The Trouble with Perspective

One of the more interesting things about moving to Quebec has been discovering how many things I assumed were simply the way things are.

I don't mean important things. I don't mean that I arrived here believing that everyone in the world ought to eat the same food or drive on the same side of the road. Those differences are obvious enough. What has surprised me are the little things, the assumptions that sit underneath ordinary life so quietly that I never noticed I had made them.

Learning French has probably been the most obvious example. English has a way of making itself feel like a neutral language. If you speak English, you can easily fall into the habit of thinking that you are simply describing the world, whereas someone speaking another language is adding a cultural layer to it. Then you start learning another language and discover that the world doesn't actually line up quite as neatly as you thought it did.

There are things you can't say quite the same way. There are things that are obvious in one language and require explanation in another. There are ideas that seem to fit naturally into one way of speaking and awkwardly into another. Eventually you begin to suspect that the language isn't merely describing the world. It is helping you decide what sort of world you are looking at.

This is where I think we Anglophones can get ourselves into trouble.

We tend to imagine that our way of seeing things is the default.

Not necessarily the best way. Not consciously. We aren't usually walking around thinking, "My cultural assumptions are objectively correct and everyone else is an unfortunate deviation." It is much subtler than that. We simply don't experience our own assumptions as assumptions.

They feel like reality.

One of my favourite examples is the Ship of Theseus.

The basic puzzle is an old philosophical one. Suppose you have a ship. Over the years, one board needs replacing, then another, then another. Eventually every piece of the original ship has been replaced. Is it still the same ship?

Western philosophy has had an entertaining time with this question. There are variations involving what happens if someone collects all the discarded original pieces and builds another ship out of them. Which ship is the real one? What makes something identical to itself? Is identity located in the material, in continuity, in function, in history, or somewhere else?

And then I came across a story about an old Japanese temple that made me realise something rather obvious that I had somehow never thought about.

The story goes that some Western visitors were being shown a Japanese temple that was said to be more than a thousand years old. During the explanation, the guide happened to mention that the temple had burned down several times over the centuries.

The visitors were confused.

Eventually, they pointed out what seemed to them to be an obvious problem. If the temple had burned down, then it wasn't the original temple. Whatever stood in front of them might be on the same site and might serve the same purpose, but the original building was gone.

The guide apparently didn't see the problem.

It was still the temple.

I was fascinated by this because neither side is wrong.

The Western visitors were thinking about identity in terms of material continuity. If the original thing is gone and something else has been built in its place, then the original thing is no longer there.

The Japanese understanding, at least as I understand it, places much greater weight on continuity of function, tradition, place and purpose. The temple is not merely a collection of timbers and tiles. It is the temple because it has continued to be the temple.

And suddenly the Ship of Theseus doesn't look quite so much like a philosophical puzzle. It looks like a cultural question.

What makes something the same thing?

Well, apparently that depends on what you mean by "same".

This is where things get uncomfortable, because we tend to assume that when another person reaches a different conclusion from us, we must disagree about the facts. Sometimes we do. But sometimes we agree about the facts and disagree about what those facts mean.

That is where things can get confusing.

I can look at something and say, "That's obviously the same thing because it serves the same purpose."

You can look at it and say, "That's obviously not the same thing because none of the original material remains."

We may spend all day arguing about which of us is being logical when, in fact, we are both being logical. We have simply started with different definitions.

I have run into smaller versions of this since moving to Quebec. Things that seemed inefficient or unnecessarily complicated to me sometimes turned out to make perfect sense once I understood the assumptions behind them. And things that seemed perfectly obvious to me were not necessarily obvious to the people around me.

This can be surprisingly humbling.

It is also one of the reasons I think learning another language is such a useful exercise. You don't just learn new words. Eventually, if you stick with it long enough, you begin to notice that the words are attached to a different set of habits and expectations. You discover that some things you thought were universal were actually English-speaking assumptions wearing ordinary clothes.

And once you notice one assumption, you start seeing others.

How should a person show respect?

What counts as being polite?

How directly should you say what you mean?

What does it mean to be on time?

How much personal space is appropriate?

Should a disagreement be expressed openly or softened?

Is silence uncomfortable or respectful?

What makes someone seem confident? What makes someone seem arrogant?

What does a good parent do? What does a good teacher do? What does a good leader do?

We tend to have answers to all of these questions. The dangerous part is that we often don't know that they are answers. We think they are descriptions.

There is a wonderful irony here. We are quite capable of recognising that other cultures have perspectives. Japanese culture has a perspective. French culture has a perspective. Indigenous cultures have perspectives. African cultures have perspectives. Then we turn around and talk about our own perspective as though it were simply "the way things are".

Perhaps the hardest culture to recognise is your own.

This doesn't mean that every cultural practice is equally good. I don't think cultural relativism requires us to throw up our hands and say that nothing can ever be judged. Some things are simply unjust. Some things cause needless suffering. Some customs deserve to change.

But before I decide that something is wrong, it might be worth asking whether I actually understand what I am looking at.

That is a much harder discipline than it sounds.

It requires me to separate "I don't understand this" from "This is wrong." It's sad how often we confuse those two.

It also requires some humility about my own conclusions. If I grew up surrounded by people who thought a particular way, spoke a particular language, organised families in a particular way and understood history through a particular lens, then naturally those things will feel reasonable to me. That doesn't make them false. It simply means that my confidence in them isn't quite as independent as I might like to imagine.

This is one reason I find the Bahá’í emphasis on independent investigation of truth so interesting. Independent investigation isn't merely a command to think for yourself instead of believing whatever somebody tells you. It also means being willing to investigate the assumptions with which you are doing the thinking.

And that is considerably harder.

It is relatively easy to question somebody else's assumptions. We do it all the time. We call it arguing.

Questioning my own assumptions is less comfortable because I have to consider the possibility that the thing I thought was obvious may only be obvious from where I happen to be standing.

And perhaps that is one of the great gifts of encountering another culture. It doesn't necessarily teach me that the other culture is right. It teaches me that I am not the whole world.

That may sound like a rather modest discovery, but I suspect it is one of the foundations of genuine understanding. If I believe that my way of seeing things is simply the way things are, then everyone who sees differently appears confused, ignorant or unreasonable. Once I realise that my perspective is only one perspective among many, something changes. I can still disagree. I can still believe that my way is better in a particular situation. But now I have to make an argument for it rather than assuming that reality itself has already made the argument on my behalf.

And that opens the door to something much more interesting than tolerance. It can lead to learning.

So maybe the Japanese temple really is the same temple. Maybe it isn't.

The important thing, for me, is that I can now see why someone might answer either way.

And once I can do that, I have taken a small step outside my own culture without having to abandon it.

That may be what we need more of in the world: not people who claim to be unbiased, but people who recognize their cultural bias.

After all, if the earth really is one country, we're going to have to learn to recognize that different perspectives may be just as valid as our own.

The Earth is But One Country...

“The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.”

How many times have I heard it? I mean, not to be flippant, but the danger is always hearing something so often that you almost stop hearing it. It is one of those quotations that has become so familiar that I sometimes wonder whether I actually read it any more, or simply just recognise it. We all know what it means, after all. Humanity is one. We live on one planet. National borders are things we have invented, and we ought to learn to live together.

All of which is true. But the other day I found myself wondering about this quote, thinking about the actual individual words within it. Why did Bahá’u’lláh say “country”? And why “citizens”?

He could have said that the earth is one world and mankind its people. That would have made perfect sense. He could have said that humanity is one family, which would also have made perfect sense and would probably have been easier for us to accept. Families are something we understand. We can argue with our relatives, complain about them, occasionally wish they lived somewhere else, and still recognise that they are family.

But Bahá’u’lláh didn't say any of those things. He chose “country”. And that led me to thinking about how it changes the implications.

A country is not merely a piece of land. If I say Canada, I am not referring only to a bunch of trees, rocks, lakes and pavement surrounded by a line on a map. I am talking about a community, with laws and institutions, responsibilities and rights, and people who have agreed, at least in principle, to live together under some common arrangements. A country is something we belong to. It makes claims upon us, and we make claims upon it.

If the earth is one country, then I don't think Bahá’u’lláh is merely asking me to have a warm feeling towards people in other parts of the world. He is asking me to imagine that they are part of the same political and moral community that I am. The person living on the other side of the planet isn't just someone who happens to live on another piece of land. They are my fellow citizen.

That is a much more demanding idea.

It is also worth noticing that Bahá’u’lláh, immediately before the famous quote, says, “It is not for him to pride himself who loveth his own country, but rather for him who loveth the whole world.”

I like that qualification because it prevents us from taking the quotation in a rather simplistic direction. Bahá’u’lláh isn't telling me that I must stop loving Canada. Nor does loving the whole world require me to pretend that every place is identical. I can love the country in which I live, just as I can love my family, without imagining that my particular corner of the world is more important than everybody else's.

In fact, perhaps loving one's country properly requires being able to see it as part of something larger.

We get into trouble when the part becomes more important than the whole. A person can love his family so much that nobody outside the family matters. A person can love his town so much that everyone from the next town is an outsider. A person can love his country so much that the suffering of people beyond its borders becomes somebody else's problem.

History has given us a lot of examples of where that can lead.

So let's look at the second half of the sentence. “Mankind its citizens.”

Citizenship is a funny word. We tend to think of it as a legal status. I am a citizen of Canada. Someone else is a citizen of Brazil. Another person is a citizen of Japan. It appears on passports and government forms, and it determines certain rights and responsibilities.

But citizenship is more than having the correct box ticked on a form. To be a citizen is to belong to something. You have rights, as well as obligations. You expect the country to protect you, but you are also expected to contribute to the life of the country. You don't get to say that the roads, schools, hospitals, courts and other institutions are everybody else's concern while you simply enjoy the benefits.

At least, that isn't how citizenship is supposed to work.

So if mankind are citizens of one country, what does that imply?

Perhaps it means that the people we habitually call foreigners are not actually foreigners in the fullest sense. They are fellow citizens. Their problems are not entirely their problems. Their prosperity is not entirely their prosperity. Their suffering is not entirely their suffering.

That sounds terribly idealistic until you notice how much of modern life already works that way.

A disease does not stop at a border because a government has drawn a line there. Neither does pollution. Nor does climate change. Nor does financial instability, nor information. Nor, increasingly, does war. We have created a world in which we are interconnected whether we like it or not. The practical reality of our lives is already much closer to one country than our political habits sometimes admit.

The interesting question for me is whether our sense of responsibility has caught up with our interdependence.

It is one thing to say that everyone is connected. It is another to say that everyone belongs to the same community.

And I think that may be why “citizen” matters so much.

A citizen isn't just someone who lives somewhere. They participate in the life of the place. There is an expectation of mutual responsibility. If the earth is one country, then perhaps the Bahá’í vision of world unity is not simply asking us to tolerate people who are different from us. It is asking us to develop a sense of responsibility for people we have been taught to think of as outside our circle.

That doesn't mean that local communities become meaningless. Quite the opposite, I think. A country is made up of communities, and the world would presumably be no different. I can be Canadian, a Quebecer, a resident of my particular town, a member of a neighbourhood, a friend, and a citizen of the world without any of those identities necessarily cancelling the others.

The problem begins when one identity demands that all the others disappear.

Perhaps the analogy of citizenship gives us a useful way of thinking about this. I don't stop being a citizen of Canada because I meet a citizen of another country. I don't have to become less Canadian in order for another person to become more Brazilian, or Iranian, or Nigerian. Our identities do not have to compete unless we decide that they must.

And there is something else about citizenship. It is not only about belonging to a place. It is about learning how to live with other citizens.

That requires some fairly unglamorous virtues.

Patience would be useful. So would consultation. So would learning to listen to somebody who disagrees with me without immediately deciding that the disagreement proves his moral inferiority. Justice would probably help. So would courtesy. And perhaps a willingness to admit that my own experience, however extensive I imagine it to be, is still only the experience of one person living in one little corner of a very large country.

I think that may be a part of what Bahá’u’lláh is getting at when He uses such an ordinary word as “citizens”.

It is easy to love humanity in the abstract. "Humanity" is wonderful because it never comes to my door asking for something.

Citizens do.

Citizens have opinions. They have inconvenient customs. They vote for people I don't like. They speak languages I don't understand. They eat things I wouldn't recognise as food. They have religions I don't share, and sometimes no religion at all. They have histories that don't fit neatly into mine. They make mistakes.

In other words, they are people. Just like me.

And if they are citizens of the same country as I am, then I have to learn how to live with them.

I think this makes the quotation a bit less like a piece of idealistic poetry and maybe more like a job description.

We are citizens of the earth. And I have to admit, we are still rather inexperienced at it.

We have become remarkably good at drawing borders. We have become much less good at remembering that the people on the other side of them are people too. We have developed extraordinary technologies for communicating with anyone on the planet, while still finding it surprisingly difficult to listen to someone sitting across the table.

Maybe the first step is simply to take the sentence seriously.

The earth is one country.

We are its citizens.

If that is true, then the question is no longer simply whether I can learn to love people who are different from me. The question is what kind of citizen do I intend to be.

And that, I think, is a more interesting question.

To The Shore: A Look at The Epistle to the Son of the Wolf and the Kitab-i-Iqan

When I began this series on Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, I had a fairly simple question. I had spent years studying the Kitab-i-Iqan, looking particularly at how Baha'u'llah helped the uncle of the Bab move from being a sincere seeker to recognizing the truth of his Nephew's claim. Now I wanted to look at a book written near the end of Baha'u'llah's life, addressed to someone very different.

Muhammad-Taqi was no sincere seeker. He was an avowed enemy of Baha'u'llah and His followers. He had actively opposed them and had even been involved in some truly horrible things. So I wondered what Baha'u'llah would do differently. How do you teach someone who isn't asking questions, but is already convinced that he has the answers?

Now that we've reached the end of the book, I think I have at least part of an answer.

The goal doesn't really change. Baha'u'llah still wants the reader to see for himself. What changes is where He has to begin.

This brings me right back to the opening sentence of the Iqan: "No man shall attain the shores of the ocean of true understanding except he be detached from all that is in heaven and on earth." If you're going to guide someone towards the shore, you first need to know where they're standing.

The uncle of the Bab already knows that he has questions. He is searching. There are things getting in his way, certainly, but he knows that he doesn't understand something and has come to Baha'u'llah for help. Baha'u'llah can work with that. He can help him become better at searching. He encourages detachment, challenges assumptions, asks questions, teaches him to recognize patterns in the history of religion, expands his understanding of familiar concepts, and gradually brings him towards evidence that he is increasingly capable of seeing.

Muhammad-Taqi is a different story. His problem isn't that he doesn't know the answer. His problem is that he thinks he does. And so Baha'u'llah has to begin somewhere else.

"Give ear." Listen. Pray these words. What is your tongue for? What should religion produce? What should knowledge produce? What does true learning look like? What is power for? Look at the fruits. Judge fairly. Consider these days. Check the accusations. Read what was actually written. Examine the claim. Look for yourself.

When I look back over the Epistle now, that progression seems far clearer than it did while we were making our way through it. Baha'u'llah isn't merely giving Muhammad-Taqi more information. He seems to be trying to make searching possible again.

And this is where another aspect of the Epistle has become increasingly important to me. Muhammad-Taqi already has considerable capacities. He is learned. He has influence. He has power. His words matter to other people. Baha'u'llah doesn't seem interested in taking any of that away from him. Instead, He consistently encourages him to use what he already possesses in a better way. Become truly learned. Use your influence to help rather than harm. Use your utterance to extinguish hatred. Open the door of justice.

The movement is always upwards.

This really stands out to me because Baha'u'llah does not pretend that Muhammad-Taqi hasn't done terrible things. He condemns what needs to be condemned. There is no hint that justice doesn't matter, or that actions shouldn't have consequences. But neither does He reduce Muhammad-Taqi to what he has done.

I've been pondering that distinction a lot.

There is a difference between saying, "You have done something unjust", and saying, "You are an unjust person, and that is all you can ever be." The first judges an action. The second closes a door. And Baha'u'llah always leaves the door open.

He reasons with Muhammad-Taqi. He gives him evidence. He asks him to investigate. He gives him prayers to say. He reminds him of what true learning looks like and what influence could accomplish. He asks him to judge fairly. He even tells him to read the Iqan. All of this only makes sense if Muhammad-Taqi is still capable of making another choice.

We know, of course, that he didn't. But that doesn't mean he couldn't.

This seems particularly relevant in our increasingly polarized culture. We have become very good at condemning people rather than condemning what they have done. Once someone has been placed into a category we disagree with, we no longer need to listen. We know what sort of person they are. We know what they think. We know what they are going to say. And perhaps most dangerously, we stop imagining that they might change.

Baha'u'llah certainly doesn't model that here. He doesn't soften the truth in order to maintain a conversation with Muhammad-Taqi, but neither does He seem willing to define the man entirely by the choices he has already made. Somehow both things remain possible at once. An action can be wrong and the person who committed it can still be capable of doing something right.

Perhaps this is a capacity we need to cultivate again. If we want people to change, we have to leave them room to change. We need to be able to hold someone accountable while still recognizing that the person standing before us today does not have to be exactly the same person tomorrow.

And then we reach Hadi.

Although Epistle to the Son of the Wolf was addressed to Muhammad-Taqi, those final paragraphs turn directly towards another man who has already made up his mind. Hadi had thrown his support behind Mirza Yahya. Yet Baha'u'llah still places evidence before him. He gives him the traditions concerning Akka and says that perhaps through them he might "seek a path unto the Truth, and a road leading unto God".

Even there, the road is still open.

And that brings me back to the question with which I began this entire series. How does Baha'u'llah teach an avowed enemy differently from the way He teaches a sincere seeker?

Perhaps the answer is that the destination doesn't change. The starting point does.

The Iqan shows Baha'u'llah teaching a seeker how to seek. Epistle to the Son of the Wolf shows Him teaching someone who has stopped seeking how to begin again. One man comes with questions, so Baha'u'llah helps him learn how to search for the answers. The other comes believing he already has the answers, so Baha'u'llah has to help him become willing to ask the questions.

Both are being invited towards the same shore.

And perhaps that is the part I hadn't expected when I began all this. I have long known that to guide someone towards that shore, you have to know where they're standing. But you also have to believe they can move.

Traditions, ESW 257-268

And then, after all this, Baha'u'llah ends with traditions. Really? That surprised me, partly because it reminded me so much of the Iqan. After everything Baha'u'llah does in that book, after helping the uncle of the Bab develop the capacity to investigate for himself, after putting forward all the various proofs, He turns to the traditions. And now, at the end of this book, He does something similar. But there is a difference. These traditions are all about Akka.

And they are addressed to Hadi. Baha'u'llah says that He has deemed it necessary to mention these traditions so that Hadi might "seek a path unto the Truth, and a road leading unto God". The book itself may have been addressed to Muhammad-Taqi, but these final paragraphs seem to be directed towards someone else. Hadi has been the one addressed throughout the last section, and now Baha'u'llah gives him one final collection of evidence to consider.

Before we get to the traditions themselves, though, the next paragraph begins, "In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful." Well, that sure rings a bell. It is the opening of nearly every Surih of the Qur'an. And here it appears just as Baha'u'llah is about to begin this collection of traditions attributed to Muhammad.

Then the traditions begin, and there are a lot of them. Akka, Akka, Akka over and over again. This isn't a case of Baha'u'llah finding one convenient tradition that happens to mention the city in which He is living. They speak of visiting Akka, dwelling there, praying there, suffering there, drinking from its spring and looking upon its sea. The poor of Akka are described as "the kings of Paradise". Remembering God there is said to be better than bearing swords and weapons in His path.

And all of this is being said to Hadi. Why him? Because Hadi has been supporting the claims of Mirza Yahya. When the exiles were separated, Mirza Yahya was sent to Cyprus, while Baha'u'llah was sent to Akka. Muhammad didn't say these things about Cyprus. That doesn't prove anything by itself, of course, but once again Baha'u'llah doesn't seem to be asking Hadi simply to accept His word over somebody else's. He is giving him something he can examine. Here are the traditions. Here are the two claimants. Here are the places to which they were sent. Does the evidence support the claim? After the last section, this method seems remarkably familiar.

Near the end, the sea appears. One tradition speaks of someone who looks upon the sea "at eventide", and specifically "at sunset". He watches the sea and counts forty waves. Now I don't know how far to take this, but the imagery is difficult for me to ignore. This is a book written near the end of Baha'u'llah's earthly life. He is in Akka, on the shore of the sea, and among the final traditions He chooses to quote is one about looking upon that sea at sunset. Could there be an allusion here to the approaching end of His own earthly life? I don't know, but the possibility seems worth pondering.

And then there is the number forty. Forty has a long history in Islam, as well as in the earlier Abrahamic traditions. Moses spends forty nights on the mountain. The Qur'an speaks of reaching full strength at the age of forty. Again and again, forty appears in connection with a period reaching maturity or completion, often through testing and preparation. And here the person looking at the sea at sunset counts forty waves. Maybe that's coincidence. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. But after everything I’ve seen in the Writings, I'm not quite ready to walk past it without at least looking.

Especially because the sea itself is hardly a new image. Only a short while ago Baha'u'llah told Muhammad-Taqi to "seek thou the shore of the Most Great Ocean, and enter, then, the Crimson Ark". That reminded us of the very beginning of the Iqan, where the seeker is told that no one can attain "the shores of the ocean of true understanding" without detachment. And now, here we are again at the shore, looking at the sea.

The next tradition continues the image, speaking of the one who "looketh upon the sea a full night". That word "looketh" seems particularly appropriate after the journey we've been taking through these last sections. What were they looking at? How will you know Him when you see Him? Look at the evidence. Look at what people say. Look at what they write and what they do. Don't rely upon somebody else's judgement. Look for yourself. And the Epistle ends with someone looking out over the sea, not merely glancing at it, either, but looking for a full night.

Then comes the final paragraph: "Verily, the Apostle of God... hath spoken the truth." And that's it. Baha'u'llah doesn't end by telling Hadi what conclusion he has to reach. He has put the traditions before him. Muhammad spoke of Akka. Baha'u'llah is in Akka. Hadi knows where Mirza Yahya is. Once again, he has been given something he can examine for himself.

Perhaps that is a fitting way for this book to end. The Iqan was written for a man who came with questions, and Baha'u'llah helped him learn how to search. This book was written to a man who seemed to have all the answers, and Baha'u'llah asked him to examine the evidence for himself. Even here, at the very end, the door remains open to another who has already made up their mind. There is still "a path unto the Truth, and a road leading unto God". He just has to be willing to look.

And then, after all this, Baha'u'llah ends with traditions. Really? That surprised me, partly because it reminded me so much of the Iqan. After everything Baha'u'llah does in that book, after helping the uncle of the Bab develop the capacity to investigate for himself, He turns reluctantly to the traditions. And now, at the end of this book, He does something similar. But there is a difference. These traditions are all about Akka.

And they are addressed to Hadi. Baha'u'llah says that He has deemed it necessary to mention these traditions so that Hadi might "seek a path unto the Truth, and a road leading unto God". The book itself may have been addressed to Muhammad-Taqi, but these final paragraphs seem to be directed towards someone else. Hadi has been the one addressed throughout the last section, and now Baha'u'llah gives him one final collection of evidence to consider.

Before we get to the traditions themselves, though, the next paragraph begins, "In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful." Well, that sure rings a bell. It is the opening of nearly every Surih of the Qur'an. And here it appears just as Baha'u'llah is about to begin this collection of traditions attributed to Muhammad.

Then the traditions begin, and there are a lot of them. Akka, Akka, Akka over and over again. This isn't a case of Baha'u'llah finding one convenient tradition that happens to mention the city in which He is living. They speak of visiting Akka, dwelling there, praying there, suffering there, drinking from its spring and looking upon its sea. The poor of Akka are described as "the kings of Paradise". Remembering God there is said to be better than bearing swords and weapons in His path.

And all of this is being said to Hadi. Why him? Because Hadi was a staunch supporter of Mirza Yahya, eventually being appointed as his successor. When the exiles were separated, Mirza Yahya was sent to Cyprus, while Baha'u'llah was sent to Akka. Muhammad didn't say these things about Cyprus. That doesn't prove anything by itself, of course, but once again Baha'u'llah doesn't seem to be asking Hadi simply to accept His word over somebody else's. He is giving him something he can examine. Here are the traditions. Here are the two claimants. Here are the places to which they were sent. Does the evidence support the claim? After the last section, this method seems remarkably familiar.

Near the end, the sea appears. One tradition speaks of someone who looks upon the sea "at eventide", and specifically "at sunset", and counts forty waves. Now I don't know how far to take this, but the imagery is difficult for me to ignore. This is a book written near the end of Baha'u'llah's earthly life. He is in Akka, on the shore of the sea, and among the final traditions He chooses to quote is one about looking upon that sea at sunset. Could there be an allusion here to the approaching end of His own earthly life? I don't know, but the possibility seems worth pondering.

And then there is the number forty. Forty has a long history in Islam, as well as in the earlier Abrahamic traditions. Moses spends forty nights on the mountain. The Qur'an speaks of reaching full strength at the age of forty. Again and again, forty appears in connection with a period reaching maturity or completion, often through testing and preparation. And here the person looking at the sea at sunset counts forty waves. Maybe that's coincidence. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. But after everything I’ve seen in the Writings, I'm not quite ready to walk past it without at least looking.

Especially because the sea itself is hardly a new image. Only a short while ago Baha'u'llah told Muhammad-Taqi to "seek thou the shore of the Most Great Ocean, and enter, then, the Crimson Ark". That reminded us of the very beginning of the Iqan, where the seeker is told that no one can attain "the shores of the ocean of true understanding" without detachment. And now, here we are again at the shore, looking at the sea.

The next tradition continues the image, speaking of the one who "looketh upon the sea a full night". That word "looketh" seems particularly appropriate after the journey we've been taking through these last sections. What were they looking at? How will you know Him when you see Him? Look at the evidence. Look at what people say. Look at what they write and what they do. Don't rely upon somebody else's judgement. Look for yourself. And the Epistle ends with someone looking out over the sea, not merely glancing at it, either, but looking for a full night.

Then comes the final paragraph: "Verily, the Apostle of God... hath spoken the truth." And that's it. Baha'u'llah doesn't end by telling Hadi what conclusion he has to reach. He has put the traditions before him. Muhammad spoke of Akka. Baha'u'llah is in Akka. Hadi knows where Mirza Yahya is. Once again, he has been given something he can examine for himself.

Perhaps that is a fitting way for this book to end. The Iqan was written for a man who came with questions, and Baha'u'llah helped him learn how to search. This book was written to a man who seemed to have all the answers, and Baha'u'llah asked him to examine the evidence for himself. Even here, at the very end, the door remains open to another who has already made up his mind. There is still "a path unto the Truth, and a road leading unto God". He just has to be willing to look.

How Will You Know?, ESW 236-256

So what were they looking at?

That was the question I was left with at the end of the last section. The prophets of the past were all looking forward towards the Promised One. The Bab spent much of His Revelation doing the same thing, preparing His followers for the One who would come after Him. But that raises another fairly obvious question.

How will you know Him when you see Him?

Baha'u'llah has already quoted the Bab saying, "Behold ye Him with His own eyes. Were ye to behold Him with the eyes of another, ye would never recognize and know Him." And throughout these passages He keeps returning to the same ideas. Look. Examine. Reflect. Don't let somebody else do your seeing for you.

This reminds me of Quddus and the Bab. Quddus was the last of the Letters of the Living to find the Bab. When he arrived in Shiraz, he saw the Bab walking with Mulla Husayn and immediately recognized Him. He looked, and he knew.

Of course, most of us don't seem to have the perception of Quddus. At least I don't. So what are we supposed to do?

This next section may offer an answer.

Baha'u'llah turns His attention towards someone named Hadi, who had apparently been summoning people and claiming to be a “vicegerent and mirror”. I have to admit, I don't know who Hadi is, or even exactly what he was claiming. But Baha'u'llah's response is interesting. Once again, He starts giving us things to look at.

This has been the method throughout this book. “Does the evidence support the claim?” Baha'u'llah has repeatedly refused to let Muhammad-Taqi rest on reputation, accusation, inherited expectation or somebody else's judgement. When there is an accusation, investigate it. When someone makes a statement, examine it. When a tradition appears to say something extraordinary, compare it with other traditions already accepted. When people say something about Baha'u'llah, look at what He actually wrote. And when someone else makes a claim, look at them.

Hadi has made a claim about himself. Baha'u'llah asks him to reflect. Mirza Yahya has made claims of his own, and Baha'u'llah begins putting his actions before us. What happened when danger came? What happened when he was entrusted with the writings of the Bab? What did he actually do with them?

The story of those writings seems particularly striking after Baha'u'llah's recent emphasis on trustworthiness. He had arranged for the writings of the Bab to be collected and copied, and Mirza Yahya was entrusted with them. He was supposed to take them to Persia and disseminate them. Instead, he left the writings behind and joined Baha'u'llah and the other exiles. So was he trustworthy?

Then we hear about Hasan-i-Mazindarani, who was carrying seventy Tablets. He died before they could be delivered, and the Tablets eventually ended up elsewhere. He didn't succeed in completing what he had set out to do, but that doesn't seem to make him untrustworthy. He was still trying to carry out the task entrusted to him.

Maybe trustworthiness can't simply be measured by the outcome. Sometimes the outcome is beyond our control. What we can control is what we do with whatever has been entrusted to us.

And then He gives us more examples. What did the Bab actually say about Baha'u'llah? What does Hadi claim compared with what Hadi has actually done? What did the Bab say about Dayyan, and how did Mirza Yahya treat him?

Dayyan is a fascinating example. The Bab had spoken of him in extraordinary terms, calling him the "third Letter to believe in Him Whom God shall make manifest" and entrusting him with hidden knowledge. And yet Dayyan was eventually killed, due to the inflammatory language used by Mirza Yahya about him.

Again, don't just listen to the claims. Look at what happened.

And then Baha'u'llah does something I particularly like. He doesn't even ask Hadi to take His word for what Mirza Yahya has written. Yahya's book is already in Hadi's possession. Read it. "Although thou hast seen the book, peruse it again."

That feels very much like the method we have been watching throughout the Epistle. Don't take My word for it. Check it out.

And this is where I find myself thinking about the Iqan again.

The uncle of the Bab came to Baha'u'llah with questions. He knew there were things he didn't understand. Baha'u'llah didn't simply give him the answers. He guided his search. He asked questions of His own. He told stories. He asked him to look at the history of earlier religions. He challenged his assumptions and gradually helped him become the sort of person who could recognize the answer for himself.

Muhammad-Taqi is almost the reverse. He doesn't come with questions. He comes with answers. He already knows what the Baha'is are. He knows what Baha'u'llah is. He already has ideas of what should be done about them. And he has acted on those answers.

So perhaps Baha'u'llah has to do something slightly different with him. Before He can guide Muhammad-Taqi's search, He has to get him searching again.

And so He keeps presenting evidence. Look at what people have said. Look at what they have written. Look at what they have done. Does the evidence support the claim?

The uncle of the Bab came with questions, so Baha'u'llah guided his search. Muhammad-Taqi came with answers, so Baha'u'llah keeps asking him to examine the evidence for himself.

What Were They Looking At?, ESW 203-235

Well, it seems we’re back at the Ocean. And not only does Baha’u’llah tell us where we are to go, but evidently how to get there, too. The Crimson Ark.

But this whole passage rings a bell. Remember the first paragraph of the Kitab-i-Iqan? “No man shall attain the shores of the ocean of true understanding except he be detached from all that is in heaven and on earth.”

Baha'u'llah begins this section by telling Muhammad-Taqi to "seek thou the shore of the Most Great Ocean, and enter, then, the Crimson Ark".

They are both told to be detached, and then guided to the ocean. Now, however, Muhammad-Taqi is told to board the ship. I’m not really sure what to make of this, but it could be due to when these books were written. The Iqan was written just a year or so before Baha’u’llah’s declaration. This book was written just a year or so before His passing. The beginning of His Revelation, and the end of it. Either way, it’s a fascinating parallel.

From here Muhammad-Taqi is told to turn towards God, and the doors of the Kingdom will be opened before him. Once again we have eyes and ears. He will behold what eyes have never beheld and hear what ears have never heard.

We've seen those eyes and ears before. Way back near the beginning of this book Baha'u'llah was preparing Muhammad-Taqi to listen, and throughout the book He has repeatedly asked him to look, observe, ponder and judge fairly. Now, once again, He is being asked to see and hear. But this time Baha'u'llah begins pointing him towards some very specific things to look at.

First comes the Bab.

Baha'u'llah tells Muhammad-Taqi to listen to what His Forerunner said about Him. And there is a lot of it. The Bab speaks of the One to come after Him in extraordinary terms. He describes Himself as "the first servant to believe in Him and in His signs", speaks of attaining the Presence of God in the year nine, and points repeatedly towards the Revelation that is to follow His own.

And once again we find detachment. Baha'u'llah tells Muhammad-Taqi to recite these words "with a detached heart, and a dilated breast, and an utterly truthful tongue". That sounds rather familiar by now. It isn't enough merely to read the evidence. How we approach it matters. We can read something having already decided what we think about it, or we can make some effort to clear away our assumptions and see if we’ve missed anything.

But then Baha'u'llah turns his attention even further back. From the Bab He turns to the Gospel, then Joel, Jeremiah, David, Isaiah and Amos. One after another, voices from the past are brought forward, all of them looking towards a Day still to come. "Prepare to meet thy God." "Behold your God!" "Our God will come, and He will not be silent." Baha'u'llah asks Muhammad-Taqi to look at these passages and consider whether the Day they were describing might actually have arrived.

There is something almost dizzying about all this. We are looking back at people who were looking ahead. Isaiah and Amos are both looking towards things to come. Jesus speaks of things His followers cannot yet bear and says that more will be revealed later. The Qur’an says that this “Great Announcement” is what people are talking about. The Bab appears centuries later and spends much of His own Revelation pointing towards the One who will come after Him. And now Baha'u'llah is asking Muhammad-Taqi to look back at all of them and ask whether he can recognize what they were seeing.

Perhaps this is one of the difficulties with prophecy. It is easy to say you know what it means while its fulfilment is still safely in the distant future. We can believe that something wonderful is going to happen someday. The real difficulty comes when somebody says that someday is now.

Earlier in this book Baha’u’llah pointed out that people have always had trouble recognizing the Manifestations when They appeared. Just as in the Iqan, He reminds the reader that this is part of the pattern. But here He seems to approach that problem from another direction. Instead of looking primarily at the people who failed to recognize Them, He turns our attention towards the people who were looking forward to Their coming. What did they actually say? What were they actually looking for?

And so Baha'u'llah keeps returning to their words. He doesn't merely tell Muhammad-Taqi that the earlier scriptures support His claim. He puts the evidence in front of him. Look at what was said, and look at what has happened since.

At one point He turns from the old prophecies to His own writings. Jesus had said, "But ye cannot bear them now", speaking of things that would be revealed later. Baha'u'llah then points to the Kitab-i-Aqdas, the Tablets to the Kings and other writings in which events were announced before they happened. The movement is rather interesting. Don't merely look back thousands of years and try to decide what Isaiah or Amos meant. There are things written within your own lifetime that can be examined as well.

And then comes a phrase that seems to bring much of this together. Baha'u'llah quotes the Bab saying, "Recognize Him by His verses."

That certainly takes me back to the Iqan. Again and again in that book Baha'u'llah points to the verses themselves as evidence. The uncle of the Bab was trying to understand how he could recognize a new Messenger of God, and one of the answers was right there in front of him. Read what has been revealed. Consider it. Don't dismiss it because it doesn't fit what you expected.

Now Muhammad-Taqi is being asked to do the same thing.

There is another little twist in this that I find worth pondering. The Bab Himself is repeatedly pointing beyond His own Revelation. Even while establishing His own Dispensation, He is preparing His followers to recognize the One who will come after Him. Even the Bayan, the Book around which His community was being formed, keeps pointing beyond itself.

And maybe this brings us back to Muhammad-Taqi. He has spent much of his life studying the past. He knows the Qur'an. He knows the traditions. He knows the expectations surrounding the Promised One. But all that knowledge only becomes useful if it helps him recognize what those things were pointing towards.

What Is It For?, ESW 195-202

It is often difficult to see where Baha’u’llah moves on to another theme, because they often flow seamlessly from one to the next. We just read about the fear of God being “the fountain-head of all goodly deeds and virtues.” And now He talks about some of these virtues. Seamless.

Even more, though, He has just said that this fear is also “the commander of the hosts of justice”, and the standard that is flying above. He also mentions the Crimson Ark, so maybe this army is a naval force. Sailing on the Ocean of His Writings? Never mind. Let’s move on before we get lost in the analogy.

These next few paragraphs begin with trustworthiness and piety, goodly deeds and a praiseworthy character. Baha'u'llah tells the people to adorn themselves with these qualities, while once again warning them against dissension and conflict.

Then comes the fear of God, once again. Here He describes it as the "chief commander" of His army, while a praiseworthy character and goodly deeds are its hosts, similar to what we just saw. And then, in the next paragraph, He returns to trustworthiness again. That's a number of paragraphs in a row touching on these same themes. It certainly feels as if He wants us to notice them.

At first I thought this little section was simply about character development. And it is, at least in part. But as I kept reading, I began to wonder if there was something else going on. Baha'u'llah doesn't seem interested in these qualities merely because they make us better people. He immediately begins showing us what they are for. He says that all He has done is for the purpose of summoning people to that which will exalt them and draw them nearer to God. Then He turns towards the divines and the Shah and says that they, too, should cleave to whatever will exalt the nation. He speaks of enlightening the people, improving their condition and helping them acquire useful knowledge. These qualities are not there just for our own amusement. They are supposed to be doing something.

And then He tells a little story that, at first, seemed like a bit of a change of subject. Kamal Pasha once visited Baha'u'llah and mentioned that he had studied several languages. Now, normally I would think that was rather impressive. I mean, I’m struggling to learn French right now. I know what’s involved. Learning another language takes work. Learning several would seem like quite an accomplishment. But Baha'u'llah's response is somewhat different. He tells him, essentially, that he has wasted his life. Gulp.

But I don't think the point is that learning languages is bad, or even that Kamal Pasha shouldn't have done it. Instead, Baha'u'llah takes his gift and points it towards something larger. Rather than spending years learning all these different languages, why not help establish a single language that everyone can learn? Then other people won't have to spend their lives doing what Kamal Pasha has done. Suddenly the question isn't whether learning languages is good or bad. The question is what all that effort was for.

And Baha'u'llah doesn't stop with Kamal Pasha. He hopes Persia will take the lead in establishing such a language, and then turns again towards the Shah, asking him to exert himself so that the people will experience justice. What began with trustworthiness, piety and good character in an individual has expanded into the actions of the divines and the Shah, the welfare of a nation, and finally something that might benefit the entire world.

This made me go back and look at those opening qualities again. What is our character for? What is our learning for? What is our influence for? What is political power for? Even, perhaps, what is our time for? Baha'u'llah doesn't seem particularly interested in our simply possessing qualities or capacities. He keeps pointing towards what they produce. Trustworthiness contributes to the prosperity of the world. Learning can be used to reduce the burden on others. The divines can use their influence to help exalt the nation. The Shah can use his power to establish justice.

And then, towards the end of this section, "Happy are they who act". Not merely those who know, or those who possess admirable qualities, but those who act. Character, knowledge and capacity seem to find their purpose in what we actually do with them.