Thoughts in the Kingdom

08.13.01

For my whole childhood my mother had a saying she would quote to me in times of emotional turmoil:

"The man living with his thoughts in the Kingdom knows perpetual joy. The ills all flesh is heir to do not pass him by, but they only touch the surface. The depths are calm and serene."

I have always boiled this down to: If a person has their mind on spiritual matters and is in communion with God, even though bad things might happen in life, that person is still happy and calm deep down.

Really spiritual people are always happy. The more spiritual you are, the happier you are.

I figured that if being happy is a sign of spirituality, being unhappy was a sign that one did not have his "thoughts in the kingdom," and was doing something wrong. As a child it was as plain to me as black and white.

As an adult I realize on a conscious level that people experience a range of emotions in life, and that spirituality is a very personal process of growth, not a light switch that is either on or off.

But underneath that correct and tolerant approach, I still believe - down in my gut, where correct and tolerant don't mean anything - that when I am unhappy it is because I have let God down and He has no choice but to let me have it.

This all came to mind for me today because I was reading a book about the early days of the Bahá'í Faith.

With great delicacy and restraint, the author recounts many of the horrific episodes in the young life of the religion.

Peace-loving and devoted individuals were savagely persecuted, betrayed, brutally murdered, publicly executed, sold into slavery, the women molested, the bodies of the dead defiled. Their leader was imprisoned without hope of release.

I wondered how the survivors lived on after that kind of trauma. I imagined the nightmares, the constant fear they must have felt, how long it had to take to heal those wounds.

My eyes filled with tears over and over as I read, and I had to hope that no one on the bus was looking as I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt.

When the narrative turned to describe the condition of their leader, Siyyid Ali, I imagined that He was in his mountain prison, isolated but in deep meditation, bearing it all with supreme fortitude.

Instead, the author relates that on hearing the news of His followers, Siyyid Ali was "crushed with grief," refusing visitors, food and drink.

"Tears rained continually from His eyes, and profuse expressions of anguish poured forth from His wounded heart."

I was stunned. I revere Siyyid Ali, or the Báb, as the Baha'is call Him, as a holy man. My belief is that as one of God's Messengers He exists on a separate plane from ordinary people, and like Christ, Buddha, Mohammed, Abraham, Moses, Krishna, and all the Holy Teachers sent to humanity through the ages, he was in mystical communion with the Great Being at all times.

How can it be, then, that His heart was "wounded," that the ills of the flesh didn't only ruffle the surface, but that he felt it all with a profound and unmerciful sensitivity?

Needless to say, His reaction calls my own firmly rooted belief into question. Either I am wrong about Him and all the Great Teachers of history - they were ordinary, though insightful, people who reacted just like the rest of us when things got bad - or I am wrong about what it means to live with one's thoughts in God's Kingdom. I think it is the latter.

I think one of the major flaws in my theory of spirituality and happiness is that it completely neglects empathy. That's unfortunate, because it means that when I am feeling low, I tend to have very little of that for myself.

My "self-talk" generally goes something like this: "Buck up! Quit being a pain in the ass! What makes you think you're so special, that your problems are so damn important?" Not surprisingly, it doesn't help much.

This becomes even more of a problem when, in moments of weakness, I offer this kind of loving support to those close to me, like, say, my husband.

This sounds somethingl like, "Get out of bed, Joel! I know you're not feeling well, but I'm not going to tell you again! You are making me late!" I'm working on that, too.

Empathy is where things get all gooey for me. I mean, how am I supposed to get to work on time if my response to Joel not feeling good is "take a little extra time this morning, sweetie. It's okay."

(Actually, he has really helped me learn new ways to communicate so that I don't treat him like a recalcitrant plow-horse. So these days, I use the harsh and critical tone mainly in the privacy of my own head.)

Empathy is what makes you think what it must feel like to walk in another person's shoes, feel compassion for them. I think that this is what the Báb felt for his followers.

Somehow as a child I missed out on the idea that holy people aren't just holy because of where their thoughts are, they are holy because of where their hearts are.

Like any good Teacher, the Báb's heart was with those He came here to teach. When his followers suffered, he suffered with them.

When greedy and fanatical leaders drove simple and uneducated people to acts of savagery, He felt shame for their misdeeds, and indignation for the inequality that made them pawns in petty struggles for earthly power.

He eventually faced his own execution with calm, comforted, I am sure, by the company of one of His young followers who begged to be executed along with Him, and the knowledge that His earthly trials were over.

I have always been touched by the stories of Christ as a Man who walked His path courageously even as His heart was breaking.

For simple love, He risked His safety to go to Bethany to comfort Mary and Martha, and bring Lazarus back to life. He wept with them, and healed them.

Imagine His agony as he bore His cross to the place of sacrifice, and asked if God had forsaken Him. This is not a stoic man, untouched by the misery around him, but a supremely sensitive Heart, not fearing to love or grieve or cry out in pain.

I also bring to mind Bahá'u'lláh and the suffering He lived through. I am scared to imagine what a life like His would feel like if experienced with a truly open heart, full of love and compassion.

Only a holy person could live through assassination attempts and poisoning by the brother He raised as a son, the accidental death of His own 22-year old son, the heartbreak of seeing member after member of His own family turn against Him.

In addition to His own exile and imprisonment, He was witness to the sufferings of His family and friends as they sacrificed every imaginable comfort to be with Him.

How can a person live through that and not harden, not become vengeful, not scar?

While I do not have the heart or the spirit of God's chosen Teachers, I have to look to Them for hope and help with my struggle: to keep an open heart in the midst of the tragedies we see around us.

For years I've been working on having my thoughts in the Kingdom. Now I need to learn how to have my heart here in the world.

Personal musings:

Wilderness: Dreams of living in the wild persist and change.

All grown up: At 12 I looked like I was 20, at 24 I looked 15.

Altruism: Can you ever repay the kindness of a stranger?

Photos in a box: A package from my brother turned my memories of childhood upside down.

Short story long: How to lengthen a narrative in a few easy steps.

Writing: Going the distance to find things to write about.

Neighbors: An amazing account of urban generosity.

Snacking: The angst of a healthy diet.

Thoughts on spiritual matters:

Subway preachers: Transcendence on the Red Line.

Thoughts in the Kingdom: How do you keep your mind in heaven and your heart in the world?

After September 11: Response to an attack on a mosque in Bridgeview, Ill., on September 12.