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"The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens."
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"The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens."
By Shoghi Effendi · 1944 · Bahá'í Publishing Trust
Formative Age (1921–1957) · in copyright
Authoritative history of the Faith's first century. Use carefully — copyright; summaries permitted.
About Shoghi Effendi
Eldest grandson of 'Abdu'l-Bahá and, by His Will and Testament, the appointed Guardian of the Bahá'í Faith. Translated foundational Bahá'í texts into English; supervised the construction of the Shrine of the Báb on Mount Carmel; directed the global expansion of the Faith.
1897–1957 · Guardian
Stories by era covered
Featured figures
Themes
“'Alí Khán felt such mortification that he was impelled to relax”
“the severity of his discipline, as an atonement for his past”
“Their first act every morning was to seek a place where they”
“could catch a glimpse of His face.”
“Bastinadoed in the namáz-khánih of the mujtahid of that town”
From Bastinadoed in the Masjid of Ámul: Bahá'u'lláh's Second Imprisonment
The Dawn-Breakers: Nabíl's Narrative of the Early Days of the Bahá'í Revelation
Cited in Authoritative HistoryNabíl-i-A'ẓam · 1932
The Chosen Highway
Secondary RetellingLady Blomfield · 1940
Portals to Freedom
Secondary RetellingHoward Colby Ives · 1937
The Diary of Juliet Thompson
Secondary RetellingJuliet Thompson · 1947
World Order
Secondary RetellingWorld Order Editors · 1935
The Promulgation of Universal Peace
Primary Source'Abdu'l-Bahá · 1922
Shoghi Effendi's account, in *God Passes By*, of how 'Alí Khán — the warden ordered to keep the Báb in strictest confinement at the fortress of Máh-Kú — was so moved by a strange vision that he relaxed his discipline, and how the people of the village then began to come every morning hoping for a glimpse of the Prisoner's face.
A seventeen-year-old boy asked for one thing: to carry a letter from Bahá'u'lláh to the king of Persia. He walked for months to deliver it — and gave his life with a smile that no one who saw it could forget.
After the destruction of the defenders of Shaykh Ṭabarsí, Bahá'u'lláh — who had set out to join them — was arrested in the town of Ámul, beaten in the local mosque until His feet bled, and stoned in the streets. Shoghi Effendi reads this episode as the moment Bahá'u'lláh stepped into the centre of the stage left vacant by the Báb.
Shoghi Effendi's account, in *God Passes By*, of Bahá'u'lláh's most consequential undertaking of the Adrianople period (1863-1868) — the composition and transmission of the great Tablets to the rulers of His era, addressing each by name and summoning the world's governors to recognise the new Day of God.
Shoghi Effendi's account, in *God Passes By*, of Thornton Chase — the Chicago insurance executive who in June 1894 became the first American and the first Westerner formally to embrace the Bahá'í Faith, and who would later be honoured by 'Abdu'l-Bahá as *the first Bahá'í of the United States.*
Shoghi Effendi's narration, in *God Passes By*, of the Master's laying of the cornerstone of the Mashriqu'l-Adhkár at Wilmette in May 1912 — a moment the Guardian describes as the inauguration of the construction of the first House of Worship of the Bahá'í Dispensation in the Western world.
In the prison of 'Akká, Bahá'u'lláh's young son fell while lost in prayer. Given the chance to ask for his life back, he asked instead that his death open the prison doors to others.
Nine days after Bahá'u'lláh passed, His own sealed Will was opened and read aloud — and a grieving community learned exactly where to turn.
When Bahá'u'lláh passed away, His Son could have borne any title in the world. He asked to be known by only one: the Servant of Bahá.
Shoghi Effendi's own narration, in *God Passes By*, of the events of late 1921 and early 1922 — the Master's passing, the discovery of the Will and Testament naming the young Shoghi as Guardian, and the formal beginning of the Formative Age of the Faith.
Shoghi Effendi's account, in *God Passes By*, of the conference at Badasht in 1848 — and the moment when Ṭáhirih, "adorned yet unveiled," announced that the day of the new Dispensation had begun.
A stern guard was ordered to keep the Báb a prisoner high in the mountains — until something he saw changed his heart, and soon a whole village climbed up just to glimpse the Prisoner's face.
Bahá'u'lláh set out to help His friends in danger, and when the road was closed and He was hurt in a faraway town, He bore it all with quiet courage.
From a city of exile, Bahá'u'lláh wrote letters to the most powerful kings, queens, and rulers on earth, calling each one by name to recognize a new Day of God.
A busy businessman in Chicago read a few words in a newspaper, went to listen — and became the first person in all of America to follow the Bahá'í Faith.
On a busy day by a great lake, the special cornerstone for a new temple went missing — until one ordinary woman offered a little stone she had picked up by the road.
When the friends were sad and unsure what to do, a sealed letter was opened and read aloud — and at last they knew exactly where to turn.
When everyone wanted to give 'Abdu'l-Bahá the grandest title in the world, He picked the humblest name He could find — and made it beautiful.
A young man far away at school received sad news, hurried home, and discovered that a sealed letter had named him to care for the whole Bahá'í Faith.
In a quiet garden long ago, a fearless woman named Ṭáhirih stood before a roomful of startled men and announced that a brand-new day had begun.
Mírzá Asadu'lláh of Khúy stood high in the world — a learned man, master of several tongues, a trusted official of the Persian state. When he recognized the Báb, he laid all of it down. The Báb gave him a title that bound him to the future of the Faith — "the Third Letter to believe in Him Whom God shall make manifest" — and Dayyán kept that covenant to the end, journeying to recognize Bahá'u'lláh and dying for Him.
At the end of the great funeral on Mount Carmel in 1921, 'Abdu'l-Bahá was laid to rest not in a tomb of His own but in a chamber of the Shrine of the Báb — the very Shrine He had laboured for years to raise over the remains of His Lord's Forerunner. The Builder of that holy House became one of its treasures.
In the weeks before His passing, 'Abdu'l-Bahá told His family of two dreams. In one He stood in a great mosque and raised the call to prayer before a vast multitude; in the other Bahá'u'lláh came to Him and said, "Destroy this room." Only after His ascension did those around Him understand what the dreams had foretold.
Years before His passing, in days of great danger, 'Abdu'l-Bahá set down in His own hand a Will and Testament. Opened after His ascension in 1921, it appointed Shoghi Effendi as Guardian, provided for the Universal House of Justice, and laid the foundations of the Administrative Order — His parting gift to a community He would not leave unguided.
Six days before His ascension in 1892, Bahá'u'lláh — already weakened by fever — summoned the entire company of believers and pilgrims gathered at the Mansion of Bahjí into His presence one last time. Leaning against one of His sons, He thanked them for their services, urged them to remain united, and gave them His final blessing.
In the small hours of the twenty-ninth of May, 1892, Bahá'u'lláh ascended at Bahjí in the seventy-fifth year of His age. A telegram bearing the words "the Sun of Bahá has set" carried the news to the Sultan; and for a full week, mourners of every faith and station — Muslim and Christian, Jew and Druze, rich and poor — gathered at the Mansion to grieve and to pay tribute.
Before the world knew her as Táhirih, the gifted poet-theologian of Qazvín was given one name by the teacher she never met in person — Qurratu'l-'Ayn, Solace of the Eyes — and another, years later, at the conference of Badasht, where the assembled believers proclaimed her Táhirih, the Pure One. Two names, conferred by two hands, for a woman who became the herald of a new Day.
A poet from the village of Zarand left everything to follow Bahá'u'lláh, and in the end was given the task of recording the whole heroic story of the Faith's beginnings. Bahá'u'lláh conferred on him the name Nabíl-i-A'ẓam — a name whose very letters, by the old reckoning, add to the same sum as the name Muḥammad.
From a borrowed house in the Ottoman town of Adrianople, an exile stripped of homeland, wealth, and freedom revealed the Súriy-i-Mulúk — the Tablet of the Kings — and, addressing the whole concourse of the world's sovereigns at once, bade the rulers of the earth lay down their pride, deal justly with their peoples, and turn to the Day of God. Shoghi Effendi ranks it among the most momentous Tablets of the entire Bahá'í Revelation.
From within the prison-city of 'Akká — held under a sentence of perpetual confinement — Bahá'u'lláh revealed the Kitáb-i-Aqdas, the Most Holy Book: the charter of a future world civilization, set down by a Prisoner whom the powers of the earth had meant to silence forever.
On the night the Báb declared His mission in Shíráz, He took up His pen and began, with astonishing speed, to reveal the Qayyúmu'l-Asmá' — the first Book of His Dispensation. Shoghi Effendi ranks it among the greatest and mightiest of all the works the Báb left behind.
On Naw-Rúz 1909, after the sacred remains of the Báb had been hidden and moved for sixty years, 'Abdu'l-Bahá laid them with His own hands in the Shrine He had built on Mount Carmel — and, overcome, wept so that all who were present wept with Him. The greatest victory, He called it, of a long-deferred hope.
In Baghdád, in answer to the questions of an uncle of the Báb who was still searching, Bahá'u'lláh revealed in the span of two days and two nights the Kitáb-i-Íqán — the Book of Certitude. Shoghi Effendi ranks it the most important doctrinal work of the Bahá'í Revelation: a torrent of explanation poured out almost in a single sitting, and a sign of the glory of the Word.
For ten years in Baghdád Bahá'u'lláh had carried His station in silence. Then, in the spring of 1863, on the eve of a new banishment, He entered a rose-filled garden on the bank of the Tigris and, for twelve days, declared openly to His companions that He was the Promised One foretold by the Báb. Bahá'ís remember those days as the King of Festivals — the hour the long-hidden Glory of God was at last unveiled.
Across forty years of exile, imprisonment, and persecution, Bahá'u'lláh poured forth a sea of revealed verses unmatched in religious history — Tablets, prayers, and books in such abundance that those who tried to record them could scarcely keep pace. Shoghi Effendi gathers the testimony of that torrent as one of the surest signs of the glory of His Revelation.
Exiled and dispossessed, Bahá'u'lláh spent ten years in Baghdád showering kindness upon all who came to Him — the poor, the lowly, the learned, and even those who had wished Him harm. By the time a fresh banishment drove Him on to Constantinople, the whole city had come to love Him; and on the day He rode away, men and women of every rank wept in the streets and pressed forward to embrace His stirrups.
When His father the Vazír died, the young Bahá'u'lláh was offered the ministerial post the family had long held — an honour the court pressed upon Him. He declined it. God Passes By preserves the moment, and the words of the Prime Minister who, baffled and impressed, sensed that this young Nobleman was destined for something the world could not yet name.
Soon after He recognized the Báb, the young Bahá'u'lláh carried the new Message home to the district of His fathers, Núr. With matchless eloquence and fearless zeal He won over officials, notables, and even His own relatives — and when a leading divine sent two of his ablest emissaries to refute Him, they returned utterly transformed instead.
When Bahá'u'lláh was born in Tihrán in 1817, He entered the world through a family line that reached back, in Shoghi Effendi's account, to Abraham, to Zoroaster, and to the royal house of ancient Persia. The Holy Day of His birth is also the remembrance of the long preparation, across millennia, for His coming.
On the first day of Muḥarram in the year 1235 of the Muslim calendar — the twentieth of October 1819 — a Son was born in a modest house in Shíráz to a family of merchants who traced their descent from the Prophet Muḥammad. The child was named Siyyid 'Alí-Muḥammad. The world would come to know Him as the Báb, the Gate of a new Day of God.
Years before He named 'Abdu'l-Bahá the Centre of His Covenant, Bahá'u'lláh revealed in Adrianople the Súriy-i-Ghuṣn — the Tablet of the Branch — in which His eldest Son is extolled as the "Branch of Holiness," the "Limb of the Law of God," and the "Trust of God," a Tablet that foreshadowed the rank later to be conferred upon Him.
The Báb's first eighteen disciples — the Letters of the Living — were not the most famous or powerful of their age, but souls whom God had prepared to recognise Him each by his own seeking. When their number was complete, the Báb gathered them, told them they were the bearers of His Name, and sent them out across Persia to herald the Day that had dawned.
As Bahá'u'lláh prepared to leave for the Garden of Riḍván, the great and the powerful of Baghdád came to do Him honour. Officials, men of rank, even the governor of the city paid their respects to the departing exile — and, in Nabíl's words, heads on every side bowed to the dust at the feet of His horse.
It is to Nabíl, the chronicler of the early days, that we owe the most beloved picture of the Garden of Riḍván — roses heaped so high in Bahá'u'lláh's tent that the companions could not see one another across it, and a saying about the nightingales that He uttered in the warm Baghdád nights of April 1863.
Years before the Garden of Riḍván, the Báb had filled His writings with promises of "Him Whom God shall make manifest" — and had pointed, in veiled and exact words, to "the year nine" and to nineteen years that must elapse before the Promised One would appear. In April 1863, nineteen years after the Báb's own Declaration, that promise was kept.
Before the Báb declared His mission, two great scholars spent their lives preparing the way. Shaykh Aḥmad-i-Aḥsá'í and his successor Siyyid Káẓim-i-Rashtí turned the full force of their learning toward a single end: to read the prophecies of the past so faithfully that they could ready a generation to recognise the Promised One. Theirs is the story of knowledge used not for its own glory but to open the eyes of others to a coming Day.
ʻAlí-Muḥammad Varqá, a poet and devoted teacher of the Faith, was imprisoned in Ṭihrán with his twelve-year-old son Rúḥu'lláh and a company of believers. When the murder of the Sháh was used as a pretext to crush them, father and son were threatened, tormented, and at last killed — the boy bearing witness with a serenity and courage before overwhelming power that astonished even his executioners.
In the city of ʻIshqábád, a respected Bahá'í named Ḥájí Muḥammad-Riḍá was set upon in broad daylight by assassins sent to terrorize the believers into silence. The murder was meant to make the community cower. Instead it produced something never seen before: a public trial under the Russian authorities in which the Bahá'ís were, for the first time in their history, openly distinguished from their persecutors and their innocence proclaimed before the world.
From His prison in 'Akká, Bahá'u'lláh addressed a Tablet to Náṣiri'd-Dín Sháh, the king of Persia. A seventeen-year-old believer named Badíʻ asked for the honour of carrying it. Alone and on foot he crossed an empire, stood in plain sight before the royal camp, and delivered it — then bore three days of torture with a serenity his executioners could not break.
Siyyid Yaḥyá-i-Dárábí, called Vaḥíd, was one of the most learned men of his age — sent by the Sháh himself to refute the Báb, he came away His devoted disciple. In 1850 his teaching set the city of Nayríz aflame with faith, and when the army came he withdrew with a small band to a hilltop fort and held it for months. He was deceived by an oath sworn on the Qur'án, and went out to a death he had foreseen, steadfast to the last.
In Iṣfahán in 1879, two brothers — merchants famed throughout the city for their honesty and their boundless generosity to the poor — were stripped of their wealth, falsely accused, and put to death at the instigation of two powerful clergymen. Bahá'u'lláh, who had named them the King of Martyrs and the Beloved of Martyrs, mourned them as among the most precious souls to give their lives for His Cause.
For two years Bahá'u'lláh withdrew alone into the wilderness of Kurdistan, asking nothing, claiming nothing, known to no one but as a wandering dervish. Yet the sheer beauty of His character and wisdom could not stay hidden — the shaykhs and divines of Sulaymáníyyih were drawn to Him in wonder and love, until His fame at last revealed where He was.
From His confinement in the remote mountain fortresses of Ádhirbáyján, the Báb revealed, in answer to a seeker's questions, the Dalá'il-i-Sab'ih — the Seven Proofs — which Shoghi Effendi ranks among the most important of His doctrinal works. In it the Báb sets out the evidences of His mission and, with extraordinary tenderness, calls the inquirer to weigh the truth fairly, for the sake of God alone.
A quiet American newspaperwoman, Martha Root, placed the Writings of Bahá'u'lláh and 'Abdu'l-Bahá into the hands of Queen Marie of Romania. The Word so moved the Queen that she became the first reigning monarch to embrace the Faith, and published her testimony to it in newspapers across the world.
From the Holy Land, during the dark years of the First World War, 'Abdu'l-Bahá wrote a series of Tablets to the Bahá'ís of North America summoning them to carry the Faith to the ends of the earth. Unveiled in New York in 1919, these Words transformed a small community into a teaching force that would belt the globe.
Forty days before He was led from His mountain prison to be martyred, the Báb quietly gathered up all that He possessed — His writings, His pen-case, His seals, and His rings — and placed them in trusted hands, with instructions that they be carried in secret to Bahá'u'lláh in Ṭihrán. On the threshold of death, His last act of provision looked not backward in grief but forward to the One whose coming He had lived and would die to herald.
After the Báb was martyred, His body and that of His companion were flung outside the gate of Tabríz, at the edge of the moat, to be devoured — and a guard of sentinels was set to watch over them. Through the daring of a believer named Ḥájí Sulaymán Khán, the precious remains were carried away by night, hidden in a silk factory, and — at Bahá'u'lláh's own command — borne in secret toward safety. So began a hidden journey that would end, sixty years later, on Mount Carmel.
It was the chief minister of Persia, Mírzá Taqí Khán the Amír-Niẓám, who decreed the Báb's death and pressed it through against the reluctance of others. Shoghi Effendi describes him as arbitrary, bloodthirsty, and reckless. Within little more than a year of the martyrdom he had ordered, the all-powerful minister was stripped of his office, banished, and secretly put to death — a downfall the Bahá'í histories read as no mere accident of court intrigue.
Long before the Báb declared His mission, two remarkable teachers — Shaykh Aḥmad-i-Aḥsá'í and his successor Siyyid Káẓim-i-Rashtí — spent their lives preparing a generation to recognize the Promised One who was at hand. They did not tell their disciples whom to follow; they taught them to detach, to purify their hearts, and to go out and seek. When Siyyid Káẓim died, his last charge was simple: scatter, and find Him.
For forty years 'Abdu'l-Bahá was a prisoner of the Ottoman state, and through every threat of exile to the deserts of North Africa and every renewed tightening of His confinement He remained serene, accepting each turn as the will of God. When in 1908 the gates of 'Akká at last swung open and He walked free, He met the long-awaited liberation with the very same tranquillity He had shown in captivity.
In the city of 'Ishqábád, in Russian Turkistan, the Bahá'í community raised the first House of Worship the world had ever seen — a stately, nine-sided edifice set in gardens, ringed by the institutions of practical service the Cause ordains beside its temples: schools, a traveller's hospice, a clinic. Shoghi Effendi numbers its construction among the signal triumphs of the Faith's early history.
In the winter of 1898, fifteen Western believers — gathered and largely financed by Phoebe Hearst, and travelling in small parties to avoid notice — made their way to the prison-city of 'Akká to attain the presence of 'Abdu'l-Bahá. Shoghi Effendi marks their visit as the opening of a new epoch in the rise of the Faith in the West.
When Bahá'u'lláh crossed the Tigris to enter the Garden of Riḍván in April 1863 and declared His mission, the eldest of the sons at His side was 'Abdu'l-Bahá, then a youth of eighteen. He had grown up in the shadow of His Father's exile and had already, as a child, recognized His station. The Ninth Day of Riḍván, when the rest of the family joined them in the Garden, gathers the whole household around that declaration.
The Báb was sent to a bleak mountain prison on the frontier of Persia, chosen for its remoteness and the supposed hostility of its people, so that His influence might be extinguished. Instead the light could not be walled out: the hostile warden himself was transformed, the discipline relaxed, and the Kurdish villagers below began to climb the mountain each dawn for a single glimpse of His face.
Not long after the Báb declared His mission, He told His first disciple that a soul of surpassing greatness was yet to be reached, and sent him north to find the one of his own heart's choosing. In Ṭihrán, Mullá Ḥusayn placed a scroll in the hands of a young Nobleman, Bahá'u'lláh — and when the answer came back, the Báb's joy revealed that the greatest Light of all had recognised the Day.
For nearly sixty years the remains of the martyred Báb were carried in secret from hiding place to hiding place, guarded through every danger. On the morning of Naw-Rúz 1909, after a labour of ten years to build the tomb, 'Abdu'l-Bahá with His own hands laid them to rest in the spot on Mount Carmel that Bahá'u'lláh Himself had chosen — and wept upon the sarcophagus.
Mullá Muḥammad-'Alíy-i-Zanjání was the foremost and most fearless divine of the city of Zanján. When the message of the Báb reached him and he recognised its truth, he did not keep his conviction to himself: he proclaimed the new Cause openly from his place of authority, won a great multitude of his townsmen, and bore imprisonment rather than be silenced.
In Ṭihrán in 1850, seven believers of utterly different stations — a great merchant, a beloved dervish, a learned theologian among them — were each offered their lives, and more than their lives, if they would deny the Báb. To the very last, with the sword before them, every one refused. A story of the power of God to make ordinary souls unbreakable.
A few hundred students, merchants, and craftsmen — most of whom had never held a weapon — were besieged in a makeshift fort in the forests of Mázindarán by the trained regiments and artillery of an empire. For eleven months they held, not by numbers or arms, but by a power their enemies could not understand and could not break.
Through the years of His exile in Baghdád, Bahá'u'lláh transformed a place of banishment into a haven. Though His own household often had little, He became the friend and refuge of the poor, the orphan, and the wronged of the city — so beloved that high and low alike sought His door, and His departure cast the whole community into grief.
Bahá'u'lláh and His companions were banished to 'Akká as the worst of criminals, shut in a foul barracks where nearly all fell sick and several died. The empire meant to strip them of every dignity and let the Cause rot behind those walls. Instead, as Shoghi Effendi recounts in God Passes By, the exiles bore their degradation with such serenity that the prison itself became a place of honour, and the city that had cursed them came at last to revere them.
In an age when a Black man in America was offered little honour, Robert Turner — a butler in a wealthy household — became the first of his race in the West to embrace the Faith of Bahá'u'lláh, and 'Abdu'l-Bahá rose to greet him, telling him that God had given him a black skin but a heart white as snow.
From His exile in Adrianople and 'Akká, Bahá'u'lláh addressed the most powerful monarch in Europe — Napoleon III of France — twice. The first message the Emperor is said to have cast aside with a contemptuous word; in the second Tablet Bahá'u'lláh warned him plainly that for what he had done his kingdom would be thrown into confusion and his empire pass from his hands. Within a few short years the prophecy was fulfilled to the letter, while the Cause the exile proclaimed continued to spread.
Brought as an exile to Constantinople, the seat of the Ottoman Sultan, Bahá'u'lláh did the one thing that astonished the whole capital — He sought no favour. Contrary to the universal custom of the city, He refused to call upon its ministers or beg the help of the powerful, choosing instead a dignity that rested on God alone rather than on the patronage of any throne.
The banishment that began on the twelfth day of Riḍván was meant to humble Bahá'u'lláh, yet the long road north became a procession of homage. Town after town received Him with reverence, recalling the love of the people of Baghdád; and as the caravan neared the Black Sea, He revealed the Tablet of the Howdah, in which the majesty of His Cause shone out over the very road of His exile.
At noon on the twelfth and last day in the Garden of Riḍván — May 3, 1863 — Bahá'u'lláh mounted a red roan stallion, the finest His lovers could buy for Him, and rode out toward the long exile to Constantinople. The crowds bowed to the dust at His horse's feet and pressed forward to embrace His stirrups; what the empire had decreed as banishment looked, to all who watched, like the riding-forth of a King.
When Bahá'u'lláh rode out of the Garden of Riḍván on the twelfth day, the grief knew no party and no creed. Believers and unbelievers alike sobbed and lamented; the chiefs and notables who had gathered were struck with wonder. The departure laid bare what ten years of His presence had done to a whole city's heart — and what His presence does to any heart it touches.
The supreme festival of the Bahá'í year does not close on a day of arrival but on a day of departure. The Twelfth Day of Riḍván seals the twelve days Shoghi Effendi calls the holiest and most significant of all Bahá'í festivals — the Most Great Festival, the King of Festivals, the Festival of God — by sending the newly unveiled Glory of God out from the Garden and onto the road of His Cause.
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