Pilgrimage: Notes by LeRoy Jones
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Source: Bahá'í Library Online (bahai-library.com), curated by Jonah Winters. Used by permission of the curator. Original citation: LeRoy Jones, Pilgrimage: Notes by LeRoy Jones, bahai-library.com.
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Pilgrimage:

Notes by LeRoy Jones

LeRoy Jones

1998-02

I declared my belief in Bahá'u'lláh at age nineteen after growing
up in a
very confining fundamentalist religion. That religion so owned my life and
in such a limiting way, that upon leaving I had little idea what to do in
the world. In fact I kept going to their meetings for social contact
because I knew so few people outside. I was completely lost without them.
After starting to make my way into the world, I stumbled over the Bahá'í
Faith and quickly declared. The family that taught me the Faith became a
second family and I lived with them for a time. They were due to go on
Pilgrimage in a year and asked the Pilgrimage Office if I could come as
well. I was granted permission.

During the course of that year I was losing interest in the
Bahá'í
Faith. Even upon declaring I wondered why I was doing this--the last thing
I wanted was to join another crazy religion. With temptations everywhere I
quickly started doubting the Faith. I wanted freedom and saw religion as a
hindrance.

Time for pilgrimage came. My adopted family could not go and I
almost stayed as well. However, the lure of world travel combined with an
underlying nagging, which I barely acknowledged, gave me impetus. So,
hardly twenty-one, I was on my way to Israel.

The first evening after gathering in the pilgrim house we were
escorted to the Shrine of the Bab. As the pilgrims gradually entered the
Shrine I felt a great reluctance. I hesitated at the door. A Hand of the
Cause gently nudged me inside. My memory of this episode is hazy, but not
long after entering I remember kneeling with my face to the floor. Tears
streamed from my eyes. Astonished, I could hardly believe this was
happening--I had so little control. Afterward, the confusion caused by
this event made me little more than mush for the rest of the nine days. A
day or two later I remember walking at night near the Shrine of the Bab,
its peaceful luminescence gracing the gardens as I begged for some
indication or sign from God. I wanted confirmation--something to clear the
dismay and bewilderment.

On one of the final days, we had a free day, to do as we wished. A
Swedish fellow and I went to Akka for a few hours and then separated. I
made my way to Baji for one last visit to the Shrine of Bahá'u'lláh--it had
been very busy when we were there as a group. Upon arrival I found the
gardens vacant. I made my way to the Shrine of Bahá'u'lláh, which was
also
empty.

The Shrine is very simple, yet exquisitely beautiful. The serenity
is unmatched. Persian carpets of great beauty rest on the floor. Simple
benches line the wall. Rose petals embellish the threshold while dozens of
fresh flowers from the surrounding gardens ornament the room, their natural
aroma gracing the small chamber. That day sunlight filtered through a
skylight, adorning the flowers and rugs with a pristine vibrancy. I found
it very soothing to trace intricate patterns in the carpets while absorbing
the delicate scents.

I sat in a corner, enjoying the peaceful beauty, and casually
flipping through a copy of Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá'u'lláh,
reading a few lines here and there. An unfamiliar passage caught my eye,
"When a true seeker determines to take the step of search. . ." Without
warning, the words of the passage began to blur and dance on the page. The
shafts of sunlight became animated, not like a moving spotlight, but
agitated and alive. The entire room was brighter, the fragrances more
intense. All colors, all aromas, everything sensory was illuminated, more
acute, and vibrating with a tangible power. Entranced, I saw the words
surging on the page, followed by what seemed to be a furious, almost
violent transfusion of knowledge from the book directly through my
forehead--and while this torrent of blurred and frenetic words streaming
from the printed page made those words seem inconsequential, they
simultaneously carried an import and authority unlike anything in my
experience. Suddenly it ended. I sat breathless and stricken, almost
choosing not to believe what I had seen.

Then a calm settled in my being, unlike anything I have felt
before
or since. This serenity and the shock of the experience combined to subdue
my thoughts. I stayed as long as physically possible. Leaving was one of
the hardest things I have done. While walking the long distance from the
Shrine to the Collins Gate and out of the gardens, the sound of gravel
grating under my feet grew louder until it reverberated in my ears. Tears
streamed, I dared not look back, as I fought every tendency to retreat to
the Shrine. I was terrified to go back to the world.

This event occurred over twenty years ago. It gives me no special
distinction for events similar to this happen to many Bahá'ís. In the same
sense that miracles have special import only for those who behold
them--this is my own special miracle. One of the most amazing parts of the
story is that after such a dramatic experience I spent well over a decade
trying to forget it. My contact with the Bahá'ís was somewhat regular for
a year or two, but became fleeting and sporadic until it almost ceased.
Eventually the force of circumstance, combined with a bit of maturity,
enabled me to embrace this event and acknowledge its import in my life. In
recalling this story I have done everything to not embellish it with
imaginations accumulated over time. I believe this is an accurate picture
of what happened, if not every detail, certainly the feelings and
impressions are precise. For try as I did to erase this event from my past
there has not been a day go by that I have not contemplated this encounter.
As I write this my family and I await what for me will be a second
pilgrimage. I try to have no expectations. What I do know is, that in
this life, a dearer homecoming could not be possible.

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-- Pilgrimage: Notes by LeRoy Jones (Used by permission of the curator)