I met my friend and fellow Recipient Mehran at Tehran airport. He drove me into town and we had a delicious supper at a pleasant little Armenian restaurant. I noticed various portraits of volcanoes hanging on the walls. “Why all the volcanoes?” I inquired.

Mehran explained to me that the featured mountains were the symbols of Iran and Armenia: the mountains Damavand and Ararat, respectively. “It’s a message of peace,” he said. I nodded several times in approval.

We chatted innocuously, careful not to broach any political controversies, in the spirit of obedience. It was just as well. The current Islamic uprising, led by Ruhollah Khomeini, was something of an embarrassment. After all of the sacrifices and martyrdoms of the Gatebreakers, why did all the protesters who followed this man find it necessary to start an entirely new uprising? It seemed like an incredible waste of effort, to say nothing of blood.

The mansion at Takor

Mehran drove me to my hotel after dinner. He gave me a day to let my clock catch up, and then he dropped in the next morning, and he drove me out east of the city toward Damavand. We drove over a couple high ridges into the Caspian Sea watershed and wound around the eastern shoulder of the mammoth mountain. We stopped and drove up the side of the mountain to get out and stretch our legs. I wasn’t about to challenge the summit.

As we descended to the car, Mehran spotted something in the grass and bent down to pick it up. It was a huge reddish-brown feather. It looked like an eagle feather. Mehran handed it to me and declared, “We welcome you to Iran!” I bowed playfully, received the feather, and held it as we returned to the car.

Our first destination would be up the Noor River. We made a left at the confluence of the Noor and the river we’d been following since well before Damavand. The Noor River is well named. The canyon that it follows is broad and sunny. Though the river flows through the heart of the Alborz Mountains, it’s cut deep into the range, so the day gets warm. The road is narrow but doesn’t wind much, so we got to Takor in good time. We sat on the front porch of the holy mansion in the warm shade and watched the river until the caretaker walked up. I was holding the feather that Mehran had found on Damavand, and the old caretaker glanced at it and said a few words with a wink. Mehran translated, “You have a Seemorgh feather. Good luck!”

“I have a what?” I asked Mehran.

“A Seemorgh feather. It’s a legendary bird, like a phoenix, only it doesn’t burn up. It just gives you its feathers to burn.”

“What for? Good luck?”

“Sure. It’s like a genie. Burn the feather and the Seemorgh helps you with your problem.”

I gazed out over the river, and I imagined two boys playing catch down in the floodplain past the riverbank. One was a teenager, a young man, and the other was a little boy. Each had his baseball glove and cap, though their faces and voices were very Iranian. They were speaking Persian. The little boy had good form for his age. I figured his big brother had taught him well.

Husayn and John never played baseball, of course. When they were boys, baseball could hardly be said to have existed in America, much less Iran. That was just my American mind imagining two American archetypes; the older brother looking after the younger, making sure he grew up straight, and more importantly, got his baseball mechanics down. Of all the biased and contradictory accounts of these brothers’ lives, all agree that the boys were close, that the older nurtured and spoke well of the younger. But the trials of adulthood, family, upheaval, power, and exile would exact a heavy toll on their brotherhood.

Continue …

“my country is the world, and my religion is to do good.”
—Thomas Paine, 1791 C.E.

1795. The sun burned above the high Iranian plateau, and its heat rolled over the land. It gave heat and only heat. It was a dark sun, for there were no eyes to see it. It burned upon the city of the blind; a city of people without eyes. All the eyes of the city had been plucked out and piled in the city square by the shah.

Abbas of Noor

The shah destroyed the city, and the survivors among the blind scattered into the darkness around them.

This shah was the founder of a new dynasty, so he established a new capital city for his new dynasty. His chosen site was far to the north, near the holy mountain Damavand, out of whose heart the ancients said the evil Dahhak would rise at the end of the world.

Tehran has remained the capital of Iran ever since.

The creation of the new capital at Tehran was an economic bonanza for the locals, and many men from the surrounding villages profited. The modest town grew into a great city, and eventually became one of the most populous cities in the world.

In the heart of modern Iran’s highest mountains, just beyond the holy one, there is a river called Light, and the country that the river flows through is also called Light. In that high country lived a man named Abbas, who was to play a role in a great upheaval though he would not live to find out about it.

Abbas moved down from the mountains to seek his fortune in Tehran. He got work as minister to a prince, and then he was promoted to governor of two provinces. Abbas enjoyed substantial wealth until he made the mistake of criticizing the Prime Minister.

Abbas was stripped of his governorship. Having lost his livelihood, he had to sell most of his properties to support his large household. He died only five years after losing his government office.

Now the family that survived Abbas was not itself blacklisted by the government. We know that at least one of his eight surviving sons was offered an office in the ministry, but that son, Husayn, declined the offer, perhaps out of loyalty to his deceased father. It is not known what Husayn did do for a living in lieu of the ministry. He was known to have once said that a puppet show that he had seen as a child inspired him to live a life of detachment from the trappings of the world. On the other hand, we know that he had two wives and about six children by age 34, so we know for a fact that he failed to avoid that particular trapping. We might consider that as a young nobleman, he may not have had many marketable skills outside of the ministry. Maybe he had his sights on a political career. As a nobleman, he could possibly get a position in government if power were to change hands. Perhaps he could lead an opposition movement.

Five years after Abbas died, Husayn and his brother John joined the Gatebreaker uprising, a militant millenarian movement that shook Iran for many years. The violent aftershocks of the rebellion shake Iran to this very day.

The shah died and another shah took his place, but that change did not change the outlook for the rebellion. Husayn and John remained steadfast to the Gatebreaker cause, and being of the noble birth, both took positions of leadership in the movement. John was appointed to become the leader of the movement once its founder was executed. He was in command of the uprising by age nineteen.

The execution of the founder shook the movement but did not stop the uprising, rather it served to feed the flames of rebellion. Under John’s command, two Gatebreakers attempted to assassinate the new shah, and the royal reprisals began. Husayn was thrown into prison and John fled to Baghdad. Once released from prison, Husayn followed his brother and leader into exile.

John continued to lead the military campaign against the shah. He did so from hiding, disguised as a dervish. Husayn also went into hiding, leaving his wives and children and living as a mystic under an assumed name in the mountains of Kurdistan. Husayn, seemingly content with his peaceful, unentangled life among the Kurds, had no intention of ever returning to the Gatebreaker community in Baghdad. He could surely see that the militant movement was doomed, but he was eventually convinced to return. After his return, he tried to lead the Gatebreakers down a nonviolent path less antagonistic to the shah, but his brother, though growing less and less involved in the movement, would have nothing to do with nonviolence and alas, the damage was done. Husayn was unable to turn the tide that was about to carry him farther still from his home country.

In an attempt to mitigate the trouble that often arose around the militant Gatebreakers, the Ottoman Sultan moved the brothers and their families farther west to Constantinople, and then across the Bosphorus Strait into the European city of Adrianople.

Husayn saw that his attempts at effecting positive change were not bearing enough fruit. As the unofficial leader of the Gatebreakers, he lacked sufficient authority. Considering that his brother was undeniably the head of the movement—if only a figurehead, Husayn decided that he would have to stake a claim that would not contradict the title of his brother, so he leapfrogged John and declared himself the leader of a new movement and a new revelation. He claimed to be the Promised One whom the Gatebreakers had been fighting and dying for. That would make him the world-messiah; the Promised One, it followed, of all religions—at least the legitimate ones. He commanded the Gatebreakers to turn to him, and to obey him as sheep, and many did just that. His new flock adopted his name as theirs. He commanded them to be obedient to all authorities, to their parents and governments as well as to him. He commanded them to be peaceloving and nonviolent. He saw this as crucial for the survival of the movement.

John rejected Husayn’s claims and resisted his efforts, and matters between the brothers went from bad to worse.

In Adrianople, hard feelings and violence arose between the brothers, so they were separated from one another; one imprisoned on Cyprus and the other imprisoned in Palestine. Neither brother lived to see Iran again.

Continue …

Armen was still working when the talk began. He was still holding a broom when he walked into the room. Strangely, the speaker wasn’t talking about memos or sublime buzzwords. Armen looked around uncomfortably. He didn’t see the girl, and he sensed he wasn’t the only confused one in the room. The audience seemed pleasant, but people here and there looked left and right as if for a street sign. Armen soon forgot his confusion as he got over his expectations. The speaker was an elderly man, maybe eighty, with a full head of grey hair. He spoke of mysteries, but strangely, not in Memospeak. He said that he had found that “the material is mental,” and he said there was a music playing in all things, giving examples such as an atom vibrating like a string. He called that music “the music of the spheres.” The old man talked about polarities in everything. “Contrast and struggle,” he said, “far from diluting beauty, only etch it deeper,” and he added, “Even light struggles against light.” He clicked a button and the projector moved to a slide that showed a ribbed light pattern. He explained that one light beam can interfere with another to produce darkness. This sounded nothing at all like the memos. “Who is this man?” Armen wondered. The speaker sounded more like a science evangelizer than a memo reader.

The Principle of Similitude: The Limits of Scale in Nature (Murchie)

After the talk, Armen began to sweep as the room cleared. A couple of Recipients asked the man questions, and just as the last of the audience departed, Armen approached the old man.

“You are an author?” Armen began.

“Sure,” the old man answered. He looked at the broom in the young man’s hands and asked, “You haven’t read any of my books?”

“No, sorry. I’m new here. I’ve never, uh—”

“You a Recipient?”

“No. I just work here.”

“But you attended the talk.”

“Yeah. I was invited.”

“Oh. How very nice. Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes; yes sir.”

“What about it?”

“Huh?”

“What did you like about the talk?”

“Uh,” Armen searched for an answer. “The superorganism, I think.”

“You a student?”

“Ah, no. I just work.”

“Ah, yes. You work. … Do you mind if I give you a little tip?”

“Sure. I mean, no. Not at all.”

“Don’t just work. Go to school. If you liked the talk, go to school. Do an old man a favor. Don’t let the superorganism die with me.”

The old man nodded and walked past Armen, but then he turned and held a large softcover book out to the young man. A great brown feather jutted out from between two pages like a bookmark. “Hold this, will you? ”

Armen received the book, and replied, “I—sure,” and the author turned and walked out.

Armen turned the book to see the cover. There was no title. The book was not professionally bound. It appeared to be a manuscript, or some such personal project.

Armen returned to his closet and put the book in his pack. He hopped on his bike and rode through the dark to his campsite. As he settled in, he lit a candle and opened the book.

Continue …

The fire is in the bush from the beginning.

Why did an ancient Israelite think that God would take the form of a self-immolating bush?

It might be natural enough to think that fire consumes a bush, but there’s another way to see it—the way that many ancients saw it: the fire is in the bush from the beginning. It’s not really such a crazy idea if one considers that the fire cannot occur without what’s in the bush. Sure, the fire also needs oxygen, but again: the bush exhales oxygen as it generates wood and foliage. It provides the fire with everything it needs. It is, in a real sense, a terrestrial offspring of the sun, waiting to ignite.

With the igneous nature of vegetation in mind, consider the igneous nature of the earth. Volcanoes could not have escaped the awareness of the ancients. With accompanying seismic activity, it must have been easy to conclude that the earth itself has a fiery cauldron at its heart. Gas and oil seeps, when ignited, may have lent some corroboration to this conclusion. Indeed, it is well-known that a fire temple recently made use of the natural gas seeps at Baku, Azerbaijan.

Ancient peoples didn’t just see fire in vegetation and in the earth. They saw fire in the sky. Of course they saw the sun as a heavenly fire, but they even saw the stars as fires:

the brightest of these flames, and the hottest, is the light of the sun ; for that all the other stars are farther off from the earth; and that on this account, they give less light and warmth; …

—Diogenes Laertius, Life of Heraclitus

The Baku fire temple, depicted in a 1919 postage stamp.

It is easy to underestimate the value of fire to ancient peoples. Fire gave them an ability to function at night. Fire defended men from large predators. Fire was a weapon of war, a companion in the hunt, and a tool for managing vegetation.

But more remarkably, fire seemed capable of transforming things. Fire tenderized and flavored food. Fire sterilized flesh and purified water. Fire evaporated water. Fire transformed clay to pottery. When iron was placed in fire, the iron itself would take on the the color and heat of fire, and suddenly man could reshape matter.

But fire got even more amazing with the advent of the bronze age. Fire had previously been used to forge iron and transform flesh. Now it would be used to transform matter itself. Alchemy would naturally follow.

Ancient peoples must have felt a tremendous sense of awe when witnessing the transformative power of fire. It had long been our companion as a species, to be sure, and it had also remained an untamed force of nature. Whether embodied as the sun, the thunderbolt, or a metalworker’s forge, it is a god who holds a special place in his heart for humanity.

No wonder, then, that the Persians worshiped it. No wonder they associated fire with the very ordering principle of the universe. No wonder that Heraclitus—an Ephesian subject of the Persian Empire—did the same. Fire seemed capable of transform anything.

The dream of transformation that fire once nurtured in man lives on today, if only in the nooks and crannies of our cultures. According to the Persian religion that I was raised in—the Bahá’í Faith, the first sign of the coming Kingdom of God on Earth will be a new, revolutionary science of alchemy:

The first sign of the coming of age of humanity referred to in the Writings of Baha’u’llah is the emergence of a science which is described as that ‘divine philosophy’ which will include the discovery of a radical approach to the transmutation of elements. This is an indication of the splendors of the future stupendous expansion of knowledge.”

—note 194 to the Kitáb-i-Aqdas, p. 254

This very same religion assigns its most tortuous, cruel punishment to the crime of arson. Is not such a sign of respect for the power of fire a form of worship?

Today, we don’t think so much of fire, yet we, with our gas-fired power plants, furnaces, boiler rooms, and internal combustion engines, are every bit as dependent on combustion as our ancient forebears were—to say nothing of the other forms of fire. We are a civilization of fire worshipers, though our iconography has changed.

As early as five thousand years ago, the Pharaohs of Egypt traded for the precious, bespangled lapis lazuli that is still mined from the mountains that are still being excavated by the River Kokcha.

It is the River Kokcha that defines, more than any other stream, the natural boundary between the Pamir and the Hindu Kush. Because of this strategic significance of the river, it must have competed with Khyber Pass for traffic between ancient India and Bactria. This is corroborated by Franz Grenet, who draws clues from the Avesta that indicate that the River Kokcha may have been the major route between Bactria and India at one time. The Avestan pattern Ragha-Chakhra-Varena-Hapta Hendu appears to draw a course from the Panj (Oxus) to India by way of Chitral, Pakistan.

Grenet also suggests that the prophet Zoroaster may have been born and raised at a bend on this river. Alexander the Great would later found his city Alexandria on the Oxus at the mouth of the Kokcha, after he crossed into Bactria from India, likely by way of Dorah Pass, at the headwaters of the very same river, at the junction of the Hindu Kush and the Pamir massif, the “Roof of the World.”

Long after Zarathustra and Alexander, Marco Polo claimed to have traveled along this same river, seeing the fabled lapis lazuli mines, on his way to China:

From Hormuz to Kerman, passing Herat, Balkh, they arrived Badakhshan, where Marco Polo convalesced from an illness and stayed there for a year. On the move again, they found themselves on “the highest place in the world, the Pamirs”, with its name appeared in the history for the first time.

Marco Polo and His Travels

Even today, the majority of Afghans are Iranians. The Tajiks, who speak Persian, are about as Iranian as anybody—”Tajik” is just another word for “Iranian”. Though Uzbeks have ruled and settled the area from time to time, the Kokcha River region is primarily Tajik country. The land immediately across the passes at that boundary between the Pamir and Hindu Kush is called Kafiristan, which may translate, curiously enough, to “Land of the Infidels”. This is a subject of some dispute. It would seem to be apropos, given the great religious divides that must have existed between East and West back into the depths of human prehistory, but perhaps more important than the divisive aspect of these geo-religious differences might be the the enlightening aspect of cultural cross-pollination between early Hindus, Zoroastrians, Greeks, and Buddhists over so many centuries.

But maybe the word, like so many others, needs to be reclaimed and redeemed. My guess is that Unitarian Universalists want to make it clear that they’re serious about their faith, serious enough to take vows. Why should covenants be the exclusive domain of closed minds?

The next thing that one is likely to notice is that this new Covenant is twice as large as what it’s replacing. Much of that bulk is due to the introduction of elaborations on the UUA principles, which I can generally do without.

Phrases like “we … move toward solidarity with all beings” and “protecting all beings” prompt me to ask, “shall we seek solidarity with tuberculosis?” I can do without such brotherhood.

One elaboration suggests that we be “grateful for the gift of life”. I prefer to celebrate the life that is essential to our very being. I have no one to thank.

Another elaboration asserts that “we are called to live in right relationship with others.” What does this mean? Is it a Buddhist thing?

Another elaboration suggests that “we become more willing to relinquish material desires.” Yeah I get it, but it sounds too dualist and negational to me.

Sometimes the Unitarian Universalist idea of “liberal religion” seems more like a cross between a new age fad and the Green Party than a philosophy of open religion. And, yes: I am a Green.

I’ve generally been of the opinion that the UUA is more an interfaith association than a religion, but perhaps I’m prepared to change my mind. The liberal idols that once lurked behind the principles and sources are now in the process of being canonized.

These new elaborations of principles do have some highlights that I happen to like.

The text for Principle #2 suggests that we be “mindful of our own mortality”.

The text for Principle #4 asserts that “Unitarian Universalist religious authority lies in the individual”. I like this one very much. Still, I would not call it a statement of faith.

The new “inclusion” section suggests that we be “Dissatisfied with mere non-discrimination”. Unfortunately, this would-be UU happens to be dissatisfied with mere dissatisfaction.

One new feature of this draft Covenant is its identity statement, which I find to be a good idea, though it serves to remind me why I have mixed feelings about Unitarian Universalism:

The Unitarian Universalist Association is composed of congregations rooted in the heritage of two religious faiths: the Unitarian heritage ever questioning and ever seeking the unity in all things, and the Universalist heritage ever affirming the power of hope and God’s infinite love.

From my perspective, this statement draws a sharp line between Unitarians and Universalists. Whereas I strongly concur with the Unitarian “heritage” described here, I consider the Universalist heritage somewhat regressive. Should love be regarded exclusively as a possession of God? We need not look to God for love; it’s right here within us. Love could be made the heart of the UUA, but it seems that love will have to remain a mere attribute of the Trinitarian side of the UUA heritage, and just another descriptive term for how church members should interact.

In Unitarian Universalism, “Unitarian” remains a mere adjective. I wouldn’t mind that so much if the noun it modifies meant “love.”

Perhaps we ought to think of Afghanistan.

Let us begin by looking at that highly influential proto-western religion of the Persian Empire, Zoroastrianism. Though it is evident that Judaism originated in Mesopotamia and developed in and around Palestine, it is also evident that Judaism acquired much of its classical character during its Babylonian captivity, and that much of the influence that the Judeans succumbed to was Persian.

The finest lapis lazuli is mined in the mountains of Afghanistan.

It has long been recognized that Zoroaster, the “Persian Prophet”, was no Persian. He was surely an Iranian, but there are no traditions or evidence placing Zarathustra in or near the ancient province of Pars.

It was once commonly thought that he may have been a Mede, but modern scholars have abandoned that hypothesis as well, and have established a consensus that Zarathustra lived far from Media and Pars.

Today, the suggested homelands of Zarathustra range from Sakastan (greater Sistan), in what is today Afghanistan and far eastern Iran, to the Oxus Delta, in modern Uzbekistan. The Avestan language is considered to be a northeast Iranian language, more closely related to Scythian and Pashto than Persian.

Most modern scholars appear to agree on Bactria or Margiana as the cradle of Zoroastrianism:

• Frye: Bactria and Chorasmia [1]
• Khlopin: the Tejen Delta in Margiana [2]
• Sarianidi: Bactria and Margiana [3]

This modern school of thought is not without its classical antecedents, though the antecedents are of dubious authenticity. A half-dozen early Christian scholars, apparently beginning with Justin, believed that Zoroaster was a Bactrian king who fought the Assyrians. [4,5,8]

Eusebius of Caesarea appears to have thought that Zoroaster predated Abraham:

Ninus the Assyrian, who is said to have been the first ruler of all Asia except India: after him was named the city Ninus, which among the Hebrews is called Nineve; and in his time Zoroastres the Magian reigned over the Bactrians. And the wife of Ninus and his successor in the kingdom was Semiramis; so Abraham was contemporary with these.

Eusebius, Preparation for the Gospel, Book X, Capter 9

It’s unlikely that Zoroaster ever fought—or even heard of—the Assyrians, yet it is curious how many ancient accounts refer to him as a Bactrian. Perhaps those accounts originate in stories that traveled west after Alexander’s conquest of Bactria.

The World of the Avesta

As researchers have striven to identify that countries mentioned in the Zoroastrian holy book, the Avesta, they have found that:

… almost all identified countries are situated beyond the present borders of Iran, to the east and northeast. The only exception is Sistán, and only for its westernmost part. [6]

It turns out that if any modern country can be called the birthplace of Iranian religion, it is Afghanistan, with the world of the Avesta spilling into neighboring Pakistan, Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan.

Indeed, this very region may have been the cradle of Indian religion as well—the land of the Vedas.

Western Expansion

When and how did Zoroastrianism find its way to Persia? It may have made its way into the Empire of the Medes after 625 B.C.E., when the Medes conquered—or appropriated—Bactria. The Medes may well have had a particular interest in Bactria, as the lapis lazuli trade had existed between Media and Bactria into the remote past, possibly even before the Iranians arrived in the region. The route, known as the Great Khorasan Road and the High Road, later became a major segment of the Silk Road. It is possible that trade may even have brought Zoroastrianism into Media before there was a Median Empire. The religion may then have spread from Media to Pars, the land of King Cyrus, who famously liberated the Judeans, and thereby earned the title “messiah”.

Sources

1. Frye, Richard N. (1992), “Zoroastrians in Central Asia in Ancient Times”, Journal of the K. R. Cama Oriental Institute 58: 6–10
2. Khlopin, I.N. (1992), “Zoroastrianism – Location and Time of its Origin”, Iranica Antiqua 27: 96–116
3. Sarianidi, V. (1987), “South-West Asia: Migrations, the Aryans and Zoroastrians”, International Association for the Study of Cultures of Central Asia Information Bulletin 13: 44–56
4. Nigosian, S.A. (1993), “The Zoroastrian Faith: Tradition & Modern Research”: 17
5. Gnoli, Gherardo (1980), “Zoroaster’s Time and Homeland”, Seminario di Studi Asiatici, Series Minor, vol. 7. Naples: Instituto Universitario Orientale: 91–127
6. Curtis & Stewart (2005), “Birth of the Persian Empire: The Idea of Iran”: 30–
7. Druncker, Max (), “The History of Antiquity”, : 69–

As it turned out, I had a good time, though the work involved a lot of standing around.

I fondly recall the moment when a man passed by with his daughter. I humbly offered them a “No on 8″ card. The little girl took the card and pointed to it, looked up to her dad and said “Obama!”

Now I’m not a the biggest Obama fan, but that was a sweet thing to behold.

Republic? Well, not exactly.

I also enjoy the memory of the “mature” lady who shook her index finger at me scoldingly. That wasn’t the only finger that was shaken at me that day. Every finger was a little birdie of liberation. It all felt great.

Then there was the older lady who stopped her car to inform me that my hand was blocking the “8″ on my rally placard. Oops!

Late in the day, an equally elderly man stopped his car to cite the Bible and inform me that homosexuality is an “abomination”. I was a little fatigued, so I casually asked whether it was too much to let them decide whether they ought to “abominate” or not. Mainly I was just looking for an excuse to hear myself say “abominate”.

Then I heard the word “Obama-Nation” echo through my head like some demonic forbidden thought. Thankfully I was not the first white boy to think of it.

And all the horns honking and hands waving: I don’t remember ever being so popular with the ladies!

I think my favorite memory is of hearing the word “faggot” screamed from a passing car.

It’s not that such an experience entitles me to claim to know what it’s like to be gay. It’s more about this: when the civil liberties of one of my fellow citizens is systematically attacked, I might as well be the target, because when that person is threatened, we’re all threatened.

Steve Young’s Home Displays ‘No On 8′ Signs.