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Spring 1978

World Order

The Writings of Bahá’u’lláh

Horace Holley

Mining the Gems of Human Potential

Philip Christensen and Deborah Christensen

Mark Tobey: A Letter and Two Snapshots

Roger White

The Knowledge of God: An Essay on Bahá’í Epistemology

Jack McLean

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World Order

A BAHÁ’Í MAGAZINE • VOLUME 12 NUMBER 3 • PUBLISHED QUARTERLY

WORLD ORDER IS INTENDED TO STIMULATE, INSPIRE AND SERVE THINKING PEOPLE IN THEIR SEARCH TO FIND RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND CONTEMPORARY RELIGIOUS TEACHINGS AND PHILOSOPHY

Editorial Board:

FIRUZ KAZEMZADEH

BETTY J. FISHER

HOWARD GAREY

ROBERT HAYDEN

GLENFORD E. MITCHELL

WORLD ORDER is published quarterly, October, January, April, and July, at 415 Linden Avenue, Wilmette, Illinois 60091. Subscriber and business correspondence and changes of address should be sent to this address. Manuscripts and other editorial correspondence should be addressed to 2011 Yale Station, New Haven, Connecticut 06520.

The views expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the publisher, the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, or of the Editorial Board. Manuscripts should be typewritten and double spaced throughout, with the footnotes at the end. The contributor should keep a carbon copy. Return postage should be included.

Subscription rates: USA, 1 year, $6.00; 2 years, $11.00; single copies, $1.60. All other countries, 1 year, $7.00; 2 years, $13.00; single copes $1.60.

Copyright © 1979, National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, World Rights Reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

ISSN 0043-8804

IN THIS ISSUE

2 Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh

Editorial

3 The Writings of Bahá’u’lláh

by Horace Holley

8 Interchange: Letters from and to the Editor

15 Mining the Gems of Human Potential

by Philip Christensen

and Deborah Christensen

22 An Autobiography

by Leon J. McKee

34 Mark Tobey: A Letter and Two Snapshots

by Roger White

38 The Knowledge of God: An Essay on

Bahá’í Epistemology, by Jack McLean

57 A Look at Islám

book review by John Walbridge

60 Authors and Artists in This Issue

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Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh

THE RECENT PUBLICATION at the Bahá’í World Center of an English translation of a number of Bahá’u’lláh’s Tablets penned after the Revelation of the Kitáb-i-Aqdas, His book of laws, is an event of major importance for the Bahá’í community. These weighty works that “partly enunciate and partly reaffirm the fundamental tenets and principles” underlying His dispensation were characterized by Shoghi Effendi in the following words:

The formulation by Bahá’u’lláh, in His Kitáb-i-Aqdas, of the fundamental laws of His Dispensation was followed, as His Mission drew to a close, by the enunciation of certain precepts and principles which lie at the very core of His Faith, by the reaffirmation of truths He had previously proclaimed, by the elaboration and elucidation of some of the laws He had already laid down, by the revelation of further prophecies and warnings, and by the establishment of subsidiary ordinances designed to supplement the provisions of His Most Holy Book. These were recorded in unnumbered Tablets, which He continued to reveal until the last days of His earthly life, among which the “Ishráqát” (Splendors), the “Bishárát” (Glad Tidings), the “Ṭarázát” (Ornaments), the “Tajallíyát” (Effulgences), the “Kalimát-i-Firdawsíyyih” (Words of Paradise), the “Lawḥ-i-Aqdas” (Most Holy Tablet), the “Lawḥ-i-Dunyá” (Tablet of the World), the “Lawḥ-i-Maqsúd” (Tablet of Maqsúd), are the most noteworthy. These Tablets —mighty and final effusions of His indefatigable pen—must rank among the choicest fruits which His mind has yielded, and mark the consummation of His forty-year-long ministry.

These Tablets proclaim the oneness of humanity, urge the principle of collective security, extol justice, and generously pour out doctrines and precepts that would guarantee the establishment of a new world order. All Bahá’í’s feel the energy that emanates from the creative words of the Prophet-Founder of their Faith. They have been immeasurably enriched by the publication of this volume. Those who are not Bahá’ís will have a fresh opportunity to examine Bahá’u’lláh’s claims and to sample His Teachings.

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The Writings of Bahá’u’lláh

This essay by Horace Holley is reprinted from Star of the West, 13, No. 5 (August 1922), 104—07, on the occasion of the publication of Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh Revealed after the Kitáb-i-Aqdas, comp. Research Department of the Universal House of Justice, trans. Hadib Taherzadeh (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1978).

As taught us all in the schools, literature tends to become either a classification according to its form—the novel, drama, essay and poem—or according to its historical continuity. Both methods externalize the reality of literature away from our personal experience. We are inclined to know the author by his work rather than the work by its author. We are inclined even to glorify the work at the expense of the creator from whom it came. The student unconsciously begins to conceive the poem, say, as being the poet refined to the utmost degree, the poet translated temporarily and accidentally to a higher condition, much as though the man were to his own production just as the oyster is to its pearl. Since the poem exists above and beyond our own capacity, we feel that it exists above and beyond the human character of the poet. But any person who has ever actually felt the creative impulse within his own consciousness realizes that the work produced, even at its best, renders only a fraction of the significance that impulse contained. During creation, the author feels an infinite resource opened within him, a resource which the work created never satisfactorily records. The work itself, then, represents merely the author’s power of responding to the impulse, not the capacity of the impulse itself. In other words, literature is the record of what the infinite impulse has been able to effect in and through certain limited lives.

This distinction between creative impulse and sensitive instrument is vital. Every literary work is like a telescope which can be held up to the eye at either end. According as we experience literature through the limitations of minds to respond, or the unlimited capacity and appeal of the creative impulse itself, we are led to believe that writing, like a tower, can never rise above a certain height, or we believe that, like a fine musical instrument, its power grows forever with the touch of the hand by which it is played.

It is actually as though the individuals capable of producing literature were themselves each one a definite number of notes on the entire, indefinite scale of the instrument. Authors differ vastly as to what notes sound through their work, and what notes remain silent. In one we have aesthetic sensitiveness without moral discrimination; in another able logic without feeling of beauty. The whole of literature is far from being literature as a whole. The whole of literature, historically, is nothing more than a long series of limited parts, and literature as a whole can no more be imagined from grouping together these parts than could a sound man be imagined by one who knew only different forms of disease.

[Page 4] But to externalize literature is to miss even the ability to perceive this fact. It is to miss even the true humility characteristic of the creator, by which the creator tends to belittle poems even while glorifying poetry. The creative mind is well aware that if somehow the silent notes could be made to sound, all that literature has done in the past would seem by comparison nothing. He is impatient of his own work, knowing that its excellence is merely the power of commanding a small field. But without knowing what literature is in its essence, our reading continually goes astray. We travel the road of experience, but we travel backward. We scale the creative power by what has actually been created, rather than what has been created by the creative power, which is to measure the heavens by the highest visible hill.

Thus it seems to most students that Shakespeare is and must be supreme in literature for all time. Shakespeare, it seems, sounded all the available notes on the keyboard of life. One by one he brings every type of man and woman upon the stage, where one by one their inmost secrets are exquisitely, completely told. The gesture of good and evil, power and weakness alike he rendered in all its deepest significance.

But with the decay of personal experience, the very power of estimating values passes away. We expect nothing beyond Shakespeare, because we stand within the superficial completeness of the work and not within the profound incompleteness of the man. We do not even follow Shakespeare himself to his own consummation, his own self-estimation as a mind transcended by power unencompassed on every hand. But I recall that his old age, in the person of Prospero, deliberately broke the wand by which all those dear enchantments had been raised. Even about this mind the darkness fell. Master of motives within the range of his own experience, Shakespeare at last paid reverent homage to motives outside its ken. Breaking the magician’s wand seems, to the lesser mind, merely as though the poet withdrew from poetry in the weakness of old age; but to the mind capable of standing beside Shakespeare himself the broken wand signifies nothing less than his recognition that all human drama had begun to crumble away with the perception of a greater and a beyond. Triumph is the glory of the lesser mind; humility is the glory of the great. Shakespeare’s old age cannot be taken as the guttered candle, the empty lamp—it was the opening of a weary student’s window at dawn, when the rising sun shames the candle to his own gladdened eyes. Shakespeare knew within himself the silent notes, and where he could not invoke masterful music he left the instrument to less sensitive hands.

Not in quantity of work, not even in what the world calls quality, therefore, does the essence of literature lie. Shakespeare surpassed other men merely by combining in himself certain qualities other men share among themselves. There is no one element in Shakespeare not manifested since his time by many poets. He possessed no notes beyond our capacity severally to possess. But where all minds are dumb, he is dumb. What all men seek, he also sought, with an inquiry more poignant, more insistently phrased. The essence of literature consists in its power to reveal. Shakespeare’s revelation is the perplexity of human life when actuated [Page 5] by motives resident in the personal, the outer layer of thought.

So much it is desirable to say by way of approach to the writings of Bahá’u’lláh. By minds limited to the customary closed circle of experience, these writings can be read over and over without understanding. The supreme benefit of reading them, indeed, is to learn merely how they are to be read. A lifetime might well be spent pondering them word by word, if real understanding came pure and full at the end. For in Bahá’u’lláh we have a mind whose response to the infinite creative impulse begins precisely where the “literary” effort stops. Apparently, Bahá’u’lláh has not that masterful intimacy with “life” itself for the revelation of a new dominion over the generations. The truth is, however, that Bahá’u’lláh, taking “life” for granted, stands outside “life” itself for the revelation of a new motive. He does not sound the Shakespearian notes, because he sounds the notes that have been silent in us all. No comparison between Bahá’u’lláh and other writers is possible. The closest similarity to Bahá’u’lláh’s writings are the utterances of Jesus. By those who love them Jesus’ utterances are not comparable with literary productions. They are absorbed into the yearning spirit as from a source deeply hidden within, that the spirit may be reactuated and transformed.

But there is a subtle distinction even here. Jesus’ message was that to the infinite power surrounding our consciousness an infinite response can be made. Jesus made himself the Way for human experience to travel—every painful furlong of the Way, from the birth of the spiritual child into the indifferent flesh to the resurrection of the spiritual man at the hands of the flesh furious at its own threatened subordination. Thus the words of Jesus are the manifestation of the Christ—the power of men to respond infinitely to the infinite power of God. But Bahá’u’lláh’s message does not repeat the message of Christ—it completes that message. Whereas Christ planted his words as seeds within the soul, Bahá’u’lláh’s writing fertilizes those seeds as by the shining of the sun in spring. He manifests the surrounding, controlling Infinite of universal spirit just as Christ manifested the response on the part of consciousness to that Infinite control. Christ was Religion working up to its source through the painful experience of reluctant humanity; Bahá’u’lláh is Religion self-subsistent, unchanging, the beginning as well as the end of the Way.

Thus in the writings of Bahá’u’lláh there is an influence not dwelling elsewhere in literature or philosophy. That influence permeates and proceeds from a literary and philosophic form, but the power of the influence well-nigh shatters the cup of speech. Here is Truth, in distinction to facts; Reality in distinction to logic; immovable Power in distinction to emotion. Our categories and our systems fail to contain this writing, as engineers would fail to dam the sea. Out critical faculties even prevent us from approaching its outpouring effect, for its very purpose is to create new faculties as standards in the mind. It is a Mystery, but not secretive; a Revelation, but not argumentative; Love, but not enticement. In numberless passages the flame burns visibly forth and the wine intoxicates. It is a spiritual geography for the searching mind, a home for [Page 6] the heart outworn. But alas, even in the abundance of midspring, the dead tree stands unmoved.

“Revelation is a fire from which proceed two effects: It creates the flame of love within the faithful, but produces the cold of heedlessness within those that hate.”

“The proof of the sun is its light which shines forth encompassing the world; and the evidence of the shower is the bounty renewing the earth at its fall.”

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Interchange LETTERS FROM AND TO THE EDITOR

THE RELUCTANCE of Bahá’ís to engage in theological disputation leaves the impression in the minds of some that there is no Bahá’í theology. Perhaps in a certain way it is true: God is, Bahá’u’lláh tells us, unknowable in His essence. Add to this the right and obligation of every person to seek the truth for himself and the obligation to live in harmony with his fellow man, and the conclusion is clear: While everyone has the right to try to understand the nature of divinity and can pursue this understanding to the limit of his capacity and desire to do so, using on the way all the help he can get from the writings, both inspired and scholarly, of the past, no one has the right to suggest that failure to arrive at exactly the “right” conclusion can be the cause of eternal damnation. The claim by any human being or council of human beings to have arrived at a complete understanding of God is necessarily a false one. Bahá’u’lláh tells us that if religion is the cause of discord, it were better that religion not exist.

This understood, there is no obstacle except human limitation in the path of one who wants to explore these mysteries. Jack McLean’s article on Bahá’í epistemology is a refreshing philosophical essay on the first part of Bahá’u’lláh’s injunction to know God and to worship Him. In what sense do we know anything? That is what epistemology is about. In what sense do we know God? That, perhaps, is in the province of theology. The question is here explored, bringing to many a reader an understanding of how he or she can know this impenetrably mysterious Being—without suggesting that the fate of each individual soul, and of the whole world, hinges on Jack McLean’s being right. No crusades, no reciprocal throat cuttings, no social injustices can result from a “theology” that does not forget its human origin. It appears that theology is not the science of God, but the exploration of man’s effort and capacity to know Him, and that, therefore, many contradictory theologies can coexist in one united religious community.

We are happy to assure you that more articles on theological questions are in the offing: William S. Hatcher’s review of Udo Schaefer’s The Light Shineth in Darkness and Jacques Chouleur’s article on the Bahá’í idea of God will appear in forthcoming issues. Juan Ricardo Cole’s “The Christian-Muslim Encounter and the Bahá’í Faith” has already appeared in our Winter 1977-78 issue. So maybe, in a certain sense, there is a Bahá’í theology after all.

To the Editor

ON TIBETAN BUDDHISM

I have just read Professor Wesley Needham’s article “Tibetan Buddhism: The Fully Developed Form of Indian Buddhism” in the Summer 1977 issue of WORLD ORDER and am delighted at the opportunity to return the compliment the author paid my own article on Buddhism (Winter 1971-72) in a letter published in the Summer 1972 issue. Professor Needham’s mastery of the complexities of an elaborate and often obscure religious tradition is evident, and the article is one of the clearest expositions of Tibetan religion that I have seen. At a time when Tibetan Buddhism is attracting [Page 9] many converts in the West, and much scholarly interest as well, the need for a clear summary is obvious. Professor Needham’s article fills that demand admirably.

My admiration for the article is in no way diminished by the following quibble which I feel compelled to raise. Implicit in the article is the view that Tantric Buddhism, as manifest in its Tibetan form (Vajrayāna), is a logical and perhaps even necessary consequence of the original teachings of the Buddha together with the historical development of Buddhism. Vajrayāna, Professor Needham seems to be saying, among the living schools of Buddhism is the highest and most perfect form of Buddhist tradition.

Professor Needham is correct in pointing out that all three major schools of Buddhist thought came together to form Tibetan Vajrayāna, and that medieval Tibetan monks deserve credit for preserving much of the Buddhist canon that might otherwise have been lost, just as their Christian counterparts deserve credit for rescuing much of the literature of pagan antiquity. Yet it seems to me that Tibetan Buddhism can no more sustain the claim to represent the “true” tradition of the Buddha than any of the living Christian churches can claim to be the “true” church of Christ.

A number of scholars of the early part of this century held to the view that “Lamaism” is a decadent form of Buddhism, too much concerned with magical rites and spells. This view dealt a great injustice to the richness and variety of Tibetan doctrine, and Professor Needham rightly places the matter in a clearer perspective. Yet the charge is not without foundation. In his eagerness to support the legitimacy of Tibetan Vajrayāna as a central tradition of Buddhism, Professor Needham seems to overlook the important role played by the shamanistic pre-Buddhist Bön religion in shaping Tibetan Buddhist practice and belief. It may be no exaggeration to say, as some scholars have long suspected, that there is as much Bön-po influence in Tibetan Vajrayāna as there is Buddhist —particularly in the Nyingmapa (“Red Hat”) sect. Indeed, much as the Zen form of Buddhism can be viewed as a unique synthesis of Mahayāna Buddhism with Chinese Taoist beliefs, Tibetan Vajrayāna may be more a mixture of Mahayāna and the animistic Bön religion than the brew which Professor Needham suggests.

I believe it may be more proper to view the living Buddhist sects as a spectrum of doctrines than as a line of development culminating in any one particular school. From such a viewpoint, Zen Buddhism, with its iconoclasm, its distrust of doctrine and speculation, its rejection of the supernatural, and its emphasis on the suddenness of enlightenment, may be seen as the “left wing” of Buddhism, while Tibetan Vajrayāna, with its esoteric sacraments, its emphasis on the transmission of authority, and its salvation through the gradual accumulation of merit, may represent the “right wing.”

In closing, I would like to add to Professor Needham’s article a footnote or two that may be of interest to Bahá’ís. There is a tradition among Tibetans, traceable back to the nineteenth century, that the fourteenth Dalai Lama (i.e., the current one) will be the last of his line. In 1966 when visiting the Tibetan community-in-exile in Dharamsala, India, I was graciously permitted to interview the Dalai Lama. I asked His Holiness about this prophecy —if there were anything to it—and he affirmed that he would indeed be the last Dalai Lama. Secondly, I am able to report that His Holiness is aware of the Bahá’í Faith, and that several Bahá’í books in English grace his library shelves!

DANIEL KEITH CONNER

Dallas, Oregon

MILLER ON ISLÁM

As a postscript to Douglas Martin’s article “The Missionary as Historian: William Miller and the Bahá’í Faith” (World Order, Spring 1976), it may be of interest to your readers to take note of Yvonne Haddad’s review of Rev. Miller’s recent book A Christian’s Response to Islam (Nutley, N.J.: Presbyterian and Reformed Publishing [Page 10] Company, 1976). Ms. Haddad’s book review appears in the Oct. 1977 issue of Muslim World, a periodical of the Hartford Seminary Foundation. . . .

The reviewer points out that Miller’s book suffers from “conspicuous misinformation about some factual matters.” Quoting Miller, “the journey to Mecca usually produces no moral or spiritual results in the lives of the pilgrims,” the reviewer admits “It seems difficult to avoid the conclusion that Mr. Miller has not availed himself of the opportunity that living in a Muslim culture affords of hearing firsthand what devout Muslims communicate of their experiences in prayer and on the pilgrimage.” Miller is “speaking from a perspective which automatically prejudices the case. . . .” and “actually seems to be in agreement with those whom he cites as feeling that the effort to save Muslims has been waged with Satan as the adversary.” In the words of Rev. Miller: “Some have expressed the opinion that Islam itself is Satan’s most brilliant and effective invention for leading men astray, and that the ‘revelations’ which came to Muhammad were not from God but from the devil.” (p. 104).

Enlightening is Ms. Haddad’s conclusion:

A Christian’s Response to Islam and works of this kind no longer have any place in the academic study of religion, where the recognition has long since prevailed that understanding cannot be promoted through attack, and hopefully will not continue to be evident in the missionary efforts of those who profess to follow Christ’s in junction to “let your light shine before men” rather than to curse other people’s light as darkness.

STEVEN T. LIEBERMAN

Carbondale, Illinois

REGARDING CHOULEUR’S CONCLUSION

[In “The Bahá’í Faith: World Religion of the Future?” (Fall 1977)] Dr. Chouleur concludes that the Bahá’í Faith “stands a very good chance of one day making its way to the forefront.” However, his conclusion is made tentative by the reservations he lists on page 17, which he cites as possible “stumbling blocks” to the Faith in its aspiration to gain universal acceptance. Dr. Chouleur’s reservations reminds us that an uncommitted perspective is not necessarily more objective than a committed one; only the assumptions are different. . . .

Dr. Chouleur suggests first that the theology of the Bahá’í Faith may be “too simple, too lax and vague” for “the upholders of keenly ‘theology-minded’ denominations such as Roman Catholicism.” By his description of Bahá’í theology on page 15, this would seem to be true. However, what the article presents as Bahá’í theology is only a sketch of its barest rudiments. Reduced to one paragraph, the theology of any religion would appear insufficient. From such simple rudiments, though, the trunk, branches, and foliage of a well-developed Bahá’í theology are indeed presented in the Writings of the Founder and of His appointed successors. Further, the tree shows promise of yielding abundant fruit in the reflections and writings of Bahá’í philosophers and poets in the generations to come. All this notwithstanding, it should be observed that the members of “keenly ‘theology-minded’ denominations” may equally well be refreshed by the integrity and clarity of Bahá’í theology.

Dr. Chouleur states that “man’s fate after death is but vaguely outlined in the Bahá’í perspective,” and that some potential adherents may be disappointed by this. It bears reminding, however, that a good deal of what other religions teach about man’s condition after death is either unsupported by anything the original Founder is known to have said, or is a narrow and literal interpretation of His symbolic explanations. The Bahá’í Teachings, by contrast, come exclusively from the Founder and His directly appointed interpreter. If one looks only to the teachings of the Founders, one finds that Bahá’u’lláh actually taught more about the nature of the afterlife, and particularly about its significance, than any former Messenger had seen fit to do.

Dr. Chouleur’s next reservation is this. “The assertion that all religions are one and that the teachings of God’s envoys are identical may fail to convince those who go to the trouble of closely comparing the words attributed to Jesus, Muḥammad, or the Buddha Gautama.” But the Bahá’í Writings simply do not assert that “the teachings of God’s envoys are identical.” The world’s major religions are understood to be one in their common origin with a single Creator, and in the universality of their fundamental spiritual principles. The Bahá’í Teachings, however, discriminate between such a timeless principle as love or justice, and such social laws as may be ordained by the Founder to implement the principle in a given time and place. . . . The principle is essential to religion, the application secondary. From this perspective, [Page 11] the Bahá’ís can say the world’s religions are one in their essence, though their social laws were remolded by each Founder to meet the needs of the time. . . .

. . . the key to the next problem raised by Dr. Chouleur [is] why should a person pledge his allegiance to Bahá’u’lláh, since he could do no more than repeat what Jesus, or Muḥammad, or Moses, had said before?” The answer is that Bahá’u’lláh has not only reiterated the essential principles of man’s spiritual life, but has provided a comprehensive body of teachings designed to meet the needs of contemporary society—teachings that would enable spiritual truths for the first time to become embodied on every level of man’s social life, from individual relations on up through a planetary civilization. In this sense, Bahá’u’lláh has come to culminate the work of Moses, Jesus, and Muḥammad.

Dr. Chouleur also observes that to assert that the Manifestations of God are all coequals might scandalize those who believe that the Founder of their faith is superior to the Founders of others. This does in fact occur frequently, but it could not be called a stumbling block for the Bahá’í Faith. Obviously, those who reject the Faith because it does not glorify their Prophet over the others will not help it to grow. But neither will they significantly retard its rise, for they cling to an ethnocentric perspective which cannot rival a global perspective for the general acceptance of a diversified mankind. As the author has remarked, a global religion and civilization cannot be brought about by a loose alliance of traditional factions. The people who will be equipped, conceptually, to bring about such a civilization will be precisely those whose thinking puts them in sympathy with the Bahá’í perspective. It is the allegiance of such people that will play a decisive role in the fortunes of the Bahá’í Faith. To continue firmly to uphold the oneness and equality of the Manifestations of God would, therefore, work, in the long run, to the Faith’s advantage.

Dr. Chouleur then asks, “how could one accept without reservation Bahá’u’lláh’s self-elected prophethood and his self-imposed mission as a messenger of God? His life was indeed full of courage and dignity, and his person radiated generosity and goodness, but are these sufficient tokens?” . . . There are several kinds of evidence that Bahá’u’lláh is indeed a Prophet of God. . . . Four kinds of evidence that come to mind are prophecy, His teachings, His example, and the concrete results of His Cause. The circumstances and events of Bahá’u’lláh’s life fulfill with awesome precision the predictions made in the Bible, the Qur’án, and other Holy Books concerning the One Who would return in the age of culmination. His social teachings were so far ahead of His day that no fair-minded sociologist could imagine Him a product of His society. Where is the ordinary mortal to be found who could, with no formal education, and under the bitterest adversity, produce some three hundred volumes of writings —writings which bring to consummation the essence of all prior religious teachings, predict historical events which we have only recently witnessed, and anticipate the direction of social change in the twentieth century and beyond; writings . . . instilled with the potency to change the skeptic into a lover of God, the fanatic into an impartial thinker, the bigot into a world citizen, and the scoundrel into a philanthropist? . . .

Then there is the evidence of His life, as distinguished from His teachings. One searches in vain for the tiniest action on His part, during the long years of captivity and suffering, that fails to embody the perfections which He called upon mankind to acquire. Finally, the very survival of His Community amidst severe persecution, and its growth into the world-embracing, diversified but unified organism which Mr. Chouleur finds so promising for the future, testify to the power with which the Cause is endowed. Are these not the kind of criteria by which a self-elected prophethood is distinguished from one that is divinely bestowed? . . .

The article’s next reservation is that “Historians may also wonder about Bahá’u’lláh’s claims to the succession of the Báb. In fact, the two men never met. . . The solution to this is simple. The Báb referred in many ways to the One Who would succeed Him. Anyone claiming successorship would therefore have to fulfill the conditions set in the Writings of the Báb. One of these conditions was that the Promised One would arise nineteen years after the Báb began to teach, which was in 1844. The possibility that the Báb’s successor has not yet arisen is therefore ruled out; the true successor would have to be one of those who were making the claim in 1863, among whom was Bahá’u’lláh. Among them all, Bahá’u’lláh alone possessed the abilities, the qualities of character, the family lineage, and the other characteristics that were to mark the Promised [Page 12] One. In time, the other claimants died in obscurity, whereas Bahá’u’lláh fulfilled the Báb’s prediction and founded a world religion. What more need one say? . . .

At this point I wish to interject an issue which I feel is of utmost importance, and which the author seems not to have included in his estimation of the potential of the Bahá’í Faith. The issue concerns the nature of a Manifestation of God. On page 11, Mr. Chouleur describes the Manifestations as “exceptionally gifted human beings.” On the following page he states that “The various Manifestations of God are nothing more than human beings, but the Spirit dwells in them and illuminates them.” This description of the Bahá’í concept is insufficient, for the Writings assert that the Manifestation is a Being of an entirely different order from the normal human. He is different not only in degree, but in kind. His knowledge, perfections, and powers are inherent rather than acquired, His consciousness dwells on an inconceivably high plane, His communion with the Creator is absolute and continuous, and He “manifests,” therefore, every attribute of divinity. He is acclaimed as the very agency through which the material and spiritual universes are generated!

Any true estimate of the potential of the Bahá’í Faith would have to regard Bahá’u’lláh as such an exalted Being, or would at least have to acknowledge that His followers are convinced He is such a Being, which from a sociological point of view is almost as important. That the author was not thus convinced when he wrote the article is suggested by his description of Bahá’u’lláh as one Who “had many enemies—some of them among his nearest relatives, in accordance with the customs and wont of the East—but their plots repeatedly came to naught when confronted with his tranquil fortitude.” To attribute casually the enmity of Bahá’u’lláh’s relatives to “the customs and wont of the East” seems off the mark, and perhaps gives evidence of a cultural bias that mars an otherwise fair-minded essay. . . . Dr. Chouleur seems to have missed the possibility that it was Bahá’u’lláh’s overwhelming greatness—not some Eastern wont—that aggravated those around Him whose hearts contained a grain of jealousy, until at last the irritating grain produced the black pearl of rebellion and spite.

A similar underestimation of the power of a Manifestation of God seems to underlie the last item on the author’s list of stumbling blocks. He objects that Bahá’u’lláh’s “profusely ornate, amazingly refined, and pompous style in the oriental fashion may well set western readers’ nerves on edge.” In the first place, if it is a truly global Faith we are contemplating, its destiny is not to be determined by western literary tastes alone. Most of the human race lives outside the West, and is accustomed to having a high content of poetic imagery in language. Thus, most people in the world might very well find such allusions as “rosy-fingered morns” and “melodious nightingales’ songs” appealing and, more important, laden with spiritual meaning.

In the second place, whatever people’s literary tastes may be, the objection misses the point entirely. People do not commit themselves to the Bahá’í Faith merely because they like the literary style of its Writings, or because they feel comfortable with the theology, or agree with the precepts. They join because they are convinced that Bahá’u’lláh is a Manifestation of God and are willing to abide by His teachings. . . .

The one issue by which a religious movement ultimately stands or falls is whether its founder is truly a Manifestation of God. . . . If the founder is not a Manifestation, the movement falls prey to that “fatal contradiction” Dr. Chouleur found in humanism: it is a brotherhood without the guidance of a divine Father, and eventually it disintegrates. Where today are the myriad sects and cults of Jesus’ day? On the other hand, if the founder is a Manifestation, the Spirit emanating from Him will attract and unite the most diverse elements of humanity; His person will serve as a focal point for the believers’ devotion to God; His Word will be endowed with such power as to change the heart of the most implacable foe, and to open the eye of the atheist; and thus His Faith will grow and flourish. This is the all-important power, the decisive factor which Dr. Chouleur seems to have omitted from his reckoning. It is the one consideration that overshadows all the issues he has raised, whether pro or con.

. . . To Dr. Chouleur’s final question, “Will a scattering of believers, a handful of ‘Pioneers of the Cause’ ever secure a majority on this planet, or even develop into a strong enough minority to play a decisive part in the creation of a higher civilization?” I daresay the answer is a resounding “Yes.”

LUDWIG TUMAN

Evanston, Illinois

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Mining the Gems of Human Potential

BY PHILIP CHRISTENSEN AND DEBORAH CHRISTENSEN

A slightly different version of this article was submitted to the Commission of Inquiry into the Education of the Young Child on behalf of the Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Cornwall, Ontario. The Commission was established by four teachers’ federations. Its task is to inquire into and examine the assumptions about the expectations for and the state of early childhood education in the province of Ontario, and to make recommendations regarding the specific roles and responsibilities of children, parents, teachers, boards of education, support agencies, and the government of the province in the education of children between the ages of three and eight. The Commission is being chaired by Dr. Laurier LaPierre, a well-known Canadian broadcast journalist. Its public hearings throughout Ontario will conclude in October 1978.

AT THE OUTSET we would like to stress that there is no “official” Bahá’í position on the subject of child education. There is as yet no Bahá’í curriculum, no detailed Bahá’í educational system. Instead, there is a number of basic principles and ideals set forth in the Writings of the Bahá’í Faith which can be fruitfully applied to the challenges of modern education. Here we would like to review some of these principles. We will also suggest a few of the specific ways in which they might be applied in practice, although it is quite possible that others could apply them to the same issues with different results.

Our basic premise is that it is time to turn our attention to some of the fundamental issues in early childhood education, issues that have been too often ignored because they do not admit of simple answers. One is reminded of the ancient story about a man who one night discovered his friend searching for his keys underneath a lamp post. “Where did you lose your keys?”, asked the man.

“About fifty yards down the road,” answered the friend.

“Then why are you looking here when you lost them there?”

Came the friend’s reply, “Oh, the light is much better here.”

Are not many well-intentioned educators guilty of searching where they can comfortably see and not where the necessary answers may be found? For example, in the face of increasing pressures on the family, pressures that are beyond public control, have planners not tended to place increasing reliance on publicly controlled schools without asking whether they are capable of bearing the whole burden of educating young children? In the absence of social consensus on spiritual and moral questions, have they not tried to pretend that public education can be free of values in spite of the convincing evidence that it is not?

We suggest that it is time to take a new look at these basic issues, to ask difficult questions. Specifically, we intend to examine three critical areas:

—the essential meaning and purpose of education,

—the role of the family in the education of young children, and

—the complementary role of the school in this task.

What Is Education?

MOST CANADIANS, if asked to define education, would probably think immediately of schools. As we will suggest later, schooling is of vital importance to children and society. But education goes far beyond what [Page 16] happens in a classroom for six hours a day, five days a week, nine months a year over a dozen years—a total number of hours equal roughly to 3 percent of an average lifespan.

The Latin source of the word “education” is educare, which means “to nourish, to rear.” In its broadest and most important sense education is the process of releasing human potential. The Bahá’í Writings make this point using the analogy of the mining of gems:

Man is the supreme Talisman. Lack of a proper education hath, however, deprived him of that which he doth inherently possess. . . . The Great Being saith: Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom.

Recognizing the broad implications of education is no mere philosophical exercise. Without such understanding society is prone automatically to accept limited goals and partial solutions to the challenge of educating its young.

For example, modern curricula place heavy emphasis on cognitive (intellectual) education, even though this is only one aspect of human potential. What about psychomotor and perceptual education—releasing the potential of the human body? What about affective education—releasing the potential of human emotions? And most important, what about moral and spiritual education—releasing the potential of the human soul? All of these domains are significant, but most are undervalued or completely ignored in educational planning.

Another implication of this broad definition is to explode the myth that education only happens to children in classrooms. In actual fact one can begin to affect a child’s potential a year before conception by improving the physical condition of the mother. In the womb, according to Bahá’í teachings, one can add spiritual development to physical development through prayer. After birth no diploma terminates the release of human potential. Growth in all domains should continue throughout one’s entire life and, in the view of religion, and the latest studies on life after death, eternally. Lifelong learning must become more than a slogan.

To take just one more example, viewing education as mining the gems in each human being suggests that those gems exist and that educators have a responsibility to find them. Each child can become a noble being, a star shining forth with beauty and brilliance. The degree of capacity in each educational domain will vary from individual to individual. Successful education, however, depends not on the scope of these capacities but on the extent to which they are fulfilled. In the words of Bahá’u’lláh:

The whole duty of man in this Day is to attain that share of the flood of grace which God poureth forth for him. Let none, therefore, consider the largeness or smallness of the receptacle. The portion of some might lie in the palm of a man’s hand, the portion of others might fill a cup, and of others even a gallon-measure.

[Page 17] Contrast this approach with the current system, which equates successful education primarily with success in comparison with other children at cognitive tasks in schools. With this conception some children are required to fail—those whose strengths lie in other domains and those whose potential, however well fulfilled, is more limited than that of classmates’. On the contrary, when the true nature of education is recognized, every child can succeed in releasing all of its potential. Given Robert Rosenthal’s demonstration that students improve when teachers expect them to, what would be the result if every teacher strove to discover the valuable gems in the mine of each child’s soul and if every child learned to appreciate its potential from the very earliest years?

The Role of the Family

ONE MORE EFFECT of equating education with schooling is that the critical role of another institution, the family, is ignored. Yet for the education of the young child, the family is far more important than the school.

Bahá’ís believe that formal education must begin at the age of five. In Ontario, as in other parts of North America, this has traditionally been the age at which most children begin kindergarten. True, there is continuing pressure for earlier schooling through junior kindergartens, nursery schools, and day care centers, but formal education still affects a minority of children under the age of five. Furthermore, this trend has been stimulated primarily by social changes, including an increasing number of single parent and two working-parent families, not because of any clear evidence of educational benefits for the children themselves. Finally, almost all preelementary students are between the ages of three and five. Before that point virtually no child in Ontario is exposed to formal education.

Thus for most children under five years of age the family is the primary educational institution, often the only educational institution. Even after a child has started school, the family remains of highest importance throughout middle childhood. Research clearly suggests that it is during this same period, especially from birth to five, that the limits of a child’s potential are set and the foundation for its future development is firmly laid.

Benjamin Bloom of the University of Chicago has shown that at least 50 percent of a child’s intelligence is acquired by about age four and another 30 percent by age eight. He concludes that the early environment may have a great influence on intellectual development. At Harvard, Burton White has determined that the most critical period in releasing cognitive potential lies between eight and thirty-six months. He concludes:

the informal education that families provide for their children makes more of an impact on a child’s total educational development than the formal educational system. If a family does its job well, the professional can then provide effective training. If not, there may be little the professional can do to save the child from mediocrity. This grim assessment is a direct conclusion from the findings of thousands of programs in remedial education, [Page 18] such as Head Start and Follow Through projects.

Similar conclusions can be reached for other aspects of education. The kind of stimulation and support a child’s psychomotor and perceptual development receives in his or her earliest years bears fruit later in school and in life. Erik Erikson has described the stages of affective development that lead to emotional health or illness, beginning with the basic sense of trust learned by the infant and the autonomy developed in early childhood. In the area of moral education, the most powerful teacher in the world, example, has been operating for years in the family before a child enters a classroom.

Yet these facts have been largely ignored, probably because it is much easier to direct and improve schools than families. Perhaps it is now time, in the face of the mounting evidence, to accept the family’s primary role in early childhood education and to support it accordingly.

There are many possibilities. One of the most interesting is parent education. We would never hire unskilled teachers for our classrooms. Why do we assume that parents would not profit from training as much as teachers? Some types of basic preparation could be offered as a regular part of the high school curriculum. More training could be provided to parents throughout their childrearing years, when the motivation to learn skills necessary for parents is at its highest. A variety of means, ranging from classrooms and books to television and newspaper articles, could be used to help parents benefit from the expanding body of knowledge about this subject.

Besides helping parents prepare for their responsibilities as early childhood educators, various agencies could also support them as they carry out their responsibilities. Again, this kind of assistance is readily available to classroom teachers: professional development days, consultants, cooperation with colleagues, and, in many countries, entire government ministries. Where is the equivalent support for parents? As declining school enrollments free human and material resources, could not some support be diverted to such purposes?

Today there is increasing recognition that mothers and fathers can, and should, share in the many tasks of child rearing. But this partnership does not negate the special role of the mother, as the Bahá’í teachings make clear:

The mother is the first teacher of the child. For children, at the beginning of life, are fresh and tender as a young twig, and can be trained in any fashion you desire. If you rear the child to be straight, he will grow straight, in perfect symmetry. It is clear that the mother is the first teacher and that it is she who establisheth the character and conduct of the child.

So important is this principle that Bahá’ís, while believing that all children should be educated, also believe that “the education of girls is of far greater consequence than that of boys.”

If families are the most important educational institution for young children, and parents are its teaching staff, mothers are (or should become) the master teachers. This implies not only the need for professional support for them but also a complete rethinking of social status and rewards. It is extraordinary that the single most important role in all education, that of the mother, should be denigrated by so many people to the station of drudge and babysitter.

The Role of the School

GIVEN the broad nature of education and [Page 19] the primary role of the family in it, one might conclude that schools are unimportant. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, in an era that has witnessed increasing attacks on public education systems and heard calls for deschooling society, Bahá’ís advocate universal compulsory education. Every child has the right to schooling.

But what should be taught in the schools? Ideally, the curriculum would include every aspect of education from psychomotor to spiritual. Of all of these, however, the most important, especially for young children, is moral and spiritual education. This is not to deny the significance of cognitive education but rather to put it in its proper perspective. To quote again from the Bahá’í Writings:

Training in morals and good conduct is far more important than book learning. A child that is cleanly, agreeable, of good character, well behaved—even though he be ignorant—is preferable to a child that is rude, unwashed, ill natured, and yet becoming deeply versed in all the sciences and arts. The reason for this is that the child who conducts himself well, even though he be ignorant, is of benefit to others, while an ill-natured, ill-behaved child is corrupted and harmful to others, even though he be learned. If, however, the child be trained to be both learned and good, the result is light upon light.

Children are even as a branch that is fresh and green; they will grow up in whatever way you train them. Take the utmost care to give them high ideals and goals, so that once they come of age, they will cast their beams like brilliant candles on the world. . . .

Because such a position is so different from prevailing ideas, which stress cognitive development to the exclusion of virtually everything else, some clarification may be in order. For example, it has always been assumed that moral and spiritual education must be linked to narrow religious dogma. For this reason North Americans have felt impelled to exclude it from public (as opposed to private or parochial) schools, occasionally replacing it with classes on the philosophy of ethics or values clarification. Yet an objective study of the world’s major faiths will confirm the Bahá’í teaching that they have a common moral foundation. Their basic spiritual tenets are the same. There is no need, therefore, to indoctrinate children in the creed of any one sect to provide moral and spiritual education.

It does require, however, more than is commonly offered. Newspapers are full of stories about intellectually skilled but morally incompetent adults, from politicians and business leaders to ordinary citizens. If we are to reverse this trend, our children need more than the philosophy of ethics; they need to learn how to live their ethics. They need more than clarification of whatever values they happen to have adopted; they need to acquire critical values such as justice, cooperation, and freedom from prejudice. The inculcation of such values must be the first responsibility of the schools, especially in the early years. It should also be followed by intellectual training, of course, beginning with reading, writing, and basic numerical skills, but it cannot continue to be overlooked.

A final word about the role of schools concerns the professionals who work there, the teachers. Another symptom of rapid change in our society is the public’s confusion about what that role should be and how those who fill it should be treated— as workers or independent professionals, saviors or culprits, overpaid featherbedders or underpaid martyrs.

The Bahá’í Writings make it clear that teaching is one of the noblest and most important of all occupations. It is equivalent, in fact, to an act of worship:

According to the explicit divine Text, teaching the children is indispensable and obligatory. It followeth that teachers are servants of the Lord God, since they have [Page 20] arisen to perform this task, which is the same as worship.

So important is this teaching that, under Bahá’í law, a portion of the estate of anyone who dies without leaving a will would be left to his teacher.

This attitude has broad implications. One is that society should recognize and support teachers in a manner commensurate with their significance. The supreme importance of early childhood education, which has already been demonstrated, suggests perhaps that teachers of young children should be particularly well trained and respected. Unfortunately, the reverse has too often been true. Another implication is that the teachers themselves should make every effort to live up to the high station and heavy responsibilities which are theirs, in part so that they may teach their students using the power of example.

Conclusion

WE are well aware that the challenge facing the Commission of Inquiry into the Education of the Young Child is difficult and complex. Before you are a wide variety of issues whose resolution will require detailed, technical study. We offer three principles that, we firmly believe, can and should guide all deliberations on early childhood education:

• First, every child is a noble creation, a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education is the process of mining those gems. It is far more than intellectual training in schools.

• Second, the most important educational institution for young children is the family. This fact must be accepted, and ways must be found to give parents, especially mothers, the support they need as first educators.

• Third, schools also have an important role to play. They should be universal and compulsory, and their first priority should be moral and spiritual education. Teaching, especially of young children, should be recognized as the noble profession it is.

These principles do not suggest easy solutions. Indeed, their careful application would require a major reexamination of some of the fundamental assumptions upon which current, ineffective approaches to educating young children are based. But is it not time to look for the answers we need where they can be found and not where we are comfortable searching?

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An Autobiography

BY LEON J. MCKEE

Editor’s Note: This essay was written in 1975 not long after the author became a Bahá’í at a Bahá’í conference held at Green Lake, Wisconsin.

IN THIS AGE of rampant materialism, groundless values, and increasing alienation, it is difficult to realize that life is the greatest gift we ever receive. The threat of overpopulation makes human life seem ordinary. Worldwide starvation and poverty suggest its probable meaninglessness. The ever-present possibility of war and the atomic bomb challenge life. However, in spite of all these and more, the Giver of life, the gift itself, and the recipients of life abide. Saint Paul wrote in his epistle to the Corinthians the telling reality: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Often it is only in retrospect that the true beauty and meaning of individual human lives are revealed and understood. Only then can one see that the Giver of life continues his love after birth through continual guidance. We are not abandoned, as some would have it; God protects us with individual loving care. The author of Psalms has written: “Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchman stays awake in vain.” It is awareness of this fact that can dispel the gloom and uncertainty of living.

At this point in my life I am a member of the Bahá’í Faith. Why I can make such a statement has an exciting explanation, for I was not born a Bahá’í. It is a story made possible by God’s omnipotent love and untiring guidance. Every Bahá’í has a story to tell, and I would like to share mine to show the mysterious and unfathomable workings of our God.

To lay the proper groundwork I feel it necessary to start with my first recollection as a little boy. These recollections are important in that I dwelled on them so much. I tended to be introspective very early because contrasts between my home environment and the outside were so blatant. I was forced to be aware and come into contact with myself. There was little opportunity for anonymity.

For instance, we were black and lived in a white neighborhood. I tried to wash off my color because some kids told me I was dirty. We were the only Catholics in the neighborhood and one of two black Catholic families in a city of sixty thousand people. I often found it necessary to talk about my faith because the other kids thought I prayed to statues. In effect, it was made clear to me that I was different, not so much better or worse, just different.

I was born in May 1947, a Roman Catholic, one more member of the one true faith.

After a brief period as the only child Margaret was born, then Catherine, next Teresa, who was followed by twins, Kenneth and Kevin; soon Barbara followed and, last, Patrick.

Patrick’s presence accomplished two important functions for the family. First, he pushed us firmly under the poverty line. Second, he proved that even after multiple and gallant efforts, the rhythm method does not work well for some couples.

The dynamics of a large family are immense. In our family poverty enhanced those dynamics in strangely positive ways. We learned that if we shared everyone [Page 23] benefited and the more we shared the better. There was never an abundance of anything, particularly of food, clothes, or money; thus we were constantly exposed to what was essential for survival.

Some people become bitter about lacking things and grow up with aggressive desires. We were fairly content with what we had, except perhaps at Christmas time. The commercial wizards have always made this time fraught with pressures. Pressure falls on children to want and on parents to buy. My worst experience came when one teacher asked all of us to bring our new toys to school. I brought a second-hand toy and was embarrassed.

Our lack of food came under early scrutiny also. One teacher asked us to bring a menu of what we ate at home. I had to watch television at a friend’s home to see what we were supposed to eat. I got an “A” on my food chart, but I never saw one morsel of that food in my house.

There are many people who have experienced similar situations and much worse, but our experiences received a significant explanation. My mother gave my life an eternal, God-directed perspective. She emphasized that God is always looking after all people, for He sent His son to die for us that we might live. She said these things when we were starving, and we accepted it. This was crucial because most rational people would throw religion out of the window at such a point. Instead, her explanation caused me to look at Jesus Christ closer. I thought, why would He die for me?

In my family we were encouraged to accept responsibility. I liked that. I liked being big brother, for it was a position where I could lead and also encourage the others. Any games I played, all played; any work I did we all participated in. We all marched to church together and took up one whole pew.

Very early in life I “played Mass” with my sister and friends. I gave sermons, passed out communion, and baptized my sister’s dolls. I was fascinated by the celebration of Mass. I cherished all those people coming together. The vestments of the priests and altar boys were colorful and alive. The candles and incense were beautiful. We all seemed to be talking to God in a very expressive way. In such an atmosphere praying seemed natural and meaningful.

That communal environmental setting helped make many matters understandable. For instance, my mother often quoted this verse: “If any one says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar.” We first connected loving with responsible interaction with the family.

For us there were no movies, no television, no treasure chest of toys, but there was a Bible. My mother read and had us read to each other the Bible from cover to cover. To this very day I can remember the emotions I felt when my mother read about the struggle of the Israelites, the crucifixion of Christ, and the frustrations of Moses. She showed us a reality that we could not see anywhere else. Most important, it was an essential reality, for it was a chronicle of God’s work among men.

A passage that was repeated often came from the Gospel of Matthew: “‘You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great men exercise authority over them. It shall not be so among you; but whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your slave. . . .’”

One particular problem we missed bears mentioning. Becoming religious can be dangerous because it is a cause for pride and self-righteousness. We were tempered constantly by the circumstances of our daily lives and by an occasional crack across the gluteus maximus. There is a passage in Scripture about this also. However, this told me that I was not yet perfect, for I never read or heard that Jesus was spanked. Life pointed toward [Page 24] constant improvement rather than complacency. Becoming better had to do with spiritual qualities rather than with more toys or even more food.

Caring and loving naturally extended outside the family to others, even to those who hurt or embarrassed me. Yet as Kierkegaard admonished, “there had to be eternal vigilance so that love never came to dwell upon itself or to compare itself with love in other men or to compare itself with the deeds it had accomplished.”

MY FORMAL EDUCATION began in a Catholic kindergarten, and so my conscious time was divided between the nuns at school and my mother at home. Both talked a great deal about God, the saints, and Holy Communion. My main interests were playing marbles and chasing girls, but God ran a close third.

Meeting other children was easy. They were like an extended family. I was accustomed to playing with others and sharing, so I got along well with everyone. Girls were not an anathema to me; in fact, I was as interested in so-called little girl concerns as with little boy’s games. I never cried when I did not get my way. I volunteered to do everything. I routinely gave my candy money, three cents, to the mission fund. Perhaps I was gullible, but I felt I was doing good for others.

Due to financial difficulties, my parents were forced to put my sister Margaret and me into a public school after first grade. That first year I particularly remember reciting daily morning prayers and pledging allegiance to the flag. Obviously, this was all before the Supreme Court’s ruling prohibited such goings on.

The major difference with the change was the dress of the teacher. The nuns were distinctive in their elaborate garb. In contrast, the public school teachers dressed like my mother. The nuns always seemed like a separate species, for one never saw their hair or legs, only their smiling faces. However, both the nuns and lay teachers seemed friendly. The children were the same in both places.

It was in the second grade that I learned that I had to sit in the back of buses and was permitted to drink only colored water in public places. It was a traumatic experience. I began to feel very self-conscious and insecure.

I learned about the bus trick by accident. My father was teaching me how to ride the bus to school one day. I got on the bus and sat down in the first seat. I was laughing to myself because my feet were dangling and I could not reach the floor. A few minutes later the bus driver turned to me and told me to move back. I did not really understand, but I jumped down and moved two seats back. He turned again and yelled at me to get back. I was frightened and just sat there. He stopped the bus, hurriedly walked up to me, grabbed my arm and pulled me to a seat in the back of the bus and sat me down. I started crying and looked around and saw all those people looking at me.

At that instant I learned many things. I saw all colored people around me and all white people in front of me. No one comforted me or even talked to me; they just looked. Society had just told me, an eight-year-old kid, where my place was. I will never forget that rude lesson.

It was a Supreme Court decision that allowed me to start attending classes at the school three blocks away from my house. The year before I took a bus to a school some eight miles away. I’m not sure if I was Negro or colored in 1954; but, whatever, my sister and I were the only ones in the school.

This probably would have been a smooth transition, but a big thing was made of it. My sister and I were the first to integrate the public school system in [Page 25] that part of the state, so the first week seemed like Hollywood, with many newspeople taking our pictures and visiting us. Though I am glad the transition happened, it was none too comfortable at the time.

Attending public school proved very important to my spiritual growth. I had to attend Cathechism classes in order to further my Catholic education. At the time my interest in reading, writing, and arithmetic was low, but I learned the Baltimore Cathechism with enthusiasm. The first question in every Baltimore Cathechism ever printed is Who made us? The next question is Who is God? And the third question is What is our responsibility to God? The answers, particularly to the last question, stuck in my mind.

According to the Baltimore Cathechism we are to know, love, and serve God in this world. From that position I became very serious about this quest. For some unknown reason it seemed very important to me.

I believe I first learned about the golden rule in the third grade. We called it the second great commandment. I also learned that not all children went to Cathechism classes; at least they did not call them Cathechism classes. Some of the others went to synagogues and various churches and called themselves Jews, Baptists, Methodists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and other names. The concept Christianity had no meaning for me; I was simply a Catholic.

“‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” This seemed very logical and beautiful to me. But there were many confusing examples to the contrary. For instance, why was I doing so many school acrivities alone, while others had classmates? Why was I never chosen to lead the class in the Lord’s Prayer? I believe even the Jewish girl had a chance. Why was I never invited to after-school parties?

Life at home brought other incidents that caused confusion. A census taker came to our home once and, after asking all those personal questions, left with all of our secrets. Later she returned and without explanation asked which one of us stole her purse. My mother assured her none of us had and even invited her in to look around. The lady turned on her heels and yelled back that she was going to call the police. My sisters and I were afraid. Later I noticed a police car cruising down the alley. I slipped out and watched the car park at the end of the alley. Later another car parked at the other end. Finally, a policeman came to the door and questioned my mother. The uniformed gentleman obviously believed the distraught census taker. He went away, but the cars stayed parked at both ends of the alley for almost two hours.

About four hours after the initial encounter, the same policeman came back and said that the census lady had found her purse at the supermarket. She never even had her purse in our house. He tried to apologize, but the damage was done. We all knew that what we had witnessed was called justice and the fine print read for whites only. At this point I could have easily become very bitter. There were many, many incidents like this one.

My parents fussed and fought a lot that year. But somehow Teresa was born, and Father O’Brien kept admonishing my parents to stick it out, for it was God’s will.

To this day, I do not think Father O’Brien really knew what God’s will was. He seemed so far removed from my home environment. He talked down to us, and I never thought that had anything to do with the good news of Jesus Christ. I did not really dislike Father O’Brien; I just thought I knew more about his job than he did. Christ, among other things, was a mediator, so His priests were to be that too. I found myself between my parents many times helping them work out their arguments. Who could be angry when a [Page 26] crying kid threw himself between the combatants? Father O’Brien was only there before and after with his pious platitudes, never during the arguments.

Fourth, fifth, and sixth grades were fun. I discovered the uniqueness of girls early. It was during these years that I developed crushes on everyone from Mary Magdelene to Michele Gregory, who was the blond girl who sat in front of me and said she loved my big brown nose.

Michele amazed me. She liked me even when it was unpopular for girls to like boys. She talked to me after the mothers had cautioned their daughters not to. This time was quite clear. Before I knew what paranoia was, I realized this time was not just paranoia. It was real. Michele showed me that the world was not totally cold, for she was very warm. God sent her along at just the right time.

I FOUND IT increasingly difficult to cope with hypocrisy in myself and in others. I saw hypocrisy at school, in church, on the buses, almost everywhere. If the golden rule was right, hypocrisy had to be wrong. So I tried to be like what I learned that Christ was like. My key image of Christ was that he was a servant, as in a serving person. He helped people —poor people, sick people, blind people, and lost people.

I cannot stress this realization enough. Even though most of my daily life showed me darkness and inferiority, Jesus showed light and strength. He and His Father, neither of whom I could see, obviously transcended all of this and wanted me to do so likewise. There is no amount of rationality in the world that can convince a person to opt for God under such circumstances. However, God’s love penetrates all and reaches the heart.

During the summer after sixth grade, my father was convicted of a crime, sentenced, and sent to prison for three years. The important thing is that the rest of us were forced upon the welfare rolls and became recipients of charity. This charity, as we later found out, was not to be confused with the faith, hope, and charity one reads about in First Corinthians, chapter thirteen.

Father O’Brien and Catholic charities came at us from one direction; various Protestant groups charged from another. It was here that I first encountered Christianity in agreement. However, never since then have I experienced such degradation and humiliation at the hands of so many supposedly good Christian people.

A common occurrence with some of the well-wishers was driving in our alley where they dropped off a box of used clothes or food. That’s not the bad part; they talked to us from their cars and hurriedly scurried away shouting back, “God bless you!”

The best remembrance I have about these times is that we all learned what love is not. It is ironic, but these Christians surely thought they were following Christian principles as surely as I knew they were not. I do not mean to criticize Christians only. What they did was common practice in the society at that time. Only recently are people at large becoming aware of the harm they have been doing all their lives under the guise of kindness and love.

In the seventh grade I positively decided that I wanted to become a priest. But I wanted to become a Christ-like priest, one who helped and served all people with love and respect. Before I had the ways or means, I began planning on it. My mother was delighted, and from prison my father wished me well.

My mother’s father died during my eighth grade year, and the insurance money my mother received from this allowed me to finance my dream. I entered Saint Augustine Seminary in 1961.

I had no way of knowing at this time how significantly this would change my life. For one thing this move set me apart [Page 27] from the rest of the family in many ways. I was the first child to leave home, and I was barely fourteen years old. I was to meet many different types of people of varying backgrounds. I received an excellent formal education. I encountered much more food, comfort, and luxury than I had ever seen.

The funny thing about the first year in the seminary is that the priests put so much effort into trying to teach detachment from worldly pleasures. What they were calling poverty was opulence to me. I listened, but I concentrated on more important matters, such as prayer and meditation. For the first time in my life I had three meals a day and a bed of my own, and I loved it. What they were trying to purify in me I never possessed. A lingering question was what is poverty?

If you are wondering what happened to Father O’Brien, he became so respected that he was made an Archbishop. I talked to him about my desire to enter the seminary. He told my mother to discourage me. As a result I did not receive a recommendation from him who happened to be my pastor. This was a necessary prerequisite.

I feel sorry for Father O’Brien because he meant well. He knew that the seminary in the diocese was not accepting colored vocations at that time. To cover up that fact he contradicted himself. Many have done that. The situation reminds me of something C. S. Lewis wrote: “you will certainly carry out God’s purpose, however you act, but it makes a difference to you whether you serve like Judas Iscariot or like John.”

ORGANIZED RELIGION now has to look at itself closely and realize that one of the main reasons for its shallow and thin flocks is that it has repeatedly contradicted and perjured itself. Moreover, its paid representatives often do not themselves believe the glorious truth it is their job to teach. One of the greatest tragedies in all of the black man’s history in this country has been the strange silence of the white church in America.

However, God threads a golden cord through the mire. I fall down in praise and adoration when I realize what God does in our lives. When some say that religion is an opiate of the people and that God is dead I cannot be angry; I silently cry.

The seminary I was allowed to attend was not the one in my own diocese or state for that matter. Saint Augustine’s was located in Mississippi, and I lived in the Panhandle of Texas. I received my recommendation to go there from the first black priest I ever met. This occurred while I was visiting my grandmother during the summer of 1961. Father Francis wrote a letter three weeks before classes started, and even at that late date I was accepted.

The really good part about the situation was that I was finally on the road to realizing my dream, and what a dream it was.

My formal seminary training lasted for the next eight and a half years. Those years proved very important for me spiritually. I experienced the deeper attracting powers of God through Scripture, prayer, and meditation. These were vital elements in my personal development.

I learned that Jesus Christ was a person committed totally to His Father and to the service of all people He met. His life and message seemed very clear. His early followers reflected His deep concerns in their writings. A passage that meant a lot to me is found in the epistle to the Thessalonians: “And we exhort you, brethren, admonish the idle, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with them all. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all.”

[Page 28] So much happened that I barely know what to say about it. It was simply a gold mine of experiences. The Order in which I was studying was a missionary Order. People in general had always interested me. Thus I was excited about taking God’s message to the world. I grew more self-confident through the years in spite of my pigmentation and the negative responses it brought. I wanted more than anything to become a true instrument of God. I asked myself many questions and reflected on various matters.

One of the important items I reflected upon I found in a book by C. S. Lewis. The author quoted William Law, “‘If you will here stop and ask yourselves why you are not as pious as the primitive Christians were, your own heart will tell you, that it is neither through ignorance nor inability, but purely because you never thoroughly intended it.’”

I was curious about the beliefs of other religions and studied many of them. I heard about the Bahá’í Faith for the first time in an old Indian mission church in New Mexico. I was teaching in a Head Start program and during the summer met another volunteer worker who was investigating the Faith. We talked about it a few times, but I was wrapped up in being a Catholic seminarian. The seed was sown nevertheless. God is great!

Something strange happened, however. I began to lose my dream of becoming a Catholic priest. After some eight years of time invested, this change in attitude was a serious matter. So I allowed myself ample time to work out and understand my apparent shift in direction.

Initially, there were many fragments of uncertainty bothering me. What had been perfectly clear became not so plain. Among these items was the matter of celibacy. I had thought about celibacy throughout my training and often wondered if I could really dedicate my life to this practice.

I knew that none of the Prophets had demanded or even recommended the practice of celibacy. In fact, there was not a verse of Scripture that particularly dwelled on it. In the seventh chapter of his epistle to the Romans, Saint Paul cautions all about the difficulties of marriage and subtly wished that all could be as he—single. However, many of the apostles and disciples were married. They obviously did an excellent job in practicing and spreading the good news of Jesus Christ.

Celibacy became an obligatory clerical practice in Roman Catholicism quite late in history, apparently an arbitrary decision. Thus nothing that I found made celibacy intrinsically better than any Other mode of living. The problem, as far as I was concerned, was whether I should accept celibacy as part of the priesthood package.

Along with these considerations was an awareness of my attraction for women. I very much wanted to be a follower of Christ and help spread His good news, but I feared denying other valid and healthy feelings. Celibacy seemed like it would do just that. It did not help my uncertainty when key priests began leaving the church and getting married. Two of my close friends and professors did so during my senior year in college. These men were well respected and considered not especially liberal. These occurrences helped tip the scale against commitment to celibacy.

Another bothersome fragment had to do with the state of the Catholic Church in the latter 1960s. During those times Catholicism found itself a bit archaic in relation to just about everything that was going on. Realizing this, many members of the clergy began frantic measures to become relevant. A lot of experimentation started, and not a few parishioners were [Page 29] simply confused. Many were angered by what seemed to be hasty superfluous commercialism. They found it difficult to understand why the organ should be replaced with the guitar and why English could be substituted for Latin. The changes came so fast that many lost the feeling of solidarity.

Many people, myself among them, became concerned about birth control. The Catholic Church became notorious for its unmoving and uncompromising attitude on this subject. Consequently, many people simply left the faith. I was worried about what I should tell people but thought just leaving the faith was not an answer. Many parish priests and nuns saw this drifting away from the faith and begged Rome to study the issue.

In the meantime, these same priests and nuns found themselves in a peculiar dilemma. They were to be loyal to higher authority but felt sympathetic toward their immediate flock. We, as seminarians, wondered what we would do and say in the event of our ordination. I was perplexed.

A problem that was a combination of the previous concerns was the way people at large started to look at the clergy in general. The general populace, including so-called devout Catholics, developed the feeling that priests were nice guys but dated, naive, and irrelevant. Often I felt the same way, but I thought I could personally avoid the trap. At any rate, I fought to avoid a one-sided view of looking at matters in the hope that openness would prove beneficial. However, I could tell that it was difficult for some people to take me seriously when they found I was a seminarian.

There were other concerns on my mind, but one in particular caused me to make up my mind to leave my training for the priesthood. It was timely, for at the end of the year my class was to take its first vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience that would make us official members of the Order.

The last year of my training took place in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, where I had begun. I was teaching a social studies class to a group of seventh and eighth graders. They happened to be all black. A few blocks away there was another group to whom one of my classmates was also teaching social studies. My classmate was white, and all the children were white. Both groups were Catholic. It had always been this way, and no one seemed to question the arrangement.

Here were two Catholic parishes, both racially separated. And here was a Catholic seminary in the midst of the community condoning the situation through silence. A talk with my novice master produced the age-old justification. We were not to rock the boat. The contradiction was too much for me. In 1969 we had ordained and nearly ordained followers of Jesus Christ practicing and preaching two diametrically opposed doctrines —love and service, on the one hand, and injustice and segregation, on the other. I had to leave. I could not in conscience commit myself to this.

Actually, leaving the seminary was sad. That life with all of those people had become a part of me. The environment was familiar, friendly, and safe. It seemed almost like a big, heated fish bowl. However, in leaving, a huge burden was lifted. Yet I still felt responsible for pursuing God’s will. For many years it seemed as though that meant the priesthood, yet basically it meant living according to God’s law. With this humble realization I timidly stepped out into the world.

MY SPIRITUAL QUEST continued, but I was confused as to what career I should pursue. Quite a few young men were being drafted at the time; to avoid the draft I filed for a conscientious-objector status. After a short while I received one and then started working in a hospital as an [Page 30] orderly in an operating room. I never thought I would ever work in this capacity, but I was just learning the surprises life had in store for me.

Deciding to work in a hospital did not just happen by chance. In the summer of 1969 Hurricane Camille ravaged several areas in the South. Bay St. Louis was one of the many small towns practically destroyed by the storm. Therefore, there were many volunteer workers in the immediate vicinity. Some of us seminarians volunteered to work with and help the Red Cross workers with their various duties. Considering the emergency situation, nothing else seemed really important, for many people were instantly destitute and homeless.

I met and got to know several Red Cross nurses who impressed me with their giving nature, kindness, and selflessness. From my point of view, these people were really doing God’s work, and it presented a contrast to the segregation of the two parishes. Of all the possible career alternatives I started to consider nursing seriously.

I felt that I could help people if I pursued a career in the fields of nursing, medicine, or general health. In fact, I became fascinated with the idea. Later I became a surgical technician and fell in love with the beauty and harmony of the human body. What appealed to me most was the fact that, as a technician, I could take an active part in patient care. I readily accepted the added responsibility.

After working at one hospital for two years, I was ready for a change. I started working at Milwaukee County General Hospital in the spring of 1972 due to an encouraging word from a friend who worked there. It was here that I decided to become a registered nurse. Financing this adventure, however, presented a problem. Since all the classes of nursing school were offered during the day, I either had to quit work and go to school or work the night shift and attend classes by day. After much deliberation I chose the latter.

Shortly before I changed working shifts and started working nights, something important happened.

One Tuesday afternoon at about 3:15 p.m. my spirits began to brighten, and I became unusually happy because the workday was almost over. However, I was very tired and looked forward to going home. I got a message that the supervisor was looking for me and wanted me to report to her office. After getting to her office and finding out what she wanted I felt a bit sorry for myself. She wanted to know if I would mind going upstairs to the wards to bring one last patient down to the operating room. She asked me because the regular orderlies had all left for the day. I agreed, but reluctantly.

Routine procedure involves checking a patient’s chart before bringing him to the operating suite. This is to make sure the chart has all the pertinent information needed before any operative procedure is performed. One piece of information that may be important is the religious affiliation of the patient because some religions forbid blood transfusions. In checking the chart I found the patient’s religion was the Bahá’í Faith.

I immediately remembered my summer in New Mexico where I had heard the word only once before, some five years ago. I remembered some of the principles of the Faith and so was rather kindly disposed toward the woman whom I was to transport to surgery.

I was a little nervous upon entering the room because transferring a patient from a bed to a gurney can be a tricky. I smiled and tried to hide my nervousness. I sincerely hoped that I was not giving away my lack of experience. Before I knew it the patient was on the gurney, and we were on our way with no major mistakes.

I really do not know why, but on the way to the operating room, I mentioned to the patient that I noticed she was a Bahá’í. To my surprise she immediately [Page 31] lit up and gave the biggest smile I had seen in a long time. For a while I thought perhaps I had indirectly witnessed a miracle. She then asked me about my religious affiliation, and I said I was open. Actually, I was floating. She asked me to leave my name and address and said she would call me when she was back home.

It was a short while later that we got together again. I found Mrs. Arden Lee very enthusiastic, earnest, and loving. She made a significant impression on me. Merely talking to her made it virtually impossible for me to continue floating. She had something that deserved my attention. The meeting was monumental.

I was curious and began to read copious amounts of Bahá’í literature, studying and meditating on them. Arden introduced me to many Bahá’í friends. I was amazed at the variety of people in the Faith. The people seemed to care; yet there was no pressure on me to conform. This I appreciated more than anything because I wanted time to investigate thoroughly. In effect, the spirit of it took me over. I saw myself happily involved but, nevertheless, questioning everything; for I tend to be emotional but not gullible.

I read many Bahá’í books, yet one in particular finally convinced me that this movement, this Bahá’í religion, was the present manifestation of God’s continuing communication with mankind. I was familiar with the quotation from the Scriptures responsible for Mr. William Sears’s title: “But the day of the Lord will come like a thief.” I read and studied Thief in the Night slowly and carefully. I even checked many of the references just to make sure. In no area did I find a contradiction, and I had been well trained to do just that. Not only did I find the book interesting, but it was well written, and it happened to be true. There was no denying that.

There was only one matter that continued to bother me about the Bahá’í Faith. I had been taught all my life that Jesus Christ was my personal Saviour, and I wondered where Bahá’u’lláh fit in this arrangement. I received good answers from a few people, but it was not until I met a Mr. Jack McCants at Green Lake, Wisconsin, that my mind was satisfied. I was initially moved by this man’s presence, but his explanation of the role of all the messengers of God proved most important. What he did was to give me a perspective that showed Jesus Christ’s place in the whole scheme of history. All of this he did naturally, succinctly, and in a believable manner. At last I was absolutely convinced. I should also say that Mr. McCants was not even expected to attend this particular Green Lake Conference; it was a spur-of-the-moment affair.

I declared my belief in Bahá’u’lláh as God’s Manifestation for this age in the Fall of 1974 at the Green Lake Conference, after five months of studying the Faith. My dream of knowing, loving, and serving God, which is what I thought the Catholic priesthood meant, was further realized. In God’s mind I guess what led to this point seems deliberate and logical. To me, the progression seems highly erratic and arduous. As I am finding out, there is still much hard work to do and many places to go.

Declaring belief in Bahá’u’lláh is a very significant and important step, but by declaring, I have in effect accepted an invitation to embrace the whole world. This means that my life might take still more challenging directions. An important direction that it has taken now after my decision at Green Lake is a definite concern about acquiring spiritual attributes. This simply means practice. Bahá’u’lláh desires eternally strong and pure followers. What is essential then is not what I say but what I do.

I thought my previous Scriptural training was more than adequate, but the writings of Bahá’u’lláh, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, and [Page 32] Shoghi Effendi have given all the previous education life and meaning. My minuscule perspective broadened in a way I never dreamed possible. God’s love and concern and actions are much more than I ever guessed. He desires all people to be a part of this love relationship. Therefore, those with the awareness must actualize this desire. Though this quest is difficult, God’s power is always there energizing us, encouraging us, and teaching us.

Now I can better see and feel the meaning of life by understanding the meaning in my own life. It is an exciting discovery. I am now in the process of preparing myself for wherever Bahá’u’lláh sends me. This means that I am paying attention to my personal weaknesses, the people beside me on the bus, the patients in my care, my fellow Bahá’í friends—everyone. Anyone who looks at society attentively sees pioneering opportunities at every turn. The work to be done is just that near and widespread.

In the final analysis, the words of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá tell the real story:

The winds of the true springtide are passing over you; adorn yourselves with blossoms like trees in the scented garden. Spring clouds are streaming; then turn you fresh and verdant like the sweet eternal fields. The dawn star is shining, set your feet on the true path. The sea of might is swelling, hasten to the shores of high resolve and fortune. The pure water of life is welling up, why wear away your days in a desert of thirst? Aim high, choose noble ends; how long this lethargy, how long this negligence! Despair, both here and hereafter, is all you will gain from self-indulgence; abomination and misery are all you will harvest from fanaticism, from believing the foolish and the mindless. The confirmations of God are supporting you, the succor of God is at hand: why do you not cry out and exult with all your heart, and strive with all your soul!

[Page 33]

[Page 34]

Mark Tobey: A Letter and Two Snapshots

It’s one thing to paint a picture, and another to experience it.

—Mark Tobey

24 April 1976

Haifa

I came along too late to know you well, Mark—

geography and our ages against it, an ocean between—

so, learning of your death, I sift for photographs

and memory serves up only two.

Others must have many; I am content with mine.

Both speak to me of courage: you will not find that strange.

The Temple in Wilmette is background to the first.

It was 1953, in Spring. I came,

new to conferences and the House of Worship,

excited, claiming it all, drunk with seizure.

You were on the stairs looking curiously lonely in the bubbling crowd.

I saw the wistfulness.

Someone whispered your name and I broke away,

rushing at you in adolescent ebullience,

bristling to possess my first celebrity.

You were a Bahá’í—public—mine—

like the Temple and the nine-pointed star.

I saw your momentary wince,

the flash of what I knew to be

a customary irritability,

saw you as victim, as target, as too often possessed

and made, trivially, an unwilling familiar.

Meetings and martyrs are of many kinds.

In that moment I could have wept for your vulnerability.

What name do we give the process

that translates private pain into human service?

We clutch the ready cliché “he did the Bahá’í thing”

and hope we’re understood.

I do not know what need you read in me

but instantly you took that step,

leaned towards my abashment.

[Page 35]

I cannot measure your cost,

saw only the warm smile,

the reaching out, the bestowal of the gift.

You would have me be your fellow-conspirator,

pretended rescuer, playmate for Peck’s bad boy.

“Let’s escape and have some tea,” you said,

and led me away, appointing me your shield,

feigning to be led. The crowd would have held you

but for the perfection of your pantomime:

two established friends

hastening through the jostle

to the deserved privacy of a longstanding, self-promised tryst,

the venerable one acknowledging greetings on the fly,

the younger appearing the more eager to be off.

Do not suggest it was mere expediency—

we know when we are used.

The stratagem succeeded.

Companionably seated in the café, in snug anonymity,

I was dizzy with expectation: what would be revealed?

Soon I knew.

You spoke of the weather in Seattle,

the food in Switzerland,

of arthritis,

of growing old.

And not a word about painting or the Faith.

I was not long puzzled. In that pedestrian flow

I was given access: Mark Tobey was revealed.

You are a painter—you paint: there, on canvas, your words.

You are a Bahá’í: befriending the young stranger,

offering tea, presenting the Faith in transaction.

Even then I was grateful to be spared discipleship

and a gratuitous verbal tour of those landmarks

that trace the outermost fringes of the stronghold of belief,

or a recital of those polite bywords we erect as barriers

at the remotest courtyard of identity

to discourage rather than invite entry or homecoming.

We separated smoothly; I, your debtor, not made to feel one.

It was as though we had spoken many times

and grown secure in our partings.

[Page 36]

More than twenty years have passed; the picture does not fade.

I have my own Mark Tobey, unretouched,

and often I consult it when courage is the prize.

I would not trade it and no, Mark, it is not for sale.

* * *

London, 1963: Spring again, the Jubilee,

another picture, an even larger crowd.

I did not look for you among the thousands but

found myself seated again at tea with you

in a random gathering,

you winking playful recognition of a longago ruse.

When, by chance, we were alone

you spoke of the weather in London,

the food in France,

of arthritis,

of growing old,

of loneliness.

And not a word about painting or the Faith.

Again I was not puzzled:

By then had seen your paintings,

had trembled,

had heard and seen you in the white writing,

knew your themes, your swoon.

“Martyrs are not popular subjects,” you once remarked.

I did not ask why you painted martyrs, Mark,

though I marveled at your valor.

Martyrs bear witness to belief;

they are the supreme lovers;

they die for love.

Who would paint martyrs in an age that debases the word

to a tag of parlour-game psychology?

Who would dare paint love in a world that has forgotten it?

Who, indeed, would frame and hang his soul?

—Roger White

[Page 37]

[Page 38]

The Knowledge of God: An Essay on Bahá’í Epistemology

BY JACK MCLEAN

THE KNOWLEDGE OF GOD, Bahá’u’lláh says, is the beginning of all things. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá states: “knowledge is the most glorious gift of man, and the most noble of human perfections. . . . knowledge is light, life, felicity, perfection, beauty, and the means of approaching the Threshold of Unity.” Further, the Bahá’í writings state that the knowledge of God along with its sister phenomenon, the love of God, is the one great purpose underlying all of creation. Here I will attempt to elucidate the means by which man acquires the knowledge of God and to clarify ideas about the methods through which one secures knowledge about God and His revelation, methods that are specifically mentioned in the Writings of the Author and the Interpreter of the Bahá’í Faith.

The epistemological process, as I see it, is more than an impersonal mechanism seeking to discover the laws of thought. It also manifests a highly dynamic quality. The knowledge of God always occurs within a particular religious experience. Knowledge and experience work together. Certain forms of knowledge are at the same time forms of religious experience.

The modes of knowledge judged to be most relevant in a discussion of the knowledge of God are: reason, intuitive knowledge, the knowledge of the heart, mystical knowledge, and faith itself, which is also a form of knowledge. These categories constitute the conceptual framework of the paper. I have elucidated them all from the point of view of one particular Bahá’í, but I hope they might be universal when applied to the entire field of religious knowledge.

‘Abdu’l-Bahá has stated that none of the roads to knowledge is by itself perfect. Therefore, I stress at the outset their complementary nature. I have made an effort, however, to place reason and its preoccupation with analysis, so prominent in western epistemology, into its proper perspective.

I. The Investigative Faculty—The Path of Reason

THE BAHÁ’Í FAITH explicitly recognizes the value of reason in man’s search for God. As a tool of philosophic and scientific enquiry, reason has been the mainstay of western civilization for at least twenty-five hundred years. Modern [Page 39] science owes much in its origins to the ancient Greeks, who, even granting the weaknesses in their scientific method and rudimentary mathematics, recognized that proper reasoning proceeds according to general principles. The notion of proof, of general demonstration, is a specifically Greek invention. Rather than relying on myth and legend as a means of explaining the world, as the Mesopotamians and Egyptians had done, the Greeks brought a logical and scientific element to their theories. The Egyptians knew, for example, how to construct a right-angled triangle; but it took a Greek, Pythagoras, to explain the theorem.

From a theological point of view, the faculty of reason within man himself has long been viewed as one of those components of God’s “image” in which the book of Genesis tells us man was made. For St. Augustine, reason was the eye of the soul given to man that he might comprehend God. Reason in this light, has been viewed as one of the attributes of a Creator, who is orderly rather than capricious, omniscient rather than sometimes wise.

‘Abdu’l-Bahá has stated that the method of reason is the method of understanding. The Bahá’í Writings contain numerous references to this faculty, which is viewed as constituting one of man’s distinctive characteristics in relation to the animal: “God’s greatest gift to man is that of intellect, or understanding.” Further: “This human rational soul is God’s creation; it contains and excels other creatures. . . .” Not only is reason a supernatural gift as the quotations above illustrate; its outstanding quality is its power of “intellectual investigation,” its ability to discover laws and relationships: “This scientific power investigates and apprehends created objects and the laws surrounding them. It is the discoverer of the hidden and mysterious secrets of the material universe and is peculiar to man alone.” Through the rational faculty man is able to transform his environment: “But man through the exercise of his scientific, intellectual power can rise out of this condition, can modify, change and control nature according to his own wishes and uses. Science, so to speak, [Page 40] is the ‘breaker’ of the laws of nature.” Reason also exhibits a logical or orderly quality: “The human spirit consists of the rational, or logical, reasoning faculty, which apprehends general ideas and things intelligible and perceptible.”

The Bahá’í Faith is proclaimed to be scientific in its method. A body of literature already exists in the Faith exploring the relationship between religion and science. What I find noteworthy is that Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, did not in his writings anywhere give any strict definition of what is meant by the scientific method, in its methodological application to religion. At least one eminent authority in the field has stated that the term “scientific method” is in itself beyond definition. Crystallographer, Dr. John Desmond Bernal, Fellow of the Royal Society and author of the four-volume Science in History, writes:

There is a danger of considering it as a kind of ideal Platonic form, as if there were one proper way of finding the Truth about Nature or Man, and the scientist’s only task was to find this way and abide in it. Such an absolute conception is belied by the whole history of science, with its continual development of a multiplicity of new methods. . . . Consequently, scientific method, like science itself defies definition. It is made up of a number of operations some mental, some manual.

Working definitions of the scientific method can be useful, however, in helping one to understand the scientific process at work within religion. Any such definition must be sufficiently broad to be applicable to religion. In its barest outline it refers to the systematic use of man’s faculties to gain knowledge. If one were to attempt to apply some highly technical or rigid definition of the scientific method to religion, he would quickly find such a definition completely unworkable. The positivist definition of the scientific method is a case in point.

The scientific method postulated by Auguste Comte (1798-1857) rejects all forms of a priori knowledge but especially transcendent or metaphysical ones, whereas the Bahá’í Faith, as well as other world religions, clearly recognizes man’s innate capacity to acquire a knowledge and a love of God. Positivism accepts truths verified by the experimental method only, whereas religion recognizes the possibility of the immediate apprehension of spiritual truth. Positivism teaches that the ultimate statement of truth lies in man’s [Page 41] rational discovery of laws in the physical, social, or moral spheres only, whereas religion recognizes theological statements pertaining to a Being called God. In Cours de Philosophie Positive, Comte postulated the law of the three states, which corresponded to the different stages in the development of mankind— the theological, the metaphysical, and the positivistic. Religion, the theological state, was nothing more than a primitive stage in the evolution of mankind that sought to explain the phenomena of nature as interventions of the gods. Mankind, Comte thought, having nearly outgrown its religion, was on the threshold of the positivistic state, the last and highest stage in mankind’s development, the stage of the real, certain, and useful. Comte’s understanding of religion reveals that he did not have a grasp of religion beyond Greek polytheism. Arguing from such an extreme example, as Comte’s in pejorem partem, does not give an accurate picture of all the proponents of the scientific method. But it does serve to show to what extremes a belief in science without religion can lead some individuals. (By the same token beliefs in religion devoid of science can lead to profitless, puerile, or unfounded notions.)

Three hundred years ago Blaise Pascal said that the supreme achievement of reason was to bring one to the place where he realized reason’s limitations: “The final step in reason’s progress is to recognize that there is an infinity of things that lie beyond it. It remains weak as long as it does not manage to realize that.”

Reasons for belief in God are doubtless more complex than obvious demonstrations of God’s existence. William James, for example, argued that the sources of religious belief seem to lie more in the realm of man’s will than in his speculative intelligence. James argued that one must always be prepared to admit the possibility of error when he speaks of rational proofs for God’s existence; I think most people would admit that reason does not constitute an infallible epistemological tool. However, the problem becomes more acute when one takes the agnostic’s position that in the face of inconclusive evidence he must suspend judgment, for in so doing he is in effect denying God since He thus ceases to have any further connection with his life. He becomes a dead issue. Agnostics are right when they state that the proofs for the existence of God are not infallible, but they are wrong when they restrict the method of proof to the field of reason alone. If one is not convinced by reason alone, and he wants to find out the truth about religion, he has to be willing to act as if it were true to see whether it proves itself in experience—he has to “will to believe.” If the religious experience is able [Page 42] to transform individuals and indeed whole societies, it must be valid. James explored the whole field of religious experience in his classic The Varieties of Religious Experience. James saw that somehow to suspend one’s instincts, heart, and courage in his search after God was “the queerest idol ever manufactured in the philosophic cave.”

It should be remembered that revealed religion, the self-disclosure of God to mankind through a prophetic figure, has never contained proofs for the existence of God. Moses, Jesus, Muḥammad and, in our day, Bahá’u’lláh, never attempted to buttress their revelations by trying to lay down a metaphysical foundation for belief. In revealed, prophetic religion, God is the ground and source of the revelation Who enters into a relationship with mankind by means of the spoken word through the Manifestation Who is the Divine Word. The “thus saith the Lord” of the Old Testament and the “recite” and “say” of the Islamic and Bahá’í dispensations clearly indicate this relationship. As for Christianity, Jesus says: “‘When you have lifted up the Son of man, then you will know that I am he, and that I do nothing on my own authority but speak thus as the Father taught me’” (John 8:28). This saying among many others indicates the nature of the same relationship. (See also John 8:42-47, 54; 10:25; 13:16; 14:24-28.) Belief that the knowledge of God is not directly accessible is basic to any Bahá’í discussion of the concept of God that emphasizes that the Divinity cannot be known directly and that the knowledge of Him is, therefore, mediated to mankind through the Prophets. The Prophets do not incarnate the essence of Divinity, but They do reflect the names and attributes of God. “Names” here do not refer only to qualifying adjectives such as the All-Knowing, for example. “Names” also imply by extension the entire body of religious knowledge that the Omniscient One reveals to mankind. Anyone, therefore, who acquires knowledge of the teachings of the Prophets acquires knowledge of God:

The knowledge of the Reality of the Divinity is impossible and unattainable, but the knowledge of the Manifestations of God is the knowledge of God, for the bounties, splendors, and divine attributes are apparent in them. Therefore if man attains to the knowledge of the Manifestations of God, he will attain to the knowledge of God; and if he be neglectful of the knowledge of the Holy Manifestation, he will be bereft of the knowledge of God.

II. Preamble to Intuitive Knowledge— Knowledge of the Heart—Mystic Knowledge

THE COMPLEMENTARY NATURE of science and religion described in the Bahá’í writings would seem to require that the notion of the scientific method in religion be augmented with the notion of the “dynamic influence” of [Page 43] religion. Shoghi Effendi has asserted that the revelation proclaimed by Bahá’u’lláh, in addition to being scientific in its method, is “dynamic in the influence it exerts on the hearts and minds of men.” To anyone who has seriously studied their Writings it will appear obvious that Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá tell man that the knowledge of God will lead him ultimately to the experience of the manifestations of the divine. The forms of religious knowledge described in the following pages as well as the quality of the experience of which they form a part all have a subjective quality in the sense that they are experienced by the individual. But let that not detract from the experience. The individual Bahá’í does not wander off into a wilderness of self-generated spiritual experiences. He follows closely the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Who have provided him with the models and patterns of spiritual experiences and the knowledge they contain and have described them in great detail. Where the seeker closely follows Their method of spiritual discovery and gains a first-hand knowledge of these patterns, he gains an experience that is both scientific and spiritual—in a word, real. However moving the spiritual discovery of the Bahá’í might be, he also realizes that such a discovery is not an end in itself. It should somehow contribute to increasing his knowledge and love of God. Therein lies its true value. Moreover, he realizes that any new-found knowledge he may acquire must be put to good use in the teaching, administrative, and social arenas of his Faith.

III. Intuitive Knowledge—the Absolute Gift

“. . . if the inner perception be open, a hundred thousand clear proofs become visible.”

ONE of the more fascinating modes of knowledge is intuitive knowledge, which is explicitly mentioned in many passages in the Bahá’í writings. It may with equal validity be referred to as immediate apprehension, direct knowledge, intuitive reason, or insight. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá describes it in Some Answered Questions:

Knowledge is of two kinds: one is subjective, and the other objective knowledge; that is to say, an intuitive knowledge and a knowledge derived from perception.

The knowledge of things which men universally have, is gained by reflection or by evidence: that is to say, either by the power of the mind the conception of an object is formed, or from beholding an object the form is produced in the mirror of the heart. The circle of this knowledge is very limited, because it depends upon effort and attainment.

But the second sort of knowledge, which is the knowledge of being, is intuitive, it is like the cognisance and consciousness that man has of himself. [emphasis added]

Objective knowledge, then, is the mode of knowledge “which men universally have,” and which is based on proof, “evidence,” conveyed through the [Page 44] senses, “perception.” Intuitive knowledge, on the contrary, is direct knowledge not dependent upon study, “like the cognisance and consciousness that man has of himself.”

Ordinary men share intuitive knowledge with the Manifestations of God. The crucial difference is that the knowledge of the Manifestations of God is an absolute and not a relative knowledge; it apprehends the essence of all realities rather than their external qualities alone: “the universal Manifestations of God . . . surround the essence and qualities of the creatures, transcend and contain existing realities and understand all things. . . .” This is a categorical, qualitative difference. But it is certain that man also shares an intuitive knowledge of being, for ‘Abdu’l-Bahá states, “This is the knowledge of being which man realises and perceives. . . .” Intuitive knowledge is also in the nature of a pure grace, for ‘Abdu’l-Bahá further states, “it is an absolute gift.”

We may infer from these passages that intuitive knowledge bridges the subject-object dichotomy. It constitutes a border-line realm between affectivity or emotion and pure abstract reasoning. It bypasses the processes of dialectics or systematic reasoning with its sequences of hypothesis-proof-conclusion. Intuitive knowledge is existential knowledge in the sense that it is experienced directly in the immediate rather than being thought out conceptually within a framework of time. It is based on the assumption that the mind has the power to intuit truths directly through a form of nonanalytic reasoning. Meditation is simply the protracted use of intuitive reason directed toward questions hitherto unanswered. The use of intuitive knowledge is not confined to the study of religion alone. It is widely used in the humanities, in theology and philosophy, and especially in literature, which is also a world of immediate experience. Intuitive reason makes greater use of symbols and feelings than it does in working out abstract arguments. This is why all scriptures are so full of symbols. They are more apt to convey directly to the consciousness the truths of the revelation than abstract reasonings. Specifically, the use of intuitive knowledge in the humanities is called the phenomenological method, which is the investigation into the basic structures of consciousness and the conditions under which any kind of experience is possible. As such it is to be distinguished from psychology, which is more concerned with the behavioral manifestations of man’s inner consciousness.

When one listens to the Divine Word, he is making active use of intuitive knowledge. The words sink deeply, so to speak, into the soul, and one immediately recognizes their truth and responds to them. In this way knowing becomes a form of experience. Bahá’ís meet this experience of intuitive knowing during the devotional part of the Nineteen Day Feast, which has been aptly described as “the very heart of their spiritual activity, their participation in the mystery of the Holy Utterance. . . .” At that moment, one may say [Page 45] he is one with the Writings, one with the revelation. He has momentarily filled the gap between himself and the revelation. He has overcome the subject-object dichotomy.

It would be of interest at this point to draw some further implications of the affective nature of intuitive knowledge. There is a strong element of feeling in this form of knowledge. Feeling, however, should not be construed here to mean subjective emotion, but feeling is still perhaps the most accurate word to explain the relationship. One could best describe the concept of feeling as “a relationship of absolute dependence upon God.” It is a moot point whether a relationship of absolute dependence lies more in the realm of feeling or reason. Nonetheless, what is being stressed in the definition is the feeling of dependency. Connected with this process of the intuitive recognition of spiritual truths is one’s dependence upon them for his spiritual wellbeing. It is indeed doubtful whether religion could exist at all without the feeling of dependency upon God. The absence of such feeling would preclude faith, prayer, the knowledge of God, deeds, and almost everything that pertains to religion. Most academic definitions of religion usually include this notion of dependence.

There is one dramatic example from the history of the Bahá’í Faith that indicates clearly how dynamic this form of apprehension is and how it involves the feeling of absolute dependence. The example is the conversion of Ḥujjat to the Faith of the Báb. About 1845 Ḥujjat deputized one of his disciples, Mullá Iskandar, to investigate the new revelation in Shíráz. Upon Iskandar’s return to Zanján Ḥujjat reprimanded him in the presence of the ‘ulamá (doctors of the law) of that city for stating that his acceptance or rejection of the new revelation would be conditional upon that of Ḥujjat:

Receiving from the hand of his messenger the copy of Qayyúm-Asmá’, he, as soon as he had perused a page of that book, fell prostrate upon the ground and exclaimed: “I bear witness that these words which I have read proceed from the same Source as that of the Qur’án. Whoso has recognised the truth of that sacred Book must needs testify to the Divine origin of these words, and must needs submit to the precepts inculcated by their Author. I take you, members of this assembly, as my witnesses: I pledge such allegiance to the Author of this Revelation that should He ever pronounce the night to be the day, and declare the sun to be a shadow, I would unreservedly submit to His judgment, and would regard His verdict as the [Page 46] voice of Truth. Whoso denies Him, him will I regard as the repudiator of God Himself.” With these words he terminated the proceedings of that gathering.

What other type of knowledge but a direct and immediate apprehension of the truth itself could have had such a striking effect upon Ḥujjat? Of course, one is dealing here with an experience of a highly inspirational quality stemming from the direct influence of the Manifestation Himself; the immediate apprehension of the truth is, however, the distinguishing feature of the experience. Moreover, one senses the compelling influence of this form of knowledge when he considers that Ḥujjat himself testified that he “involuntarily, yet with full option” confessed the truth of Báb’s claims. From this example it appears that intuitive knowledge has much in the nature of spiritual instinct, for it appears to have been acting independently upon Ḥujjat’s will.

Falling prostrate upon the ground is one of the characteristic modes of behavior one finds in the face of the compelling power of revelation. It should not be regarded as a symbolic gesture indicating humility; rather it is the true instinctual act expressing one’s recognition of the divine power and might when encountered directly. This particular aspect of Ḥujjat’s conversion is typical of some of the experiences of the Prophets in which the Divine is experienced as an awe-inspiring and majestic force that by its very presence compels the worshiper to recognize it. It strongly resembles Daniel’s vision of a glorious personage on the banks of the Tigris:

So I was left alone and saw this great vision, and no strength was left in me; my radiant appearance was fearfully changed, and I retained no strength. Then I heard the sound of his words; and when I heard the sound of his words, I fell on my face in a deep sleep with my face to the ground (Daniel 8-9).

The two incidents are dissimilar in that Daniels’ experience was truly visionary, but they do resemble one another in that both experienced the Divine alone even though they were in the presence of others. To use the biblical expression, both Ḥujjat and Daniel fell on their faces. It is of equal interest to contrast this form of conversion, which is an independent recognition of the truth, with conversions in which the subjective emotions of guilt and sin are evoked to produce a breakdown in ego defense mechanisms. But apart from this type of immediate experience, the Bahá’í Faith also recognizes the gradual and difficult process involved in converting one’s nature to reflect an ever-increasing spirituality.

It would be wrong, however, to infer that the Bahá’í revelation does not invite one to make use of systematic reasoning in understanding religion. The rational faculty does, of course, raise questions about the meaning of the revelation, and one should seek to answer such questions by all possible means [Page 47] whether it be private discussions, research, prayer, meditation, deepenings, schools, and so on. Questions and answers are central to the dialectic method that was used extensively by both Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. The path of reason and intuitive knowledge are complementary paths. In fact, it is often desirable to verify intuitive knowledge by the use of critical reason; otherwise, one may make gratuitous observations about things without any supportive proofs. Belief in the exclusivity of intuition can easily turn into a smug form of esoteric knowledge that dispenses with public verification, in the same way that belief in the superiority of reason, with its objectivity and definitiveness, can lead to intellectual pride.

IV. The Knowledge of the Heart

THERE EXISTS among students of religion the inaccurate impression that the heart must mean only emotion in a poetical sense, with all of the dangers this implies. There also exists the notion that the heart is a totally subjective reality, much too personal to make discussions of its experiences a fruitful exercise. While such views may contain elements of truth, they reflect superficial notions of the role of the heart in the discovery of the knowledge of God.

The knowledge of the heart is one of the fundamental pivots around which turns the knowledge of God. It might prove useful at the outset to contrast the knowledge of the heart with other forms of knowledge—reason and intuitive knowledge. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá describes intuitive knowledge as “the knowledge of being,” a direct and immediate form of knowledge bypassing the stages of dialectics. Reason consists of the logical exercise of the rational faculty in an effort to demonstrate objective truth. The knowledge of God gained through the heart is the knowledge of the Manifestation Himself that the seeker experiences in the realm of personal knowledge or personal encounter. The personal dimension is its outstanding feature. It does possess some of the characteristics of mysticism, but the knowledge of the heart is more especially the knowledge of what is mine since it resides, so to speak, within me. It is the discovery of divine revelation, the Word of God, the Manifestation Himself within the human soul. The Hidden Words make several references to this type of personal knowledge of the Manifestation: “O SON OF LIGHT! Forget all save Me and commune with My spirit. This is of the essence of My command, therefore turn unto it.” “O SON OF BEING! Thy heart is My home; sanctify it for My descent. Thy spirit is My place of revelation; cleanse it for My Manifestation.”

In The Kitáb-i-Íqán Bahá’u’lláh made one of His most cogent elucidations [Page 48] of this divine reality, a statement from which, in conjunction with other passages on the same theme, one may conclude: (1) The heart is the seat of the inner mysteries of God, and its purification is the sine qua non of the acquisition of divine knowledge. (2) There is a direct relationship between spiritual passion and the acquisition of knowledge and certitude. By referring to the Íqán, one can make a more complete explanation of these statements. The first proposition is based on those pages of the Íqán that deal with the individual’s search for the knowledge of God:

But, O my brother, when a true seeker determines to take the step of search in the path leading to the knowledge of the Ancient of Days, he must, before all else, cleanse and purify his heart, which is the seat of the revelation of the inner mysteries of God, from the obscuring dust of all acquired knowledge, and the allusions of the embodiments of satanic fancy.

This passage clearly reveals the heart as the locus of divine knowledge and declares that it must undergo a process of purification in order to discover the knowledge of God latent within it. I would like to attempt an explanation of this process of purification, which is unique since it constitutes a reversal of the traditional educational process.

The Purgation Process—The Via Negativa: Speaking of the purification process, Bahá’u’lláh states clearly that the seeker, in his search for the knowledge of God, must cease applying acquired forms of knowledge, “the obscuring dust of all acquired knowledge.” By this is meant forms of knowledge that are not intrinsic to the revelation itself. The point here is that the knowledge of God does not refer to the practical application of the revelation to the needs of the body politic. This would, to be sure, necessitate specialized competencies as well as the need for an administrative machinery to accomplish the task. Rather, the passage, when taken in context, refers to the knowledge of the Manifestation Himself, the knowledge of the Manifestation being a quality of the Manifestation and not the essence of the Manifestation, to observe the distinction made by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Bahá’u’lláh seems to be suggesting that the method of gaining divine knowledge and the object of knowledge, the knowledge of the Manifestation, are all one. The method is divine, and the object is the Divinity. Thus the process involved in the search for the knowledge of God, like the Faith itself, is unitary. The unique aspect of the process is that it is autonomous and independent of any other methods. It is a process that could be termed sui generis, whole and unique, a unity unto itself. This method of acquiring divine knowledge is paradoxical to the acquisition of worldly knowledge since acquired knowledge consists of filling up the mind with information whereas Bahá’u’lláh is clearly saying that one must empty himself of worldly knowledge in order to discover the knowledge of God. Thus the process is a via negativa in which one must negate the one to find the other. In the light of this statement, the assertion “‘The most grievous of all veils is the veil of knowledge’” becomes comprehensible. [Page 49] Knowledge is also a grievous veil, for Bahá’u’lláh explains elsewhere in The Kitáb-i-Íqán that acquired knowledge is borrowed knowledge and that borrowed knowledge has the disadvantage of leading to pride.

To use acquired forms of knowledge in pursuit of the knowledge of God would result in a confusion of method and object, rather like using a road map to navigate upon an uncharted sea. Bahá’u’lláh, however, is not suggesting that one stop learning, reading, or working because it involves being caught up in acquired knowledge. Such antiworldliness would constitute obvious contradictions to other explicit teachings of Bahá’u’lláh. It simply means that one does not apply these other forms of knowledge in the search after the knowledge of the Manifestation. Bahá’u’lláh’s notion of purifying the consciousness from all previous presuppositions of knowledge in order to gain true knowledge has not been posited by him alone. Edmund Husserl (1859-1938) described this process as epoché (Greek for “stoppage”) in which everything except the object under study is temporarily put into brackets and excluded from consciousness. Husserl claimed that such a method would lead to the true knowledge of the eideia or universal essences which, according to him, are the only objects worthy of true study. But Bahá’u’lláh invites one to the search after the most genuine object of study—God—who reveals himself to the seeker, as we will see, in a dynamic and personal relationship.

The second proposition gleaned from The Kitáb-i-Íqán—“There is a direct relationship between spiritual passion and the acquisition of knowledge and certitude”—bears examination. In Western society man has been taught that he should keep emotion out of higher learning. The reasoning goes that it will somehow distort his perception of the pure objective truth. The truth is that there is no pure objective truth for the simple reason that man’s understanding of it is relative to and contingent upon a great variety of factors: “Philosophy consists in comprehending the reality of things as they exist, according to the capacity and the power of man.” Man must bring himself, his whole self, to bear in his search after knowledge. Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá taught that where the knowledge of God is concerned (this also applies to other forms of knowledge) emotion is a valid and indeed indispensible aspect of the epistemological process. In fact, the following passage from The Kitáb-i-Íqán points out that it is only to the degree to which the individual allows his spiritual passions free play in the search after God that he will be successful in attaining knowledge and certitude:

Only when the lamp of search, of earnest striving, of longing desire, of passionate devotion, of fervid love, of rapture, and ecstasy, is kindled within the seeker’s heart, and the breeze of His loving-kindness wafted upon his soul, will the darkness of error be dispelled, the mists of doubts and misgivings be dissipated, and the lights of knowledge and certitude envelop his being.

[Page 50] Feeling viewed as a component of the process of knowing renders it vital, dynamic, alive. For a Bahá’í the method of securing knowledge is not a detached and objective exercise of reason alone. It involves his participation at the deepest levels of his being. The exercise of the passions must also involve the use of volition. If he finds difficulty in attaining these states, he must intently desire their realization. Passages such as the one cited demonstrate that the nonrational faculties of man’s nature can lead him as surely to the knowledge of the divine as those of logic and reason. Bahá’u’lláh has done much to narrow the traditional Western gap between the heart and the head.

V. The Mystic Knower

“For the core of religious faith is that mystic feeling which unites man with God.” Shoghi Effendi

THE WORD “mystical” often makes one ill at ease or at best evokes a neutral response. These reactions are understandable. First, it would appear that mysticism is largely a question of natural endowment and that relatively few people are predisposed to such experiences. Mysticism, then, is irrelevant to a large segment of the population. Second, pragmatic and scientifically minded individuals tend to dismiss the reports of mystics as vagaries that have no objective value and are incapable of scientific verification. Other criticisms point to the private and personal emphasis placed on the nature of mystical experience that tends to override the community aspects of religious life and that at worst degenerates into self-indulgent, antisocial behaviour. There are also examples of the degraded and immoral mystics who thought themselves above the law.

It is not my intention to debate the validity of these criticisms. I wish simply to point out that in the Bahá’í context such criticisms become largely inapplicable because the Founders of the Faith have provided safeguards that counteract excesses. As for the nature of the mystical experience itself, the Bahá’í Faith recognizes its intrinsic value.

The Bahá’í Faith also recognizes the value of diversity in shades of thought and personality among its adherents. Hence the person of so-called mystic bent is as welcome in the ranks of the Faith as individuals whose personal interests stress the social, scientific, historical, institutional, or psychological aspects of religion. In addition, any experiences of a private nature remain precisely that—individual and private. While nothing in the Faith prevents individuals from sharing such experiences with others, under no circumstances do they take on an authoritative character to be imposed upon the body of the believers. Bahá’u’lláh’s Revelation and the authorized interpretations of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and Shoghi Effendi remain the definitive statement for the believers. Any mystical experience the individual may have, moreover, ought to be set within a theological and metaphysical framework that is the means of verifying its validity. The statements constituting this framework are also found in the authorized writings of the Founders and their Interpreters. For example, any person who believes that he has become one with the Godhead [Page 51] in mystical contemplation and has, therefore, taken on the nature of the Godhead as some mystics have claimed has made an unwarranted inference from the experience itself. The Bahá’í Faith clearly recognizes the validity of mystical experience, but Bahá’u’lláh’s Writings provide a framework for interpreting it. It is necessary to distinguish between the experience and its interpretations. Also, Bahá’u’lláh has forbidden to his followers cloistering and monasticism, which have been the traditional breeding grounds of mysticism, and has invited all men to active participation in the life of society. Salvation for the Bahá’í cannot take place in a cloister or in shunning his fellowmen. Finally, the Bahá’í writings stress the wholesome nature of community relationships and the necessity of assemblies of consultation for the administration of the affairs of the Faith. All of these safeguards effectively prevent an overemphasis on private religious experience. Having safely limited the perimeters of mystical experience, we can more confidently venture into an understanding of it.

I should like to offer the following five statements on the qualities of mysticism based on the Bahá’í writings as well as on other literature: (1) Mysticism is a spiritual philosophy of life and as such holds an ultimate view of reality. (2) This ultimate view of reality holds that within man there is an untapped reservoir of spiritual knowledge that transcends his everyday consciousness; that this reality exhibits a quality of oneness that underlies the particularities of the sense world; and that man can attain union with the manifestations of the divine. (3) Mysticism seeks verification of its belief in ultimate reality through direct, nondiscursive, spiritual experience. (4) It affirms that the actual experience of encounter with the manifestation of the divine is ineffable. The experience is, of course, described but what is emphasized is the inability of language adequately to express it. (5) Mysticism should seek to express itself in acts motivated through spirituality rather than through passive contemplation alone. This is particularly stressed in the Bahá’í Faith.

Edward Granville Browne, the British orientalist who did much to acquaint the West with Persian civilization and who was one of the first Western scholars to write on the Bábí dispensation, has defined mysticism thus: “It is in essence an enunciation, more or less clear, more or less eloquent, of the aspiration of the soul to cease altogether from self, and to be at one with God.”

Regardless of one’s predisposition, it is difficult to ignore the fact that Bahá’u’lláh has written the finest mystical treatises, The Seven Valleys and the Four Valleys, compositions written to different individuals. It would be easy to view this work as a less important appendage to Bahá’u’lláh’s other [Page 52] works destined for the initiates or for future generations. In fact, Shoghi Effendi ranked this mystical composition only third in importance to The Kitáb-i-Íqán and The Hidden Words,three works forming a triad of doctrinal, ethical, and mystical writings. In The Seven Valleys Bahá’u’lláh “describes the seven stages which the soul of the seeker must needs traverse ere it can attain the object of its existence.” The essay may be viewed as both the epitome and the measure of all mystical experience. It is at the same time the description, the prescription, and the interpretation of mysticism. Bearing in mind that it is the mystic feeling that is “the core of religious faith,” how does Bahá’u’lláh depict the transformation of the human consciousness from the mundane to the mystical? These transformations may be viewed as being seven in number, and they correspond in their general features to seven valleys: 1. Transformation from self-contentment to the burning search after God: “Labor is needed, if we are to seek Him; ardor is needed, if we are to drink of the honey of reunion with Him. . . .” (p. 7). 2. Transformation from the world of duality, contradictions, and paradoxes to the world of oneness: “In this station he pierceth the veils of plurality, fleeth from the worlds of the flesh, and ascendeth into the heavens of singleness” (p. 17). 3. Transformation from relative and incomplete understanding to the realm of absolute knowledge: “He stretcheth out the hand of truth from the sleeve of the Absolute. . . .” (p. 18). 4. Transformation from mundane consciousness to the realm of ecstasy: “From sorrow he turneth to bliss, from anguish to joy. His grief and mourning yield to delight and rapture” (p. 29). 5. Transformation from the three dimensional world of time and space to the realm of infinity: “In the ocean he findeth a drop, in a drop he beholdeth the secrets of the sea” (p. 12). 6. Transformation from sporadic spirituality to the complete expression of divine attributes: “This station is the dying from self and the living in God, the being poor in self and rich in the Desired One” (p. 36). 7. Transformation from ego-consciousness to annihilation in God: “They . . . reckon this city—which is the station of life in God—as the furthermost state of mystic knowers, and the farthest homeland of the lovers” (p. 41).

VI. Faith

IN ANY DISCUSSION of faith, one must avoid the pitfall of reductionist simplicity. He can neither fix the meaning of faith nor restrict its implications. The Bahá’í writings allude to a wide range of concepts in the discussion of faith.

One of the more common distortions in the understanding of the notion [Page 53] of faith is that which reveals an intellectual bias. The intellectual bias against faith is characterized by a deep-seated skepticism as to the validity of the tenets of religion. Such criticisms usually center around teachings that are viewed as unscientific or irrelevant to the human condition and usually focus on the defects of organized religion. The intellectualist bias does not view faith as a valid form of cognition but rather as an inconsequential affair of the heart in which the emotions masquerade as some primitive form of belief. Such an intellectualist bias is usually manifest when it perceives that religion is not to be confined to the corner of mere subjective emotion, that it can and does demonstrate scientific processes, political organization, and moral imperatives. When this happens, the intellectualist bias usually wants to put faith back into the corner of subjective emotion. If some validity to the cognitive nature of faith is granted, it is usually viewed as a form of knowledge characterized by a low degree of evidence. Thus the intellectualist bias characterizes faith as knowledge having a low degree of evidence. The “blind faith” of popular parlance reflects such an attitude. The Bahá’í Faith, on the contrary, explicitly recognizes that faith is above all, but not exclusively, a form of knowing something about God. Far from being a blind voluntaristic thrust of the will into the dark when reason fails, faith is consciousness— conscious knowledge—and is so defined in Bahá’í teaching: “The lamp is lighted, but as it hath not a conscious knowledge of itself, no one hath become glad because of it. . . . By faith is meant, first, conscious knowledge, and second, the practice of good deeds.”

Intellectualist distortion of faith is based more upon a misunderstanding of the function of epistemology than anything else. It would be futile here to try to draw distinctions between so-called scientific knowledge as having a higher degree of verifiability than knowledge through faith. The truth of faith is as verifiable as the truth of science, given a certain set of assumptions. Science, too, employs its set of assumptions when making its inquiries. The sphere of inquiry is different in religion as are the tools of verification. Religion does not use instrumentation to verify its hypotheses but can and indeed must, from the Bahá’í point of view, proceed according to systematic and orderly methods of inquiry. Thus faith can take on a genuinely scientific character, while still maintaining the integrity of its own sphere of knowledge. Scientific truths no matter how widely accepted today are temporary or preliminary statements to the scientific truths of tomorrow. In our age the principles of quantum physics and indeterminancy have undercut long-established scientific hypotheses and have clearly revealed the contingent nature of scientific truth. But let this not detract from the validity of science. The contingent nature of scientific statements does not diminish the truth value of a tested and verified scientific principle, though knowledge of it does have the effect of preventing scientific dogmatism. The same relative and contingent character applies equally to statements of a spiritual or religious nature: “Repudiating the claim of any religion to be the final revelation of God to man, disclaiming finality for His own Revelation, Bahá’u’lláh inculcates the basic principle of the relativity of religious truth, the continuity of Divine Revelation, the progressiveness [Page 54] of religious experience.”

Even when maintaining the valid distinction between the social and spiritual nature of religion as dynamic and static forms respectively, it is necessary to bear in mind that the spiritual nature of religious truth is also relative in nature, even if this means nothing more than its being relative to our own understanding of it. But in addition to the individual’s relative understanding of them, the eternal principles of love and justice, just to name two of the more outstanding ones, reveal an expansionary and progressive nature as mankind’s collective understanding of them increases. Bahá’u’lláh has considerably amplified the concepts of both love and justice in His Writings and especially that of unity, whose principles were also present in previous dispensations. Thus we see that both religion and science reveal unitary features in their epistemological process yet maintain the integrity of their own sphere of knowledge.

The intellectualist distortion of faith also misunderstands the total concept of reason and restricts its meaning to that of scientific method only, logical consistence, or power of analysis. This particular definition of technical reason is historically speaking a contemporary one and should be contrasted with that of the logos or universal reason of the Greek, the early Christian, and the Enlightenment eras. The latter definition of reason, rather than being a technical method of scientific inquiry, referred to the divine principle that infused order, meaning, and structure into the world. One historian of religion holds that the best translation of logos is “the creative manifestation of God,” which in Bahá’í understanding is no one other than the Prophetic Figure. The prologue to the Gospel of John reveals that some early Christians held that the Christ was the personification of this creative and all-knowing power in the universe. Even without accepting this Christian notion of the logos, its wider definition as “universal reason” has broader implications for man’s participation in a wide variety of cultural activities—science, art, literature, philosophy, and religion. It is not confined to the realm of scientific methodology alone.

Paul Tillich provided religionists with a novel existentialist definition of faith when he defined it simply as the state of being “ultimately concerned.” Tillich, however, has unwittingly echoed similar words of Bahá’u’lláh written some one hundred years earlier that a state of faith is reflected in “anxious concern”: “Be anxiously concerned with the needs of the age ye live in, and center your deliberations on its exigencies and requirements.” Measured by the Bahá’í standard, Tillich’s definition has a certain validity taken in its extended meaning. Tillich argues, convincingly I think, that no man is without [Page 55] his ultimate concern, however high or low on the scale of values and that, therefore, no man is without faith of a type. The individual is not without his vital concerns. Political concerns can easily claim ultimacy for the nation. These claims of ultimacy that preoccupy man have in their nature the demand for the total surrender of him who pursues them. The definition has profound and far-reaching implications. If man’s ultimate concern, his faith, centers in something other than its genuine object—namely God—faith becomes idolatrous and demonic in the retrogressive, even highly destructive form that it takes. Biblical faith very clearly defined the legitimate object of one’s ultimate concern in the great commandment: “‘and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might’” (Deut. 6:5). Bahá’u’lláh in The Hidden Words has defined the object of our ultimate concern in similar words: “O SON OF BEING! Love Me, that I may love thee. If thou lovest Me not, My love can in no wise reach thee.” Genuine religious faith is directed toward the Deity as a Being having ultimate meaning and significance. Idolatrous faith is the substitution of the infinite, all-knowing, all-powerful God with lesser finite and material objects. The well-known traditional example of idolatrous faith, drawn from Jewish history, is the reversion of the Israelites during the Exodus to the worship of the Golden Calf, a practice common to most Semitic tribes of the ancient Near East. Shoghi Effendi clearly maintained that our century was not without its false gods or idols, subjects of man’s ultimate concern, whose destructive impact upon civilization has had a far more devastating effect than Israel’s worship of the idol:

The chief idols in the desecrated temple of mankind are none other than the triple gods of Nationalism, Racialism and Communism, at whose altars governments and peoples, whether democratic or totalitarian, at peace or at war, of the East or of the West, Christian or Islamic, are, in various forms and in different degrees now worshiping. Their high prieSts are the politicians and the worldly-wise, the so-called sages of the age; their sacrifice, the flesh and blood of the slaughtered multitudes. . . .

This is not poetic allegory. Mankind has come full circle in its spiritual evolution. And as in the days of Moses when the nature of faith was grounded in a covenantal relationship of threat and promise, so the faith of Bahá’u’lláh contains a threat and a promise: “for which any man or people who believes in them, or acts upon them, must, sooner or later, incur the wrath and chastisement of God.” In addition to the deification of the state, the petty god attendant on this trinity is the no less pernicious doctrine of the dominance of a privileged class. In contrast with this stands Bahá’u’lláh’s ultimate concern for the unity of the planet in one global faith: “‘Bend your minds and wills to the education of the peoples and kindreds of the earth, that haply . . . all mankind may become the upholders of one order, and the inhabitants of one city . . .’ ‘That one indeed is a man who today dedicateth himself to the service of the entire human race.’”

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A Look at Islam

A REVIEW OF H. M. BALYUZI’S Muḥammad and the Course of Islám (OXFORD: GEORGE RONALD, 1976), XVIII + 425 PAGES, GLOSSARY, BIBLIOGRAPHY, AND INDEX

BY JOHN WALBRIDGE

MUḤAMMAD and Islám have always been close to the hearts of Bahá’ís, not only because Bahá’u’lláh taught that all the great religions are divine in origin, but more particularly because Islám is the historical background of and the last major religion prior to the Bahá’í Faith. Eastern Bahá’ís have maintained a deep devotion to Islám, unexpected in view of their experiences with some of its exponents, while Western Bahá’ís, accustomed to Christian beliefs and categories, have eagerly struggled to understand this religion whose surface similarity to Christianity masks fundamental divergences in spirit. Eastern Bahá’ís have generally accepted current Islamic belief at face value, only questioning those aspects, such as the usual Islamic understanding of the doctrine of the “Seal of Prophecy” and the cruder sorts of eschatology, that contradict specific Bahá’í teachings. Moreover, they frequently comb the Qur’án, the sayings of the Prophet, and indeed the whole of Islamic civilization for useful prophecies to the exclusion of all else. The method brings to mind a children’s puzzle in which one is asked to find nineteen hidden objects in a drawing. Whether or not this method has any validity, it contributes little to the understanding of Islám or of Bahá’í belief.

In the West the need felt by Bahá’ís for introductions to Islám, both in classes and in print, has frequently been filled by those given courage by their ignorance. One approach they often use involves a demonstration of the unity of religions, usually by reducing each religion to a series of variations within a set of categories so rigid that the whole book, and with it the religious history of the greater part of mankind, could be and sometimes is reduced to a chart. The individual genius of Islám or of any other religion is not likely to survive such treatment. Simplistic and unsophisticated ventures into comparative religion give substance to the complaint voiced by Jacques Chouleur in a recent issue of World Order that “The assertion that all religions are one and that the teachings of God’s envoys are identical may fail to convince those who go to the trouble of closely comparing the words attributed to Jesus, Muḥammad, or the Buddha Gautama.” A second approach used by Bahá’ís, often combined with the first, involves a well-intentioned defense of Islám in which the Prophet Muḥammad is presented to a primarily Christian audience as a Christ-like figure who had the misfortune to be stranded in the midst of a nation of savages. His wars, for example, are asserted to be purely self-defense. Muḥammad is thereby made into a Christian, and certain of the most characteristic moral attitudes of Islám are glossed over. Such an interpretation not only does violence to the facts; it also defeats the very purpose of studying Islám. A third approach used by some Bahá’í writers on Islám is an anachronistic approach to Islamic history. It so happens, for example, that most Muslims then and now consider [Page 58] election the principle of succession, whereas Bahá’ís accept the Prophet’s son-in-law ‘Alí and his descendants as the rightful leaders of Islám. Since in the Bahá’í Faith the matter of proper succession of authority is of great importance, many Bahá’í expdsitors of Islám have placed a greatly exaggerated significance on ‘Alí’s failure to succeed directly the Prophet, thereby presenting a distorted picture of the events and personalities of early Islám.

Thus to praise H. M. Balyuzi’s recent book Muḥammad and the Course of Islám it would be sufficient to say that it avoids these three flaws. Mr. Balyuzi is an emminent and respected Bahá’í historian who has written a series of works on the major figures of the Bahá’í Faith. His most recent book is by far the most intelligent and comprehensive study of Islám so far written by a Bahá’í. As such, although it is not written as a Bahá’í book, it will undoubtedly become the standard introduction to Islám for English-speaking Bahá’ís for some time to come. This being the case, we must wonder how well it conforms to standards of scholarship, how well it serves the particular needs that Bahá’ís bring to the study of Islám, and what its significance might be to the larger public to which it is also addressed.

The book is organized historically with its first third devoted to a biography of Muḥammad and the remainder to a comprehensive survey of Islamic history from the seventh century to the beginning of modernization in the mid-nineteenth century. The special attention given to the Prophet is certainly justified, for Muḥammad’s personality, spirituality, and career provided Islám with its ideals. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that no area of Islamic history or civilization can be understood without reference to Him. Mr. Balyuzi tells His story in a brisk and lively fashion, avoiding unnecessary technicalities as is proper in a popular work. His point of view, as he explains in the introduction, is that of a believer in the divine mission of Muḥammad. He uses this belief, however, not as an excuse to override historical evidence on the basis of dogmatic positions, but to illuminate the fundamentally moral and religious character of Islamic civilization, obscured though it may have been by the acts of the ambitious, the greedy, and the hypocritical. To his great credit Mr. Balyuzi has recognized the natural alliance between belief in Islám and sound historiography, for it is the great achievement of modern Islamic studies to have stripped away the later legends and accretions that have so discredited Islám and Muḥammad in the eyes of the modern world and to have rediscovered the true character of primitive Islám. The significance of this from a Bahá’í point of view at least is unquestionable, for it applies two key Bahá’í principles: the importance in religion of distinguishing divine teachings from human additions, and the compatibility of religious and scientific truth, a principle that certainly has as much relevance to historiography as to astrophysics or biology. Thus Mr. Balyuzi looks afresh with an eye both sympathetic and objective at such religiously significant topics as Holy War, the question of succession, the contribution of Islám to civilization, and the ultimate decay of Islamic culture, giving answers that illuminate Bahá’í teachings and the nature of religion, not merely repeat preconceptions about their meaning.

I have emphasized the Bahá’í aspects of Muḥammad and the Course of Islám for Bahá’ís, though it is not without interest for the larger public, which is, in any case, its intended audience. The book’s orientation is Bahá’í only implicitly—that is, in its acceptance of Muḥammad’s Prophethood and the ideals its author brings to the work. It is equally acceptable to the sophisticated Muslim. The biography of the Prophet is accurate, broad-minded, and sympathetic, as is the treatment of the painful events that led to the premature extinction of the primitive Islamic theocratic state. As in any work so general the specialist can produce petty objections almost without number. I, for one, had reservations about the treatment of Arab names. But such matters cannot be [Page 59] fairly said to detract from the value of the book, particularly since its purpose is to give an overview to laymen.

My major objection concerns Mr. Balyuzi’s overall presentation of the material, particularly in the second section, the survey of Islamic history. I have talked to a number of non-specialists who have tried to read the book. Almost all have said that they read halfway through and gave up—that is, they got through the life of the Prophet and bogged down in the later history, lost in a sea of strange names. Mr. Balyuzi has the understandable desire to put in everything he knows to be important, which is, unfortunately, too much for the average reader to absorb in an introductory book. The problem is also present in the first section, but it is mitigated there by the fact that the characters generally hold the stage long enough for the reader to become familiar with them, although even this is hindered by the author’s rather casual use of Arabic names. ‘Amr ibnu’l-‘Áṣ, for example, is also referred to as ‘Amr and the Son of al-‘Áṣ, although al-‘Áṣ plays no part in the Story. Rather than trying to cover everything systematically, Mr. Balyuzi might have selected certain representative people, periods, and themes, thereby giving his readers more chance to retain their bearings. In a chapter on Islamic civilization, for example, he gives brief biographies of six of the most important Islamic philosophers. While all six are important, it would have been more enlightening for the average reader had he selected one or two to discuss at length. As it is, the book, although a lively and interesting review for the expert, comes perilously close to becoming a reference handbook for the layman.

This criticism notwithstanding, Muḥammad and the Course of Islám is worth the effort for the informed general reader. Unquestionably, it is a landmark in Bahá’í interpretation of Islám, setting a standard by which other Bahá’í authors will measure their work. In his biography of Muḥammad and his history of the Islamic nation in its struggle to realize its religious ideals, Mr. Balyuzi has given us an accurate and sensitive treatment of a theme that can never be exhausted. We should be grateful.

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Authors & Artists

DEBORAH CHRISTENSEN holds a B.A. degree in home economics with a specialty in early childhood education from Ohio Wesleyan and an M.Ed. degree from the University of Massachusetts in early childhood education. She has studied and worked with ANISA, a new educational system for developing human potential, and has taught classes ranging from day care through the second grade. Two of her current activities include teaching as a full-time mother and developing a toy lending library as an early childhood education resource at St. Lawrence College in Cornwall, Ontario.

PHILIP CHRISTENSEN, who holds a B.A. degree from Harvard in social relations and an Ed.D. degree from the University of Massachusetts, is the Head of the Learning Resource Center at St. Lawrence College in Cornwall, Ontario. He also teaches graduate courses in curriculum at the University of Ottawa. Dr. Christensen has served as a consultant to a variety of educational institutions.

LEON J. MCKEE is a vocational rehabilitation specialist. He holds a B.A. degree from Divine Word Seminary College in Epworth, Iowa, and is now a practicum student in the graduate work-evaluation program of the University of Wisconsin at Stout. His interests include world history, American sociology, and comparative religion.

JACK MCLEAN teaches moral and social development in a secondary school. He holds a degree from the University of Paris in French literature and a Master of Arts degree in the history of religions from the University of Ottawa. He is now completing a degree in education at the Université du Québec and plans to pursue a doctorate in religious studies at the University of Ottawa.

JOHN WALBRIDGE holds a B.A. degree in Near Eastern languages from Yale University and is currently working on a doctoral dissertation at Harvard University on the philosophy of the thirteenth-century scholar Qutbu’d-Dín Shírází.

ROGER WHITE has been a court reporter and journalist and served as editor of Hansard, the Canadian parliamentary record. For a number of years he has served in the Department of Publishing of The Universal House of Justice in Haifa, Israel. His “Point a Loving Camera” appeared in the Winter 1966 issue of World Order. Mr. White’s “Mark Tobey: A Letter and Two Snapshots” will appear in a volume of his poetry entitled Another Song, Another Season to be published by George Ronald in Spring 1979.

ART CREDITS: Cover, design by John Solarz, photograph by Delton Baerwolf; p. 1, photograph, courtesy of the Bahá’í Publishing Trust; p. 7, photograph by Glenford E. Mitchell; p. 12, photograph by Camille O’Reilly; p. 13, photograph by Camille O’Reilly; p. 21, photograph by David L. Trautmann; p. 33, photograph by David L. Trautmann; p. 37, photograph. by David L. Trautmann; p. 56, photograph by Glenford E. Mitchell.

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