Contents Foreword by Matthew C. Murdoch Acknowledgements 1 Packing Our Bags
vii xi 1
2 The Temple of the Body
23
3 The Temple of the Heart
42
4 The Temple of the Mind
78
5 The Temple of the Soul
98
6 Ulysses and the Island of the Lotus-Eaters
106
7 But What About the Weed?
114
8 Warriors of Light
145
9 The Homecoming Clean
154
Bibliography References About the author
161 169 176
1
Packing Our Bags The veil of normalcy I was not born a Bahá’í. I didn’t hear of Bahá’u’lláh until my mid-20s. Then, it took much reading, long debates, and a fierce internal struggle to finally accept His Revelation. It took me even longer to quit alcohol and drugs. I knew I must abandon old patterns. Sadly, I clung to them. Alcohol and drugs had been engrained since childhood. Thus, after accepting Bahá’u’lláh, another struggle ensued. It was not easy to shake addiction’s grip on my life. I embodied a condition to which Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, eloquently called attention: There is a difference between character and faith; it is often very hard to accept this fact and put up with it, but the fact remains that a person may believe in and love the Cause – even to being ready to die for it – and yet not have a good personal character, or possess traits at variance with the teachings. We should try to change, to let the Power of God help recreate us and make us true Bahá’ís in deed as well as in belief. But sometimes the process is slow, sometimes it never happens because the individual does not try hard enough. 1
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But these things cause us suffering and are a test to us in our fellow-believers, most especially if we love them and have been their teacher!1
I believed in Bahá’u’lláh, wanted to dedicate my life to His Cause, but had – in many respects – a poor character. Though not an excuse, drinking alcohol was customary in my world – that of an everyday Canadian – an expected part of life. I grew up surrounded by alcohol. With a ‘healthy dose’ of rebellion, I’d sneak a sip, can or bottle at family functions prior to high school – often with a wink or a half-smile from an adult. Once I had grown up (at the ripe old age of 13), I consumed large amounts weekly. From teens to 25, I drank every week, and always in ample amounts. I started smoking pot in the first year of high school. At social gatherings, I expected an exciting guest list – beer, hard liquor, and various other substances – some more hidden than others, some more dangerous. Alcohol flowed along with life’s natural rhythms. If sad, we drank. Happy? We drank. Celebrating? We drank. At weddings, funerals, vacations, birthdays – or honestly, any weekend – we drank. The hidden substances – eventually ranging from marijuana, to LSD, on up to cocaine – were recreational drugs, a way to have fun. Honestly, I never questioned this ‘natural order’. Why would I? An unquestioning acceptance of mind-altering substances should not surprise anyone; every restaurant serves liquor; coworkers delight in stories of weekend chemical excursions; movies, commercials, and television portray alcohol as a desirable diversion. Liquor’s uplifting effects are lauded in song and theatre daily. In our day, marijuana is both extolled and pervasive. Chemical pastimes surround us more and more. Inundated by a recreational-chemical culture, maybe a clear perspective eludes us. Pub propaganda and club culture 2
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dominates the social arena. In such circumstances, we often can’t consider another course. Normalcy numbs us to alternate paths. It always does. Constant exposure can make anything miraculous seem mundane. Imagine standing in the Louvre in Paris. One of Da Vinci’s most revered works – the Mona Lisa – hangs before you, an object admired for centuries, a recognized masterpiece. You stand in awe, stunned by the precision, acutely aware of Leonardo’s prowess. Your heart floods with admiration, tinged with envy. As you leave the Louvre, by some miracle, the curators gift you the painting. You now own the Mona Lisa. Da Vinci’s work of genius will adorn your living room wall. At first, you immerse yourself in Leonardo’s expertise. Friends, family and acquaintances beg to join you. You bathe in its beauty, experiencing the awe you felt in the Louvre, mesmerized by her entrancing smile. Daily, you discover intricacies previously unseen. For a long while, you delight in the envy of family, friends and acquaintances. Then slowly, imperceptibly so, things change. Months roll by, and a transformation begins. You admire it occasionally. Once in a while, you stop to appreciate its exquisiteness, for a moment carried back to that first time in Paris, a time now receding into the mists of memory. Much later, however, you pass it – without a glance – on your way to the bathroom. As you watch a boring movie, it hangs behind you, unnoticed. You cart in your groceries after a long day without even a peep. A day comes when you sit reading in your chair, and the Mona Lisa’s priceless visage peers ineffectually over your shoulder from its now-lonely place on the wall. This transformation is typical. What we once found miraculous or glorious slides into the category of the mundane, the ordinary. It is often imperceptible, until the damage is done. Yet we all know the danger. 3
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