Several years ago, in my meanderings through spiritual literature, I ran across the saying "A short prayer pierceth heaven." It kind of caught my attention, because sometimes I had a attitude of "If a little prayer is good, then a whole lot is better" -- which isn't necessarily the case. Thinking about it, mini-prayers are probably the most natural way to pray, which we do without thinking about it. If we hear of a friend of relative in the hospital we'll say -- either out loud or to ourselves -- "Oh, God, let them be all right." I don't know about other mothers, but a short one-sentence prayer asking God to look after one or the other of my children bubbles up naturally when circumstances warrent.
I've never been a big user of the Baha'i prayer book. I always say the obligatory prayers, and I have a few short, memorized favorites. The written prayers are beautiful and inspiring -- and I preferred them to the kind of extemporaneous prayer I grew up with, when I was in a group. A single person praying for a group always felt wrong to me, but Baha'i prayers belong to all of us. On my own, however, it was often difficult for me to find a prayer that says what I really want to say. And what I want to say is usually pretty simple and direct. Almost always, before I go to work, I say "Oh, God! Make me a good teacher today. Let me give the children what they need." Then, I'll add a couple of names of God, just like you find at the end of Baha'i written prayers.
That's not entirely a selfless prayer, by the way -- obviously, if I do well in my job it benefits me as well as the children I teach.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about ways to develop compassion within myself -- a virtue that all of us could pay a bit more attention to. And there isn't a written prayer that specifically addresses that, so I just say "Oh God! Let me show compassion to everyone who crosses my path." It's simple, to the point, and what more do I need to say?
Maybe that's why such prayers pierce heaven -- they focus on what really matters.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Tony Lee on Tahirih
I know I've been quiet of late, but I ran across something too good not to share. This is an interview with Tony Lee about his translations in Tahirih: A Portrait in Poetry.
Translated By, hosted by Shaindel Beers
Besides discussing the translation process, he reads several of these wonderful poems aloud -- and reads them like a poet. Not everyone can read aloud like that. When I first read the book, I found the part about the translation interesting -- there was an example of the literal meaning of the Persian, which was transformed into the published poem in English. It really demonstrates just how much of an art form translation is.
The book is available here from Kalimat Press. You can also get it on Amazon.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the interview, and do get the book as well. And God bless Tony and his colleagues for this marvelous work.
Translated By, hosted by Shaindel Beers
Besides discussing the translation process, he reads several of these wonderful poems aloud -- and reads them like a poet. Not everyone can read aloud like that. When I first read the book, I found the part about the translation interesting -- there was an example of the literal meaning of the Persian, which was transformed into the published poem in English. It really demonstrates just how much of an art form translation is.
The book is available here from Kalimat Press. You can also get it on Amazon.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the interview, and do get the book as well. And God bless Tony and his colleagues for this marvelous work.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Restless Souls
I've just finished reading "Restless Souls: The Making of American Spirituality" by Leigh Eric Schmidt, and I thought it would be relevant for unenrolled Baha'is to know that independent spirituality is not just some fly-by-night thing that the Baby Boomers invented, but has a long history of its own, dating back to the 1830s. And, Baha'is are very much a part of that history.
An entire chapter is devoted to telling the story of Sarah Farmer and Green Acre. She started it in 1894, right after the Parliament of World Religions, and it was an important meeting place for almost every unorthodox form of spirituality around at the time: Transcendentalists, Vedantists, Theosophists, Christian Scientists, New Thought, and the like. She wanted it to be dedicated to the ideal of peace between religions -- I noted on the Green Acre website that the green-letttered Peace Flag that Sarah flew over the original Greenacre still flies there. But there were tensions, and these tensions became even worse when Sarah herself became a Baha'i, and this chapter dwells on the problem of what happens when an independent seeker actually finds something. Poor Sarah got pressures from Baha'is (including 'Abdu'l-Baha') to make Green Acre a center for teaching the Baha'i Faith, her old associates thought she had betrayed the cause of religious liberalism by submitting herself to "the Persian Revelation". The strain of trying to juggle these competing interests took a great toll on her physical and mental health. But its an interesting read -- one of her best friends, Sara Bull, was among the first practitioners of yoga in this country. (I was pleasantly surprised to see that Green Acre's current schedule includes a yoga class.) Green Acre was not only an important landmark for Baha'is, but in the history of alternative religion in America.
Moving further into the book, I was caught by Thomas Kelly's approach, since it seemed similar to my own;
Kelly, in effect, shifted away from the Trancendentalist emphasis on ephemeral moments of spiritual awareness --"the flickering of our psychic states" -- to sustained "inward practices of the mind." Not transient states of mystic consciousness, but continuous habits of daily devotion -- these were Kelly's chief pursuit: "Practice comes first in religion".
This is, at least one answer, to those who criticize unaffiliated spirituality as essentially a lot of romantic slosh with no real substance.
The book, in its last chapter, actually goes into some of those criticisms, particularly by conservative Christians. One thing that Schmidt points out is that there are some -- gays stand out particularly as one such group -- that don't fit very well into organized religion. I would also include those of a less social temperament. Certainly, introverts have a tough time in the Baha'i community -- and they probably do in other communities as well. The orthodox want these folks to either change themselves in order to fit into a community or to just forget about God. Well, too bad, because that doesn't happen -- Americans have been charting their own spiritual path for many generations now, and they will continue to do so. It's as old an American tradition as the revival meeting.
An entire chapter is devoted to telling the story of Sarah Farmer and Green Acre. She started it in 1894, right after the Parliament of World Religions, and it was an important meeting place for almost every unorthodox form of spirituality around at the time: Transcendentalists, Vedantists, Theosophists, Christian Scientists, New Thought, and the like. She wanted it to be dedicated to the ideal of peace between religions -- I noted on the Green Acre website that the green-letttered Peace Flag that Sarah flew over the original Greenacre still flies there. But there were tensions, and these tensions became even worse when Sarah herself became a Baha'i, and this chapter dwells on the problem of what happens when an independent seeker actually finds something. Poor Sarah got pressures from Baha'is (including 'Abdu'l-Baha') to make Green Acre a center for teaching the Baha'i Faith, her old associates thought she had betrayed the cause of religious liberalism by submitting herself to "the Persian Revelation". The strain of trying to juggle these competing interests took a great toll on her physical and mental health. But its an interesting read -- one of her best friends, Sara Bull, was among the first practitioners of yoga in this country. (I was pleasantly surprised to see that Green Acre's current schedule includes a yoga class.) Green Acre was not only an important landmark for Baha'is, but in the history of alternative religion in America.
Moving further into the book, I was caught by Thomas Kelly's approach, since it seemed similar to my own;
Kelly, in effect, shifted away from the Trancendentalist emphasis on ephemeral moments of spiritual awareness --"the flickering of our psychic states" -- to sustained "inward practices of the mind." Not transient states of mystic consciousness, but continuous habits of daily devotion -- these were Kelly's chief pursuit: "Practice comes first in religion".
This is, at least one answer, to those who criticize unaffiliated spirituality as essentially a lot of romantic slosh with no real substance.
The book, in its last chapter, actually goes into some of those criticisms, particularly by conservative Christians. One thing that Schmidt points out is that there are some -- gays stand out particularly as one such group -- that don't fit very well into organized religion. I would also include those of a less social temperament. Certainly, introverts have a tough time in the Baha'i community -- and they probably do in other communities as well. The orthodox want these folks to either change themselves in order to fit into a community or to just forget about God. Well, too bad, because that doesn't happen -- Americans have been charting their own spiritual path for many generations now, and they will continue to do so. It's as old an American tradition as the revival meeting.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Unenrolled Baha'is and Pilgrimage
I ran across this article titled "Uphill Pilgrimage: Unenrolled Baha'is face a long road to Haifa". It's on the site for the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. It's a bit old, written in 2005 -- and the source material is even older. For the information on me, Jason Anthony used my "leaving the faith" story on my website.
I still get comments on that, as if it were written yesterday, instead of nearly nine years ago. Jason also makes the common mistake of thinking I left because of local conditions -- I didn't actually, but I spent so much time in that essay complaining about them that a lot of people have that impression. I'd have put up with local conditions indefinitly, perhaps as an enrolled inactive Baha'i, if I hadn't come across the larger issues. I sometimes ask myself, though, what I would have done with those larger issues, if I had been very happy with my local community . . . Motives can sometimes be very complex, and reasons for an action can't always be boiled down to a single thing. Oftentimes the "reason" is more of a final straw, which obscures the whole story.
The rest of the information appears to have been taken from Talisman posts, probably from 2000 or so, when I was still very emotional about the situation.
Nevertheless, I think the article was fair and well done. It was nice to see an outsider's viewpoint on the position of unenrolled Baha'is.
I still get comments on that, as if it were written yesterday, instead of nearly nine years ago. Jason also makes the common mistake of thinking I left because of local conditions -- I didn't actually, but I spent so much time in that essay complaining about them that a lot of people have that impression. I'd have put up with local conditions indefinitly, perhaps as an enrolled inactive Baha'i, if I hadn't come across the larger issues. I sometimes ask myself, though, what I would have done with those larger issues, if I had been very happy with my local community . . . Motives can sometimes be very complex, and reasons for an action can't always be boiled down to a single thing. Oftentimes the "reason" is more of a final straw, which obscures the whole story.
The rest of the information appears to have been taken from Talisman posts, probably from 2000 or so, when I was still very emotional about the situation.
Nevertheless, I think the article was fair and well done. It was nice to see an outsider's viewpoint on the position of unenrolled Baha'is.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
The Limits of Universalism
In "The Illuminated Prayer: The Five-Times Prayer of the Sufis" by Coleman Barks, a story is recounted of a child in the Sufi community asking Bawa Muhaiyadden what religion she was. He responded:
You are a Christian because you believe in Jesus, and you are a Jew because you believe in all the prophets, including Moses. You are a Muslim because you believe in Muhammad as a prophet, and you are a Sufi because you believe in the universal teaching of God's love. You are really none of those, but you are all of those, because you believe in God. And once you believe in God, there is no religion. Once you divide yourself off with religions, you are separated from your fellowman.
Now, this has some resonance with me, and I would imagine with many Baha'is. After all, it is the teaching of the unity of religions that drew a lot of us into investigating the Faith in the first place. It felt very odd, once I became a Baha'i, to identify with a particular community, with its own particular expectations and culture. Like the new kid on the block, I did my best to fit in to all of that -- and the more "Baha'i" I became, invariably, I lost a good deal of that universalist outlook that had drawn me into the Faith in the first place. I have recovered some of it since leaving -- though, not all. I still have a distinct Baha'i identity; I still believe in Baha'u'llah.
And truthfully, Bawa and his followers have a distict identity as well. This book, which teaches in a non-dogmatic way, the prayer "of the Sufis" is actually teaching the Muslim salat, presenting it as a universal prayer. No matter how broad-minded and inclusive his community attempts to be, it remains Muslim in its essence, although I suspect they'd fit in with traditional Muslims about as well as I do in the Baha'i community.
It seems part of human nature to need a certain identity. I'm not entirely sure that anyone can follow a spiritual path without becoming attached to one more than another, no matter how inclusive you try to be. And, naturally, when you choose one, you have the feeling that it is somehow more "right" than the others, which don't suit you as well. But Bawa was correct in saying that it does cut you off from others to some extent. I don't feel comfortable showing up for Sunday Services at any of the local churches, although I know there are folks there who would do their best to make me welcome. There's just that little hitch of believing in Baha'u'llah, which means I just don't belong in a Christian church, no matter how liberal. There are New Age groups around, too, but I don't quite fit in there, either -- again, believing in Baha'u'llah makes me a Baha'i, and I can't really pretend to be anything else.
Going it alone, though, really isn't so bad. After all, it's what I did before I became a Baha'i. And, with the online community, there are many of us who are "going it alone", together. That sense of a community of solitaries is what I've been trying, with some success, to build out here. And it works. It's hard, but it works.
I find it interesting, though, how spiritual practices appear to be the most "separable" aspect of religion -- in some cases they are virtually idenitcal anyway. The practice of saying a mantra is pretty much like Sufi dhikr, which in turn is much like saying a Rosary or repeating the Jesus prayer -- you're just using different sacred words. Barks, in writing this book, clearly sees prayer as prayer -- usable by anyone no matter what creed is professed. I had to suppress a chuckle recently, when a yoga teacher told me that saying "OM" was just for the cleansing vibrations and had nothing to do with religion. Yoga is a path within Hinduism -- it's religious through and through. The Hatha Yoga Westerners practice to reduce stress or get into shape was originally inextricable from religious meditation. Of course, an act is religious only if you intend it so -- but I don't believe for a minute that the ancient yogis taught their disciples to chant "OM" so they could get rid of their toxins and improve their health. But then, unlike some, I don't have a problem with it being religious.
To continue: Religious identity can be a complex thing: There are spiritual practices, which, as I said, can be separated from the whole and performed by anyone who finds them meaningful. There are belief systems, which those of us coming from a Christian background tend to regard as the whole of what we mean by "religion", and which is generally the most exclusive aspect. (I doubt if the majority of adherents in any major religion actually have beliefs which entirely match those of religious authorities; folks beliefs are extremely persistent.) There are traditions -- holy days, rites of passage, and the like -- which people can be sentimentally attached to long after they leave behind the religious beliefs and/or community they were raised in. And finally, there are communities, where the formalities of membership apply -- although some religions are more formal about that than others. It is probably possible for a person to be a different "religion" in each of these four aspects. Certainly, it's not uncommon to find someone who is split between two, usually the religion they were brought up in, and the religion of their choosing. There are times I think that multiple religious identity may be the wave of future -- along with the "spiritual, but not religious" crowd -- but only time will tell.
You are a Christian because you believe in Jesus, and you are a Jew because you believe in all the prophets, including Moses. You are a Muslim because you believe in Muhammad as a prophet, and you are a Sufi because you believe in the universal teaching of God's love. You are really none of those, but you are all of those, because you believe in God. And once you believe in God, there is no religion. Once you divide yourself off with religions, you are separated from your fellowman.
Now, this has some resonance with me, and I would imagine with many Baha'is. After all, it is the teaching of the unity of religions that drew a lot of us into investigating the Faith in the first place. It felt very odd, once I became a Baha'i, to identify with a particular community, with its own particular expectations and culture. Like the new kid on the block, I did my best to fit in to all of that -- and the more "Baha'i" I became, invariably, I lost a good deal of that universalist outlook that had drawn me into the Faith in the first place. I have recovered some of it since leaving -- though, not all. I still have a distinct Baha'i identity; I still believe in Baha'u'llah.
And truthfully, Bawa and his followers have a distict identity as well. This book, which teaches in a non-dogmatic way, the prayer "of the Sufis" is actually teaching the Muslim salat, presenting it as a universal prayer. No matter how broad-minded and inclusive his community attempts to be, it remains Muslim in its essence, although I suspect they'd fit in with traditional Muslims about as well as I do in the Baha'i community.
It seems part of human nature to need a certain identity. I'm not entirely sure that anyone can follow a spiritual path without becoming attached to one more than another, no matter how inclusive you try to be. And, naturally, when you choose one, you have the feeling that it is somehow more "right" than the others, which don't suit you as well. But Bawa was correct in saying that it does cut you off from others to some extent. I don't feel comfortable showing up for Sunday Services at any of the local churches, although I know there are folks there who would do their best to make me welcome. There's just that little hitch of believing in Baha'u'llah, which means I just don't belong in a Christian church, no matter how liberal. There are New Age groups around, too, but I don't quite fit in there, either -- again, believing in Baha'u'llah makes me a Baha'i, and I can't really pretend to be anything else.
Going it alone, though, really isn't so bad. After all, it's what I did before I became a Baha'i. And, with the online community, there are many of us who are "going it alone", together. That sense of a community of solitaries is what I've been trying, with some success, to build out here. And it works. It's hard, but it works.
I find it interesting, though, how spiritual practices appear to be the most "separable" aspect of religion -- in some cases they are virtually idenitcal anyway. The practice of saying a mantra is pretty much like Sufi dhikr, which in turn is much like saying a Rosary or repeating the Jesus prayer -- you're just using different sacred words. Barks, in writing this book, clearly sees prayer as prayer -- usable by anyone no matter what creed is professed. I had to suppress a chuckle recently, when a yoga teacher told me that saying "OM" was just for the cleansing vibrations and had nothing to do with religion. Yoga is a path within Hinduism -- it's religious through and through. The Hatha Yoga Westerners practice to reduce stress or get into shape was originally inextricable from religious meditation. Of course, an act is religious only if you intend it so -- but I don't believe for a minute that the ancient yogis taught their disciples to chant "OM" so they could get rid of their toxins and improve their health. But then, unlike some, I don't have a problem with it being religious.
To continue: Religious identity can be a complex thing: There are spiritual practices, which, as I said, can be separated from the whole and performed by anyone who finds them meaningful. There are belief systems, which those of us coming from a Christian background tend to regard as the whole of what we mean by "religion", and which is generally the most exclusive aspect. (I doubt if the majority of adherents in any major religion actually have beliefs which entirely match those of religious authorities; folks beliefs are extremely persistent.) There are traditions -- holy days, rites of passage, and the like -- which people can be sentimentally attached to long after they leave behind the religious beliefs and/or community they were raised in. And finally, there are communities, where the formalities of membership apply -- although some religions are more formal about that than others. It is probably possible for a person to be a different "religion" in each of these four aspects. Certainly, it's not uncommon to find someone who is split between two, usually the religion they were brought up in, and the religion of their choosing. There are times I think that multiple religious identity may be the wave of future -- along with the "spiritual, but not religious" crowd -- but only time will tell.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Spirituality vs. Religion
The other day, on one of the lists I subscribe to, one of the posters said something to the effect that he was bothered by the term "spirituality". It seemed be a word without much meaning, particular for those who go about claiming that they are "spiritual, but not religious". This isn't the first time I've heard this. A friend of mine who is an evangelical Christian once said the same thing to me, when I used the term "spirituality"; he said "I don't know what that means". At the time, I was kind of taken aback and didn't quite know what to say -- only confirming, I suppose, his belief that "spirituality" is a term without meaning. I know what he *thinks* it means: A way for folks to have the comfort of believing in God without the nuisance of dealing with all the "Thou shalt nots" and inconvenient issues like sin. Cherry-picking beliefs so you take what you like and leave what you don't. A shallow belief-system that's just a little too easy. And, so on.
Then, on the other hand, there's religion. Archaic rules that don't make sense in today's world. Bigotry and intolerance cloaked as the Will of God. Narrow-minded people who follow their leaders like sheep; leaders who are control-freaks intent on preserving their own power. Obsessive conern with obscure theological issues that divide the pure from the heretical, etc, etc. Certainly, these battle lines are familiar to everybody who has any interest at all in religion and/or spirituality; it most certainly is not limited to the online "Baha'i Wars". What you've got basically is two world-views talking past each other. What is meaningless to one is absolutely essential to the other.
I'm always very reluctant to label anything in the realm of religion "meaningless", especially if we're talking about spiritual experience. Quite obviously, the practice, or belief, or whatever must have meaning to somebody or it wouldn't continue to exist. There are some religious perspectives that absolutely leave me flat -- I can't fathom why anybody would get into it, however tolerant and understanding I might try to be. Generally, all I'm left with is a polite incomprehension. (The polite part meaning that I'm not going to name any of these perspectives here.) Fundamentalism, on the other hand, I understand; I just think it's spiritually harmful. Fundamentalism focuses a person on his/her own rightness, and causes an obsession about what others are doing wrong. It's all about controlling others, rather than developing one's own relationship with God. Despite appearances, fundamentalism is not strong faith -- it's got cracks all over it, which requires the believer to anxiously try to "seal" them up i.e. defend their faith from "wrong" views.
The critics of "spirituality" actually do have a point. Very often, people who are "spiritual, but not religious" do miss the richness and depth of centuries-old traditions. There's plenty of spirituality in religion, if a person cares to dig; it's just that sometimes folks don't know that there's treasure underneath all the seemingly irrelevant and restrictive aspects that turn people off at first glance.
I define spirituality as the interior journey one engages in through spiritual practice. Anybody who's followed me around must be aware that I'm fascinated by spiritual practices: prayer, meditation, and discipline in all its various forms. That's not "fluff"; that's hard work. Work that does not center around who controls and who needs to be controlled or what belief is correct or not.
Take a look at Baha'u'llah's Tablet of the True Seeker (Kitab-i-Iqan p.192-196). When Baha'u'llah speaks of the spiritual journey, he emphasizes two things: The seeker must become detached from the world, and he must develop spiritual qualities. The things one does to achieve those two things is pretty much what "spirituality" is.
Then, on the other hand, there's religion. Archaic rules that don't make sense in today's world. Bigotry and intolerance cloaked as the Will of God. Narrow-minded people who follow their leaders like sheep; leaders who are control-freaks intent on preserving their own power. Obsessive conern with obscure theological issues that divide the pure from the heretical, etc, etc. Certainly, these battle lines are familiar to everybody who has any interest at all in religion and/or spirituality; it most certainly is not limited to the online "Baha'i Wars". What you've got basically is two world-views talking past each other. What is meaningless to one is absolutely essential to the other.
I'm always very reluctant to label anything in the realm of religion "meaningless", especially if we're talking about spiritual experience. Quite obviously, the practice, or belief, or whatever must have meaning to somebody or it wouldn't continue to exist. There are some religious perspectives that absolutely leave me flat -- I can't fathom why anybody would get into it, however tolerant and understanding I might try to be. Generally, all I'm left with is a polite incomprehension. (The polite part meaning that I'm not going to name any of these perspectives here.) Fundamentalism, on the other hand, I understand; I just think it's spiritually harmful. Fundamentalism focuses a person on his/her own rightness, and causes an obsession about what others are doing wrong. It's all about controlling others, rather than developing one's own relationship with God. Despite appearances, fundamentalism is not strong faith -- it's got cracks all over it, which requires the believer to anxiously try to "seal" them up i.e. defend their faith from "wrong" views.
The critics of "spirituality" actually do have a point. Very often, people who are "spiritual, but not religious" do miss the richness and depth of centuries-old traditions. There's plenty of spirituality in religion, if a person cares to dig; it's just that sometimes folks don't know that there's treasure underneath all the seemingly irrelevant and restrictive aspects that turn people off at first glance.
I define spirituality as the interior journey one engages in through spiritual practice. Anybody who's followed me around must be aware that I'm fascinated by spiritual practices: prayer, meditation, and discipline in all its various forms. That's not "fluff"; that's hard work. Work that does not center around who controls and who needs to be controlled or what belief is correct or not.
Take a look at Baha'u'llah's Tablet of the True Seeker (Kitab-i-Iqan p.192-196). When Baha'u'llah speaks of the spiritual journey, he emphasizes two things: The seeker must become detached from the world, and he must develop spiritual qualities. The things one does to achieve those two things is pretty much what "spirituality" is.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Intone My Servant -- The City of Immortality
I have spent the last month reading Gems of the Mysteries, and am close to the end. This morning's reading was from "The City of Immortality": In this instance, I actually prefer the official translation:
Having, in this journey, immersed himself in the ocean of immortality, rid his heart from attachment to aught save Him, and attained unro the loftiest heights of everlasting life, the seeker will see no annihilation either for himself or for any other soul. He will quaff from the cup of immortality, tread in its land, soar in its atmosphere, consort with them that are its embodiments, partake of the imperishable and incorruptible fruits of the tree of eternity, and be forever accounted, in the lofty heights of immortality, amongst the deniszens of the everlasting realm.
Now, I am intimately familiar with the Valley(or Garden) of Search, acquainted with the Valley(or City) of Love, and have gotten a few scattered glimpses of the Valley of Knowledge (which doesn't appear in "Gems"), but when you get towards these upper stations, Baha'u'llah is talking beyond my experience -- and, I suspect, beyond the experience of virtually everyone else who reads these passages. 'Abdu'l-Baha' says somewhere that those who recognize the Manifestation have already traversed all seven valleys, but the slightest trace of self brings us back to the beginning -- and which of us is free from "the slightest trace of self"?
What Baha'u'llah describes here is an enticing vision of what our goal is -- this almost reads like a description of the afterlife, rather than anything attainable in this one. But, I've just seen further down the page:
Know, moreover, that should one who hath attained unto these stations and embarked upon these journeys fall prey to pride and vainglory, he would at that very moment come to naught and return to the first step without realizing it.
Just what 'Abdu'l-Baha' said -- and the greatest temptation for any seeker, indeed for any religious person at all, is to take pride in what they've accomplished in their path. Who among us passes that test? Who among us doesn't think "Well, I've done really well at that, unlike those other guys who are really messing up big time"? We all like to think well of ourselves -- and then, we're back to pride. It's like tattle-taling at school -- the reason second-graders are such big tattle-tales is because they want attention for being good; they want Teacher to know that this other kid is being bad, which makes the tattler feel good by comparison. Children also take pride in knowing the "right" way to do things, which by second-grade they've gained some confidence in. Adults aren't so different; we're just more subtle about it.
Another interesting verse, down the page a bit: For were they to reach the ultimate object of their quest for God and their attainment unto Him, they would have but reached that abode which hath been raised up in their own hearts.
This journey is entirely internal, what we end up getting to know is the reflection of God in our own hearts -- God Himself being entirely unknowable and inaccessible. If we don't know God within ourselves, where else can we know Him?
Having, in this journey, immersed himself in the ocean of immortality, rid his heart from attachment to aught save Him, and attained unro the loftiest heights of everlasting life, the seeker will see no annihilation either for himself or for any other soul. He will quaff from the cup of immortality, tread in its land, soar in its atmosphere, consort with them that are its embodiments, partake of the imperishable and incorruptible fruits of the tree of eternity, and be forever accounted, in the lofty heights of immortality, amongst the deniszens of the everlasting realm.
Now, I am intimately familiar with the Valley(or Garden) of Search, acquainted with the Valley(or City) of Love, and have gotten a few scattered glimpses of the Valley of Knowledge (which doesn't appear in "Gems"), but when you get towards these upper stations, Baha'u'llah is talking beyond my experience -- and, I suspect, beyond the experience of virtually everyone else who reads these passages. 'Abdu'l-Baha' says somewhere that those who recognize the Manifestation have already traversed all seven valleys, but the slightest trace of self brings us back to the beginning -- and which of us is free from "the slightest trace of self"?
What Baha'u'llah describes here is an enticing vision of what our goal is -- this almost reads like a description of the afterlife, rather than anything attainable in this one. But, I've just seen further down the page:
Know, moreover, that should one who hath attained unto these stations and embarked upon these journeys fall prey to pride and vainglory, he would at that very moment come to naught and return to the first step without realizing it.
Just what 'Abdu'l-Baha' said -- and the greatest temptation for any seeker, indeed for any religious person at all, is to take pride in what they've accomplished in their path. Who among us passes that test? Who among us doesn't think "Well, I've done really well at that, unlike those other guys who are really messing up big time"? We all like to think well of ourselves -- and then, we're back to pride. It's like tattle-taling at school -- the reason second-graders are such big tattle-tales is because they want attention for being good; they want Teacher to know that this other kid is being bad, which makes the tattler feel good by comparison. Children also take pride in knowing the "right" way to do things, which by second-grade they've gained some confidence in. Adults aren't so different; we're just more subtle about it.
Another interesting verse, down the page a bit: For were they to reach the ultimate object of their quest for God and their attainment unto Him, they would have but reached that abode which hath been raised up in their own hearts.
This journey is entirely internal, what we end up getting to know is the reflection of God in our own hearts -- God Himself being entirely unknowable and inaccessible. If we don't know God within ourselves, where else can we know Him?
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