A Thought on Teaching

'Abdu'l-Baha says that the perfect educator must "so educate human minds and thoughts that they may become capable of substantive progress".

I've probably read that line dozens of times, if not more. It is found near the beginning of Some Answered Questions, the third section, entitled "The Need for an Educator", if you're interested. But only last night did it really hit me. And that's the thing about sacred text, isn't it? You can read the same passage over and over and it can impact you in a totally different way every now and then.

The divine educator must "so educate human minds and thoughts that they may become capable of substantive progress".

"Capable".

Think about what that word implies. To me, and of course it's only my own opinion, nothing official, that means that before this the mind is not "capable of substantive progress". Progress, sure, but not "substantive progress".

But what does all of this have to do with me? How does it affect my life? Or my teaching work?

Again, to me, I have to go back to what I've been learning in both the Kitab-i-Iqan and the Epistle to the Son of the Wolf. In both of these volumes Baha'u'llah doesn't just answer a question or two. He doesn't simply share information. In both He works with the individual where they are and takes profound steps to help them become capable of hearing what He has to say.

In terms of the Iqan, the very questions that the uncle of the Bab asked demonstrate that he was not yet ready to hear the answers to his questions. One of them, for example, essentially asks why the Bab did not fulfill the prophecies of old, especially the claim that the promised One would be a sovereign of the world. But when you consider it, one could say that it was the wrong question. The question should not have been "Why didn't He fulfill these things", but rather, "How did He fulfill these things".

The first question implies that He didn't do it, and sort of ends there.

The second leaves open the possibility that He did, and that we just don't see it.

If we are stuck in the first question, then it really doesn't matter what else Baha'u'llah talks about in the book. We won't be in a position to hear it. But when we open ourselves to the possibility of the second question, then we allow ourselves the room for our understanding to grow.

When it comes to the Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, the recipient didn't ask any questions. The Son of the Wolf was an avowed enemy of the Faith who persecuted countless individuals. So what's happening there?

As usual, I don't really know, but it seems to me that Baha'u'llah has to start from a different place than He did with the uncle of the Bab, mainly because the Son of the Wolf is in a different place spiritually. I had long wondered why that book, the Epistle, started with those long passages that basically tell him to get on his knees and beg forgiveness. It didn't seem all that conducive to opening up his heart to the message.

But on reflection, and especially in light of this passage from 'Abdu'l-Baha, it seems that he might have had to do this in order to even be open to the possibility of hearing the message from Baha'u'llah. Without this time of self-reflection, how would he ever have been able to open himself up enough to hear these new words?

Only after such an inner journey does it seem possible for him to begin to recognize the new truths that were being laid bare before him. Perhaps he first needed to look honestly at his own actions and attitudes before he could consider the possibility that those he had condemned might actually have something to teach him. The parallels Baha'u'llah draws between the attacks of earlier religions and those being levelled against Him in His own day must have been difficult for him to recognize. After all, it is one thing to see the faults in others, but quite another to recognize those same faults in ourselves.

And perhaps this is where the difference lies between simply giving someone information and actually teaching them. I can explain something to someone, and they might even understand the words I'm using, but that doesn't necessarily mean they are ready to appreciate what those words mean. Sometimes the difficulty isn't the information itself, but the way we're approaching it. We may need to ask a different question, or look at something from another direction, before we can really begin to understand it.

All this makes me think about my own teaching work. How often do I concentrate on getting the information across, rather than helping someone develop the ability to think about it for themselves? If I'm teaching a child, for example, is my goal simply to have them remember an answer, or is it to help them become curious enough to want to explore the question further? I know from experience that those are not the same.

Then there are the other questions this raises for me. Are there times when giving someone more information is actually less helpful than asking a question that helps them to examine their assumptions? How much of teaching involves recognising where someone is starting from, rather than simply deciding where we want them to end up? And just how closely do we need to listen to their questions, and pay attention to their body language, in order to better understand where they are at the moment?

I believe it is very important to recognize that helping someone become capable of understanding something doesn't mean manipulating them into accepting our conclusions. It means helping them develop the capacity to investigate, reflect and reach a more considered understanding for themselves. A teacher can create opportunities for understanding, but they cannot simply bestow understanding on another person. The person still has to do something with what is offered. It is, in the end, up to them.

This also might explain the different reactions the recipients had to the Iqan and the Epistle. The two men were in very different places to begin with, and their responses to what Baha'u'llah wrote were quite different too. It makes me wonder how much of that had to do with their own willingness to examine what was being offered to them.

And perhaps that's what 'Abdu'l-Baha is getting at when He uses the word "capable". Maybe the measure of good teaching isn't how much information we manage to convey, but how much more capable the other person becomes of discovering things for themselves, for that is probably where "substantive progress" occurs.

Words of Wisdom, Part 2

I really want to move on to the next paragraph, but I think I need to reflect on where we’ve come from first. To do this, you should probably get a copy of Words of Wisdom in front of you, since I'm not copying the full text here. And in case you didn't notice it, you can just click on the link in the previous sentence.

So, to recap, Baha'u'llah began with re-framing our definition of what is good. From there He explained what wisdom is. He then gave us the basic elements of what makes up religion, and showed us where glory comes from. He then looked at love, and what it means to truly remember something. From there He switched levels a bit and explained what it is that we can truly rely on. And I suppose that follows naturally from what He has just said about reliance. If my ultimate reliance is on God, rather than on the things of this world, then what am I really attached to?

But what does it mean to stand as a witness? While it can mean little more than seeing something, witnessing it, I think it is more about living out your beliefs so that others can see them. This goes right back to so much of what we have already read here, and how it applies in teaching. Detachment doesn't seem to mean withdrawing from the world. Quite the opposite. We turn towards God, detach ourselves from everything else, and then stand in the world as a witness to what we believe. Detachment, it seems, is not about becoming less involved in the world around us. It is about being less controlled by it.

Now He moves on the understanding, and again, not a definition per se, but helping us see what is at the very core of it.

We often think that understanding is the amount of information we know, but here, He is pointing us to something that almost looks like the opposite. You see, when He says that its essence is to "testify to one's poverty", I don't think He's talking about material poverty. I think it's more about how little we can actually know. A poverty of information, if you will. Perhaps this is why He referred to Socrates as "wise, accomplished and righteous" and "the most distinguished of all philosophers and was highly versed in wisdom", who "perceived a unique, a tempered, and a pervasive nature in things, bearing the closest likeness to the human spirit, and he discovered this nature to be distinct from the substance of things in their refined form." After all, one of Socrates' distinguishing features as a philosopher was that he recognized how little he knew. He understood his poverty of knowledge, or perhaps more accurately, the limitations of his knowledge.

But it is not just about recognizing what it is that we don't know. We also need to "submit to the Will of God'. To try to fight it is essentially the height of foolishness, which would seem to be the very absence of understanding. The real question, though, is how can we recognize God's Will in any given situation. This is where I turn to the attributes of God He identifies at the end of that passage for assistance. "...the Lord, the Sovereign, the Gracious, the All-Powerful." In particular, I'm looking at "the Gracious". I suspect that being gracious, and showing kindness, mercy, and courtesy will go a long way in helping us figure out how best to respond to any given situation.

Once we move on past "understanding", I notice that the next four are all about action, so maybe I'll limit myself to looking at those today.

"The source of courage and power is the promotion of the Word of God, and steadfastness in His Love."

I think this is probably the one I have written the most about in the past. The idea that we gain courage by promoting the Word of God, and being steadfast in His Love, is quite remarkable. We often think that we need courage to promote His Word, to teach, when in fact that is where we get our courage.

But the promotion of the Word of God is not merely about talking. It is shown in our actions, in our life.

I remember helping out with a teaching project in Toronto one year. We were going door to door in an apartment complex, letting people know about a children's class that was starting in the park. I was a bit leery about doing this, but figured what the heck. I knew the project was good, and that the community would benefit from it. And besides, I didn't live there, so what did I have to lose? A few people closed their doors in our face, but a few wanted to talk more about it. And that gave me tremendous courage to continue. The closed doors didn't bother me, but the positive responses were like fresh water in the desert. And when the group got back together, those responses were all we talked about.

On the action front, I have often thought about the Bab, and the stories of how He did business. I have tried to apply His level of honesty and integrity to my own business as much as I could, and the response has been overwhelming. So positive. And I have noticed such a difference in my relationships with my clients at markets as opposed to when I was merely trying to make an extra dollar or two.

But one thing I have noticed, on reflection, is that it not only encouraged me, these things have given me a source of power on which to draw. I find myself filled with energy at these markets I do, far more than those around me. I'm excited to meet the customers and see what each new day brings. After all, every day there builds more relationships in ways that are truly meaningful to me.

I had long wondered at the pairing of courage and power in this paragraph, and I think, finally, I have a bit of an answer.

On to charity, another one of those passages where He tells us what the "essence of charity is". I had thought it would have something to do with being generous and giving to others, but He says it is to "recount the blessings" we have been given, and to "render thanks" to God "at all times and under all conditions."

And once again, upon reflection, it begins to make sense. When we count our blessings, we become more aware of just how much we really have, even when we have very little. Perhaps especially when we have very little. Too often people look at what they don't have, or what they can't afford. Rather than looking at the positive, what they are blessed with, they look ahead toward infinity and are never satisfied. But when we start at zero, and see what we have been gifted with, then we become more aware of our abundance.

The next step, that of giving thanks, puts us in a position of gratitude. It is from this position that we are most able to see just how much we can help others. So, yes, I can see how this would be the very essence of charity, where it stems from.

From charity Baha'u'llah moves on to faith, telling us that at its core, it is "fewness of words and abundance of deeds". This is a theme found through the Writings, but it is stated with the utmost clarity here.

I recently completed a study of the Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, and one of the things I noticed over and over was just how much importance Baha'u'llah places upon action. There are numerous times when He mentions what someone talked about, but He almost always follows it up with either praising an action they took, or a call to take an action. Words, He seems to recognize, are truly just air. But when we act, we can change the world.

By calling this the very essence of faith, He seems to be implying that if our faith does not lead us to action, then how can it be called faith?

The latter part of the statement is pointing out that if all we do is talk, far more than we act, then our death would be better than our life. Now I'm certain He is not calling for the execution of those who talk more than they do. No. I think it is far deeper than that. I suspect He is pointing out a few different things. At least, a few different interpretations of this come to mind.

First, if our actions are to be greater than our words, then in this case we are in a deficit. More words, less action. At least when we die, we can do neither. That's a zero sum, which is better than a negative.

Second, if all we are doing is talking, then I suspect a lot of people would be disappointed at our lack of action. In that case, our passing would mitigate that disappointment.

Third, in the next world it seems that we are more aware of the effect of our actions in this world. If that is the case, then we would probably be filled with remorse if all we did was talk. I am certain I would lament all the actions I missed taking. So in that regard, too, it would be better if I had passed away earlier. There would be less for me to feel bad about.

Strange, where my mind went with all that, but it sure seems to make sense to me.

Finally, "The essence of true safety is to observe silence, to look at the end of things and to renounce the world."

Again, we have an "essence" here, that of "true safety". But it seems to be a contradiction of what we have just read. But is it? Promotion of the Word of God, to actions speaking louder than words. The direction seems clear, in hindsight.

But it does raise a few questions. First, what sort of silence is He talking about? Second, what does it mean to look at the end of all things? And third, how would renunciation lead us to true safety?

On the surface, He has just been telling us to act more, and speak less. So one form of this is to stop explaining ourselves, or defending ourselves, or even discussing what ought to be done, and instead just get on with it. But He joins silence to looking at the end of things and renouncing the world, so there may be a broader idea here than simply talking less.

So, what does it mean to "look at the end of things"? Well, it could mean considering the consequences of our actions, or not acting, which would connect it all back to the earlier statements on wisdom. It could also mean looking beyond our immediate desires, or disappointments that come our way, and considering what ultimately matters.

It could even be like Majnun in the Seven Valleys, where he begins by cursing the watchmen for chasing him, but then, after he falls into Layli's garden, he praises them. What had been an obstacle for him, he now recognized as an integral part of the journey. That calls to mind the earlier idea of not being controlled by those things happening around us.

And in the end, isn't that the essence of safety? To renounce the world doesn't mean to turn our backs on it, but to stop depending on it for our ultimate security. We can still act, teach, work, and love, but we do so while trusting in God rather than in any particular outcome.

Words of Wisdom, part 1

Oh, they're not my words of wisdom. Just to be clear.

After that last post about courage, it occurred to me that I've never really explored this Tablet here. Now, just to explain my methodology, I've actually copied the text below where I am typing. I will look at it one line, phrase, or paragraph at a time, deleting it as I go. the reason for this is that I don't want this to come across as anything official, like some of sort of explanation of what the text means. Nope. It's just my own thoughts on it, so you can take it or leave it. To find the full text, you can click here. This way you can read it on your own without my own limited ideas getting in the way.

The first thing I want to point out, though, is that it seems this was not addressed to any individual, sort of like the Hidden Words. In fact, a lot of mystery seems to surround it. We're not really sure when it was revealed, but it has been included in the volume of tablets revealed after the Kitab-i-Aqdas, so there is that. And it's title? Literally means "the essence of all that is good", but the Guardian translated it as "Words of Wisdom". So, for me, there is this strange equivalency of all that is good with wisdom.

In the end, though, we have these 22 little gems, and I'm curious not only about each one, but how they relate to each other in the order in which they were revealed. So, let's get to it.

First of all, I noticed that the invocation is similar to the invocation of the Kitab-i-Iqan. No clue why that struck me, but it did. Now, it’s worth remembering that from my perspective, any time an attribute of God is mentioned, I believe Baha’u’llah is calling that attribute to mind for us to emulate. Here when I read “God”, it just makes me think “human”, and that the spiritual direction in which we want to go is towards God. “Exalted”? “Most High”? When I read these two, the yput me in mind of a goal. For example, we are noble within creation, but by calling to mind “exalted”, it tells me that I can go higher. I can continue to strive to move in an upward direction. And just in case I think I have either gone as far as I can, Baha’u’llah pushes the goal further. We don’t just want to go “higher”, we want to strive for the “Most High”, knowing that while we can never achieve that, we can always move forward. So for me, this invocation puts me in mind of always striving to improve.

He now moves into the very source of all good. This is interesting because it is not quite a definition. It speaks of an origin, kind of like a spring emanating from its source. If we want things that are truly good, then trust, submission, and contentment are where those good things will come from.

This puts me in mind of action. We are told, for example, to go and teach the Faith. I trust in that. I trust that it will all work out well. Of course, to do this well, I need to pray, practice, and prepare. The three “p”s. Hmm. Never thought of it that way before. I like that. But really, I trust in God and submit to His command to teach. Ok. No problem. But, of course, things don’t always go the way I want. That’s ok, too. I am content with whatever is the outcome.

Great. So that first little gem gets me off my butt and starts me moving. I like that. Oh, and more than that, it reminds me not to be attached to results.

Next comes the “essence of wisdom”. But wait a second, this is not the same as the previous, which told me where “all good” comes from. This is telling me more about what wisdom really is.

Ok, now my mind is going in a direction I hadn’t expected. We often talk about the oneness of religion, and the essential unity underlying them all. Here, if I read this as the very core of what wisdom truly is, then all of a sudden I see it through the lens of other faith paths. And it works. I can easily imagine giving this to my friend Jim, an archbishop in the Catholic Church, just this one line, and I am certain he would agree with it. Same thing with Friedrich, my Buddhist sensei buddy. I am sure he would agree with this, too. Of course, he would translate the terms to his own path, but yes, he would certainly agree with the gist of this.

However, I’m now looking at these three words: fear, dread, and apprehension. What’s going on there?

I have written many times over the years about the “fear of God”, and how we often confuse fear with terror. Fear is a mild discomfort. Terror is a paralyzing fear. It is like two ends of a spectrum, beginning with something that makes us uneasy, and ending with something that either paralyzes us or perhaps even kills us.

“Dread”, however, is a great fear over something in the future. And notice that it’s in relation to “His scourge and punishment”. That’s in the future. Given that it is about “His scourge and punishment”, it is definitely related to being called to task for wrongs we have done. So yeah, that makes sense. I began with action in the previous part and now I have to be aware of the effects of that action.

This one ends with “apprehension”, though, the anticipation of a future trouble. Again, the concern over being held to account for our actions.

To me, when I read these two, I am being told to act, and be very aware of the consequences of said action. And that awareness? That, I think, is the very “essence of wisdom”.

Now we get to the third little gem here, the “essence of religion”.

I notice the use of the word “essence” again, so it’s more of a definition, in the sense that He is stripping away all the surface stuff and telling us what it is in its very core. The essential part of religion, if we really want to practice it, is to teach and obey.

To testify is to bear witness or prove, and, of course, this reminds me of the beginning of the Short Obligatory Prayer, where we “bear witness that Thou hast created me to know Thee and to worship Thee”. And we don’t just do that with words, no sirree. We do that with our life, the way in which we live and interact with others.

And obedience to the laws and guidance is another part of the way in which we live.

We have moved from action, to consequences, to purpose. Interesting.

Moving on, even though I could write far more about any of these passages, we come to the “source of all glory”. Another “source”, the origin of where all glory comes from.

Does this mean that he is not telling us what glory looks like, but rather letting us know where it comes from? It sounds like it. And that is interesting following these first three. Do we achieve glory, if that’s the right verb, from following those first three?

Then there is the acceptance and contentment. We take whatever God has given us, and are content with where He is leading us. But we just saw “contentment” in the first passage, “contentment with His holy will and pleasure.” How is this different? Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s the same attitude, the perspective by which we approach these things, and that attitude leads to our glory. Not sure yet, but it’s feeling sort of right. Let’s move on and see where He takes us.

The “essence of love” is next.

As I read that passage, I am struck by the movement of it. I turn my heart towards God, sever myself from everything else, and then only desire what He desires.

How would this apply to my marriage? That’s a question I ask whenever I read about love.

Well, I think that I love my wife because of the attributes of God she shows. Her compassion, her wisdom, her kindness, her care for all around her, and on and on. As someone once told me, our love for another is always wound up in the attributes of God they show.

When I turn my heart towards those attributes, and focus on them, I love her more. When I “sever” myself from those things that are not of God, overlooking any faults or problems, acknowledging them but not allowing them to define our relationship, then I love her even more. But then when I only desire her spiritual growth, which I think is what God desires for us all, then my love for her knows no bounds.

Yes. That, to me, is the very essence of my love for her. Ok. I really like that.

Moving on, we come to “true remembrance”. I guess this would be different from a false remembrance, so it’s nice to know that there is a difference. And again, the orientation comes to the fore. Focus on the good, rather than dwelling on the bad. Develop what is positive, for the negatives will pass away. Light, not dark.

But not just acknowledging it. “Make mention” of it. It’s not enough for me to love my wife. I have to tell her, with all my being, not just words.

And I think all this goes for teaching, too. Acknowledge those you are teaching. Recognize their virtues. Praise them for those. Show your love in action, not just words. This is one of the most powerful ways of remembering God.

Now we get to “true reliance”, another one of those “essence” phrases, reminding us that there is also a false reliance.

I feels like we are moving into another area of life now. From our home life to our work. This is another area where we can easily be distracted. There are so many times when it would be so easy to compromise our morals in order to get ahead in our profession.

Now, He’s not saying to give up on our job. Not at all. But rather to ensure that we don’t compromise our morals for our job. In other words, to not place our ultimate reliance on our bosses or a company or anything, but solely on God. In other words, I can work hard, do my best, and pursue my calling, while still holding fast to God and seeking His grace rather than putting my trust in whatever worldly rewards might come from my work.

After all, as He says at the end, “in His Hands is the destiny of all His servants.” That sounds very similar to that acceptance and contentment He talked about earlier. I do what I can, but I don't control the destination. That is in His hands.

- - - - -

I was hoping to continue to the end of this Tablet, but I realized that it’s already getting fairly long. So maybe I’ll continue this in the next post. Fortunately I remembered to change the title of this to "part 1".

As usual, any thoughts you may have on this are most welcome.

Courage

I read a lot of books. I mean, like, a lot. I love reading. One of my favourite things.

Anyways, this morning I read a passage in a book that got me thinking: "Courage is what you earn when you've been through the tough times and you discover they aren't so tough after all."

This reminded me of that passage from Words of Wisdom, a tablet I really should study in detail here one of these days: 

The source of courage and power is the promotion of the Word of God, and steadfastness in His Love.

To start, as I've said many times over the years, many people have told me that they don't have enough courage to teach the Faith openly or directly. But if you look at that passage again, you will notice that courage comes from teaching, not the other way around. And yes, steadfastness is in there, too, but please, one at a time.

How, I wondered this morning as I sipped my coffee, do those two quotes relate?

Let's go to a strange example to put in this blog, namely the German bombardment of London during the second world war.

Psychologists noticed a strange phenomenon, an unusual result that occurred because of it. The British people living in London became far more courageous, or at least what we would call courageous. You see, the Germans figured that this constant bombardment, the Blitz, over such a long period would be a great piece of psychological warfare. They presumed that it would send the population in a state of shock. Even the British government was concerned about that, and for good reason, too. They almost stopped building their bomb shelters because they were afraid that the people who took refuge in them might never willingly come out. In fact, they even built several psychiatric hospitals just outside the city because they expected a flood of people needing them. They actually believed that such a bombing, with the resultant panic and shock, would cost them the war.

In fact, the exact opposite happened.

Beginning in the fall of 1940, Germany launched 57 consecutive nights of devastating bombardment, and then continued for eight months to drop tens of thousands of high-explosive bombs, and literally more than a million incendiary devices. Now think about that for a moment. Imagine those numbers. Try to picture what it must have been like to be in the city of London and receive such a devastating blow. No wonder the government was concerned.

By the end of those few months, over 40,00 people were killed, upwards of 46,000 injured, and more than a 1,000,000 houses and over 70,000 other buildings were damaged or destroyed. "Every hundred yards or so, it seemed," wrote one witness, "there was a bomb crater or wreckage of what had once been a house or shop."

And yet, the vast majority of those that survived did not panic. In fact, most reported that they were more courageous than before the Blitz.

Why? Simple, really. Most of us are afraid of being afraid. And when we face that fear and come out the other side, we discover that our fear was actually more frightening than the thing itself.

In other words, before the Blitz, countless Londoners were rightfully scared of being bombed. But when the bombs fell, less than 100,000 people were killed or injured. And horrific as that number might be, it also meant that the remaining 8,000,000 people were not hurt.

In the attack, there were three groups of people on the ground. The first are those that were killed, or 40,000 in this case. The second is the near misses. Those are the people who were near enough to feel the blast and were possibly injured, but survived. That often results in the shock that the government was afraid of, but generally only occurs in those that are that close to the actual explosion.

But the third group are what some refer to as the remote misses. They're a block or two away, and contrary to the near misses, they come away with a sense of excitement, or a slight feeling of invulnerability. A near miss, as one person said, might leave you traumatized, but a remote miss makes you feel invincible.

There are numerous reports in diaries and interviews demonstrating this exact phenomenon.

In other the words, the Blitz killed 40,000, and traumatized another 100,000 or so. But it left the remaining 7,860,000 feeling like heroes.

Now consider that quote from Baha'u'llah again:

The source of courage and power is the promotion of the Word of God, and steadfastness in His Love.

And add into that a quote from 'Abdu'l-Baha, in which He says, when raising our children, we should encourage them "to work and strive, and accustom them to hardship."

You can begin to see how the fear of failure or ridicule can prevent us from teaching, but when we actually do get out there and share the teachings, we rarely ever encounter that reaction. Well, assuming we do so with tact and wisdom. But if we do, we rarely actually encounter that reaction. Our fear was the only thing holding us back. And once we overcome that, we discover that the fear was groundless, or at least magnified in our imagination.

Now, I'm not actually comparing teaching to being bombed. Not at all. It's really there to help explain the issue. But it does begin to give us a glimmer of what the friends in Iran are going through, and what they have gone through for so long, and why they are such spiritual giants.

To me, this story of the Blitz, and the results that arose from it, help give us an understanding of this quote from the Writings. The source of courage seems to be a result of our encounter with that which scared us in the first place. And here? Baha'u'llah seems to be reminding us of this truth, while still emphasizing the importance of steadfastness in helping us be one of the "remote misses".

After all, as Baha'u'llah said, "whosoever standeth firm and steadfast in this holy, this glorious, and exalted Revelation, such power shall be given him as to enable him to face and withstand all that is in heaven and on earth."

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.