A Compendium of Perfections: Mishkín-Qalam and the Perfected Craft

*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.*

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Among all the early believers whose lives 'Abdu'l-Bahá set down in *Memorials of the Faithful*, there was a man whose perfection had first been recognized by the world long before it was perfected by faith.

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His name was Mishkín-Qalam, and he was the foremost calligrapher of Persia — a master of every style of the art, whose pen, in 'Abdu'l-Bahá's words, was "the wonder of all calligraphers." His fame reached, the Master writes, "to every land." He enjoyed a special place among the court ministers of Ṭihrán; he was known throughout Asia Minor; he was "well known to all the great." And beyond his art he was, 'Abdu'l-Bahá adds, "for human virtues, a bright star," with "a witty and subtle mind."

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Here, then, was a perfected craftsman, honoured everywhere, secure in the favour of princes. By every worldly calculation he had every reason to stay exactly where he was. What he did instead is the beginning of the story. He first heard of the Cause of God in Iṣfáhán, and the result was immediate and total: he set out to find Bahá'u'lláh.

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He "crossed the great distances," the Master writes, "measured out the miles, climbing mountains, passing over deserts and over the sea," until at last he reached Adrianople and attained the presence of Bahá'u'lláh. There, 'Abdu'l-Bahá says, "he reached the heights of faith and assurance; here he drank the wine of certitude."

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And then the famed calligrapher did with his perfected art the most natural and the most beautiful thing: he made it worship. He set his unrivalled pen to writing the Most Great Name — *Yá Bahá'u'l-Abhá,* "O Thou Glory of the All-Glorious" — "with marvelous skill, in many different forms," and sent these exquisite renderings out everywhere, that hearts might be drawn through beauty to their Lord. The same gift that had once adorned the courts of the powerful now adorned the Name of God; the same hand that could have written for wealth wrote instead for devotion.

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His perfected craft never won him an easy life.

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Sent on a teaching journey to Constantinople, he was slandered by the Persian ambassador as an agitator — though, the Master notes, "that mild and submissive man" was in truth "occupied solely with his calligraphy and his worship of God," seeking "not sedition but fellowship and peace," a "refuge to the hapless and a horn of plenty to the poor." He was imprisoned, exiled to Gallipoli, and finally confined for years in the citadel of Famagusta on the island of Cyprus.

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Yet even there the work did not stop. When at last he was freed, he hastened to Bahá'u'lláh in 'Akká, and there, 'Abdu'l-Bahá writes, he lived "producing his marvelous calligraphs and sending them about," at all times "joyous of spirit, ashine with the love of God, like a candle burning its life away."

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What 'Abdu'l-Bahá saw in him in the end, however, went far beyond the beauty of his script. After Bahá'u'lláh's ascension Mishkín-Qalam stood "solidly established in the Covenant," like "a brandished sword" before those who would break it, never faltering, never failing in service. He became the Master's close companion, and in the memorial 'Abdu'l-Bahá gathers up the whole man in a phrase that names a far higher perfection than any art: "He was a compendium of perfections: believing, confident, serene, detached from the world, a peerless companion, a wit — and his character like a garden in full bloom."

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The Master is careful to make the point explicit. Had Mishkín-Qalam not been "in love with the Blessed Beauty," 'Abdu'l-Bahá writes, "every worldly pleasure could have been his," for "wherever he went, his many calligraphic styles were a substantial capital." His perfected craft was a fortune he could have spent on himself. He chose instead to be "free of all those other bonds," wanting "neither comfort nor rest," seeking "no wealth," so that he might "float and soar in the spirit's endless sky."

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This is the perfection the Feast of Kamál sets before us. The Bahá'í teachings hold that work done in the spirit of service is itself worship, and that to bring one's craft to its highest excellence is acceptable in the sight of God. Mishkín-Qalam lived that truth to its end. He took the finest art of his age and made it an offering — and in doing so showed that the perfection of a skill is only the beginning, and the perfection of a *soul* is the crown.

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

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