A Blazing Light: Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá Baghdádí

A retelling drawn from Memorials of the Faithful, 'Abdu'l-Bahá's first-person reminiscences of the believers in Bahá'u'lláh's circle. Phrases in quotation marks are 'Abdu'l-Bahá's own words preserved in that book.

There is a kind of perfection that does not consist in a single, dazzling talent, but in the way many virtues are gathered together in one life and held there steadily, through danger and ease alike. In Memorials of the Faithful, 'Abdu'l-Bahá draws the portrait of just such a man — and the very first sentence of the memorial tells us how the Master saw him. "Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá," He writes, "was a blazing light."

He was the son of a famous scholar, Shaykh Muḥammad-i-Shibl, and he lived in 'Iráq, in and around the city of Baghdád. From his earliest years, 'Abdu'l-Bahá records, he was "clearly unique and beyond compare" — "wise, brave, deserving in every way," and "known far and wide." His father had guided him from childhood, and "from childhood, guided by his father, he had lit the light of faith in the chapel of his heart." He had, the Master says, "rid himself of the hindering veils of illusion, gazed about with perceptive eyes, witnessed great new signs of God," and — note the courage already in the young man — "regardless of the consequences, had cried aloud: 'The earth hath shone out with the light of her Lord!'"

To grasp the excellence of his character we have to picture the situation around him, which 'Abdu'l-Bahá paints in a single charged sentence: "the opposition was powerful, the penalty obvious, the friends, every one of them, terrified, and off in some corner hiding their belief." This was a time when, to be known as a lover of Bahá'u'lláh in Baghdád was to risk everything, and almost all the believers had withdrawn into concealment. The Master does not blame them; the danger was real. But against that backdrop of universal fear, one figure stood upright. "At such a time," 'Abdu'l-Bahá writes, "this intrepid personality boldly went about his business, and like a man, faced up to every tyrant." Indeed, He records, "the one individual who, in the year seventy, was famed in 'Iráq for his love of Bahá'u'lláh was this honored person."

The contrast the Master draws is unforgettable. "A few other souls, then in Baghdád and its environs," He writes, "had crept away into nooks and crannies and, imprisoned in their own lethargy, there they remained. But this admirable Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá would boldly, proudly come and go like a man, and the hostile, because of his physical strength and his courage, were afraid to attack him." Here is one face of his perfected character: a courage so steady and so visible that it actually held his enemies back. The man who would not hide became, by his very fearlessness, untouchable.

This was no reckless bravado, but courage rooted in faith and deepened by nearness to its Source. After Bahá'u'lláh returned from His withdrawal to the mountains of Kurdistán, 'Abdu'l-Bahá writes, "the virile strength and bearing of that gallant individual was still further enhanced. Whenever leave was granted, he would attend upon Bahá'u'lláh, and would hear from His lips expressions of favor and grace." And when the great separation came, and "the convoy of the Beloved left for Constantinople," Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá did not waver. "He remained loyal and staunch, and withstood the foe. He girded himself for service and openly, publicly, observed by all, taught the Faith." His courage was not for himself; it was put entirely at the service of the Cause.

A perfected character, however, is not all boldness. The Master is careful to show us its gentler dimensions, and they are just as central. After Bahá'u'lláh had been taken to the Most Great Prison of 'Akká, the longing in Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá's heart grew until he could not bear the separation. Though "the hostility of outstanding enemies and the opposition of the populace of Baghdád" pressed upon him, "he did not falter, but continued to stand his ground" — until, at last, "with his yearning for Bahá'u'lláh, the tumult in his heart was such that he set out alone for the Most Great Prison." He reached 'Akká "during the period of extreme restrictions," and "had the honor of entering the presence of Bahá'u'lláh." Then he asked for leave to settle nearby, and was permitted to reside in Beirut.

It is in Beirut that another whole side of his excellence shines out — the side that has nothing to do with facing down tyrants and everything to do with the quiet graces of hospitality and service. There, 'Abdu'l-Bahá writes, "he went and faithfully served the Cause, assisting all the pilgrims as they arrived and departed." Beirut lay on the road that the lovers of Bahá'u'lláh travelled on their way to and from the Holy Land, and Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá made himself their servant. "He was," the Master records, "an excellent servitor, a generous and kindly host, and he sacrificed himself to see to their affairs as they passed through. For all this he became known everywhere." The same man whose courage had frightened his enemies now spent himself in the small, tender labours of welcome — meeting travellers, lodging them, easing their way, asking nothing for himself. Boldness and kindness, strength and generosity, lived in him together; that is what perfection of character looks like.

And then came the final test of any soul's excellence — what it does when the Sun of Truth has set. After the ascension of Bahá'u'lláh, when some sought to break the Covenant He had established, Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá's character showed its unbreakable core. "He remained loyal to the Covenant," 'Abdu'l-Bahá writes. "He stood so firm against the waverers that they dared not draw a breath." The Master reaches for vivid images: he was "like a shooting star, a missile hurled against the demons; against the violators, an avenging sword." Such was the force of his steadfastness that "not one of the violators so much as dared pass through the street where he lived." He was, 'Abdu'l-Bahá says, "the very embodiment of: 'The blame of the blamer shall not deflect him from the path of God, and the terrible might of the reviler shall not shake him.'"

Yet even this steadfastness was not harsh. "Living in the same manner as before," the Master writes, "he served the believers with a free mind and pure intent. With all his heart, he assisted the travelers to the Holy Land." In time he moved from Beirut to Iskandarún, and there he remained until, "drawn as if by a magnet to the Lord, detached from all save Him, rejoicing in His glad tidings, holding fast to the cord that none can sever — he ascended on the wings of the spirit to his Exalted Companion." Over him 'Abdu'l-Bahá breathed a prayer: "May God lift him up to the highest Heaven, to the fellowship of glory."

This is the perfection the Feast of Kamál holds before us. Muḥammad-Muṣṭafá was not remembered for one gift carried to a peak. He was remembered because so many excellences lived in him at once and held firm through everything: courage when others hid, generosity when pilgrims needed a home, faithfulness when the Covenant was tested, and through it all a love of Bahá'u'lláh that drew him, detached and rejoicing, to the end of his life. The Master gathered the whole man into one phrase — "a blazing light" — and a light, after all, is not one virtue but the warmth and the brightness and the steadiness of a flame, all together. To become such a light, whole and unwavering, is the excellence of character to which this Feast calls us.

This is a retelling. For the fuller account, see Memorials of the Faithful by 'Abdu'l-Bahá.

'Abdu'l-Bahá. (1915). *Memorials of the Faithful*. Bahá'í Publishing Trust. https://www.bahai.org/library/authoritative-texts/abdul-baha/memorials-faithful/