And that's not quite the same word as detachment, the word Shoghi Effendi uses in the opening passages of the Iqan. To me, renunciation sounds more active. Detachment can describe my relationship to something, while renunciation seems to suggest giving something up, whether a habit, a possession, a claim, or perhaps even an assumption. I'm not sure why the Guardian chose this word here. But given the difference between the two recipients, I find the difference intriguing.

Then Baha'u'llah begins moving him, almost physically, through the rest of the paragraph. He moves from the ear to the soul, which we might think of as encompassing the whole person. From there He moves to the head, and then to the crown placed upon that head, bringing our attention back towards the ears with which the paragraph began. He then moves to the body, which is to be adorned with piety. And then the body itself begins to move. Muhammad-Taqi is told to arise and set his face towards the Most Great House. In turning his face, of course, he also turns his head and positions those ears towards a particular point. Baha'u'llah has prepared the ears and then positioned them.

This is where I began to feel that the ice was getting rather thin.

The language surely would have sounded familiar to a Muslim cleric. Muhammad-Taqi would have spent his entire life turning towards the Kaaba in prayer. Muslims throughout the world set their faces towards that House, and pilgrims physically circle it. And now Baha'u'llah tells him to set his face towards the Most Great House, “the Spot round which circle in adoration the denizens of the cities of Eternity, and which is the Source of joy unto such as dwell on earth and in heaven”.

I don't think Muhammad-Taqi would have understood “the Most Great House” as another name for the Kaaba. The phrasing is different. But the imagery seems difficult to miss. Set your face towards this House. All circle around it. Whatever else is happening here, Baha'u'llah has moved very quickly from the comfortable common ground of the first two paragraphs to language that seems to echo one of the most fundamental acts of Muhammad-Taqi's own religious life.

So perhaps I had it slightly wrong before. Baha'u'llah doesn't begin on common ground because He intends to remain there. He begins there because it gives Him somewhere from which to move.

But there is another movement in this paragraph that I find even more intriguing.

It begins with the ear. “Give ear.” Then Baha'u'llah draws our attention specifically to that ear and explains its purpose. From there He moves through the person: the soul is purified with renunciation, the head is crowned with the fear of God, the temple adorned with reliance on God, and then the whole person arises and turns. By setting his face towards the Most Great House, Muhammad-Taqi has also turned the ears with which the paragraph began.

And then comes the final word of the paragraph: “recite”.

At first I wondered if the whole paragraph almost travelled in one ear and out the other. But that's not quite right. It begins with the ear, travels through the person, and then ends with Muhammad-Taqi being told to speak. Assuming he actually recites the words aloud, they come out of his own mouth and go right back into his ears.

The paragraph seems to have come full circle.

From God to Us, ESW 1-2

The first paragraph of the Epistle to the Son of the Wolf begins about as simply as it possibly could: “Praise be to God...” And then Baha'u'llah spends the entire paragraph doing exactly that. He praises God. After the invocation, with its reference to the One, the Incomparable, the All-Powerful, the All-Knowing and the All-Wise, He continues by describing God and His sovereignty over creation.

And it’s interesting, isn’t it? Baha'u'llah is writing to a Muslim cleric who has been an enemy of His Faith. There is going to be plenty in this Epistle that Muhammad-Taqi will find challenging, perhaps even offensive. But Baha'u'llah doesn't begin there. He begins with God.

And He doesn't merely begin with a statement that God exists. He begins with praise. Praise is not an argument. It isn't an attempt to prove something to the other person. It is an orientation. Before Muhammad-Taqi is asked to consider Baha'u'llah, before he is asked to reconsider his own actions, before he is asked to examine the claims of this new Faith, both writer and reader are placed before God. Given what we saw in the invocation, this seems a natural continuation. Muhammad-Taqi may be a powerful and learned religious leader, but the conversation does not begin with either his power or his learning. It begins by turning his attention towards God.

From there, the second paragraph seems to move quite naturally from God to His Messenger. Baha'u'llah has begun with God, but now the question becomes how God's guidance reaches us. “He it is Who hath revealed His Cause for the guidance of His creatures, and sent down His verses to demonstrate His Proof and His Testimony...” From God, then, we move towards Revelation.

And this is where the second paragraph becomes particularly interesting to me. At this point Baha'u'llah has not yet asked Muhammad-Taqi to accept anything particularly difficult. He is a Muslim cleric. He already believes in God. He already believes that God sends Messengers. He already believes that those Messengers bring guidance to humanity. So far, there is very little to argue about.

Perhaps that is part of the method. If I begin a conversation with someone at the point where we disagree, then the disagreement immediately becomes the subject of the conversation. Each of us takes up our position and begins defending it. But if I begin with something we genuinely share, we can stand together for a moment and look in the same direction. Baha'u'llah begins with God, and then moves to the Messenger of God.

There may be something else happening here, too. The Messenger described in this opening isn't merely someone who appears, delivers a message and leaves. His coming has consequences for creation. Before Muhammad-Taqi is asked to judge the particular claims before him, Baha'u'llah is establishing something about the relationship between God, His Messenger and the world. He is describing what a Messenger actually does, and doing so in terms Muhammad-Taqi can presumably accept. Instead of beginning with something like, “You are wrong about Me”, He begins much further back. Who is God? What is a Messenger? What happens when a Messenger appears? These are questions Muhammad-Taqi presumably thinks he already knows the answers to. Perhaps that is precisely why they are such useful questions with which to begin.

We already know that this book will be a great challenge to its recipient. Given that, those first words begin to feel considerably less like a formality. Before Baha'u'llah begins the difficult work of challenging this man, He establishes where the conversation begins: “Praise be to God...”

The Invocation, Epistle to the Son of the Wolf

Some of you probably know that I've spent over twenty years studying the Iqan with a dear friend of mine. I've sure written enough about it. And only a few days ago I finished writing a book about some thoughts and insights on that incredible volume. Of course, Samuel and I are still finishing up our paragraph by paragraph look at the book, but that's another project.

So my question was, now that I've finished this book, my commentary, not my study of the Iqan, what next? And I thought why not go from the beginning of His Revelation to the end? Let's move from a book written for a sincere seeker to one that was revealed for an avowed enemy. Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, or ESW if I ever feel lazy about typing it all out, sure seemed to fit the bill.

So, taking a page from my Iqan studies, let's dive in and see what this later volume has to reveal, and how it differs from the earlier one. Whereas the Iqan was answering the questions of the uncle of the Bab, and helping remove the veils preventing him from recognizing, what is this volume trying to do?

That's my intro, so here is the actual article:

The Invocation

I've often written about the attributes of God, and particularly about the way they can sometimes work on two different levels. When Baha'u'llah describes God as the All-Knowing, for example, the capital letters remind us that God's knowledge is infinitely beyond anything we can possess. But knowledge, in the lower case, is also a quality we are encouraged to develop within ourselves. We can never be All-Knowing, but we can become more knowledgeable. We can never be All-Wise, but we can grow in wisdom. Or as I like to say, whatever God is in the capital, we are in the lower case. And as I also believe that nothing in the Writings is random, I have often found that the virtues named in a particular place are the exact ones we need to cultivate at that particular moment. They always seem to address, or relate to, the situation being discussed. 

This is one of the things I love about reading the Writings. Within a tradition in which the Word of God is understood to possess layer upon layer of meaning, there seems little virtue in stopping after the first plausible interpretation. This doesn't mean that every interpretation is equally valid, of course. If an interpretation contradicts other teachings in the Writings, that's a pretty good indication that we've wandered off somewhere. But otherwise, why stop looking? There may always be another meaning waiting there.

All of which came to mind when I began re-reading the Epistle to the Son of the Wolf.

Baha'u'llah begins:

“In the name of God, the One, the Incomparable, the All-Powerful, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise.”

It's easy to pass over an invocation like this. After all, invocations are fairly common in the Writings, and this one certainly seems straightforward enough. God is One. He is Incomparable. He is All-Powerful, All-Knowing and All-Wise. Nothing surprising there.

But this particular invocation is in a book addressed to a particular person.
Shaykh Muhammad-Taqi was a powerful Muslim cleric, the son of the man Baha'u'llah had named the Wolf. He was not some powerless individual sitting quietly on the sidelines of history. He possessed religious authority. His words carried weight. People listened to him. And as the Epistle will make painfully clear, Baha'u'llah was writing in a world in which religious power had already been used to terrible effect.

Given that, those first two attributes seem to establish something very important. God is the One. He is the Incomparable. Whatever Muhammad-Taqi may think of his own station, however much authority he may possess, there simply is no comparison. In one sense, it's a reminder of scale.

And then comes All-Powerful.

That seems particularly striking when addressed to someone who is himself powerful. Perhaps All-Powerful doesn't merely diminish Muhammad-Taqi's power by comparison with God's. Maybe it also provides a standard by which his own power can be examined.

What has he done with it?

After all, power itself isn't necessarily bad. We all possess some degree of power. Parents have power over their children. Teachers have power over their students. Employers have power over their employees. Religious leaders can have tremendous power over those who look to them for guidance. The question is what we do with it.

And then comes All-Knowing.

Power without knowledge is dangerous. Muhammad-Taqi has exercised judgement concerning the Cause of God, but has he actually known what he was judging? Has he investigated? Has he listened? Has he recognised the limits of his own knowledge?

Suddenly the invocation doesn't seem quite so simple.

God is All-Powerful. Muhammad-Taqi has power. God is All-Knowing. Muhammad-Taqi has knowledge. And then God is All-Wise.

Wisdom seems to take the other two a step further. Knowledge alone isn't enough. I can know a great many things and still make terrible decisions. Wisdom has something to do with what I do with that knowledge, how I apply it, when I speak and when I remain silent, when I act and when I wait.

And Muhammad-Taqi isn't merely knowledgeable. He is a religious scholar. Knowledge is part of the very basis upon which his authority rests. He has knowledge, and he has power. The question, then, is how wisely he has used them.
Power. Knowledge. Wisdom.

I don't think we need to choose between seeing these words as descriptions of God and seeing them as a reminder of what is within us. I believe they are both. In the upper case they remind Muhammad-Taqi of his own insignificance before God. His power is nothing beside the All-Powerful. His knowledge is nothing beside the All-Knowing. His wisdom is nothing beside the All-Wise.

But in the lower case they may also point towards qualities he possesses and capacities he is being called upon to develop. And that makes the invocation feel very different to me.

Baha'u'llah isn't merely addressing a man who needs to be humbled. He is addressing a man who needs to change. Humility may be necessary for that change, but so are knowledge and wisdom. Even power need not disappear. It can be used differently. It can be used to protect, rather than harm.

In fact, later in the Epistle, Baha'u'llah will call upon him to use “the power of wisdom and the force of thy utterance” to extinguish hatred and enmity. The man whose words have carried such destructive power is not being told to stop speaking. He is being shown another way in which that power might be used.
And all of this is there before we even reach the first paragraph.

The One. The Incomparable. The All-Powerful. The All-Knowing. The All-Wise.

Five attributes. The first two seem to place the reader before God, reminding him of the immeasurable distance between them. The next three can do that as well, but they also seem to turn our attention back towards the reader himself. His power. His knowledge. His wisdom.

Perhaps that's one of the things an invocation can do. Before we begin reading what Baha'u'llah says to Muhammad-Taqi, it can quietly suggest how we might look at the man who is about to hear it.

And, of course, how we might look at ourselves.

Four Little Words

If you've ever taken the first Ruhi book, there's a good chance you know this quotation:

“The betterment of the world can be accomplished through pure and goodly deeds, through commendable and seemly conduct.”

It's right there in the first section of the first unit. I've studied it, memorised it, talked about it, and probably quoted it more times than I can count. It's one of those passages that has become so familiar that I don't always stop and think about it anymore.

But recently I did, and what caught my attention were four little words: pure, goodly, commendable and seemly. At first they seem almost redundant. Pure and goodly deeds? Commendable and seemly conduct? Isn't Baha'u'llah basically saying that the betterment of the world comes about when we do good things and behave well?

Well, yes. But why use four different words to say it?

And, as always, this is just my own understanding, nothing official. If it helps you think about the quotation in a new way, great. If not, no problem.

The first thing I noticed is that the four words aren't simply strung together. They're divided into two pairs: pure and goodly deeds, commendable and seemly conduct. And, at first, the pairs almost seem backwards to me. I would have expected a person to have pure and goodly conduct, while their individual deeds might be commendable and seemly.

But then I started thinking about the difference between a deed and conduct. A deed is something I do. Conduct is how I carry myself. A deed can take just a moment, while conduct seems to describe something broader, maybe the manner in which I move through the world and interact with the people around me. I’m not actually sure about that last part, but it sounds good for now. Once I began looking at the words that way, the pairings didn't seem backwards at all.

Purity comes first, and once again it begins with the heart. I’ve said this countless times, and it's true here, too. Everything in the Writings, it seems, begins with the heart. Before I ever do anything, there is the reason I am doing it. Am I really trying to help someone, or am I just hoping they'll notice how helpful I am? Am I giving because I want to give, or because I want other people to see me giving? The actions may look exactly the same from the outside, but depending on what is happening in my heart, they can be very different.

Then comes goodly. A pure motive doesn't necessarily produce a good action. I can sincerely want to help you and still make an absolute mess of things. We've probably all done that at one time or another. They say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so good intentions aren't enough. Some of the most horrific things in history occurred because people genuinely believed they were doing good. Nope. The deed itself has to be good.

Then Baha'u'llah moves from deeds to conduct, from what we do to the way we carry ourselves while doing it.

The first word He uses is commendable. Something commendable is worthy of praise, thank you Mr Dictionary. It’s the sort of behaviour we’re happy to see in someone else, and maybe even want to imitate. This becomes particularly interesting when the deed itself is already good, because I can do something genuinely helpful and still behave terribly while doing it. I can give someone money while making them feel small for needing it. I can offer good advice in a condescending way. I can serve on a committee, do everything I've promised to do, and make everyone else miserable in the process. The deed may be good, but my conduct is less so.

And then we come to seemly. It's an odd little word. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use it in a conversation, except as part of this quote. We use its opposite, though, “unseemly”, but something being “seemly”? Not so much.

As I understand it, something seemly is fitting. (Thank you Mr Dictionary, once again.) Appropriate. Suited to the circumstances. And suddenly I can see why Baha'u'llah uses it to describe conduct rather than deeds. The question isn't only whether the thing I'm doing is good. It's whether the way I'm behaving is appropriate at the moment. “Not everything that a man knoweth can be disclosed, nor can everything that he can disclose be regarded as timely, nor can every timely utterance be considered as suited to the capacity of those who hear it.” (Thank you, Baha’u’llah.)

Imagine someone who is grieving. I may sincerely want to comfort them, and I may want to share something beautiful about the life of the soul. I may speak gently and lovingly, with all the care I can muster. But perhaps they just need me to sit there and listen. The words I want to say may be wonderful, and there may come a time when they will be exactly what is needed. Just not now.

Teaching the Faith offers all sorts of examples of this, too. I can sincerely want to share something that has transformed my own life, and I can do it respectfully and lovingly. But if the person in front of me is trying to tell me about the worst day they've had in years, maybe this isn't the moment for me to launch into an explanation of progressive revelation. Maybe I need to listen.

So, for my own use, I tend to think of the quotation as saying, “Do the right thing, for the right reason, in the right way, at the right time.” And yes, I know I've reversed the first two. I think it sounds better that way. Sue me.

What I particularly like about this is how easy it is to get one of those parts wrong. I can do the right thing for the wrong reason, or the wrong thing for the best of reasons. I can do the right thing for the right reason and make a complete mess of the way I do it. And I can get all three of those right and still choose the worst possible moment. I’ve probably managed each of those at some point. No, I’m probably too humble there. I know I’ve managed each of those numerous times.

So, let’s go back to the beginning of the quotation: “The betterment of the world…”

That's quite something to expect from our deeds and conduct.

We talk a lot about changing the world, and the problems facing it can seem so enormous that it's difficult to imagine what any one of us can possibly do about them. But Baha'u'llah brings it right back down to the things we do every day and the way we carry ourselves while doing them. A single deed. Our conduct. The state of our heart. The effect we have on the person standing in front of us.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing all this time. The betterment of the world happens through the person standing in front of us.

- - - - -

Oh, and for those who are wondering, I haven't forgotten about my goal of a hundred articles. I think I have 75 to go. I'll double check, but I'm pretty sure it's 75 to go.

So, to try and catch up and achieve that goal, I'm now aiming for three articles a week, published on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Let's see how I do. 

Consort

“Consort with the followers of all religions in a spirit of friendliness and fellowship.”

I've written about this quote before. In particular, the word “consort”. It's not a word we use very often anymore, except perhaps when talking about royalty. Prince Philip was the consort of Queen Elizabeth II. He was her husband. And that's a fairly intimate relationship.

So when Baha'u'llah tells us to “consort with the followers of all religions”, I don't think He's merely asking us to tolerate each other. Tolerance seems a pretty low bar anyway. I tolerate a mosquito buzzing around my bedroom because I'm too tired to bother swatting it. I can’t imagine Baha'u'llah is calling for that between the religions of the world.

Even friendliness doesn't quite seem to capture it. I can be friendly with the cashier at the grocery store. I can be friendly with someone I meet on the bus. But if we take “consort” seriously, there seems to be something a little bit more.

Only recently, though, I noticed something else about the quote. Baha'u'llah doesn't tell us to consort with other religions. He tells us to consort with their followers.

People.

It never occurred to me before, but I think that may be important.

After all, I can learn quite a bit about Judaism by reading a book. I can study the history of Islam. I can learn what Buddhists believe, what Christians teach about the Eucharist, or why Hindus celebrate Diwali. All of that is worthwhile, and I would probably be a better neighbour if I knew more about the religions of the people around me.

But none of that means I know them. Not as people.

Knowing that Jews celebrate Passover isn't the same as sitting at a seder with a Jewish family. Knowing what Christians believe about communion isn't the same as understanding what receiving it means to a Catholic. Knowing that Muslims fast during Ramadan isn't the same as sitting down with a Muslim friend at the end of the day and sharing iftar.

Religions are lived by people, and people are always a bit more complicated than the little descriptions we give of their religions.

I grew up Jewish, and I know there are plenty of things you can read about Judaism that are perfectly accurate and still won't tell you very much about what it feels like to grow up Jewish. They won't tell you which melodies remind someone of their grandmother, which foods mean that a holiday has really arrived, which prayers they love, which traditions they struggle with, or which childhood memories suddenly come rushing back because of a particular smell.

You learn those things by knowing someone. Perhaps that's part of what it means to consort.

And then I began wondering whether we Baha'is sometimes make religious unity a little too easy for ourselves.

We believe in the fundamental unity of religion. We believe that Moses, Christ, Muhammad, the Bab and Baha'u'llah all come from the same God. We recognise Krishna, Zoroaster, and Buddha as divine Educators. We can explain progressive revelation and show how the great religions are connected.

But I can believe every bit of that without having a single close friend who follows another path. I can believe in the unity of religion entirely from within the Baha'i community.

Consorting won't let me do that.

If I'm going to consort with people of other religions, I have to actually know some. I have to spend time with them and listen to them, not because I'm waiting for my turn to tell them what I believe, but because I'm interested in what they have to say. And if we're actually friends, sooner or later I'm probably going to discover what they love about their religion. And that’s important.

Interfaith conversations often seem to focus on what we have in common. And there's good reason for that. Common ground gives us somewhere to begin. We all believe in love. We all value compassion. We all want peace.

But friendship eventually gets beyond the things we have in common.

If I really know someone, I begin to encounter the things that are peculiar to them. The things they love that I don't particularly understand. The traditions that mean everything to them and nothing to me. The beliefs with which I may genuinely disagree. And somehow the friendship survives.

Perhaps that's another thing hidden in the word “consort”. Prince Philip didn't become Queen Elizabeth. That would have rather defeated the point. Their intimacy required them to remain two separate people. They had different personalities, interests, responsibilities and histories, all while sharing a life.

Maybe religious fellowship can work like that, too.

I don't have to pretend that all religions are identical in order to recognise their common Source. I don't have to blur the differences between them or reduce them to a handful of principles on which everyone can agree. I can allow a Muslim to be thoroughly Muslim, a Christian to be thoroughly Christian, a Jew to be thoroughly Jewish, and still sit down with them as a friend.

In fact, perhaps real fellowship requires that. Otherwise I'm not really getting to know you. I'm getting to know the parts of you that resemble me, and that’s not quite the same, is it?

There is another temptation here that I think is worth mentioning. For many of us, teaching our Faith is important. In the Baha’i Faith, Baha'u'llah repeatedly calls upon us to share His teachings. Naturally, when we meet people and become friends, religion may come up. If you’ve ever spent any time with me, you know that that “may” is a bit of an understatement. After all, it’s a very important part of my life, so why wouldn’t I talk about it? Of course, not all the time, nor in every conversation. But when it seems relevant, I do bring it up as naturally as anything.

But what happens if I begin the friendship because I hope to make you a Baha'i?

If my friendship has an objective attached to it, then I'm not quite sure it’s friendship anymore. You have become, at least partly, a project. And Baha'u'llah doesn't say, “Consort with the followers of all religions so that you may teach them.” He says to consort with them “in a spirit of friendliness and fellowship”.

Maybe the fellowship is itself part of the work. Maybe sitting at your table matters even if you never sit at mine. Maybe learning why you love a particular prayer matters even if you never read one of Baha'u'llah's. Maybe knowing you well enough that your religion stops being something foreign to me is already helping to build the kind of world Baha'u'llah describes.

And perhaps that's why I keep coming back to that old-fashioned word, “consort”. Not tolerate. Not coexist with. Not learn about. Consort with.

Get to know people. Eat with them. Listen to them. Celebrate with them. Learn what they love. Let them learn what you love. And don't be afraid if, after all of that, you're still different. After all, diversity is what makes the world more beautiful.

A Walk through the Year

I've been using the Bahá’í calendar for years, and I've always liked the fact that most of the months are named after attributes of God. Bahá, Splendour. Jalál, Glory. Jamál, Beauty. And so on through the year until we finally arrive at ‘Alá, Loftiness, the month of the Fast. Questions, of course, isn't an attribute of God, as far as I'm aware.

I've also known that these names weren't simply invented for the calendar. They have their roots in an Islamic prayer attributed to Imám ‘Alí. But recently I found myself looking at the names written out in order, and a question occurred to me: Why this order?

In case you're like me, and didn't grow up with that calendar song, the names are: Splendour, Glory, Beauty, Grandeur, Light, Mercy, Words, Perfection, Names, Might, Will, Knowledge, Power, Speech, Questions, Honour, Sovereignty, Dominion, Loftiness.

Normally I just think of them the way I do the Gregorian calendar, as a list of names. Bahá, like January, comes first. ‘Alá, like December, comes last. And all the others have their spots seemingly randomly in between. But a calendar isn't experienced as a list. It's lived as a sequence. We move through these words, one after another, year after year. Like a path.

Once I started reading them that way, I began seeing little groupings that I hadn't noticed before. The year begins with Splendour, Glory, Beauty and Grandeur. Those seem almost entirely concerned with the majesty of God. They don't ask me to do anything. They simply describe something magnificent. Splendour. Glory. Beauty. Grandeur. It feels as though the year begins by turning our attention towards God.

Then comes Light, and that seems different somehow. Light travels. Light reaches something. If there is light, something can be illuminated. And these five together? Where I live in the northern hemisphere, they lead us from that last moment of winter through the whole of spring, that season of promise, but, it is worth remembering, not fulfilment. It is like a reminder that from the darkness we can turn our attention to the Divine, focus our entire being on it, and the light that emanates will lead us into the rest of the year.

Immediately after Light comes Mercy. I don't know whether there's any significance to that pairing, but I like it. Besides, this is just my own thinking on it, nothing official, so take it or leave it. It's up to you. I won't be offended. I promise.

So here we are, at the beginning of summer. God's splendour, glory, beauty and grandeur could leave Him infinitely distant from us. But to help bridge that gap, there is Light, and then Mercy. Something comes from God towards His creation.

Then we get Words. Now that really caught my attention.

Splendour. Glory. Beauty. Grandeur. Light. Mercy. Words.

It's almost possible to see a movement there. God is. God shines. God shows mercy, and because of that infinite mercy, He speaks. As has been said many times, God may be unknowable, but we can know something about Him, namely that He loves us, which is why He sends us His Messengers.

Again, I have no idea whether this is intentional, but I've noticed that there is nothing random in the Writings. And when I explore these odd notions that flit across my mind, they always seem to lead to interesting places.

After Words come Perfection and Names. That pairing sent me down another little path. We know God through His names and attributes. We speak of the All-Merciful, the All-Knowing, the Powerful, the Loving. The names don't contain God, any more than the word “ocean” contains an ocean, but they give us a way of approaching what would otherwise be beyond our understanding.

And then, almost exactly halfway through the year, the seasons change again. We arrive at autumn, that season of harvest.

Might. Will. Knowledge. Power.

Those four seem to belong together almost too neatly. At first I tried rearranging them in my mind. If I were putting together a sensible little progression, I would probably start with Knowledge. Know what needs to be done, decide to do it, and then exercise the strength and power required to accomplish it.

But that's not the order. Maybe that's another warning against trying too hard to turn the calendar into a secret instruction manual. Or perhaps it's simply a reminder that God knows more than I do.

So what happens if I follow His order instead?

The seasonal transition occurs in the middle of Might. That's interesting. After all, we had to work hard all summer to bring our crops to fruition. It required strength to get here. But that's only the beginning. Now we need to bring in the harvest.

Then comes Will. Anyone who has worked on a long project knows how much will can be required for that final push. The work may be nearly finished, but nearly finished isn't finished. You still have to bring the harvest in.

Knowledge tells us when to do it. Too early and the crop hasn't fully matured. Too late and it begins to rot. There is a right time to harvest, and recognising that time requires knowledge.

And finally comes Power, the ability to actually do the work.

I have no idea whether the Báb intended any of that when He placed those four names in that order. Probably not. But once again, following the path has taken me somewhere I hadn't expected.

The next two make the sequence even stranger: Speech and Questions.

That made me smile. After all that splendour and glory, after light and mercy and words, after might and will and knowledge and power, we arrive at Speech. And what follows Speech? Questions.

I love that. We speak, and then we question. Or perhaps God speaks, and then we question. Or perhaps our speech itself should lead to questions rather than answers. I don't know. But given how important questions have become to the way I read the Bahá’í Writings, I find it delightful that there is an entire month called Questions, and that it comes immediately after Speech.

At this point my mind moved away from the harvest and towards religion itself. I began wondering whether there was another pattern I could see here. A new religion begins. The seeds are sown, the ground is prepared, and the apostles and heroes of the Faith go out into the world. Through their speech and their actions, something begins to change.

Then come the questions.

Some of those questions lead to greater understanding. Some lead to disagreements. Over time, as a religion grows and develops, institutions arise, interpretations accumulate and authority becomes established. The original revelation continues to transform lives, while at the same time people begin adding their own ideas to it. Those two processes can exist side by side.

Again, I'm not suggesting that the Báb designed the calendar as a coded history of religion. I'm simply following where the sequence takes me.

Now we are at the beginning of winter, as we come to Honour, Sovereignty and Dominion. These feel regal again, rather like the beginning of the year, although perhaps stronger. We began with Splendour, Glory, Beauty and Grandeur. Now, near the end, we find ourselves once again contemplating attributes that belong to God.

And perhaps that's important after Questions.

However complicated religion may become in human hands, the Honour is still God's. The Sovereignty is still His. The Dominion is still His. We may build institutions around a religion, argue about its teachings, or even claim authority for ourselves, but none of that changes where the real authority lies.

Then something interrupts the calendar.

Ayyám-i-Há.

These days don't belong to any month. We have spent the first eighteen months moving through this sequence of names and suddenly we step outside it altogether. We celebrate. We give gifts. We practise hospitality and charity. We prepare ourselves for the Fast.

I've written before about Ayyám-i-Há, but seeing it in this particular sequence made me think of something else. It comes before the renewal.

That reminded me of the forerunners of the great religions. John the Baptist appears before Christ, preparing people for what is about to happen. Shaykh Aḥmad and Siyyid Káẓim prepare their followers for the coming of the Qá’im. They aren't the renewal itself. They announce it. They prepare people for it. Their very presence says that something is coming.

I find myself seeing Ayyám-i-Há a little like that here. Not as a symbol the Báb necessarily intended, but as occupying a similar place in the pattern. The year hasn't turned yet. Naw-Rúz hasn't arrived. We still have the Fast ahead of us.

But already there is celebration.

Renewal hasn't come, but something is telling us to get ready.

Then we enter the nineteenth and final month: Loftiness.

That name seems almost comically inappropriate for the Fast. The Fast is the time when I become most aware of my own limitations. I get hungry. I get thirsty. I discover just how much of my day revolves around wondering what I'm going to eat next. Whatever lofty ideas I may have about my spiritual condition tend to become considerably less lofty sometime in the middle of the afternoon.

And yet the month is called Loftiness.

Perhaps, though, that's precisely the point. The attribute isn't mine. None of these attributes is mine.

I've spent the entire year moving through the names and attributes of God: His Splendour, His Glory, His Beauty, His Mercy, His Knowledge, His Power, His Sovereignty. Then, during the final nineteen days, I am asked to abstain from food and drink from sunrise to sunset and turn my attention more deliberately towards Him.

The year ends not with my loftiness, but His.

And then comes Naw-Rúz, the equinox. The year doesn't begin on an arbitrary anniversary. It begins with something actually happening in the heavens. The earth has reached a particular place in its journey around the sun. The seasons turn. Spring begins where I live in the northern hemisphere, and the calendar returns to its first word.

Bahá. Splendour.

That's where I find myself wondering whether the calendar is doing something I hadn't noticed before. We don't merely use these attributes to name the months. We live inside each one for nineteen days. Then we move to another. Splendour gives way to Glory, Glory to Beauty, Beauty to Grandeur. Eventually we pass through Words and Names, Will and Knowledge, Speech and Questions, Sovereignty and Dominion. Finally we arrive at Loftiness and the Fast.

And then the whole thing starts again. We arrive right back where we started. But perhaps we don't. A year has passed. We've moved through all nineteen names. We've celebrated, fasted, prayed, worked, loved, struggled, succeeded at some things and made a complete mess of others. We arrive at the equinox as slightly different people from those who stood there a year earlier.

And the calendar gives us the first word again: Splendour.

Maybe that's one of the things I like most about a calendar built from the names and attributes of God. You never finish it. You come back and look again from a slightly different perspective.

Myrtles

Back in February I posted about "The Falcon". In that article I quoted the Kitab-i-Iqan, where Baha'u'llah refers to "the divine Luminaries," who, "by their loving care and educative influence, cause the trees of divine unity, the fruits of His oneness, the leaves of detachment, the blossoms of knowledge and certitude, and the myrtles of wisdom and utterance, to exist and be made manifest" I then said that I could write an entire article on just the word "myrtles". Well, here it goes.

The myrtle itself is an evergreen shrub, native across a broad region stretching from the Mediterranean towards western Asia. Its leaves are small, dark green and glossy, while its flowers are delicate and white, eventually giving way to dark blue-black berries. But perhaps its most distinctive feature is its fragrance. The leaves contain tiny glands filled with aromatic oil, visible as translucent specks when held up to the light, and release their fragrance when crushed. And that, dear Reader, is what you get when you try to do a summary of an article on botany. Scientifically fascinating, but dry as a camel's packed lunch.

Ok, so what about its symbolism? After all, this is a plant with a long history of being symbolic. To the ancient Greeks, the myrtle was associated with Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. According to one tradition, when Aphrodite emerged from the sea she concealed herself behind a myrtle bush, so the plant became associated with beauty and youth. Over the centuries the myrtle gathered other associations as well, including love, victory, immortality and eternity. And that was another summary, but not quite as dry. After all, it had the ocean in it.

To be honest, though, that was all a sidestep to what really interests me: its place in ancient Persian culture. I mean, this is the Iqan we're talking about. So let's do one last little summary.

The myrtle appears in Zoroastrian tradition as an attribute of Ahura Mazda, and was associated with immortality and eternity. Its fragrance was compared to the fragrance of rulers, the political type, not the school room type. Herodotus records that the Persians used myrtle in sacrifices and spread it upon the ground during celebrations, while later traditions associated it with regrowth and vitality. In other words, to a Persian reader the myrtle was not simply a pretty flowering shrub. It came trailing behind it a very long history of religious and cultural associations.

Enough with the sere summaries that were merely and loosely rewritten from various dictionaries. That's not why we're here.

My question, now that I know a little bit more about this flowering shrub, is why does Baha'u'llah use it here?

He's describing the effect of the care and influence of the Manifestations of God. And what does all this cause? "(T)he trees of divine unity, the fruits of His oneness, the leaves of detachment, the blossoms of knowledge and certitude, and the myrtles of wisdom and utterance, to exist and be made manifest."

Cool. But let's break it down a bit and see if we can understand why myrtles are stuck in there at the end.

Baha'u'llah is talking about trees, fruits, leaves, blossoms, and myrtles. As I mentioned before, that last seems oddly specific. But it also moves us from the generic to the particular. The first four can be anything anywhere. When I picture them in the generic, I tend to think of a garden.

But not myrtles.

I mean, yes, they are cultivated in gardens, for sure, but they're also a very wild, hardy shrub that grows on the rocky hillsides in the Mediterranean regions. So I guess there are two very different associations.

Now of course, I don't know what Baha'u'llah intended. After all, this is nothing official, just my own personal view on it. But still, I can't help but think that He intended these associations.

A small, hardy, evergreen shrub. Nothing particular to look at, most of the time, but when the time is right, very impressive. At least to me it is. I love them. 

Ok, now let's step back a moment.

The "trees of divine unity". What immediately comes to mind is that "trees" is really broad category. They can be any tree, anywhere. Deciduous. Conifer. In the rain forests of South America, or the great sprawling forests in northern Canada. They can be the fruit-bearing apple, a pine, an oak. Pretty much any tree you want. But when we see them, we immediately recognize them as a tree.

Come to think of it, that's where He's leading us with the Manifestations, isn't He? They vary depending on where and when they were born, but they are all essentially a Manifestation, just as a tree is a tree.

Unity.

And what is the fruit of the tree of unity? The recognition of oneness. From the tree to the fruit. From unity to oneness.

The leaves, which draw down the energy of the sun, do so through detachment. Without detachment, that quality He has been cultivating in our heart since the opening line of the Iqan, is essential for recognizing new truths. We need to be detached from our own current understanding to be able to rise to new heights of knowledge.

Oh, knowledge. The "blossoms of knowledge and certitude".

Ok, I could go on and on about this, but let's just say that blossoms are temporary. They come and go with the seasons. It's interesting to think of "knowledge and certitude" that way. But it's true, isn't it? Those things we know today, those truths we are certain of, get shaken with new knowledge. Those blossoms fall away as we come to understand more of the world around us, allowing new blossoms to come forth. And blossoms turn into fruit, given time. 

But enough about all that. You can easily see how much more there is to say.

What about the myrtles? That's why we're here, right? To talk about myrtles?

The fruits, leaves, and blossoms are all parts of a plant, but the myrtle is the plant. 

And I think that's what really caught my attention.

Knowledge is something we have. Wisdom is something we become.

I can learn all sorts of things. I can read books, study the Writings, listen to talks, take courses, talk with people far wiser than myself, and slowly gather more and more knowledge. Some of that knowledge will last. Some of it will change as I learn more. Some things I am absolutely certain of today may turn out to be a little more complicated tomorrow.

The blossoms come and go.

But wisdom is different. Wisdom isn't merely knowing something. It becomes part of who we are. It grows through experience, through making mistakes, through trying things and discovering that they don't work quite the way we thought they would. It grows through listening, through reflection, through learning when to speak and, perhaps more importantly, when not to.

And then there is utterance.

This is where I find the myrtle even more interesting. Remember those aromatic oils I mentioned way back at the beginning? The ones that made that first paragraph as dry as a camel's packed lunch? They're not just in the flowers. They're in the leaves. The fragrance is part of the plant itself.

Wisdom and utterance.

Perhaps utterance is what happens when wisdom begins to spread beyond ourselves.

Again, I have no idea if this is what Bahá'u'lláh intended by the metaphor. I'm just looking at the word He chose and wondering why He might have chosen it. But the more I look at the myrtle, the more appropriate it seems.

It's an evergreen. It endures through the seasons. It's hardy enough to grow on rocky hillsides, but it can also flourish under careful cultivation in a garden. It flowers. It bears fruit. And it carries its fragrance within itself.

Which brings us back to the beginning of the quotation. All of this comes about through the "loving care and educative influence" of the Manifestations of God.

They cultivate us.

And perhaps the point of that cultivation isn't merely that we acquire knowledge, or even that we become certain of what we know. Perhaps, given time, all that loving care and education changes what we are. We become a little wiser. And if we're fortunate, something of that wisdom finds its way into our utterance and spreads beyond us, much like the fragrance of a myrtle.

All this from a single word.

I had a feeling that looking at the word, the one that stood out at the end of the sentence, might be worth looking at a bit more closely.

What do you think?

"Spiritually Destitute"

All right, that may seem like an odd title for my blog, but bear with me. It comes from the Kitab-i-Iqan, paragraph 239. He says, "...how grievous hath been the faithlessness and arrogance of the spiritually destitute in the face of that sanctified Beauty."

"Spiritually destitute"? What the beejeebies does that mean?

When I try to consider something that puzzling, I usually go for a brisk walk. Helps clear the cobwebs out of my musty old brain. And so that's what I did with this one.

Now, from here I could put all my thoughts in a nice neat order, typing them in such a way that it looks like a solid argument worthy of a university term paper.

But I won't.

Instead, I think I'll subject you to the way my train of thought ran with this quote.

* * * * *

"Destitute" means "completely lacking". I only know that because I looked it up on my phone as I was walking. I mean, I thought that was what it meant, but I just wanted to make sure

So, they obviously had some spiritual qualities when they were born, for we were "created noble", but they did something that left them destitute.

Now, I know He's talking about those that are learned, "the divines of the age" from paragraph 238, "who have turned away from the Beauty of God". They're "clinging to their own learning", unwilling to consider anything different. He says that they're faithless, so I'll just take His word on that. But He also say they're arrogant. That's something I can grasp onto.

I know from previous sections in the Iqan that the underlying issue is a spiritual one, not an intellectual one . So arrogance is likely a symptom of this "spiritual disease", a term from paragraph 236. And one sign of this disease is "clinging to a verse", despite others that give a different view.

Ok. So clinging to a single verse out of context is not good. Got it.

They're also arrogant. Baha'u'llah isn't slamming knowledge. Not at all. What He does condemn, though, regularly throughout this book, is believing that our knowledge is somehow the final say on an issue. He tells us right at the beginning, paragraph 2, to "cease to regard the words and deeds of mortal men as a standard" for recognizing truth. That would include ourselves, too. In other words, always be open to the possibility that we're wrong, or at least that we can learn more and grow in our understanding.

Arrogance is kind of the opposite of that.

Given all that, how do they lose their spirituality? How do they go from having it, to being "destitute"? Somehow it flowed away from them. Oh, flowed!

That's an interesting image. We often speak of spirituality as something we "receive" or "drink" or "draw near to". Baha'u'llah Himself has already spoken of rivers, oceans, and the Kawthar of divine Presence.

If we think of spirituality like water, then it flows downhill. So when we are arrogant, it flows away from us. This is one of the reasons humility is so important.

Oh, and in the Iqan, Baha'u'llah demonstrates this humility. After all, He hadn't declared His mission yet, so the uncle had no reason to regard His words as infallible. At least, not when the book was written. Interesting.

Maybe that's why He regularly encourages the reader to check out the old stories for themselves. He's telling us not to take His word for it. Paragraph 3 (yes, I've read this book a lot in the past few years), He says, "Refer ye, to verify this truth, to that which hath been recorded in every sacred Book." And He does this a lot in the Iqan.

He is demonstrating that humility which is so important.

But these arrogant leaders are not. In fact, they're doing just the opposite. Paragraph 237, where He says that if the Manifestation reveals "that which is the least contrary to their desire, they bitterly oppose Him". Not the most contrary, but the least. So it's not about the intellectual argument. It's about anything that goes against what they say. That's the height of egotism.

And maybe that's also why He says that Socrates "was indeed wise, accomplished and righteous", and praises him as "the most distinguished of all philosophers and was highly versed in wisdom." Socrates' whole thing was that he recognized what he didn't know. He was, in that regard, the epitome of humility.

So here, in this section of the Iqan, where Baha'u'llah is using the verses from the Qur'an to guide the uncle to turn to the Writings of the Bab and see if they're from God, He is essentially telling the uncle to beware of this danger. Don't think that you know it all. Don't presume that what you believe is the final say on something.

That is a spiritual quality, not an intellectual one.

And maybe that's why these divines are being recognized as "spiritually destitute".

Another Thought on the Short Obligatory Prayer

I bear witness, O my God, that Thou hast created me to know Thee and to worship Thee. I testify, at this moment, to my powerlessness and to Thy might, to my poverty and to Thy wealth.

There is none other God but Thee, the Help in Peril, the Self-Subsisting.

Three sentences. That's all it is.

And yet it is the foundation of so much.

Just in case you don't recognize it, and I'd be surprised if you don't, it's the Short Obligatory Prayer from Baha'u'llah. One of the three that Baha'is are to recite every day.

Oh, not that we have to recite all three every day. No, we get to choose which of three, the long, the medium, or, you guessed it, the short.

Anyways, this is the short one. I mean, you can't really get much shorter, can you?

But what a powerhouse prayer it is.

As you may have noticed, I've been thinking a lot about prayer as tool for recalibrating how we view the world. So what about this one? It's short enough to be able to really dive into it and not take up too much of your time, dear Reader.

Oh, and just in case I haven't mentioned it in a while, these are just my own personal thoughts on this. Nothing official. That's why this blog is called One Baha'i. It's just one Baha'i. Me. Feel free to take it or leave it. I won't be offended, I promise.

So, why would Baha'u'llah mandate this prayer? What is it about it that makes it worthy of being said every day?

What really strikes me about it today is that we are not asking for anything in it. There is no request at all. It's just a statement of reality.

It starts by acknowledging why we were created, then moves on to a statement of our reality, and concludes with an understanding of God.

That's actually fairly simple. Profound, yet simple.

We begin by publicly stating, bearing witness, that we have been created to know God. That's the first thing. Why do we exist? To know God.

After knowledge comes worship. For honestly, once we come to get a beginning understanding of God, how can we not worship Him? And this is not the simplistic view of God that we've had in the past, neither the old man in the garden nor the old dude sitting on a throne on a cloud. No, this is the God of which Baha'u'llah says that the All-Possessing "is but a vassal dependent upon Thee", and the All-Compelling "is but a suppliant fallen upon the dust, awe-stricken by Thy dreadful might, Thy sovereignty and power". This is a God that is far beyond what we have ever conceived before, and one that is far more believable than those gods that people decry as mere myth.

This is a conception of God that we can truly worship with our rational mind, not to mention our soul. For if our rational mind cannot come to terms with it, then it would be irrational to worship.

No, this opening statement is a very straightforward line about why we exist, and is asking us to be conscious of that fact.

From there we get into a simple statement of our relationship to our Creator. We are powerless, and He is mighty. We are poor, and He is wealthy.

We are not asking for relief from our poverty. We are not asking for any help in anything we may desire to accomplish. It is just stating a reality.

And why is this important? Because it resets our understanding of ourselves. We often think we have power, but in reality we are powerless. We cannot stand up against a hurricane or an earthquake, no matter how much we might prepare. We can never stop, not even for a moment, the gentle tread of time. When it comes to the things that truly matter, we are all powerless before God.

Some may think themselves wealthy, either because they might have a few more grains of sand than another, or a few more rocks in their pocket. But in the grand scheme of things, we are all impoverished before the illimitable wealth of our Creator.

And then it concludes with a reminder that we can always call on God if we do require assistance. He is our helper when we are in peril, and it is good to remember that.

As I said, most prayers ask for something, but this one doesn't. It merely bears witness. It tells us why we exist. It doesn't ask for any assistance. it just says that it's there if we need it. It doesn't request any wealth, it just acknowledges our state of poverty. It reminds us that the problem isn't that we are poor, only that we imagine ourselves rich. And once we've recognized that, both our purpose and our limitations, as well as God's reality, then who else could we turn to?

I love the logic of it.

And once these things fall into place, so, it seems, does everything else.

Oh, and in case you thought I forgot about my commitment, 79 left to go.

Make Thy Beauty...

I've been thinking a lot about this concept of prayer shaping our perception. In fact, it originally arose from my studies on the Iqan, where I am more and more convinced that the real importance of the book is not just His explanations of Baha'i theology, which He explains at greater length in other Writings, but the way that He transforms our perception. Through the Iqan He gently leads the reader to a state of perception that not only allows for the recognition of both the Bab and Himself, if we let it, it moves us to the point where there is essentially no other option but recognition.

That's a very different way of reading the book for me.

But now that thought, the idea that His chief concern is changing how we perceive the world around us, has seeped over into my prayers. How, I've begun to wonder, do the prayers shape our perception of the world?

This afternoon I was reading that wonderful prayer:

O my Lord! Make Thy beauty to be my food, and Thy presence my drink, and Thy pleasure my hope, and praise of Thee my action, and remembrance of Thee my companion, and the power of Thy sovereignty my succorer, and Thy habitation my home, and my dwelling-place the seat Thou hast sanctified from the limitations imposed upon them who are shut out as by a veil from Thee.

Thou art, verily, the Almighty, the All-Glorious, the Most Powerful.

 

Now, I've looked at this prayer many times, but this time, looking at it through the lens of perception transformation has helped me see it in a very different light. Which is good, right? After all, it's sacred Text. We should always get something new out of it.

Obviously it begins by addressing God, immediately shifting our view upwards toward the Divine. Nothing terribly new there.

Then it shifts into what seems like a request for of prayer. Again, nothing new.

And like I have in many other analyses, I like to split lists into columns. So here goes:

• Beauty - Food
• Presence - Drink
• Pleasure - Hope
• Praise - Action
• Remembrance - Companion
• Power of Thy sovereignty - Succorer
• Habitation - Home
• Dwelling-place - the seat Thou hast sanctified from the limitations imposed upon them who are shut out as by a veil from Thee

And then it closes with another look towards God.

So, how does this work in terms of helping change our perceptions?

Well, looking at the second half, food and drink are the basic essentials for life. Drink more than food, as we can live for weeks without food, but only a few days without water.

Once we get past the basic needs, we come to our more emotional desires: hope, action, companionship, and succor.

Ok, maybe that is not quite as obvious, so let's check it out. Hope is an element in our life that keeps us motivated. What are we motivated to do? Action, for any "doing" is action, by its very definition. But most of us don't want to work by ourselves. We prefer community, companionship.

In addition, once we begin working with we often find we need someone to succor us, someone to help us out. It is as if we have moved from our desires to our actual source of strength. We can do some things on our own, but we can accomplish so much more when working with others.

This seems to lead us very naturally into our source of identity, our home, the place in which we dwell, whether it is a country, a city, or the very house in which we live.

But looking at the first column, this prayer changes the way in which we perceive these very natural aspects of our life.

We are not asking for material food. We are asking that the sustaining element of our being be transformed. While we may be physically sustained by food, most people are emotionally sustained by praise, success, or approval. Here we are asking that this be turned to something more worthwhile, namely our ability to perceive the beauty of God. It's not just asking that we occasionally see it, but that it becomes the sustaining force of our life.

And while food sustains us in the long-term, water takes care of our immediate thirst. It is as if we are asking that this immediate need be quenched with God's presence, not mere distractions. For to be honest, I know that I often look to satiate that need with something more distracting. I am asking that I turn to the recognition of God in my life, His immediate presence, to allay that need.

But what about that third part? "Thy pleasure my hope"? I think that most things we hope for are self-centred, like health or comfort, or maybe success in our work. Things that give us our own pleasure. Here we are asking for God's pleasure to be what we most hope for. We are now turning from a self-centred life to a more God-centred one.

Hmm. That seems like a beautiful step in this prayer.

"Praise of Thee my action". Food, drink, and hope all feel like they're internal. Action is where is moves outward, more external. Now that we have been nourished, sustained, and even given hope by God's presence in our life, it's time to do something with it. Now is the time to put it into action, by praising God. Of course, praise doesn't just mean a vocalizing of it. The best way to praise God is to serve humanity.

This is the "remembrance of Thee" that becomes "my companion". As we serve others, we are walking beside God. And this isn't just a temporary thing, either. A companion is always with us. We are asking that this remembrance be a continual presence in our life. It is through action, through serving others that we will discover it there, always.

But as I said above, as we do this, we will find that we can't do it alone. We need help. This is where the "power of Thy sovereignty" comes in handy. It reminds us to rely on God, to trust that He will be there helping us.

Following this, we now ask God for a new home, a new place of comfort and refuge, for the old one does not suffice. We are asking for His assistance to move from this world to His. It is, perhaps, a spiritual migration, a continual moving toward God.

And then, that last piece in this particular journey, we ask God to make "my dwelling-place the seat Thou hast sanctified from the limitations imposed upon them who are shut out as by a veil from Thee".  We've moved beyond food, drink, hope, action, companionship, support, and even home. We are now asking to live in that spiritual state of being where we are always aware of the true unity of the world, conscious of nearness, instead of separation.

This prayer is not asking for any particular thing. It is asking for assistance in transforming our very way of being.

Just as my cat is now asking, or more like demanding, assistance in going outside.

An Interesting Analysis of Baha'i Prayers

Ok, time for an interesting experiment. As many of you know, I've been working on a book about the Iqan, and how Baha'u'llah helps the uncle move from being a sincere seeker to a confirmed believer. To help get it into a publishable format, the publisher suggested tossing it into an AI for a quick edit. So I did. I tried a couple of different ones, and ChatGPT is the one that seemed to work the best.

I told it that I needed a quick edit, and it showed me all the typos, grammatical errors, and so on. Pretty straightforward stuff done very quickly. Nothing unusual there.

But then it asked me a question at the very end. It asked why I hadn't added in one little question. I don't recall what it was, but I read it and typed in response, "Because I hadn't thought of it." It wasn't anything ground breaking, or earth shattering. It was just a simple question that had a simple answer. But it was a nice little addition of a single sentence. And yes, I wrote it. Not the AI.

But it got me thinking.

It got me thinking about tools, and how we use them. And so I decided to start a little project, with the encouragement of my wife. I began by asking it a single question, after all, turnabout is fair play, right?

The response was not at all what I expected, and yet it should have been. Here it is, straight from ChatGPT, reformatted to make it easier to read:

* * * * *

"Looking at the Baha'i prayers, can you analyze the method of how they work on the human soul?"

That's a fascinating question, Mead, because Bahá'í prayers seem to operate on multiple levels simultaneously. If we ask not "What do the prayers say?" but "What do they do to the soul?", a fairly consistent methodology begins to emerge.

I would describe the process as five interconnected movements.

1. They shift attention away from the self

Many Bahá'í prayers begin by turning attention toward God:

> "I bear witness, O my God..."

> "Praised be Thou..."

> "Glory be unto Thee..."

This may seem like simple praise, but psychologically and spiritually it does something important. It interrupts the ego's tendency to place itself at the center of reality.

Most of our suffering comes from being trapped inside our own narrative:

* my worries
* my desires
* my fears
* my failures

Prayer gently relocates the center of gravity. The soul moves from "I am the center" to "God is the center." This is often the first movement of transformation.

 

2. They awaken latent spiritual capacities

One of Bahá'u'lláh's recurring teachings is that the soul already possesses spiritual capacities, but they lie dormant.

Many prayers do not ask for external things. Instead they ask for qualities:

* steadfastness
* wisdom
* detachment
* courage
* purity
* generosity
* love

Notice the subtle assumption.

The prayer is not "Give me something I do not possess." It is often closer to "Help me uncover what You have already placed within me."

In this sense prayer functions somewhat like sunlight on a seed. The prayer itself does not create the capacity; it helps awaken it.

3. They reshape perception

This may be the most important function.

Consider how often Bahá'í prayers redefine circumstances. Affliction becomes:

* a gift
* a test
* a means of growth

Death becomes:

* a transition
* a homecoming
* an ascent

Difficulties become:

* opportunities
* training
* preparation

The external situation may not change at all. The soul changes because it begins seeing reality through a different lens. This is remarkably similar to what Bahá'u'lláh does throughout the Kitáb-i-Íqán. He continually helps the uncle reinterpret familiar ideas until he can see them differently.

Prayer performs that same work internally.
 

 

4. They create a relationship rather than merely convey information

One striking feature of Bahá'í prayers is that they are intensely relational.

The soul speaks:

* to God
* with God
* before God

The purpose is not merely to state truths. A person can believe a doctrine intellectually and remain unchanged. But a relationship changes people.

The repeated experience of approaching God as:

* Beloved
* Friend
* Protector
* Educator
* Physician

gradually shapes the soul itself.

The prayers cultivate familiarity with divine attributes.

Over time those attributes become the standard by which we judge our own actions.

5. They train desire

This is perhaps the deepest level.

Human beings become what they love. The prayers repeatedly redirect desire toward higher things:

instead of power → service

instead of comfort → growth

instead of recognition → humility

instead of possession → nearness to God

The soul learns to want different things. This is important because Bahá'u'lláh rarely treats spiritual transformation as merely intellectual. Recognition of truth matters, but the heart must also be educated.

Prayer is one of the primary tools for that education.

## An interesting pattern

If you look closely, many prayers follow a structure something like:

1. Recognition of God
2. Recognition of self
3. Expression of longing
4. Request for assistance
5. Recommitment to a spiritual path

For example:

* God is exalted.
* I am needy.
* I long for You.
* Help me.
* Make me an instrument of Your purpose.

That movement mirrors the spiritual journey itself.
 

Seen this way, Bahá'í prayers are not primarily requests for divine intervention. They are instruments of spiritual formation. Their purpose is not merely to change circumstances, but to change the soul that encounters those circumstances.

* * * * *

Ok. Me again.

I know that a lot of people disparage AI, and I totally understand why. But it is a tool. And like any tool it is only as useful as we make it.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I asked it this question, but was very satisfied with the insights that resulted.

Will this replace my morning prayers? Of course not. But it does add to my experience of prayer.

And will it replace my own personal writing? Nope.

Because, again on a whim, I asked it to write a very short article on a simple subject in the style of this blog. And you know what? There was no heart in it. There was no soul. While the words sounded good, they didn't evoke anything in me. And sure, it gave an interesting insight, but it was the sort of insight you would expect from, well, from an AI.

So, in the end, yeah, AI is a tool. And it has many great uses. And it can be abused by many. But should we get rid of knives because some people stab others with them? Should we stop using fire because arsonists exist? No. I think as we learn how to better train the human soul, how to guide people toward a more spiritual awareness, the proper use of tools will become more and more evident.

Personal Translation

"Thou? Thy? Who uses these words anymore? Why don't we use normal language in the Writings?"

Ah, yes, I hear your complaint, dear Reader, and it is one that I hear quite often. It's one that bothered me for a while, too. "Why do we use the olde English?"

Well, as you know, this is nothing official, just my own thoughts on the subject, so take them or leave them, as you will. And just so you know, I'm going to begin with my thoughts about the why of it, and then add in some thoughts about what we can do.

* * * * *

First, I believe that it has to do with maintaining the exalted language of the Writings, and helping make sure that we don't take them for granted. What I mean by that is that they are not written in the common vernacular because they are not common. By having an "exalted" language, we help set them apart from the norm.

This is important because, in general, we seem to have lost our sense of respect. We have tried so hard to make everyone equal that we forget the natural differences between people. We try to think of everyone as the same, as opposed to truly equal with all of our differences. Uniformity instead of true diversity. This has tended to mean, these days, that instead of respecting the expert's opinion, we treat it the same as the layperson's. Of course, we can all see where that leads, what with the whole climate change and vaccine questions, just to name a couple.

By keeping the writings in the exalted language, we help set them apart. Oh, and that means keeping them separate from, say, my own writings. When you read what I write, you can immediately tell what is my own and when I am quoting. The difference is staggering, and not just in the quality of what is being said.

* * *

Second, they are exalted in the original languages in which they were written. Although I don't read Persian, Arabic, or Turkish, I have been told many times that the style in which they are written is quite different from the spoken language. In other words, I wouldn't necessarily try to use them to learn the language, for I'd likely sound very pompous. "How art thou on this fine and beauteous morning?" Nope. I would either sound like pig-headed jerk, or like a bad renaissance faire reject.

* * *

Third... Well, let's just stick with those two.

* * * * *

"But I still have a hard time reading them."

I get it. I really do. For the longest time I had a horrible time trying to read Baha'u'llah's writings. The language barrier was just too great for me.

So what did I do?

Simple. I made them readable to me.

"How?" Great question. I'm glad you asked.

First, I made a dictionary to ease in my own personal translation so that I could get used to it. For example:

Thou - You
Thee - You
Thy - Your
Lovest - Love
Saith - Said
Knoweth - Knows
Any verb ending in -eth - Same verb ending in -s

You get the idea?

So if the text reads, "If thou lovest me, turn away from thyself", I would read it as "If you love me, turn away from yourself". I got the idea, but it sure didn't sound as good.

Some Baha'is in the past have said to me that this is not acceptable, and to them, I just say "poppycock". I'm not making an official translation, but just one for myself. I was making it comprehensible to me until I was able to read it in the way the Guardian translated it. After all, Baha'u'llah said, "reading, without understanding, is of no abiding profit unto man". So why wouldn't I make it readable to myself? After all, that's why the Guardian gave us these translations, isn't it? So that we could understand them in our own language. The trick, though, was not to stop with my own version, but to make sure that I was using it as a tool to be able to read it more clearly in the English translation.

* * *

Second, I would edit out the "floral" language so that I could see the just the main point of the sentence. For example, in the first paragraph from Shoghi Effendi's book, The World Order of Baha'u'llah, we read the following sentence:

"I have been acquainted by the perusal of your latest communications with the nature of the doubts that have been publicly expressed, by one who is wholly misinformed as to the true precepts of the Cause, regarding the validity of institutions that stand inextricably interwoven with the Faith of Bahá’u’lláh."

Well, that's quite the mouthful. And if you're not that good at reading, it can be a bit overwhelming. To make it easier for me to begin to understand it, I edited it down to the following:

"...I have been acquainted... with the nature of the doubts... regarding the validity of institutions..."

Now I have a starting point upon which I can build my understanding of the rest of the sentence.

There are many times when I still do this. Whether it's the Kitab-i-Iqan, or Gleanings from the Writings of Baha'u'llah, or pretty much anything from Shoghi Effendi, I still sometimes get lost in the overall language of a long sentence, like this one, and have to pare it back to its essence. Once I can wrap my mind around the basics of what is being said, then I can go back and try to pick up more of the details, or nuances.

* * *

Third, I make it applicable to me.

While it would be easy to say that it is all applicable, that is not actually true for many people. I mean, they don't feel that it applies to them. For example, I know many women, my wife being one, who started reading the Hidden Words with "O Daughter of Man". They have said that it just means that much more to them. It becomes more personal. They can relate to "daughter", but have a more difficult time relating to "son".

Sure. Why not? That's called "personal interpretation".

There's also that infamous prayer amongst 12 year-old boys, in which the reader dedicates "that which is in my womb" to God. When I read that one, I read it as dedicating that which I am creating from the womb of my mind or imagination, to God.

I make it personal to me.

* * * * *

All of this is to say that the Writings can be difficult to read, what with the olde English and the floral language, not to mention some of the concepts. But if we take to the time to make it readable for ourselves, then we will find that we can understand the original texts a lot more readily.

Some have said that trying to read the Writings gives them a headache, and I know that to be true, for I was one of them. I realized, however, that it was because I was exercising a muscle that I was not used to using. I was so used to reading with ease, that when I was challenged by the Writings, it was like going to the gym and doing a new workout routine. I had to build up to it. At first, my muscles would ache, but as I did it more and more, I became accustomed to it, and could then do even more.

So, dear Reader, please don't give up. And don't let anyone else tell you that you need to read the Writings in a particular way. Make them your own. Read them for yourself. Get what you can out of them. And I guarantee that as you do this, you will find your capacity increasing, and you will get even more out of them later.

Sunrise

Imagine waking up early one morning, going downstairs, making yourself a cup of tea or coffee, stepping outside and watching the most amazing sunrise over a lake. A beautiful image, isn't it? And you can do it every morning. It never gets boring, does it? The beauty of today's sunrise doesn't diminish the beauty of yesterday's. It doesn't mean tomorrow's will be any less. What a pleasant way to begin your day.

Ok, let's backtrack a second and look at this with a slight twist. Suppose you only live for a single hour.

Imagine you are living your whole life being told about this amazing sunrise from yesterday morning. Just a few were awake to actually see it, but they made sure to share the story of its beauty with everyone.

It was such a special event that everybody says that all of history led to that singular sunrise, and the entire future will look back on it in wonder and delight. You're told that the sun will rise again, but it's been so many countless generations that it almost seems an empty promise. Most no longer believe it as anything more than a fairy tale about some distant time in the future.

It's nice to be made aware that the sun had risen. It gives a sense of comfort to know that such wonders have occurred in the world. But to me, this story, the way it is told through the generations, is also a bit depressing. I mean, sure, there's the faint hope that someday, somewhere, there might be another sunrise, but the fact that it all revolves around one? There's something sad and lonely about that.

No, what really gives me joy is to know that the sun will rise every morning. Without fail. We may see it, or we may not. It doesn't matter. Just knowing it is a comfort to my swiftly fleeting hour-long life.

* * * * *

What I love about this image is that it describes so well religious thought. So many believe that the Great Teacher only came once. They believe that this sunrise only occurred once.

They don't see the other days.

And for some reason they believe that if there is more than one, it somehow lessens any others, never understanding that sunrise is always a beautiful, magical, and even miraculous event.

Hope

Hope is such a strange thing.

Some think of it as the ultimate curse from Pandora's Box, while for others it is "born when all is forlorn". Some see it as the light amidst the darkness, others as the winter's promise of spring. Hope is what encourages the farmer to plant the seed, the artist to keep creating, and the recognition that, despite any present difficulties, the future will keep on advancing.

Hope is the reality that arises from understanding the dynamic of crisis and victory. "Three steps forward, two steps back" is not just a figure of speech, but a reality of how we advance.

When I was watching my son growing up, I noticed a strange phenomenon. He was only a year or two old when I noticed it. He would eat and eat and eat, growing pudgier every single day. And then, just when I began to be even the least bit concerned, he would stop. He would only nibble at his food, peck at his plate, for days on end. And then, without fail, he would stretch, his body growing longer by the hour. I felt as if I could actually see him growing. His growth was not linear. Very little in nature is. His growth was like the movement of an inchworm. Out then up, then out, then up.

This is what happens to seeds, too. They may lie dormant throughout the cold winter months, but then with the melting snows and torrential spring rains, they soak up the water. To all outward appearances, nothing may be happening, except a slight swelling as they become more water logged, but what is happening inside is little short of a miracle. Cells are forming, growing, developing. Things are becoming tighter and tighter, ever more cramped within that seedcase until suddenly, one day, it becomes too much and a tiny sprout bursts forth.

Many have commented on the way a caterpillar develops into a butterfly, entering the cocoon, dissolving into a living liquid, and then bursting forth in its beauty. This, too, is an outward expression of hope. It is a recognition of the trials we must undergo for transformative progress.

From a child growing to a seed sprouting to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, they are all part of that cycle that revolves around hope.

But what about the rest of the world? How can we find hope in a world riddled with war and strife?

For me, what helps is a basic understanding of, oh, I don't know, physics? Nature? Something like that. I mean, think about pressure. A pressure cooker works because the lid is sealed on tight. If you keep applying heat, it will eventually explode. But that's not the end of it. After that violent moment, things are actually calm and peaceful in the kitchen again. Oh, sure, you have a mess to clean up, but the danger of the explosion has passed.

To me, this is just like what happens when you have oppression. When a government, a corporate administration, or perhaps even an abusive husband in a family, applies oppressive tactics, they have to keep applying it in greater and greater amounts. A tyrannical government has to keep applying more pressure to keep its citizens in check. As soon as they release it, the people will quite naturally rise up against them. Fear is often the motivator used to keep people in the situation. This is why a large number of women left their abusive relationships once they were allowed to open bank accounts. The economic pressures used to keep them subjugated were removed.

But it is impossible to keep applying greater amounts of pressure.

This is why corrupt regimes must, inevitably, fail. They run out of resources merely trying to keep the people subjugated.

Take some of the major corporations that are abusing their workers. They keep finding ways to raise prices, lower wages, and take greater profits for their shareholders. Of course, this doesn't apply to every corporation out there, but enough to make the point. Eventually the workers are unable to make a living, for prices have soared far beyond what they can afford on their meager wages. They certainly cannot afford to buy the products that are being produced. And when they are left with no choice, when the fear of losing their job pales in comparison to the fear of not being able to buy groceries, or much needed medicines, they have nothing left to lose. They will rise up in protest.

And just like the pressure cooker, there will be the very real danger of people getting hurt, or even killed. And again, just like the pressure cooker, there will be a mess to clean up afterwards. But once that work is finished, we can continue with the business of building a better world.

The hope that I find in the world is not blind to the very real dangers we are facing. I am not ignorant of the difficulties we are facing as a human race. Nor am I unaware of the tremendous suffering that is happening in so many places.

Instead, my hope is based on the fact that these sufferings and trials are not sustainable.

If I live in an area prone to flooding, I will help set up the sandbags to protect the community. And I will also make sure I have a mop to clean up the mess afterwards, for I know that the floodwaters will eventually recede. And all the while I will continue to teach the children and spread hope. The work of development does not stop just because we are putting out fires. The farmer's seeds still need to be planted so that we don't starve after we get back on course.

Just because there are some bad things happening today, it doesn't mean that everything will end. Yes, people will get hurt, and we do need to comfort and care for them. Yes, there will be some destruction, and we will need to clean it up and rebuild. But that doesn't mean we will forget all we have learned.

Three steps forward, two steps back.

Hope, as we were recently told by the Universal House of Justice, is "a scarce and precious resource". And by recognizing the dynamics that are truly in play, not the empty rhetoric of fear-mongers who are merely out for personal gain, we can see that we are moving toward a very beautiful future.

Today is like spring, in more ways than one. The old icy structures that may have once captivated us with their sparkling beauty are melting around us. Those who would try to rebuild those castles of snow are fighting against the very turning of the seasons. And all that mess and muck that is being exposed around us? They are the very elements that are needed for those seeds to grow into the flowers of summer.

No matter which metaphor I use, no matter where I turn, no matter what catches my eye, I see the same patterns everywhere. Sure, the immediate future may be messy, and I may need to clean my shoes when I step inside, but the future is bright. Very bright.

And I hope that we can walk into it together.

Learning History

My wife and I had a wonderful conversation over lunch today. Oh, we went to a little Lebanese restaurant and had what was arguably the best falafel and schwarma we've had in many a year. Well, she had the falafel. I had the shwarma.

Anyways, we got to talking about Baha'i books we've read together over the years, and I happened to mention how I had begun my foray into Baha'i history shortly after declaring. Like, within the hour. I had run into Javidukht Khadem, widow of the Hand of the Cause (literally run into her), and she enrolled me in a deepeing class on the history of the Faith.

Well, it was a bit over my head. I mean, the reading list included Dawn-Breakers, God Passes By, Baha'u'llah: King of Glory, and quite a few more fairly hefty tomes, too. As I knew nothing about Baha'i history or Iran, it was way beyond me. As in completely incomprehensible.

That was when I decided to take a stab at it on my own. Read at my own pace. Struggle with my own questions and ask people I knew in the community about their understanding on certain details. And then I read what I could when I could.

Since I had all the books already, including the full trilogy from Balyuzi, I decided to begin there. Oh, but I didn't begin with the first book, The Bab. I began with the last one, 'Abdu'l-Baha.

And my wife asked me why.

"Doesn't it make more sense to begin at the beginning?"

It probably does, but so much of it was way beyond my frame of reference.

'Abdu'l-Baha, though? Him I could relate to. He visited North America. He laid the foundation stone at the Temple. He took a taxi cab, for crying out loud. I knew these things already. I could relate.

And thus my adventure began.

It also turned out to be the best way for me to start.

As you know, 'Abdu'l-Baha was born in 1844, and grew up along with the Faith. Those early chapters talked about the most important Babis in history, those absolutely-gotta-know-these-names names. Quddus, Mulla Husayn. Tahirih. Vahid. And a few others to boot. I'd already heard of them, so I could follow the story more easily. And by the time it reached the end, I was able to grasp the overall arc of His life, His time in history, and even relate it to people I actually knew. I was hooked, not overwhelmed.

Then I began to read Baha'u'llah: King of Glory. It started with His childhood, and quickly got into His time as a Babi. It reminded me of those absolutely-gotta-know-these-names names, and introduced a whole whack of really-good-to-know-names names. Since I already knew the first group, the second was a bit easier to remember. It then filled in a lot of gaps that were hinted at in the book on 'Abdu'l-Baha.

By the time I got to reading The Bab, I was familiar with the absolutely-gotta-know-these-names names, the really-good-to-know-names names, and was ready for all the other names there. Sure there was quite a bit that was new, but I had a framework on which to hang it. I had my skeleton and was ready to add the musculature and the rest of the body.

After that, the Dawn-Breakers was much easier, so much more approachable.

It's funny, though. We often teach these things in chronological order, even though for many of us it is overwhelming. And honestly, that's not how children learn. We learn what's most important first. We learn the overall structure before learning all the details.

As my wife said, a child learns their bedroom first. Then they learn the rest of the house. After that, they learn their neighbourhood, before even thinking about the city, their country, or the rest of the world.

I began my studies of Baha'i history by what was relatable, and only from there was I able to read the rest of it.

Now, it is my passion. I read everything I can get my hands on when it comes to Baha'i history, and can relate it quite easily to where we are in world history.

And while I am eternally grateful to Mrs Khadem for getting me started, I am also grateful that I was able to venture off on my own and discover it in a way that was approachable to me.