World Order/Series2/Volume 29/Issue 2/Text

←Issue 1

World Order, Series 2 Volume 29 - Issue 2

Issue 3→

Return to PDF view Proofread once

[Page -1]

Winter 1997-98

World Order

UNITY AND DIVERSITY:
HALLMARKS OF A WORLD CIVILIZATION
EDITORIAL

THE SPIRITUAL DIMENSION OF JUSTICE:
PERSONAL EXPERIENCES
JAMES F. NELSON

THE STORY OF JOSEPH IN THE
BÁBÍ AND BAHÁ’Í FAITHS
JIM STOKES

A DETOUR ON THE PATH TO PROSPERITY:
A REVIEW OF GIUSEPPE ROBIATI’S
FAITH AND WORLD ECONOMY
SEN MCGLINN

[Page 0]

World Order

VOLUME 29, NUMBER 2

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 H. STOCKMAN

JAMES D. STOKES

Consultant in Poetry:

HERBERT WOODWARD MARTIN

WORLD ORDER is published quarterly by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, 536 Sheridan Road, Wilmette, IL 60091-1811. 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. Send manuscripts and other editorial correspondence to WORLD ORDER, 4516 Randolph Road, Apt. 99, Charlotte, NC 28211. E-mail WorldOrder@usbnc.org. Manuscripts can be typewritten or computer generated. They should be double spaced throughout, with the footnotes at the end and not attached electronically to the text. The contributor should send five copies—an original and four legible copies—and should keep a copy. Return postage should be included.

Subscription rates: U.S.A., 1 year, $10.00; 2 years, $18.00; single copies, $3.00. All other countries, 1 year, $15.00; 2 years, $28.00; single copies, $3.00. Airmail, 1 year, $20.00; 2 years, $38.00. Send address changes to and order subscriptions and back issues from WORLD ORDER Subscriber Service, 5397 Wilbanks Drive, Chattanooga, TN 37343-4047. Telephone, 1-800-999-9019; E-mail: subscriptions@usbnc.org.

WORLD ORDER is protected through trademark registration in the U.S. Patent Office.

Copyright © 1998, National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States. All Rights Reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.
ISSN 0043-8804

IN THIS ISSUE

2   Unity and Diversity: Hallmarks of

a World Civilization

Editorial

4   Interchange: Letters from and to the Editor

7   The Spiritual Dimension of Justice:

Personal Experiences

by James F. Nelson

22   Eclipse of the Moon

poem by Michael Banister

25   The Story of Joseph in the Bábí and Bahá’í Faiths

by Jim Stokes

43   A Detour on the Path to Prosperity

review by Sen McGlinn

48   Jogger’s Demise

poem by Jennifer A. Sharpe

48   Images: My Senses Love

poem by Jennifer A. Sharpe

Inside Back Cover: Authors and Artists in This Issue

[Page 1]

[Page 2]

Unity and Diversity:
Hallmarks of a World
Civilization

THE inexorable process of the unification of the planet is gathering momentum. As the twentieth century draws to a close and the world shrinks into a village, many shudder at the prospect of a federation of nations under a world government. The seemingly endless succession of totalitarian regimes, with their repressive agendas, that have emerged during the twentieth century has, understandably, made many people wary of globalization or the prospect of world government in any form. In some the phrase itself evokes fears of domination by a sinister and uncontrollable force. Even the United Nations, an organization of sovereign states, arouses bitter opposition, at times from the same quarters that advocate the laissez faire economics responsible for the rise of a world market, itself a primary instrument of world unification. Powerful states do not wish to relinquish their dominance; weak ones fear for their very survival. Nationalist and separatist sentiments are strong among minority and majority populations alike. They frequently identify unity with uniformity, with the imposition of a dreadful sameness on all peoples and the consequent impoverishment of the political, cultural, and even spiritual life of humanity.

But people need to distinguish between the political machinations of would-be dictators and the impetus toward global unification already spontaneously happening in so many ways that it seems to constitute the animating social principle of the age. In that endlessly varied process can be seen not a reductive drive toward sameness and repressive control but a blossoming of diversity. The remedy for all such fears lies in the concept of unity in diversity, a diversity based not on segregation, particularism, and exclusivity but on a generous appreciation of the variety “of ethnical origins, of climate, of history, of language and tradition, of thought and habit, that differentiate the peoples and nations of the world.”

Bahá’ís believe that world unity is not merely inevitable but desirable; that the oneness of the human race is a fact seeking its full expression in a new civilization blending the best achievements of every society and every culture; that, while national impulses and interests must be subordinated “to the imperative claims of a unified world,” excessive centralization [Page 3] and uniformity must be avoided through the practice of unity in diversity explained by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá many decades ago. Comparing humanity to a flower garden, He said:

How unpleasant to the eye if all the flowers and plants . . . were all of the same shape and color! Diversity of hues, form and shape enricheth and adorneth the garden, and heighteneth the effect thereof. In like manner, when divers shades of thought, temperament and character, are brought together under the power and influence of one central agency, the beauty and glory of human perfection will be revealed and made manifest.

Acceptance of the principle of unity in diversity should allay the fears of those who are concerned about the preservation of the specific qualities of cultures and give renewed confidence to those who strive to hasten the advent of an infinitely varied, infinitely rich world civilization.

[Page 4]

Interchange LETTERS FROM AND TO THE EDITOR

THE contents in this issue of WORLD ORDER certainly demonstrate the Bahá’í principle of unity in diversity—that is, while collectively they reflect the magazine’s stated purpose, “to find relationships between contemporary life and contemporary religious teachings and philosophy,” they also could not be more different in their respective subjects and focuses, ranging from the law to mystical narrative to historical incident to global economics.

Judge James F. Nelson’s “The Spiritual Dimensions of Justice: Personal Experiences” faces head-on the fact that there has been in this country a growing suspicion hardening into a cynical conviction that the law as manifested in our judicial system is incompatible with justice. In sharing thoughts and experiences from his many years both in front of and behind the bench, Judge Nelson has shown that it is possible to make judicial decisions in accordance with moral principles and a genuine respect for justice. He is candid about his personal struggle to find a method of conducting rigid, adversarial trials in such a way that common sense, respect for all human beings, and fairness to all concerned will prevail. In short, one comes away with hope for the U.S. legal system.

Dr. Jim Stokes’s second and last installment of his essay on the evolving meaning of the biblical story of Joseph as it flows through the scriptures of successive dispensations has been eagerly awaited by WORLD ORDER’S readers and by the Editorial Board. The story of Joseph has always made sense in terms of a particular dispensation. In the first installment, published under the title “The Story of Joseph in Five Religious Traditions,” Dr. Stokes elucidated the meanings it has had for Jews, Christians, and Muslims. In the final installment the story of Joseph reaches a universal significance in the Bábí and Bahá’í message that it could not have had in a world unlike ours, united as it is by technological means if not yet united spiritually.

Finally, a review by Sen McGlinn evaluates a book by Giuseppi Robiati—Faith and World Economy, A Joint Venture: Bahá’í Perspective —that explores the relationship between faith and the development of a more stable, equitable world economy. While finding little with which he can agree in the book’s theoretical underpinnings, Mr. McGlinn’s review and the book itself both address, in their own ways, a fundamental concern with how we can establish just and equitable social structures that will sustain and nurture humanity in all its variety.

* * *

To our author Manooher Mofidi and to our readers we apologize for printing incorrectly [Page 5] in our Summer 1997 issue the title of Mr. Mofidi’s article on collective security. The correct title is “Post-Cold War Reflections on Collective Security.” As the article makes clear, it was only after the end of the Cold War that the United Nations was able to experiment in earnest with making collective security a practical reality.

To the Editor

SHOGHI EFFENDI REMEMBERED

Last night I read the Fall 1997 issue of World Order from cover to cover. It was, by far, the most interesting and well-organized issue I can remember. Every single article was “right there” in tone, spirit, and intelligence. Bravo, bravo, bravo to the Editorial Board.

Who wrote the editorial? It was magnificent— the kind of writing worthy of being plagiarized.

LYNNE YANCY

Wheeling, Illinois

I just received Vol. 29, No. 1 (Fall 1997) of World Order. I like your photographic theme of trees along with the special issue on the Shoghi Effendi. However, I would like to point out that one of the photographs was mistakenly attributed to me. The three photographs on pages 1, 12, and 24 are, indeed, mine, but the one on page 48 is by someone else.

STEVE GARRIGUES

Taegu, Republic of Korea

Thank you, Steve, for pointing that out. The photograph on page 48 in the Fall 1997 issue was taken by another of our excellent photographers Darius Himes. The photographs on pages 11, 36, 38, and 48 in that issue capture unique aspects of the gardens at the Bahá’í holy places in Haifa and Acre—gardens that Shoghi Effendi so lovingly planned and many of which he laid out himself. Ed.

THE EQUALITY OF WOMEN AND MEN

Yesterday I read Jane J. Russell’s “Coming Out of the Ice: A Review of Riane Eisler’s Sacred Pleasure in the Summer [1997] issue of World Order. I found it very thoughtful, actually the best article I’ve read on the relationship between men and women. . . .

DIANE E. SHERWOOD, PH.D.

President, New Paradigm International

[Page 6]

[Page 7]

The Spiritual Dimension of
Justice: Personal Experiences

BY JAMES F. NELSON

The purpose of justice is
the appearance of unity among men.
—BAHÁ’U’LLÁH

This essay is a revision of an article published in the Texas Tech Law Review, 27.3 (1996): 1237-49. Copyright © 1996 by Texas Tech Law Review. Copyright © 1998 by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States.

WHEN students are taught about the American judicial system, they may come away with the belief that the rules governing the system are pure rules of law, divorced from notions of religious belief or practice. The general population, recently having seen on television the function (or malfunction) of the system, must have concluded that morality has little or nothing to do with courtroom proceedings. Viewers of the system are led to believe that the principle of the separation of church and state has isolated the judicial system from the influence of notions of morality. Such a view is, I believe, far from representing the true state of affairs. The headwaters of the law are to be found in principles of natural law and religious beliefs. The currents flowing from them are based on moral tenets predominantly influenced by inherited religious beliefs.

Any view of the United States Constitution that separates the doctrines expressed in it from the spiritual principles from which they sprang is simply incorrect. Whether one acknowledges the fact or not, the democratic tree of state has spiritual roots. The Constitution is based on spiritual principles derived mainly from religious traditions. In fact, it is easy to discern from any and all of the great religious traditions that all human life has both spiritual roots and a spiritual goal. Why then should one seek to isolate spiritual principles from application to the judicial system? The answer is that the religious traditions that underlie today’s society are in conflict. Society seems unwilling to acknowledge the similarity of moral and spiritual beliefs that form the basis of all religion. Instead, it concentrates on sectarian difFerences and doctrinal disputes. The recognition that all religion upholds the nobility of humankind and is supposed to promote the well-being and happiness of the whole has been generally lost. Consequently, the judicial system has, by and [Page 8] large, ceased to pay serious attention to what is moral, fair, just, and right and gives close attention to what is “legal” or procedurally correct. The sad corollary is that the vast majority of those who watch the system work have not forgotten basic notions of fairness nor lost their sense of justice. It often seems that the system and the people in it have gone bad (or mad). It is not surprising that police, witnesses, victims, lawyers, judges, and juries are in a state of internal conflict. It appears as if they are playing a game in which knowledge of the rules and skill at applying them are all that counts. Equity, fairness, and everything else are irrelevant.

At the same time many judges are constrained not only by the dictates of legislation but also by moral standards personally and deeply held. Indeed, the judge who feels compelled by law to compromise his or her moral standards faces a wrenching dilemma.

Every judge I know has a personal code or set of beliefs by which he or she lives. Even those who profess no religious belief, or even proclaim disbelief, have such a code, for it is virtually impossible for a sound mind to avoid acquiring a sense of right and wrong. How one does this is beyond the scope of this essay. Suffice it to say that it happens and that judges use their sense of right and wrong to soften or avoid the effect of legal precedent that runs counter to it. In this context, I do not hesitate to admit that the principles of my faith, the Bahá’í Faith, have been of constant assistance. The Bahá’í Faith promulgates principles exalting the rule of law. At the same time it provides principles that stress the uniqueness of human beings and the latent potentialities in each of them. Thus there is a framework within which the letter of the law may be fitted to the individual person or case, lessening the need for recourse to “justice” that often provides one solution to a given problem without taking into consideration the nuances of each case.

Although in discussing the spiritual dimensions of justice I frequently refer to principles of the Bahá’í Faith, this is not an essay about the Faith but rather an attempt to put into words some of the principles, assurances, and guidance that have functioned silently and continuously in the background during my service in the legal community.

The Bahá’í principles of which I speak are consistent with the pronouncements of the founders of religion throughout history. Bahá’ís recognize, as the fruit of a single Source, the revelation and inspiration that came to Krishna, to Moses, to Zoroaster, to Jesus, to Buddha, to Muḥammad, and to Bahá’u’lláh, the Founder of the Bahá’í Faith. These principles are propounded by Bahá’u’lláh for modern circumstances, and, while they repeat and amplify the ancient call for adherence to the golden rule, they also demand the application [Page 9] of reason and science to ensure that justice and unity are the hallmarks of a global society.

Drawing on my understanding of the principles of the Bahá’í Faith, I find that the work of a human being and certainly of every judge or lawyer is conditioned by at least three moral, intellectual, and spiritual factors:

1. Notions about the nature of human beings;
2. Convictions about the purpose of life;
3. The relationship between the nature of human beings and the purpose of life and one’s life’s work.

The Law and the Nature of Human Beings

IS A human being merely a higher variety of animal, or does a human have a spiritual side? It should be obvious that the belief or mind set of the judge or lawyer about this question will seriously affect that person’s attitude toward almost any case. It is praiseworthy for a person to become learned, wealthy, strong, self-reliant, successful, and productive. Indeed, the proper acquisition of such virtues is protected by United States’ constitutional system. Helping people to attain these ends and assuring fairness and preventing frustration in pursuing them is a valuable service of the practice of law and a major reason for the existence of the judicial system. I, as do all judges, found myself deeply engaged in the legal protection and furtherance of these beneficial material aims. However, I was always, and still am, saddened when the system I served fails to recognize that there are other values worth attaining and that the judicial process should give weight to these values. Because, no matter how well deserved, personal wealth, fame, strength, and knowledge will not survive a human being’s mortal end, while the acquisition of divine virtues, such as morality and love, the development of arts and sciences, and the promotion of the spirit of the oneness of humanity, will impart everlasting benefit to both society and soul. Hence as I approached the judicial process and the individuals who came before the court, I looked at them, not as animals, but as individuals who possessed nobility.

History and science teach that the dehumanization of a person or a group facilitates the oppression of that person or group. Hate is difficult to muster and apply to someone who has the same human qualities as oneself. Therefore, mortal combatants are impelled to visualize the opponent as subhuman, and rabble-rousers call in question the humanity of their targets. Consider the plight of a young deputy sheriff assigned to work as a guard in the county jail. Awash in a sea of humanity, most of whom are from backgrounds with which the deputy is unfamiliar, he learns to refer to the prisoners as “fish” and to sort them out into “tanks.” Thus, in a simple act of dehumanization, the deputy reduces the risk and stress of relating to the inmates on the basis of a common humanity.

The courts are often little different. In the oppressive race to keep the system moving and to prevent the ever-looming log jam of cases, persons and causes [Page 10] are depersonalized and the “human-ness” of the process is lost. That is why I believe so strongly in cultivating in myself and in the system an abiding sense of the nobility of all human beings. In fact, a belief in the noble nature of the human being is probably the most consistent influence in my daily life, both on and off the bench. It is also the subject of the greatest stress. For lawyers and judges are in a business where nobility is often well hidden.

The Law and the Purpose of Life

SINCE human beings are essentially spiritual in nature, the meaning of life is about acquiring indestructible qualities of spirit—love, kindness, generosity, trustworthiness, honesty, service, justice, and the like—and of developing the arts and sciences and promoting the oneness of humanity. The chief goal of human life is, I believe, to foster and help unfold the potential of each individual to develop and reflect spiritual virtues and powers for the progress of society and for strengthening the tools that are the stuff of immortality. Human happiness and prosperity, two things of which the law and its courts are supposed to be the champions and protectors, are, in fact, the products of spiritual and moral development. Work performed in the spirit of service to humankind is, according to Bahá’u’lláh, an important aspect of human life. Work performed with proper motive draws us nearer to God. As I see the purpose of human life, it is to develop moral and spiritual strengths and to use these to build a better civilization. The development of the full potential of every individual and the realization of material prosperity for the planet are firmly interconnected and are dependent upon spiritual attainment. The difficult task is that of implementation.

The Law, Morality, and Real Life

THE potential for conflict between moral conviction and practical convenience is probably higher in the practice of law than it is in most other professions. Often two or more sets of values are at play in a transaction or controversy— values that may not be consistent. The lawyer has his or her own set of scruples that may be in conflict with the interests and values of the client. The canons of ethics provide only a partial solution. It is easy to rationalize that a judge or jury might believe a client whom one does not believe or might trust a witness in whom one has no trust. In my early days of practice I learned the satisfaction that comes from adherence to principle, from being able to say no when the cause is not just, even when I knew other lawyers who would say yes, for I believed that faith and the principles it inculcates must be paramount in all phases of life and must not be traded cheaply or compromised for temporary gain. Thousands of my Bahá’í coreligionists have sacrificed their [Page 11] lives rather than compromise principle. For me it is not a question of “harmonizing” faith with life. Faith is life.

Perhaps it is worthwhile to elucidate what I have referred to as “principle.” The Bahá’í Faith is a faith of principles. The source of these principles is Bahá’u’lláh (1817-92), Who wrote over one hundred volumes about the oneness of God, the oneness of religion, and the oneness of humankind. The principles stated in the Bahá’í writings, which condition the behavior of Bahá’ís worldwide, are statements of what is necessary to end hostility and bring unity to the planet. Some of these principles include the abolition of prejudice, the equality of women and men, agreement between science and religion, a spiritual solution to economic problems, the obligation to work, loyalty to government, the unity of religion, and the oneness of humankind. These principles, coupled with numerous precepts that deal with the transformation of human character, such as trustworthiness, honesty, generosity, and patience, are, I believe, tools for dealing with any situation, inside or outside the justice system. The relationship of these, and of other spiritual principles, to the judicial process itself is in most cases self-evident.

Some examples of personal experience with the application of principle in less obvious circumstances serve to illustrate what may go on in a judge’s mind. I confess that, at the time of these examples, I was not consciously aware of the process involved; I have extracted the principle after the fact.

When I was presiding, or chief, judge of the Los Angeles Municipal Court in 1980, the court had ninety judges and thirteen commissioners (subordinate judicial officers) sitting in eight buildings and several temporary structures. Four of the eight buildings were more than twelve miles from the central courthouse; one was more than thirty miles away. Some of the buildings were dedicated to a single purpose, such as criminal case justice or traffic cases; [Page 12] others were multipurpose courts. Judges were assigned according to the absolute dictate of the presiding judge. In the past some judges had complained that they were assigned to remote locations as a “banishment” for uncollegial behavior. Other judges saw the assignment process as being biased by racism or sexism. Whatever the impressions, it was clear that some judges were assigned to places requiring more than two hours travel from their homes, and it appeared that the most desirable posts had been given to white males. How was I to bring a principled change to this situation?

The court administration had always entertained requests by judges for particular assignments or locations. Each judge was permitted a first, a second, and a third preference. Political correctness and tradition required that a judge always make his or her present assignment the first choice. The judge might then indicate as a second choice where he or she really wanted to be; the third choice would be the least wished-for assignment. Once the assignments were made, the requests were discarded. It was difficult for the presiding judge to remember where a particular judge was, let alone to remember where he or she wanted to be. I decided to seek the help of science (a Bahá’í principle) and installed a simple computer to keep track of current assignments, desired assignments, and a schedule for transition from one to the other. An electronic form was devised that contained more information than the old pro forma request. Vital statistics, family situation, distance from the courthouse, and special circumstances were all factored into the selection. Special expertise or handicaps (now called challenges) were also recorded. The selection process was gender and racially neutral (a Bahá’í principle).

But to be effective, action on principle must be sustained. During the first year of its implementation, the new process for assigning judges was mired in a controversy over which main-frame computer operated by the county was responsible for the new function. Two years later the program had been forgotten, and, although the court system is now completely computerized, the assignment of judges is not part of the system. This leads to discussion of another virtue that is difficult—for a judge or for anyone—to cultivate. A person acting in accordance with principle must do so without attachment to the result. The Bahá’í Faith teaches that one should not be attached to an idea or concept after it is fully presented. Whether it is accepted or rejected is not the responsibility of the presenter. Such an attitude helps everyone avoid hurt feelings and conflicts.

Another example of the application of subtle spiritual principles from my belief system comes from the several years during which I had the privilege of serving on the California Commission on Judicial Performance, the body responsible for investigating, hearing, and deciding on complaints of judicial misconduct and for sanctioning offenders. It can be a test of one’s faith to hear convincing evidence of gross misbehavior by a judge whom one knows and in whom one has placed implicit trust. But as a Bahá’í, I understood the fallibility and frailty of human beings, for Bahá’ís are admonished to cultivate [Page 13] a forgiving and sin-covering eye when looking at individuals. However, Bahá’ís also believe it is the responsibility of the institutions of society to protect, to punish, and to correct. This principle made it easier for me to be spiritually consistent and morally proper when voting for condemnation and punishment of persons with whom I had or would have a continuing relationship.

Fostering the equality of women and men—yet another spiritual principle —was another opportunity for drawing on spiritual principles in my work as a judge. Bahá’ís believe that women and men are equal and that women must be involved in policy and decision making at the highest levels. During my tenure as Assistant Presiding Judge and Presiding Judge in Los Angeles (1979-81), I was able to establish a merit procedure for selecting judges to supervise the various special departments of the court. Before that time the standard for selection had been what was known as the “Good Old Boys’ Reward.” Since 1981 women have continued to serve with distinction in supervising positions. In 1986 I was also eager to step outside the judicial arena to help found Women for International Peace and Arbitration (WIPA), a worldwide organization that seeks to educate women and girls to fulfill their highest potential and to encourage both men and women to assume responsibility for fostering equality. For, until women have achieved their proper status and influence, the peace of the world will not be assured. WIPA had a significant presence at the United Nations Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing in September 1995.

Perhaps the spiritual principle that has been of the greatest personal assistance since I became a lawyer is the Bahá’í redefinition of justice. To Bahá’ís, justice is more what one does than what one gets. Thus one is charged to act with fairness as well as to judge with fairness. One should try to consider the needs of his or her neighbor as superior to one’s own. Lawyers and judges are engaged in a continual dialogue about means to make the disposition of cases less variable and capricious. Bench and bar conferences are held frequently to address the problem of the uneven and often prejudicial dispensing [Page 14] of justice by courts. Often the most meaningful assistance to the court in this regard comes from groups and organizations outside the judicial process and even outside of the legal profession. Procedures, and even codes of law have been changed after suggestions given from such varied sources as chambers of commerce, service clubs, law societies, and law reviews. Dissatisfaction with the U.S. system of justice has led to a multiplicity of groups proposing changes to its structure and its philosophy. There are substantial numbers of people devoted to such a change. In my opinion, judges are well advised to participate in activities and discussions about the justice system with as wide a range of discussants as possible. I have heard judges say, usually quoting Oliver Wendell Holmes, “The purpose of the law is not to administer justice in the abstract but rather to put an end to disputes.” Whether Holmes said this or not, the notion is conveyed that it is all right if a litigant does not receive justice as long as the battle is ended.

The Bahá’í Justice Society, which I was pleased to help organize before my tenure on the bench began, has worked as a multidisciplinary body to help make the judicial process understandable and to improve its functioning. It seems to me that the frictions in society that lead to the intervention of the judicial system could largely be avoided if the simple Bahá’í redefinition of justice were adopted. The Bahá’í Justice Society is a global organization of lawyers and lay people dedicated to the adoption of this redefinition. In the Justice Society, principal attention is given to the formulation of community-based alternatives to the formal judicial process. Consultation, mediation, and arbitration were espoused by this organization long before they became the fashionable topic they are today in judicial circles. The Justice Society has assisted its members in starting neighborhood justice centers featuring strong participation by lay people in the resolution of disputes that otherwise would have to be tried in court. As a judge, each time I saw a case referred to these alternative fora, I appreciated the reduction of time, money, and anguish expended by the formal judicial system. I was pleased every day of my judicial service to see how the Bahá’í Justice Society directed its attention to dispute prevention, suggesting early intervention in domestic violence and substance abuse cases and in many cases providing the means for that intervention.

Yet another spiritual principle that helped me in my judicial duties was that of patience. It helped me to know that there is a higher power on which to rely. Speaking as a lawyer and a judge, it is ironic that the judicial process itself has been the source of some of the most severe tests to my patience and Bahá’í sensibilities. The adversarial system is geared to the “winner-loser” format where forensic skill and material resources can often thwart justice. When I first became a judge, I tried to make up for the apparent imbalance in most [Page 15] cases by weighing in on the side of the under-represented litigant. Understandably, the lawyers, who, quite properly, did not see this as my role, were angered. Over the years the Bahá’í administrative system has shown me a better way to seek truth and resolve disputes.

The Bahá’í process is called consultation and resembles mediation although it differs in some significant areas. Bahá’í consultative bodies are legislative and quaisijudicial institutions called spiritual assemblies. The assembly, composed of nine elected individuals, is responsible for collecting facts, investigating, and making decisions. The process of consultation is unfettered discussion without reference to formal and rigid rules of evidence or procedure. Ascertainment and verification of fact constitute the primary steps in the consultative process. The notion held by the state system that the evaluators of evidence cannot sensibly distinguish between that which is reliable and that which is not is, I believe, no longer viable. I never could accept that in this day of information inundation lawyers and judges could distinguish truth from error, but ordinary people could not. All of my experience with the Bahá’í system and neighborhood centers shows that ordinary people can.

The Bahá’í system, the diversity of views, and the perspectives of several individuals viewing a proven state of fact gives a far greater chance for accuracy of decision than does the judicial system. Meanwhile, the consultative system makes every attempt to mend and preserve the relationship between the parties so that later difficulties may be avoided.

Any attempt to restructure the trial process according to the pattern of consultation used by Bahá’í spiritual assemblies is, of course, futile. However, a strong tide of support for alternative forms of negotiation, mediation, arbitration, and settlement of disputes without trial now exists. Bahá’ís find it easy to support such a trend. In 1981, with private financing, I helped form a Community Dispute Resolution Center in Los Angeles, which continues to operate under state funding. I still believe that trials are appropriate for some cases but that other means of resolution, such as arbitration and mediation, are best for the majority of cases.

There is a corollary to my belief that trials today may not be the best way to resolve disputes. It has to do with forthrightness and preserving truth in the fact-finding process. My experience as a Bahá’í and with the Community Dispute Resolution Center has led me to believe that rigid procedures and certain rules of evidence have outlived their usefulness. I have observed that ordinary people who are educated and mature have little trouble distinguishing the relevant from the irrelevant, truth from falsehood. Hence there is scarcely a need for rules that require the strict exclusion of hearsay or opinion. Likewise, the marble “palace of justice,” far removed, both in time and in distance, from the subject event or injury, seems less and less necessary or even irrelevant. A swifter, closer, gentler, more just process is required.

Early in my judicial career my twelve-year-old daughter and I discussed the so-called “exclusionary rule.” I explained that the rule required that evidence [Page 16] that had been seized by officers in an unlawful manner was excluded from consideration by the court. This was to punish the officer for his or her conduct and to make officials more careful about the rights of citizens. My daughter cut immediately to the point when she observed, “Then you let two guilty people go, the defendant and the crooked policeman!” The logic was impeccable.

I am as outraged as any judge at the conduct of unscrupulous police, for, arguably, the greatest power ever wielded by an individual is that wielded by the policeman on the street. My fellow judges and I are frustrated by the fact that all judicial efforts to curtail unlawful searches and seizures have failed. I understand the pressure to take the extreme step of evidentiary exclusion as a last effort. Unfortunately, that last effort, too, is a failure.

I have read and heard hundreds of arguments about the deterrent effect of the exclusionary rule. I have even heard policemen tell how they were deterred from a doubtful seizure. But they were good policemen. The rule does not deter bad policemen, the real targets of the rule. Hence doors are broken down, automobiles are searched without probable cause, and the constitutional rights of people are violated by bad policemen who lie about it. And, if they are caught, what does it matter? The prosecution loses the evidence and maybe the case. It is like punishing a person by revoking her brother’s library card. My beliefs require that the offender be held accountable and punished.

Punishment of an errant police officer, I found during my days as a deputy district attorney, is best accomplished by direct action, either prosecution or suspension without pay for a period of time. These “days off,” as they are called in the ranks, are effective. I have never seen an officer truly hurt because evidence was rejected. I have seen officers blame it all on “soft” judges. Economic or criminal sanctions are much more effective.

Spiritual principles have also had an effect on the areas of my judicial work that brought the greatest satisfaction. I look back with great fondness on my years in juvenile court, though most judges do not consider juvenile court a prime judicial assignment. Such a post is often given to judges who are new or not in favor with the presiding judge. But I found juvenile court a rare opportunity to make a difference, to refocus lives while there was yet time. The court on which I served had a vigorous bench dedicated to improving available opportunities for youth and to structuring sound opportunities for changes in patterns of behavior. It was working. And it was bringing satisfaction. Of course, this was before Gault (1964) and its progeny closed the doors to helpfulness and, in the name of constitutional rights, turned the court into a junior criminal court, indistinguishable from its big brother. Before Gault a judge could talk with the accused delinquent, seek the advice of the police, meet with the family, and provide a program blending punishment with social [Page 17] services and counseling. Now judges are restricted to the management of a court calendar burgeoning with lawyers and documents.

The gross Violations of the sort denounced in Gault and the succeeding cases that overturned the juvenile court system should certainly have been condemned. There is no justification for coerced confession, star-chamber proceedings, or indefinite confinement without charge. Where such violations took place, they should have been dealt with. Because they were not, the barrel was spoiled. When I returned from juvenile court to the regular criminal courts, the only noticeable difference was the better quality of the court building.

An example from my early days as a juvenile judge shows how attention to the nobility of the human species brings results. The defendant before me was charged with mayhem. It was the only time in twenty-five years on the bench that anyone had come before me, or any other judge known to me, charged with mayhem. The young adult male whom I shall call Donald (not his name) had tired of his aging father’s tendency to “get in his face” during their frequent arguments and in a deft dental maneuver had bitten off his father’s nose. Donald’s mental condition was called into question early in the proceedings, and he was sent to a psychiatrist for examination. During the psychiatric examination, while Donald was being held in a medical facility, he somehow gained the impression that all his troubles were my fault. He started to write me letters in which he suggested that, when he got out of confinement, I would need the services of the plastic surgeon who had successfully reattached his father’s nose. I referred the letters to all the appropriate agencies and waited for Donald’s return to court. Surprisingly, Donald was found capable of cooperating with counsel and able to stand trial. His level of participation at the trial itself was confined to a stony and continuous stare—at me.

Donald was found guilty of mayhem, and I placed him on probation upon the condition that he spend a suitable time in prison and an even more suitable time in psychiatric counseling. Prison did nothing to cool his passion for missive threats. In fact, the letters now carried messages of death by poison or bomb. Again I referred the letters to proper agencies. My staff and I began to discuss the matter of Donald and how we should handle his eventual return to court for his probation report.

One morning, long before his scheduled return date, Donald appeared at the rear entrance to the courtroom. He was alone, unguarded, and free. The bailiff rushed to confront him while I announced a short recess. Minutes later the bailiff came into chambers and announced that Donald was carrying nothing more dangerous than his release papers, which he had obtained that morning.

While Donald remained unrestrained in the courtroom, the bailiff, the [Page 18] court clerk, and I huddled in chambers to hold a principled and philosophical discussion. The bailiff and the court clerk reminded me of my frequent statements about the nobility of every human soul and suggested that, since there was no present danger from Donald, we should interview him and try to discover where his nobility was buried.

I reminded the bailiff that Donald’s teeth had been his principal weapon and arranged to have Donald seated across the chambers, well out of tooth range. The conversation that followed was very revealing. Donald said that he had come to court immediately after his release specifically to see how I would react to his presence. He thought that I would react by having him excluded from the courtroom or even removed from the building. He would then be sure that I was the enemy. He appeared limp and confounded when he was asked to come into chambers and talk privately. (Meanwhile, I had the court staff calling all over Los Angeles to see whether he was really supposed to be free.)

It turned out that Donald was quite well spoken about his difficulties and was not sure why he had decided that the world was against him. He had been both pampered and abused as a child and had never escaped from the domination of his parents. He said that he had seen me as a replica of his domineering father. But he could never talk to his father about what was troubling him. He asked if he could talk with me.

Thereafter, almost every morning for the better part of a year, Donald would drop by with his question for the day. It was always about the purpose of life, the destiny of the human soul, the spiritual value of work, or learning to like people. The clerk and the bailiff would try to anticipate the next day’s question, and I would search the Bahá’í writings for a helpful response. Donald soon stopped coming all the way back to chambers and, instead, adopted the bailiff as his confidant. The two became friends. Personal visits by Donald evolved into daily telephone calls to the bailiff, who continued to report to me on the remarkable turnaround of a troubled soul. The families of the two men became friends and their children playmates.

I have never forgotten this unusual incident and its convincing reinforcement of the Bahá’í principle that human beings are created noble and that, if one can somehow acknowledge and magnify the good qualities in what seem to be the worst of people, those qualities can overcome the bad. This principle is extremely difficult to follow in a judicial system that has given up on the idea of rehabilitation and seeks only to punish and to deter. The mounting pressure of legions of cases makes any kind of assessment of individual potential for reformation virtually impossible. It is, therefore, easier to close one’s eyes and send people away, assured of failure. This inability of the system to stem the tide of lawlessness and correct aberrant behavior is to me, as a Bahá’í, the greatest sorrow. Judges can, at best, conduct a holding operation until society finds that the pursuit of technological progress and material prosperity is fruitless without training in moral values and unity.

[Page 19] The “Donald” experience is an excellent example of where the judicial process and the art of human relations have divergent applications and, consequently, differing results. No one could confidently expect the prison and probation system to restore Donald to productive, responsible citizenship. One could only expect that it would keep him from further mayhem during his incarceration. Yet simple, homespun intervention, while successful in Donald’s case, can hardly be expected to work any universal magic. Is it not possible to provide other meaningful alternatives to the formalistic and rigid system now being used?

The connection between expectations and the spiritual satisfaction one gets from his or her work is evident. If one expects to live one part of one’s life in a business or profession and another part in religion and faith, it is relatively easy to compartmentalize the two and ignore conflicts. If one expects to carry spiritual and moral principles as taught by religion into the secular workplace, the stage is set for conflict and tension. Here one must answer the following questions:

1. What do my religious beliefs teach me about how I perform my job?
2. Are my faith and my chosen occupation in harmony or conflict?
3. How do I achieve congruence between my religious convictions and my professional responsibility?

Since Bahá’ís see professional life as a vehicle for the implementation of spiritual ideals, they might propose the following answers.

1. The Bahá’í Faith teaches that work should be performed in the spirit of service to humanity. One must strive to bring to the job trustworthiness, patience, loyalty, forbearance, truthfulness, diligence, and justice.
2. Most occupations are concerned with service, which cannot be incompatible with faith. In my own case I was obliged as a judge to uphold the law of the land, which presented no conflict with my obligation as a Bahá’í, which was also to obey and uphold that law.
3. By striving to bring the moral characteristics outlined above into one’s work and by assiduous adherence to principle, one can lessen incongruencies.

Answering the questions in words is easy. Gaining consistent practical application is what faith is about—striving in the face of difficulty. Attachments to tradition, prejudices, and sentiment are always hindrances to faithful performance. For example, I once had before me a Hollywood celebrity charged with an offense. The evidence of his guilt was meager, at best, but the media gave great attention to the case, emphasizing the defendant’s general reputation [Page 20] for carousing and his previous troubles with the law. The defendant was found guilty. I was and am convinced that the verdict in the case was greatly influenced by slanted reporting in the press, a skillful pandering to public feeling in the prosecutor’s argument, and an excessively casual attitude of defense counsel. The jury had not been sequestered, reinforcing my doubts about whether admonitions to juries to refrain from watching or reading media coverage are effective.

Here was an example of how community sentiment and the approval or disapproval of family, peers, and friends exert their unseen pressures. The trial had been properly conducted. The verdict was popular, and so was I. I could legitimately say that the jury had spoken and that the letter of the law had been followed. But I did not feel right. Expediency had overridden principle. Hence I granted a new trial. The next day the newspapers hailed “________ Released by Judge After Conviction.” Vindication was slow in coming. More than a year later the defendant was acquitted by another jury. One newspaper gave it half a column on an inside page. This was also a lesson to me. If one acts on principle, the act must be its own vindication. One cannot expect accolades. If one does it for praise, one’s motive is suspect, and the result may be amiss. Without hesitation, I can still say that I would do the same thing today.

One must have no doubt that adherence to principle works, even when the tides of popular culture are running against it. Have the principles of my faith contributed positively to my career at times of crisis and success? Any judge will tell you that the physical task of judging is far easier than that of lawyering. Making decisions takes far less energy than does influencing decisions. But every judge will also tell you stories about the finest lawyers in the business who approached mental catatonic paralysis on the bench when faced with a close decision. What happens? Decision making, especially under the pressures of time and the persuasiveness of skilled advocates, involves a different moral perspective. Fairness is far more difficult to practice than advocacy. Mental torment is a staple of a judge’s life. To me there is no preparation for this except a sound infrastructure of principles, many of which have religious and moral roots. Bahá’í principles have been invaluable to me in times of crisis.

But what of success? The days when judges toiled in anonymity and were automatically presumed to be paragons are past. Now judges receive plaudits and avoid criticism according to their visibility and the public perception of their work. This phenomenon may put pressure on the judge to seek the public eye and garner praise. As I have explained earlier, when work is done in search of reward or praise, the spiritual value of that work is questionable. The Bahá’í writings state that behavior should be based on principle and not on the expectation of courting favor or avoiding criticism. This principle has helped me enormously in my work as a judge.

In the last analysis, I cannot believe that it is possible for anyone to persevere and succeed without substantial reliance upon his or her moral reservoir. For [Page 21] a judge this is no less true simply because he or she may have an excuse that the “law” requires a departure from personally held principles. A judge who feels able to divorce law from morality is subject to judicial schizophrenia. The law itself is based on fundamental principles of fairness and human rights. These are the unalienable gifts of the same God who favored us with religion. The task, it seems to me, is to recognize the practical value of that gift.

[Page 22]22 WORLD ORDER: WINTER 1997—98

Eclipse of the Moon

Two Iroquois,

Master and Disciple,

sat under skins silently in thought.

Hiawatha the Disciple

pondered his cat-like Master,

and said to himself:

“Deganawida dances through stories,

focuses our thoughts,

banishes grief.

“He sits on the bank,

so alone yet so many;

his hunt is never over.

“Released by the Eagle,

he soars over deep water;

his descent is felt by all.

“Coming up wet,

he meets the Dove,

and remembers who he is.

“Tan arms welcome the seekers,

and beckon to the multitude

hesitating on the shore.

“Adoration greets him,

fanning his envy,

as only he can know it.”

[Page 23]

Master Deganawida stirred,

brought back from the abyss

to the question before him:

“You ask, faithful Hiawatha:

why goes the moon from full to crescent,

why becomes the orphan-king a queen’s knave?

“You can only learn the answers

after you are cast out of villages

for asking the wrong questions.

“For then you will ask the right questions,

and all the villages

will answer with one voice.

“Even the pale-eyed ones from the Farther Shore

will listen with interest;

but they will steal what you give away.

“And when your words are offered back to you

by them who stole them,

know that you and I can rest.”

The Disciple departed with many questions,

but unburdened with doubt

he sat lightly on his mount.

Hiawatha rode hard that night,

illuminated by the full moon;

he became a new dawn lighting up the west.

—Michael Banister

Copyright © 1998 by Michael Banister

[Page 24]

[Page 25]

The Story of Joseph in the Bábí
and Bahá’í Faiths

BY JIM STOKES

Copyright © 1998 by Jim Stokes. For their generous assistance in suggesting sources and offering encouragement in this project, I would like to thank B. Todd Lawson, Ahang Rabbani, and Habib Riazati.

THE first installment of the story of Joseph in five religious traditions followed that story through its successive appearances as a mystical narrative within Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, showing how the story has been repeatedly used to symbolize the life and mission of the Manifestations of God— the great and mysterious beings Who successively brought those religions into being. While all three faiths arose uniquely in different times and historical situations, the story of Joseph, when retold, seems to encapsulate a process that, while unique in its particulars, is the same in its essential features. Guided by superior spiritual knowledge, the new Manifestation always brings teachings that aim to purify religion and revivify humanity. He is attacked by those who fear, envy, or otherwise oppose Him, seeking His death and the death of His Cause. After much suffering and apparent defeat, He and His followers prevail, and a new and vital religion emerges that eventually changes the course of civilization. It is a story and a process with numerous literary and historical analogues in other cultures as well.

In Judaism, because of its antiquity, the story of Joseph survives as a biblical narrative, the literal connection of which with a specific historical figure is shrouded in the mists of time. In early Christianity, the story was seen to parallel and prefigure the story of Christ. In Islam, Muḥammad Himself invested the story with special importance by personally identifying it with His own spiritual mission. Today the story has taken on a new and contemporary significance in that it also occupies a place of great importance in two related religions—the Bábí and Bahá’í faiths—that appeared within a nineteen-year period in Persia (modern day Iran) during the last century. In these two religions the extraordinarily resilient story of Joseph retained its character as a mystical narrative, and, in the case of the Bábí Faith, it also figured in historical events associated with the very creation of that Faith.

Historical Context

TO understand how the story of Joseph came to be so prominent in the Bábí and Bahá’í religions requires some background, especially concerning the question of spiritual authority within Shiah Islam. As explained in the first installment of the story of Joseph, Shiah Islam, the principal religion of Iran, differs from Sunni Islam (the other major branch of Islam) in its belief that, after the death of Muḥammad, legitimate spiritual authority devolved not to the caliph (an elected ruler), [Page 26] as the Sunnis believed, but to Muḥammad’s son-in-law ‘Alí (the first Imam) and thereafter successively to eleven other Imams chosen from ‘Alí’s lineal descendants. Shiah Muslims believe that, to prevent his assassination, the Twelfth Imam, while still a boy, was taken by God in the year A.H. 260 (874 C.E.) into “occultation,” a state of being alive but veiled from the world, and that he would return as the Promised Qá’im after a thousand years had passed. Words of Muḥammad in the Sura of Adoration made similar reference to the importance of a date that Islamic scholars had reckoned as A.H. 1260 (1844 C.E.). Thus during much of the nineteenth century a millennial fervor pervaded some religious groups within Iran, as it did in other religions throughout the world.

But there was also an historical conflict about spiritual authority and the interpretation of reality within Shiah Islam itself, reflected in a long struggle for dominance between two approaches known as the Uṣúlís School and the Akhbárí School (or School of Isfahan), a struggle essentially won by the Uṣúlís. Since the seventeenth century, Shiah Islam in Iran has been dominated by conservative ‘ulamá of the Uṣúlí School, clerical classes of men trained in philosophy, theology, and especially religious jurisprudence, whose approach favors the scholarly use of reasoning and technical commentary to adjudicate matters of religious law and interpretation. The approach favored by the conservative ‘ulamá tends to focus authority and status in the most learned among them and to make deductive logic the dominant mode of thought (similar to the approach in the scholastic Christianity of the European Middle Ages).

In contrast, the School of Isfahan, a movement with ancient roots in Islam, was characterized by the belief that learning should combine both rational and intuitive knowledge and that spiritual understanding could come to one not just through analytical thought but also through a mystical quest or search for illumination, preceded by a regimen of spiritual purification and discipline. It is an approach similar to that of the Sufis but different in that its goal is not so much to achieve ecstatic feelings of mystical union with God as to uncover esoteric meanings that lead one toward spiritual understanding of God’s will. Well before the nineteenth century the Akhbárís had been effectively marginalized by the Uṣúlís, who found some of their beliefs heretical.

But in the early nineteenth century Akhbárí beliefs gained new prominence with the appearance of a movement called the Shaykhí School, in which many of the millennial expectations of Shiah Islam began to crystallize. The founder of the Shaykhí movement was Shaykh Aḥmad-i-Aḥsá’í (1753-1825), a widely respected spiritual thinker. Born in Bahrain (a center of Akhbárí belief), he eventually settled in Iran where he attracted the intense devotion of numerous followers and the opposition of important conservatives among the ‘ulamá. Shaykh Aḥmad appointed as his successor one of his distinguished followers, Siyyid Kaẓim-i-Rashti (1793-1844), who promulgated the teachings of Shaykh Aḥmad but introduced an element of intensified urgency, arguing that [Page 27] with the approach of the year 1844 the reappearance of the Hidden Imam was imminent and that every soul should seek him by undertaking a mystical and a literal search. The story of Joseph was to become central in that collective quest.

In the differing responses to the Shaykhí beliefs are crystallized the most compelling religious questions of the age: Should one expect the literal “return” of the Hidden Imam, or did the veiled prophecies of Muḥammad and those from tradition have a different meaning? Would the Hidden Imam return as his former physical self or as an essential spirit manifested in a new physical person? Most important, did the power to recognize Him and confirm His legitimacy rest in the hands of the ‘ulamá as a class or within the individual heart of every seeking soul to be discovered independently of mediation by the clergy?

For conservative ‘ulamá—the Uṣúlís—the Shaykhí response to these questions represented a great threat to their authority. For the Akhbárís, who believed in the imminent return, the words and traditions of the Prophet on that subject and related mysteries took on a personal urgency. Prophecies concerning the date of the return were clear enough: It would occur in 1844. And since Muḥammad Himself had invested the story of Joseph with uniquely important status, calling it the “fairest” of stories, the Shaykhís assumed that it must bear upon that greatest of mysteries, the reappearance of the Twelfth Imam. But its precise relevance was profoundly unclear. Even Siyyid Káẓim, when asked for a commentary on the Sura of Joseph, could only say: “‘This is, verily, beyond me. He, that great One, who comes after me will, unasked, reveal it for you. That commentary will constitute one of the weightiest testimonies of His truth, and one of the clearest evidences of the loftiness of his position.’” It is obvious that Siyyid Káẓim saw a direct link between the story of Joseph and the return.

The Bábí Religion

THE Bábí religion emerged from the matrix of Shaykhí thought with the story of Joseph being central to the events of its dramatic [Page 28] birth. The Founder of the Bábí religion—its Manifestation—was a descendant of the prophet Muḥammad, a young man named Siyyid ‘Alí-Muḥammad, born on 20 October 1819 in the city of Shíráz in Persia. At the inception of His Faith on 22 May 1844, when He was twenty-five years old, He assumed the title of the Báb (meaning the Gate) and announced to His first follower His claim that He was the Qá’im, the Promised One of Islam. But He also taught that He was the forerunner of a second Manifestation with an even greater mission than His own, Who, He said, would become known to the world shortly after the Báb’s own mission had been completed.

Several of the Báb’s close relatives, as well as His tutor, were disciples of Shaykh Aḥmad and Siyyid Káẓim. Clearly the Báb Himself was familiar with and sympathetic to this heterodox group of millennialists who firmly rejected the belief of the orthodox Muslims that the Hidden Imam would reappear as his former physical self (much as Christ Himself was expected by some Christians to appear literally in the clouds); But most of them believed just as firmly, with growing intensity, that the Promised One—Who Siyyid Káẓim had said was already present among them—would soon be “made manifest.”

Indeed, an incident related by Nabíl in The Dawn-Breakers strongly suggests that for Siyyid Káẓim and one of his followers the Báb arranged a meeting purposefully intended to evoke images from the story of Joseph as a veiled way of confirming His own station as the Promised One. According to the follower, Siyyid Káẓim unexpectedly summoned him one day at dawn and asked him to accompany him to the dwelling of a visitor—the as yet undeclared Báb—Who welcomed them into “a chamber bedecked with flowers and redolent of the lovliest perfumes” and then presented them with a filled silver cup, quoting from the Qur’án as he did so, “A drink of pure beverage shall their Lord give them.” Given the Jewish and Islamic tradition associating Joseph with fragrant aromas metaphorically reflecting his moral beauty, and recalling the moment when Joseph ushered his unsuspecting brothers into His presence, the Báb appears to have been using the story of Joseph to make an announcement in dramatic but veiled terms that Siyyid Káẓim would have understood and taken literally but that the follower would understand once the Báb made a public declaration of His mission. Three days later, when the Báb attended a class conducted by Siyyid Káẓim, Siyyid Káẓim fell silent. When his students begged him to resume his lecture, a ray of light fell upon the Báb’s lap. Siyyid Káẓim pointed to it and said, “What more shall I say? Lo, the Truth is more manifest than the ray of light that has fallen upon that lap!”

With increasing awareness that the time of the return was imminent, Siyyid Káẓim had exhorted his followers to prepare themselves to undertake a literal and mystical search for that Promised One, a search that must begin, he said, immediately upon his own passing, which occurred on 31 December 1843.

With the death of Siyyid Káẓim, his followers fell into confusion and inertia, but in late January 1844 one of the most distinguished [Page 29] of them, a young scholar named Mullá Ḥusayn-i-Bushrú’í, who had been absent at the time of Siyyid Káẓim’s death, returned. After preparing himself with forty days of prayer and fasting, he set out, in accordance with the commands of his late master, upon a quest to find the Promised Qá’im. He traveled (with two companions) first to Búshihr, thence to Shiraz, where he was met outside the city gates by the Báb Himself, Who welcomed him with an embrace and an invitation to His home. It is clear from the reported words of Mullá Ḥusayn that he did not, at that point, know the Báb, though the Báb certainly seems to have recognized him, indeed to have been waiting for him. Mullá Ḥusayn reports that, having accompanied the Báb to His home, he was received with the utmost courtesy and hospitality. During the course of that evening the Bábí Faith was born, and Mullá Ḥusayn became the first person to believe in the Báb. Not only was the story of Joseph a factor in that event; it was the vehicle by which the Báb, having inaugurated the new religion, offered proof of His claim.

About an hour after arriving at the house of the Báb, according to the reported words of Mullá Ḥusayn, the Báb revealed to His visitor the station that He claimed. Thrown into confusion and doubt by this overwhelming announcement, Mullá Ḥusayn remembered having earlier vowed to himself that, should he meet One Who claimed to be the Qá’im, he “‘would ask him to reveal, without the least hesitation or reflection, a commentary on the Sura of Joseph, in a style and language entirely different from the prevailing standards of the time,’” a task that Siyyid Káẓim had been unable to perform. While Mullá Ḥusayn was silently pondering his vow, the Báb offered observations on several other topics. Then, unbidden, He said, “‘Now is the time to reveal the commentary on the Súrih of Joseph,’” whereupon, in a short time, without once stopping, He revealed the first chapter—the Sura of Mulk—of His Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’, His Commentary on the Sura of Joseph, a work that would eventually cause many Persians to declare their belief that the Báb was, indeed, the Promised One for whom they had been waiting.

The Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ is not a “commentary” in the academic sense of the word, proceeding as a scholarly treatise in the manner of the Islamic schools. Rather, as explained by Islamicist Todd Lawson, in his study of the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’, it is unique in that “it purports to be both a commentary on the Qur’án and a new Qur’án,” rewriting and reinterpreting the Qur’án in a way that is similar to Muḥammad’s reinterpretation of biblical stories and Christ’s reinterpretation of Jewish law, as reported in the Gospel of Matthew. In short, the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ is a new holy book, the first revealed text of a new revelation. And it was received as one. Shoghi Effendi, Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, observes that “It was this Book which the Bábís universally regarded, during almost the entire ministry of the Báb, as the Qur’án of the people of the Bayán [the Bábís].” Bahá’u’lláh, the Founder of the Bahá’í Faith, described it as “‘the first, the greatest, and mightiest’” of the Báb’s works. When Bahá’u’lláh first read one of the Báb’s writings (whether it was the commentary or another tablet is unclear), He is reported to have recognized what he read instantly as being divinely inspired. [Page 30] Yet even today the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ remains virtually unknown in the West, and only partial translations into English are available.

Structurally, the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ is composed of 111 suras (chapters), each one a commentary on a successive verse of the Sura of Joseph in the Qur’án. Each chapter is composed of forty-two verses of rhyming prose. The work is 234 pages long in the oldest available manuscript. Every chapter begins with an invocation of God’s name followed by the relevant verse from the Sura of Joseph in the Qur’án; a series, in all but four chapters, of disconnected letters chosen for their mystical meaning; and the text of the chapter itself—the commentary on a verse from the story of Joseph in the Qur’án. Using language that echoes the style of the Qur’án, the Báb’s work paraphrases the Sura of Joseph and other parts of the Qur’án, altering words and emphases in the Qur’ánic verses in a way that “reveals” the ultimate significance of the Qur’án—its previously hidden allusions to the Báb’s own prophetic mission.

The work has a variety of audiences— Mullá Ḥusayn (in the first instance), the other followers of the Báb, the Shah and his officials, the Muslim divines, and the people of Iran; but its ultimate audience clearly is the peoples of the world. The opening sentence announces that this work has been sent from God through the Báb to “serve as a shining light for all mankind,” making it obvious that from the very moment of His declaration, the Báb perceived Himself to be a universal Manifestation and the Founder of a new religion. In a subsequent sentence He describes the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ as “the Path which God hath laid out for all that are in heaven and on earth.” It is, He says, the same truth given to Moses, and He describes it as “the Mother Book,” the same words later used by Bahá’u’lláh to describe the commentary. Because the Báb so boldly enjoins all people to use this work as a spiritual guide and to judge its truth for themselves, it is not difficult to see why the Orthodox Shiah priesthood would have considered it the greatest threat to their own authority.

The literary effect of the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ is also unique. As Lawson observes, the Báb is “patently not presenting himself as a systematic theologian,” nor, one might add, as a mere poet. He “saw ‘the best of stories’ as the allegorical account of his own prophecy,” and in the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’

the message of the commentary is proclaimed by an invocation of images and symbols, which when combined, paint a kind of annunciation. The absence of any discursive argumentation renders the work more a verbal “painting” or “Carpet,” than a normal expository attempt at adducing proofs in a structured manner for the Báb’s spiritual rank.

Within the Báb’s mystical narrative, references to the story of Joseph are everywhere, some direct and obvious, many others subtle, allusive, and indirect. The effect is that of a kaleidoscopic motif, present wherever one turns in reading the Báb’s words, as if the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ were both an analytical response to and a new creative revelation of [Page 31] meanings about the story of Joseph. The Báb uses verbal echoes that cause His own mission to resonate with that of earlier Manifestations and to present entirely new meanings in episodes within the story. For example, at one point the Báb refers to Himself and His words as the same light that was “raised up from the midst of the Burning Bush.” The historical allusion is not used merely to lend authority to His claim; rather, His wording has the effect of infusing fresh and deeper metaphorical meaning into an old image: the Burning Bush (from the story of Moses) becomes a symbol for the world of being, a world now infused with the light (the revealed knowledge) of a new and contemporary revelation. The boldness of the Báb in using this reinterpretive technique shows both the artistic and the conceptual power of the Báb’s writing.

One of the Báb’s most striking uses of the Joseph story, and one that illustrates His technique, concerns Joseph’s relationship with his brothers. The problem in both the biblical and Qur’anic versions of the story is that the older brothers cannot accept that the younger one would be favored (inspired) over them by God. Nor can the older brothers accept the mystical standard of knowledge given to their younger brother. As the Báb typically does in the commentary, He universalizes the meaning of that filial relationship in the Joseph story and connects it with His own mission. Just as Joseph’s older brothers had challenged his innate knowledge and the station given by his father, so does the Báb predict the future challenges that will be directed at Him and the Manifestation Who will shortly follow Him. The Báb is as Joseph, and all the people are as his brothers, a reality presented as a psychospiritual drama in which the greatest challenge facing the people will be in overcoming their own limited vision to recognize Him in spite of His youth and “unlearned” learning. Since the Báb has been mystically chosen as the Mouthpiece of God, everyone is accountable to God for his or her response to Him.

The Báb’s involvement with the world as His brothers (echoing the story of Joseph), and His ascendancy as the Younger Brother over the older ones through God’s inscrutable Will, can be found everywhere in the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’. Speaking with the Voice of God in chapter 3, and addressing the “children of men,” He says, “We, of a truth, choose the Messengers through the Potency of Our Word, and We exalt Their offspring, some over others,” in this case the unlearned knowledge of the Báb over the learned mullás and other religious leaders and interpreters. Here the Báb universalizes that problem so that all who hear His message should be warned against acting as Joseph’s brothers did by denying the Báb’s claim and, therefore, imposing human standards on the Manifestation. In chapter 58 He says, “Verily God hath inspired Thee with divine verses and wisdom while still a child,” just as Joseph the child had been inspired. In Chapter 9 He warns them: “Do not say, ‘How can He speak of God while in truth His age is no more than twenty-five?’” In chapter 17, again speaking in a divine voice, He counsels the “peoples of the world” to bear allegiance to the Báb, Whose “knowledge embraceth all things.” In chapter 21 He cautions the “peoples of the East and the West” to be “fearful of God concerning the Cause of the true Joseph and barter Him not for a paltry price,” as was done to the “martyred Ḥusayn, Our forefather” (the third Imam, who was a grandson of Muḥammad and an ancestor of the Báb). In chapter 25, an indirect allusion to Joseph’s [Page 32] brothers (Muslim divines and others who would later set out to destroy Him), He asks: “Are ye wickedly scheming, according to your selfish fancies, an evil plot against Him Who is the Most Great Remembrance of God?” Since each chapter in the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ is explicitly a commentary on a specific verse of the story of Joseph in the Qur’án, any reference to scheming must refer, however indirectly, to the similar scheming by the brothers and other conspirators in the story of Joseph. It is important to remember that the Báb was saying this at a time when His revelation was not yet known to anyone except the first few of His followers and nearly ten months before He was attacked by the very ones who claimed to be the most faithful to God and the most knowledgeable—the mullás. In chapter 96, in one of the work’s most stirring passages, the Báb summons the peoples to “Become as true brethren in the one and indivisible religion of God, free from distinction, for verily God desireth that your hearts should become mirrors unto your brethren in the Faith. . . .” As He does so many times, the Báb universalizes and reinterprets the Joseph story, reinforcing the point that He is as Joseph and all the people who encounter His message are as Joseph’s brothers. If they can overcome their flawed, prideful preconceptions and character, they can attain the unity, love, and peace that came to Joseph’s brothers at the end of the story when they recognized Joseph’s true station and his love and knowledge.

In addition to the motif of Joseph’s relationship with his brothers, the Báb frequently uses another motif—a combination of imagery from the stories of Joseph and Moses to create the impression of a dual revelation or of a revelation with dual aspects. That is, He consistently refers to Himself in terms of Joseph and as a “shining light for all mankind.” But it is the same light “raised up from the midst of the Burning Bush.” In chapter 24 the Báb is “God’s holy Voice proclaimed by this Arabian Youth,” but He has been “entrusted with this Mission from the midst of the Burning Bush.” In chapters 28, 31, and elsewhere the same combination of imagery appears. In fact, in chapter 53, speaking with a divine voice, the Báb says that God’s conversation with Moses from the Burning Bush merely “revealed an infinitesimal glimmer of Thy [the Báb’s] light upon the Mystic Mount. . . .” The effect is to suggest that all revelation is part of a single unified theophanic process but also that an essential spiritual duality exists in the present age— that Moses and Joseph are to be understood in terms of each other. Indeed, in other places the Báb also alludes to the ministry and trials of Muḥammad, the Imam Ḥusayn, and the Hidden Imam in ways that associate their missions with His own as part of a larger, unified divine process.

A third important motif from the story of Joseph, and one consistent with Shaykhi doctrines, concerns the Báb’s numerous allusions to knowledge in its relationship to Himself and to humanity in general. Just as Joseph’s knowledge was innate, a power given to Him by God and expressed through dreams, so is the Báb’s. Consistently He refers to Himself as the standard of truth, as a light or a flame burning within the world of being. But it is a truth that is hidden or concealed in two senses: by God’s command until the appropriate time, and from people in general, until they exert effort to find it. In one of His most striking images, the Báb is “God’s holy Voice” Whom God has empowered to “Unravel . . . secrets” from an ocean that God has now caused to be “surging high.” In another passage, while counseling the Báb to remain [Page 33] silent for a while longer, God says that He has “enabled Thee to truly see in Thy dream a measure of Our Cause.” This knowledge can only be gradually unfolded, and it is a knowledge of “the very secrets of hearts”— that is, just as Joseph knew his brothers better than they knew themselves, so does the Báb know the needs of human hearts in this age. “O peoples of the world,” the Báb says, His “knowledge embraceth all things.” The Báb’s own heart has been “dilated” (opened and made able to convey knowledge forth from the spiritual realms). Angels circle around Him, and His knowledge is as a “dawn.” The ultimate purpose of His knowledge, as was Joseph’s, is that people should “Become as true brethren” and that their “hearts should become mirrors unto your brethren in the Faith,” thereby being “guided aright to the ways of peace.”

These few examples of the imagery that the Báb uses provide but a sampling of the richly various ways in which the story of Joseph and the teachings of the Báb are interwoven in His Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’. The Báb completed the remainder of the lengthy work in forty days during the few months following His declaration of His mission. During this same period seventeen other individuals (including one woman); most of them followers of Shaykhí teachings, declared themselves followers of the Báb and were designated His “Letters of the Living.” Thereafter ensued six tumultuous years in which the Báb’s religion attracted both thousands of followers in Iran and concerted attempts by orthodox ‘ulamá to destroy it and the Báb Himself. On 9 July 1850, in the market square at Tabriz, the Báb was put to death, but His fame and the influence of His teachings continued to spread. The work that is inextricably linked with His declaration of His mission —His Commentary on the Sura of Joseph—continued to inspire new followers. Even more extraordinary is the fact that for all its greatness, the work, and the Báb’s own dramatic ministry, were ultimately the opening episode in a larger theophany in which the story of Joseph continued to figure in a profound way.

The Bahá’í Faith

THE DEATH of the Báb in 1850 was a catastrophic loss that plunged the besieged Bábí community into disarray. The Báb had written and spoken repeatedly of a second Manifestation, cryptically referred to as “He Who shall be made manifest,” Who would emerge shortly after the Báb’s own mission to complete the unique appearance of twin Manifestations in a single age. In the anxious period after the Báb’s death, several Bábís put themselves forward, claiming to be the Promised One, but were quickly rejected when they proved to lack the essential qualities of spiritual eloquence, the ability to unravel mysteries, and the power to unify and revive the grievously wounded Bábí community. With the passage of time it became increasingly clear that the one person among the Bábís Who possessed these qualities was Mírzá Ḥusayn-‘Alí (Who later took the title of Bahá’u’lláh, meaning the Glory of God), the person to Whom the Báb had bequeathed His writing implements and His seal and to whom the Bábís had repeatedly turned for leadership during crises even when the Báb was still alive. But not until 1863, nineteen years after the inception of the Báb’s Faith (thirteen since the Báb’s death), did Bahá’u’lláh feel that the time was appropriate to announce publicly His own station and mission, which He did on 22 April 1863, thereby bringing the Bahá’í Faith into being.

[Page 34] With the rise of the Bahá’í Faith the story of Joseph reached its culmination in a way that is unique in history—as a defining mystical narrative in two related but independent religions arising within nineteen years of each other. Though the Báb was a Manifestation of God and the founder of a great religion, He also perceived Himself to be a forerunner. He wrote tablets addressed humbly to “Him Who Will Be Made Manifest” and repeatedly cautioned His followers to recognize and accept that Figure when He should appear. Though boldly identifying Himself with Joseph in the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’, the Báb also repeatedly used references to Moses and the Burning Bush (as discussed earlier) in ways that made Him appear to be placing His own Revelation within a larger theophanic context then unfolding in mysterious ways.

When Bahá’u’lláh declared His own mission in 1863, His announcement was stupendous in its scope. Not only did He claim to be the One promised by the Báb (the successor to the Báb and an independent Manifestation of God) but, indeed, to be the Promised One of all Ages (that is, the one expected in the millennial traditions of all major religions and the Figure representing the culmination of a great cycle of religions). Bahá’u’lláh refers to Himself as “the Divine Joseph” and, like the Báb, uses that story as one of the metaphors by which He defines His own Mission. The motif recurs in many of His major works.

Comparing Bahá’u’lláh’s use of the story of Joseph with that of the Báb’s shows both the harmony and the nuanced differences between the two dispensations. While the Báb addressed His message to all peoples, much in His writing necessarily focuses on the conflict between Himself as the Standard of Knowledge and the rulers and divines of Islam (with Himself as Joseph and them as the wayward brothers). The writings of Bahá’u’lláh, while addressing these same misguided leaders and, indeed, all the rulers of the earth, are more generally the voice of the later Joseph, the universal teacher Who is speaking to, guiding, and counseling all people as wandering Jacobs searching for the True Joseph. The immediate audience in many of Bahá’u’lláh’s writings is the human heart itself— its condition, its needs, its knowledge of itself (or lack thereof), its ultimate goal as a spiritual entity. Often He writes to a universal audience in terms that are intimate, personal, and loving, offering counsel, guidance, warnings, admonitions, and reassurances. He is the Brother of infinitely greater capacity Who is glimpsed in the Old Testament, filled with compassion for His brothers and determined after His ascendency in Egypt to guide them to reunion in spite of themselves. The world in which people wander is often presented as a desert, and they are portrayed as spiritually parched and mal-nourished in an age of spiritual famine. Their collective experience is the anguish of spiritual separation and, though He refers to them as brothers, the spiritual suffering of individuals is more often likened to the natural grief of Jacob.

Bahá’u’lláh uses metaphors drawn from the story of Joseph (some explicit, some in the form of subtle allusions) as ways of expressing the gravity and meaning of His mission and its power to revivify the deadened hearts of modern humanity. In The Kitáb-i-Aqdas, His book of laws, Bahá’u’lláh describes the laws and ordinances revealed by a Manifestation as the greatest source of protection and order for peoples and says that from them, if followed, “the sweet-smelling savor of My garment can be smelled.” One who [Page 35] follows His laws out of love for Him will have “inhaled the divine fragrance of his Best-Beloved from these words, laden with the perfume of a grace which no tongue can describe,” an allusion, according to the note on the verse in The Kitáb-i-Aqdas, “to the story of Joseph in the Qur’án and the Old Testament, in which Joseph’s garment, brought by his brothers to Jacob, their father, enabled Jacob to identify his beloved long-lost son.” In another verse in The Kitáb-i-Aqdas Bahá’u’lláh refers to “the fragrance of inner meanings from the traces of this Pen through whose movement the breezes of God are wafted over the entire creation. . . .” Associating Joseph with a fragrance is a frequent theme in Jewish and subsequent traditions and one that Bahá’u’lláh’s readers would instantly have associated with Joseph. Biblical scholar Alan Jacobs explains that rabbinical commentators emphasize Joseph’s status as an ideal of humanity, in which his physical beauty matched his moral beauty. Moreover, “Talmudists report that the odor emanating from Joseph’s body was so fragrant as to overwhelm the exotic spices carried by the Midianites.” In the story of Joseph in Genesis the merchants are carrying spices and balms. In the Qur’án, Jacob perceives Joseph’s scent just as the caravan ordered by Joseph to bring his father to him leaves Egypt. Thus fragrance associated with Joseph is a metaphor for higher communication.

In Kitáb-i-Íqán, The Book of Certitude, written to demonstrate the unity of religions and the common mystical symbolism used by the Manifestations, Bahá’u’lláh compares the brothers’ refusal to recognize Joseph to denials made against the Báb and Himself by people attempting to judge the Manifestation by their own limited standard of knowledge. In the same work Bahá’u’lláh cites an Islamic tradition that the Qá’im (the Báb) would reflect four signs—those of Moses, Jesus, Joseph, and Muḥammad: “The sign from Moses, is fear and expectation; from Jesus, that which was spoken of Him; from Joseph, imprisonment and dissimulation; from Muḥammad, the revelation of a Book similar to the Qur’án.” In one selection in Gleanings, a collection of His writings, Bahá’u’lláh, echoing phrasing by the Báb, admonishes those who attack His Cause

for having bartered away the Divine Joseph for the most paltry of prices. Oh, the misery that resteth upon you, ye that are far astray! Have ye imagined in your hearts that ye possess the power to outstrip Him and His Cause?

In a tablet to Mírzá Muḥammad-Ḥusayn, a young man known as “the Beloved of Martyrs,” Bahá’u’lláh describes betrayals by His own half-brother in terms of the story of Joseph and, according to Adib Taherzadeh, author of a four-volume study of the writings of Bahá’u’lláh, “refers to Himself allegorically as the One who has been thrown into a deep well by reason of the envy of those who had been among his servants.” In His Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, Bahá’u’lláh, in much the same way that the Báb associates His ministry with that of Moses, describes the mysterious way in which Manifestations are inspired with references to the Word that Moses heard coming from the Burning Bush—a form of knowledge unlike the limited knowledge of those who opposed Him— [Page 36] most frequently the ‘ulamá. Clearly the story of Joseph is a recurring metaphor in the writings of Bahá’u’lláh used as one way of describing aspects of His reality. While specific references to the Joseph story do not appear on every page of His writings, Bahá’u’lláh says that Joseph is one of the four signs reflected in the promised One. Hence, to understand Bahá’u’lláh’s station and mission, it is important to look for both obvious and subtle references to the story of Joseph, both of which provide insights into Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation.

The most sustained references to the story occur in a mystical treatise by Bahá’u’lláh entitled The Seven Valleys, a work long recognized as a masterpiece of spiritual composition, indeed as “the summit of achievement in the realm of mystical composition.” Bahá’u’lláh wrote it before His public declaration of His mission, during the period of His exile in Baghdad and after His return from the mountains of Kurdistan where He had been living as a hermit, having temporarily absented Himself from the Bábí community. Bahá’u’lláh composed it in response to a letter from a Kurdish judge who was “a student of Sufi philosophy” and a seeker, though its ultimate audience is universal.

The Seven Valleys is a classic description of the stages of the soul’s progress as it undertakes a journey seeking reunion with God. As Bahá’u’lláh Himself says, the use of stages or cities or valleys is a frequent metaphor in Persian mystical literature used to describe such a journey. Sufis often used it as part of their belief that the soul could make its way to reunion with God unaided by anything but its own conscience and effort. With immense subtlety and magnificent poetry, Bahá’u’lláh transforms this motif to show how the only true and sure path to God comes from recognizing the Manifestation for the age and following His teachings.

What has not been generally noted is that The Seven Valleys is also a profound meditation on the mystical content of the story of Joseph, which appears to be one of the work’s central metaphors. As an exposition of the hidden meanings of the Joseph story, The Seven Valleys parallels and moves beyond even the Báb’s Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’ in its spiritual originality and insights, thereby completing the two Manifestations’ mystical elucidation of the contemporary significance of the story.

Addressing the Kurdish judge in the Prologue as “friend” and “My Brother,” and saying that because He [Bahá’u’lláh] has “inhaled the pure fragrances of the garment of thy [the judge’s] love,” Bahá’u’lláh promises to “reveal” to him “sacred and resplendent tokens from the planes of glory.” They shall, He says, “draw thee to a station wherein thou shalt see nothing in creation save the Face of thy Beloved One” and that “there shall appear upon the tablet of thine heart a writing [Page 37] of the subtle mysteries; . . . and the bird of thy soul shall recall the holy sanctuaries of pre-existence.”

Bahá’u’lláh’s persona here is of a Brother giving a loving gift, but it is also that of a Universal Teacher offering guidance so that in this age “every man may testify, in himself, by himself, in the station of the Manifestation.” In this respect Bahá’u’lláh takes the Joseph story far beyond the Old Testament or the Qur’án, saying, in effect, that not only will He interpret the dreams but—as he eventually does in the Valley of Wonderment —that He will teach every soul a spiritual vocabulary that will enable it to recover its ability to dream, to envision a higher spiritual world. In so doing He takes the spiritual enfranchisement of humankind (and the implications of the Joseph story) to an entirely new level.

References to the story of Joseph become more explicit as the work moves into the valleys themselves in the way that Bahá’u’lláh portrays the universal seeker’s quest. In the first valley, the Valley of Search, the seeker (every heart attempting to return to its spiritual home) seeks “the beauty of the Friend.” The seeker in this valley is as a traveler, wandering in a desert, and is surrounded by other equally lost and disoriented wanderers: “How many a Jacob will he see, hunting after his Joseph?” Though seeking even in the dust, he must cleanse the heart and turn away from imitation if he is “to drink of the honey of reunion with Him.” If persistent and true in his quest, he will inhale “the fragrance of the long-lost Joseph from the heavenly messenger,” and, revivified, step into the Valley of Love.

The landscape of the Valley of Love continues that described in the first valley; it is as a desert of existence, in which the lover is caught between two worlds—the world of the spirit and the world of being—and filled with yearning for “the Friend.” This valley is filled with pain and torments but, “My Brother,” Bahá’u’lláh says, addressing the traveler, “Until thou enter the Egypt of love, thou shalt never come to the Joseph of the Beauty of the Friend.” The seeker cannot escape this valley, Bahá’u’lláh counsels, “until, like Jacob, thou forsake thine outward eyes” and “open the eye of thine inward being” and “commune” with the object of his longing —God through the Manifestation. The Seven Valleys, it bears repeating, is a treatise on how to make one’s way back to God. The longing to do that (and the sense of painfial separation) is like being in an emotional and spiritual desert. Bahá’u’lláh appears to be using the several literal journeys across the desert in the biblical story—notably Jacob’s painful search for Joseph—as a metaphor for every soul’s painful quest for reunion with the Source of truth, the Holy Manifestation Who is the path to God. The struggle of the traveler in the Valley of Love seems to be about giving up (departing from) the love of one thing for another, higher, one. The idea of being caught between two worlds (an opening and closing of different eyes) seems to be a metaphor for two kinds of love and knowledge—the one of this world, the other of the higher world. Egypt, then, becomes a symbol for the landscape of longing, the place where the spiritual traveler (everyone) seeks a higher harmony and understanding (as it was for both Joseph and his family); Jacob’s blindness is given new meaning as a symbol not of infirmity or age or vanity, but of wisdom (as it was for Greek poets and seers).

If the seeking lover persists and the fires of love burn away “the veils of the satanic self,” he or she can enter the Valley of Knowledge. This paradoxical valley, the lengthiest in the work, subtly alludes to the story of Joseph. The seeker in this valley is presented [Page 38] as standing at the door of a dwelling, a place of reunion and certitude: “His inner eyes will open and he will privily converse with his Beloved; he will set ajar the gate of truth and piety, and shut the doors of vain imaginings.” In this valley his perception of the world and its mysteries has been utterly changed, infused, as his heart now begins to be with the divine wisdoms. In another Mosaic symbol, his certitude is described as an ark, seemingly an allusion to the ark of the covenant that the Jews carried with them during their forty years of wandering in the desert and a symbol of fidelity to their covenant with God. Prior agonies and fear remind one of the terrors that Joseph’s brothers experienced as they entered his house in Egypt, followed by a new ability to perceive providential design behind Joseph’s ordered pursuit and accusations as they had attempted to leave Egypt. This valley is also described as “the last plane of limitation”; beyond it are worlds, now available, that had been inaccessible even to Moses:

Veiled from this was Moses

Though all strength and light;

Then thou who hast no wings at all,

Attempt not flight.

Bahá’u’lláh appears to be saying that an infinitely greater degree of spiritual knowledge is now available than was present in the time of Moses. But He also says, in effect, that the reunited seeker (the human heart) can be taught to see with new eyes, the eyes of Oneness—something that is spiritually revolutionary. Bahá’u’lláh is the divine Joseph not only revealing and interpreting dreams but inviting the traveler into the world of the dream, teaching the recipient how to dream too; He is opening the door to an order of knowledge hitherto inaccessible except to “the Friend”—and “the Loved One”— traditional references to Muḥammad and, by extension, to other Manifestations of God. But the ultimate Friend, of course, is God, attained through recognition (Bahá’u’lláh seems to be saying) of the Manifestation in our own age—as Rúmí’s poem about Moses makes clear. It is important to keep in mind that Bahá’u’lláh is conveying information in veiled terms, since He has not yet declared His own mission. Indeed, the final four valleys of this work are presented not as stages in a search but as explorations of a new world and, beyond it, other worlds. All of this occurs within an immensely subtle fabric of allusion to the story of Joseph, each element of which reveals new meanings in the details of that story.

Having approached the “gate of truth and piety” in the Valley of Knowledge, the traveler now steps into the Valley of Unity—“the sanctuary of the Friend, and shareth as an intimate the pavilion of the Loved One. He stretcheth out the hand of truth from the sleeve of the Absolute; he revealeth the secrets of power.” In this valley, having been given new eyes, the traveler is being taught how to use them, how to look “on all things with the eye of oneness.” In addition to the motif of loving reunion, two other motifs in this valley also seem to evoke the story of Joseph—allusions to fragrance and to many-colored objects, both of which evoke the limitations of the senses (sight and smell), suggesting the limited perceptions of Joseph’s brothers and the high perceptions of Jacob. In cautioning the traveler, Bahá’u’lláh says that what one sees is determined by the quality of his or her own vision. Those enclosed “within the wall of self and passion” see only “many-colored globes” (symbols for any object capable of catching and reflecting light), [Page 39] just as (one could argue) the brothers of Joseph could see only the many colors of his coat rather than the oneness of the light falling upon the coat. Likewise, “the man sick of a rheum” cannot smell the “sweet fragrance” of the Word of God. This valley also expresses a paradox relating to authority as presented in the story of Joseph. It describes the human heart as a “throne” in which, when the traveler has spiritually prepared it, “the Master of the house hath appeared,” causing it to be “ashine with His light.”

Of the final three of the seven valleys, Bahá’u’lláh says that “The tongue faileth in describing” them and “speech falleth short.” Their reality (since it is about meaning) can be properly expressed only if whispered “from heart to heart.” But Bahá’u’lláh does describe them and, in so doing, finishes revealing the inner significance of the Joseph story. The Valley of Contentment is short, differing from the Valley of Unity in that the experience of a transforming vision is intensified, “For on this plane the traveler witnesseth the beauty of the Friend in everything. Even in fire, he seeth the face of the Beloved.”

In the Valley of Wonderment, Bahá’u’lláh focuses on the importance of the dream. If one recalls that the story of Joseph in Genesis is built upon three sets of dreams as higher knowledge—the child Joseph’s dreams of his father and brothers, the dreams of the two prisoners in Egypt, and the Pharaoh’s dreams of famine and plenty—it appears that Bahá’u’lláh is alluding implicitly in this valley to the Joseph story. Addressing the traveler— the Sufi judge—as “Brother,” He describes the nature and importance of the dream as a mode of knowledge and as “One of the created phenomena” in which secrets, wisdoms, and even many worlds are deposited, accessible to everyone, yet freed from space and time. Only people who have entered this valley are capable of comprehending the truths conveyed in those dreams. God has placed the faculty of the dream within people, Bahá’u’lláh says, to protect them from those philosophers who would “deny the mysteries of the life beyond” and who would try to define reality within the narrow limits of their own reason. In so doing, He asserts an important place for the mystical dream as a universal mode of knowledge in a world that wants to disregard it in favor of materialistic and rationalistic ways of investigating reality.

In the Valley of Wonderment, Bahá’u’lláh makes no explicit references to the Joseph story, but the content—its focus on the dream—invites comparison with the uses of the dream in the Story of Joseph, leading one to think that Bahá’u’lláh is subtly and indirectly continuing his allusive reinterpretation of the spiritual meaning of the Joseph story as a way of giving spiritual insight to the Sufi judge. In the Joseph story, whether in Genesis, the Qur’án, or the Báb’s commentary, the importance of the motif of dreams is obvious; Joseph’s ability to interpret his dreams and those of others is the proof of his spiritual knowledge and authority. The judge, who was the first audience of The Seven Valleys, would have been steeped in the Sufi traditions of the mystical journey and the mystical dimension of the Joseph story. For him the allusions in Bahá’u’lláh’s work would have been obvious because Bahá’u’lláh had ended the previous valley by saying that the mystical traveler would see the beauty of the Friend in everything. Since He had already likened the universal traveler to a wandering Jacob, the Joseph story was already part of this valley. In addressing the judge (and all his future audiences) as “Brother” (in other writings Bahá’u’lláh refers to Himself as “the divine Joseph”) He appears to be drawing a connection between himself as Mystical Dreamer and his readers as potential dreamers, [Page 40] who are endowed by God with the capacity to commune with and learn from the higher spiritual realm, as guided by the Manifestation, if only they will abandon their own limited and error-inducing standards of knowledge. He is, in effect, teaching them a new spiritual vocabulary and opening the door to a higher level or degree of spiritual awareness than was available to people in previous ages. Without overtly mentioning Joseph and the dreams of that story, he is enacting the same process of spiritual education as did Joseph to his brothers; but in this case it is a different and higher standard of knowledge offered to the entire world-as-family embodied in the teachings of the new Manifestation. It is a spiritual enfranchisement far beyond that offered by Joseph or any other of the earlier Manifestations. The effect and the content of the Valley of Wonderment are, therefore, extraordinary. Bahá’u’lláh is teaching humanity how to dream again, ennobling people by teaching them about their own nature, and how to recognize and comprehend the meaning of spiritual dreams. In so doing, He takes the meaning of the Joseph story to an even higher level than He has already done.

In the final valley, the Valley of True Poverty and Absolute Nothingness, Bahá’u’lláh guides the traveler to the summit of mystical communion with God. This valley describes a condition in which all “save the Friend” is burned away by the fires of love. Again Bahá’u’lláh quotes Rúmí: “‘Then the qualities of earthly things did Moses burn away.’” But at the heart of this valley is a series of metaphors about time, seasonal change, and bounty giving way to loss that, together with a caution to the traveler, seems clearly to be built on an allusion to the pharaoh’s dreams of the cattle and the ears of corn, which Joseph had interpreted as seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. In this valley Bahá’u’lláh likens the years of plenty to the time when the Manifestation walks upon the earth and reveals the verses of God, and “the clouds of spring” rain down “heavenly wisdom . . . on the earth of men’s hearts.” Quoting the Qur’án, He says, “‘no one thing is there, but with Us are its storehouses; and We send it not down but in settled measure.’” But “The other seasons have no share . . . , and barren lands no portion of this favor.” Thus, in the context of our own age, Bahá’u’lláh offers an entirely new interpretation of the real meaning of the pharaoh’s dreams. The seven valleys themselves are like the seven years of bounty, and He cautions the Sufi judge to listen carefully to their full import. Should the judge (and by implication all readers) do so and be obedient to divine law, Bahá’u’lláh says, he (and they) will glimpse and catch the fragrance of an everlasting city. The judge will have come to “the sea of the Life-Bestower”; in ecstasy he will enter a mystic “garden land.” But even this state, Bahá’u’lláh cautions, is but “the first gate of the heart’s citadel, that is, man’s first entrance to the city of the heart.”

[Page 41] Many readers consider The Seven Valleys to be the summit of mystical composition of the kind that describes the stages of the soul’s journey toward God. But, together with the Báb’s Qayyúmu’l-Asmá’, it is also a sublime reinterpretation of the meaning of the story of Joseph: the mystical journey of the soul in this luminous and special age toward discovery of and reunion with the true Joseph, the Manifestation of God. As such, it also completes an unfolding series of interpretations of the story that were collectively more than seven thousand years in the making.

Conclusion

TRACING the story of Joseph through its life as a recurring mystical narrative within five great religions—Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and the Bábí and Bahá’í Faiths—that span nearly four millennia (and with analogues in other literary and religious tradition) shows it to be one of the most resilient, meaningful stories in the canon of the world’s religious literature. As a symbolic narrative it appears to encapsulate a series of events, originally tragic but ultimately transcendent, that inevitably play themselves out each time a new religion appears in the world. The founders of those religions certainly saw the meaning of the story in that way. In addition, the story’s perpetual appeal also illustrates the common heritage shared by a family of religions, the followers of which all too often dedicate themselves to emphasizing the differences between them but which collectively represent an incrementally unfolding force for good of incalculable worth to humanity. Part of the compelling quality of the story of Joseph is that it describes the eternal process by which the most profound kind of new knowledge comes into the world, simultaneously describing, in story form, its interrelated human, physical, and metaphysical dimensions. In so doing, it dramatizes humankind’s most fundamental dreams, hopes, and beliefs and gives continuing meaning to human history.

[Page 42]

[Page 43]

A Detour on the Path to Prosperity

A REVIEW OF GIUSEPPE ROBIATI’S Faith and World Economy, A Joint Venture: Bahá’í Perspective, TRANS. JULIO SAVI (RECCO, ITALY: GRUPPO EDITORIALE INSIEME, 1991), 176 PAGES WITH INDEX

BY SEN MCGLINN

Copyright © 1998 by Sen McGlinn.

IN Faith and World Economy, A Joint Venture: Bahá’í Perspective, Giuseppe Robiati’s stated purpose is to offer a spiritual approach to the issue of global prosperity informed by Bahá’í teachings on the subject. But he brings a materialistic model and socialist philosophical approach to the book that some will find at odds with the more transcendent, optimistic model in the Bahá’í teachings on the subject. Robiati’s essentially pessimistic philosophical materialism can be most readily seen in chapter 5 where he proposes, for example, a world system of wage regulation to ensure that work of a given kind is paid at the same rate the world over, that “economic differences among states can be eliminated through proper international legislation,” that moving manufacturing to low-wage areas is exploitation and speculation (and causes unemployment in Europe), that the laws of supply and demand are iniquitous and can be replaced. He believes that multinational corporations “exert a nefarious influence” and describes capitalists, speculators, and trusts in terms not far removed from a conspiracy theory and, in places, strongly reminiscent of the economic nonsense propounded by Major Douglas. The flavor of his argument is unmistakable: This is 1930s socialism, a mixture of popular internationalism combined with a hostility to the workings of the global market, a reliance on legislative coercion, a distrust (or worse) of capitalists, and a willingness to interrupt trade to achieve economic justice, which is defined as economic equalization. Robiati decries a modern world in which “Everything around us is steadily speeding up, and it is hard for us to understand where we are going to end up.” He does go on to show where he thinks humanity should end up, in a world that is peaceful, united, and just but also cautious, conservative, and static.

The book does not offer a viable new economic synthesis. Despite this weakness, the book might have contributed something to our understanding of the “joint venture” between faith and economics, as its title promises. However, Robiati views faith and economics as antithetical: “Whenever the rate of material life speeds up, spiritual growth slows down,” an approach that proves singularly unfruitful.

While it may not offer any new synthesis, Robiati’s approach is coherent as an expression of his philosophical tenets and a materialist, even mechanistic, model of the universe. To begin with the philosophical foundations, Robiati is a philosophical pessimist. He shows this in his first two chapters, which give a thoroughly apocalyptic vision of the present state of the world: “Inflation continues to grow, production levels decrease, unemployment increases, the perils of a nuclear war lurk closer and closer”; “the working class is exploited in every corner of the world”; youth are protesting; cities are beset with “neurosis, psychosis, solitude, fear, . . . pollution, . . . heart disease, . . . egotism, [Page 44] . . . drug addiction and suicide; “All national health systems have long been proved inefficient”; education “has taken everywhere the wrong direction”, the world’s nations are clinging to ideas of national autonomy, and economic development has reached “a dead end.” The result, according to Robiati, is that “One feels like withdrawing into one’s home, locking the door, sitting down and crying desperately.”

Some of the dark spots Robiati describes, such as international pollution and third world poverty and malnutrition, are real and serious problems. The world he describes is so bleak as to appear unreal to a person from Western Europe but would perhaps be more true to life for someone living in Mogadishu. A truly global vision, however, would also have to include the signs of progress—and there are many—toward a new world order: the new and more humane theories of education and social welfare; the gradual decline in protectionism and nationalism; the internationalization of the world’s economy; progress toward world standards in currencies, weights, and measures; the electronic unification of the world; the spread of democracy and discrediting of racism and communism; the broad theoretical acceptance of the equality of men and women and of the interdependence of capital and labor; and the rapidly increasing importance of institutions and arrangements that supersede the autonomy of the nation-state, such as the regional common markets, the World Bank, and the United Nations.

Robiati’s failure to perceive the positive trends in the world dictates the apocalyptic character of his book. He provides no description of the process of change and development that leads from one world to another. Rather, he describes in stark terms a present disaster and progressive decay with a sparse prescription of how things will be in the new world order as he envisions it, which the reader is left to understand will come about by some miraculous intervention. Yet there cannot be any understanding of the process of change without a recognition of the constructive forces at work in the world and thus of the continuity of the new world order with many aspects of what at present exists.

If one compares the world of the 1990s with that of the 1930s, there are visible and significant changes that accord with the vision of human destiny and potential outlined in the Bahá’í writings. There is every reason to expect that the economy of the new world order will be an organic, adaptive growth from the best principles of economic governance at present acknowledged, if but patchily applied, in the West. What is needed is not the wholesale renunciation of the healthy principles found thus far in favor of some system not yet articulated but rather the application of these principles in a determined and thorough way on a global scale. This, in turn, requires that the world overcome the paralysis of will, the lack of faith in the human race’s capacity to forge its destiny, which has hindered effective action. That is, it is necessary to see into and resolutely reject the philosophical foundation of pessimism: models of human behavior that consider human beings to be bound to follow patterns of animal behavior such as territoriality and aggressiveness or, worse still, models that consider human possibilities to be dictated by physical laws.

The philosophical foundation of Robiati’s pessimism appears in chapter 3. He believes that the thermodynamic law that energy and matter cannot be created or destroyed, as well as the entropic principle of the tendency of the physical universe to “run down” to a sameness that would make further processes impossible, are directly applicable to human affairs. The entropy, the loss of usable energy, is inevitable. Waste can never be fully recycled, perfect efficiency can never be achieved, but the decline may be delayed by [Page 45] minimizing the loss of energy and limiting desires and consumption. This is a restatement in the language of physics of a worldview that was already ancient before the Greeks gave it its classical stoic form. Robiati’s stoic outlook is summed up nicely in the epitaph with which he closes the book: “The earth is but a heap of dust, let harmony reign over it.”

Such a philosophical outlook would appear to fit less than easily with aspects of the Bahá’í Faith such as progressive revelation and the goal of “an ever-advancing civilization.” There is, however, room enough in the Bahá’í Faith for pessimists and optimists. It is unfortunate that an author who is seeking a way out of the present situation should have chosen a model of the universe that focuses entirely on the physical sciences and omits the life sciences, for physical laws cannot offer any way out. According to physical law, every cause must have its effect, which in turn has its effect, and so the course of the universe, from first bang to the final uniform triumph of entropy, is absolutely predestined.

Another model of the universe, in which the factor of Life is included as a countervailing and stronger force, a force directly opposed to entropy, can be suggested. Entropy would have the universe run down to the sameness and stillness of the “heat death.” Life works to the accumulation of ever higher levels of usable energy, to more and more differentiation and the resulting more and more complex forms of interaction and higher levels of action. It is in the life sciences, and not in the physical sciences, that one finds appropriate models and laws to describe the endless miraculous expansion that is the human destiny. The physical world offers cause and effect, determinism, and despair. Indeed, materialism and philosophical pessimism may be regarded as synonymous. The living world transcends this: Life bends the causes to the effects it desires. When a plant takes low-energy, slightly differentiated minerals and water and high-energy, almost randomized, rays from the sun and produces not only itself—a highly differentiated, high-energy, intricately structured organism—but also seeds that miraculously give birth to more and more high-energy organisms that may even evolve to more intricate and differentiated structures, the “Law of Entropy” has been banished to its proper place in the basement of the universe. And if plants and animals can perform these wonders, how much greater must be the capacities of human beings. Robiati proposes an ideal of perfect balance, a low-entropy society focusing its energies on passing on what it has received, “preserved, unaltered, and pure.” An alternative vision of society, in which human possibilities are constantly expanding so that the society undergoes dynamic and positive change, would provide humanity with a greater motivation to deal with present problems and steer that change in the direction it desires.

When mechanistic or thermodynamic laws are applied to economics and combined with a purely material conception of wealth, the results are peculiar. Robiati says that economy is energy. Since energy cannot be created, the economic problem can be reduced to limiting energy use and redistributing wealth equitably. There is more than a small tinge here of the simplistic mechanical models that fatally flawed The Limits to Growth, a report to the Club of Rome in the early 1970s that attempted to extrapolate trends of that time using computer simulations. Wealth clearly does not have this simple relation to matter and energy.

[Page 46] In the first place the energy cost of material well-being is constantly being changed by technological factors. For example, the development of microchips and other forms of miniaturization has radically lowered the energy cost of manufacturing many consumer items without any corresponding reduction in the well-being derived from owning them. The economic cake is thus larger. If one took the number of radios and stereos owned around the world today and multiplied it by the amount of copper in a 1960s radio, it would be found that the world must, as The Limits to Growth predicted, be about to run out of copper. But this has not occurred and probably never will occur. It is not just that technology produces ever greater efficiency in the use of raw materials but also that each generation of technology focuses on different materials: silicone and glass have replaced copper in circuitry, as aluminum replaced iron, oil replaced coal, coal replaced wood, and so on. Resource crises can and do occur, but human beings do not live like frogs, their needs determined by nature, in one small pond with strictly limited water and food resources. Shortages and problems may be encountered, and there are barriers to progress that one cannot go over, for there are physical laws that cannot be changed. But then one must simply think harder and go around. The only limits to growth are within.

Moreover, economic well-being does not consist simply of material wealth. Education is an economic activity. So is opera. So is strip mining. While there may be physical limits to the amount of some particular economic activities that the world can sustain, this does not imply a limit to economic activity and human well-being as a whole. It is a notable characteristic of more advanced economies that they shift their consumption patterns from material to nonmaterial consumption, as witnessed, for example, by the steadily rising expenditure on education and health care throughout the world, except for Africa.

The realization that not all economic activity entails material consumption brings us to the crux in the application of Bahá’í principles to economics. Robiati says that “more than a billion human beings live in conditions of absolute poverty and malnutrition . . . this situation will remain unchanged as long as so called ‘civilized’ countries continue to consume more then 80% of the world’s resources each year.” If we were, indeed, living in a frog pond, the frog eating all the flies is leaving fewer for the rest. Robiati does not give any source or substantiation for his figures, but they appear to refer to 80 percent of the world’s Gross National Product being produced, and largely consumed, in the West. I would argue that much of the Gross National Product relates to nonmaterial consumption (opera, education) that cannot be said to reduce the well-being of those in poorer countries at all. Another part of the economic activity recorded as Gross National Product relates to goods produced substantially with local renewable resources, such as most food production. This also cannot be said to reduce the well-being of [Page 47] others, although one could well ask whether rather more of this sort of production might be shared. Finally, there are goods produced and consumed in the West using renewable or nonrenewable resources from poorer nations and vice versa. I swap you a wristwatch for a coconut fibre mat: Who is now poorer? In principle one would have to say that, since I wanted your mat (raw materials), and you wanted my watch (manufactured goods), we must both be richer.

Thus the assertion that the relative wealth of one part of the world is the cause of poverty elsewhere is not tenable. There may be particular trades that do cause poverty— that is to say, instances in which, through ignorance of true costs and values, or through political or economic powerlessness, poorer countries sell their resources too cheaply. This situation, however, is quite different from the assumption that wealth in one place causes poverty elsewhere. That assumption is natural, given the human tendency to compare our own well-being with the situation of those whom we think are richer, happier, or more successful, but it does not stand rational examination.

Rational demonstration may not be sufficient to eradicate the assumption, since it is based more on envy than evidence, and it is easier to change one’s mind than transform one’s character. But the wisdom of religion also teaches that the well-being of one does not reduce the well-being of another. This principle is elegantly stated in Matthew 20:1-16, the parable of the laborers in the vineyard. The metaphor used in the Bahá’í writings is that of a family: the honor or well-being of one member is a cause of rejoicing for all. These are the relations that must characterize the world community—to be combined, of course, with a familial sense of mutual care. When the notion that one person’s wealth causes another’s poverty is banished, the relations between peoples will no longer be based on outrage and envy, on the one hand, and fear and guilt, on the other. When combined with the understanding that the laws of the physical universe do not impose any absolute limits on the total of human wealth and well-being, this will provide a sound foundation for constructive steps forward.

To sum up, Robiati’s Faith and World Economy is deeply pessimistic. The basis of his pessimism is a materialistic model of the universe, and the economic corollary—logically derived from the false premise of materialism —that in a universe of strict limits the wealth of one causes the poverty of another. The paralysis of will that must be overcome if human beings are to take the steps required to put the new economic order into actual and global practice, to achieve prosperity for all of humanity, is due to no small extent on this complex of three interrelated errors: pessimism, materialism, and envy.

[Page 48]

Jogger’s Demise

All my life, I’ve been running

And looking back

To see what’s coming

Will the past overtake me

Or Will I make it to the future

Before the past passes me by

Halt!

Tell me,

Where is today?

—Jennifer A. Sharpe

Copyright © 1998 by Jennifer A. Sharpe

Images
My Senses Love

See a brilliant rainbow

Like the one which smiled at Noah

Centuries ago

Hear the sound of cascading waves

Upon the ocean’s shore

Touch smooth stone, carefully crafted,

Painstakingly polished

Taste fruit freshly harvested

Juicy peaches, succulent strawberries

Sniff the steam of rain

After searing heat

—Jennifer A. Sharpe

Copyright © 1998 by Jennifer A. Sharpe

[Page 49]

Authors & Artists

MICHAEL BANISTER is Deputy Attorney General in the Criminal Division of the California Department of Justice. He holds a law degree from Golden Gate University Law School, where he is an adjunct professor.

SEN MCGLINN is a freelance editor who has pursued biblical studies and theology at Knox Theological Hall and the Holy Cross Seminary in Dunedin, New Zealand. He holds a bachelor’s degree from the University of Otago, New Zealand. His interests include theology, literature, and church and state.

JUDGE JAMES F. NELSON, who holds a law degree from the Loyola University Law School, Los Angeles, California, served for thirty-five years as a lawyer, prosecutor, and state trial judge in California.

JENNIFER ANN SHARPE, a travel consultant and a fledgling poet, lives in Zimbabwe.

JIM STOKES is a professor of English at the University of Wisconsin, Stevens Point. In 1996 the University of Toronto Press published his Somerset, a two-volume work including records of early English drama. In preparation are Lincolnshire, records of early English drama (also with the University of Toronto Press) and “The Effects of the Reformation on Traditional Culture in Somerset, 1532-1642.” His examination of the story of Joseph, the first installment of which appeared in the Spring 1997 issue of World Order, grew, in part, from teaching comparative literature and literature of the ancient world.

ART CREDITS: Cover design by John Solarz, cover photograph, Charlotte Hockings. p. 1, photograph, Steve Garrigues; p. 6, photograph, Steve Garrigues; p. 21, photograph (House of Abbúd, Acre, Israel), Darius Himes; p. 24, photograph, Steve Garrigues; p. 41, photograph, Mark Sadan; p. 42, photograph, Steve Garrigues.

[Page 50]