There comes a point in one’s spiritual life when quiet diplomacy becomes dishonesty. When soft words begin to feel like a veil over truths the heart already knows. And when conscience begins to rise like a tide, refusing to be hushed for the sake of courtesy.
This is where I find myself when I contemplate Huququ’llah.
For years, the Right of God was presented to me as a financial obligation — a sum calculated, extracted, and directed upward into the administrative arteries of the Faith. But the more I returned to the writings themselves, the more I found that the spiritual blood of this law flows in a different direction entirely.
Abdu’l Baha says:
“The poor are the trust of God in your midst. Their right is the right of God.”
(Selections from the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, no. 79)
Baha’u’llah commands:
“O people of wealth! … The poor in your midst are My trust; guard ye My trust, and be not intent only on your own ease.”
(Hidden Words (Arabic) no. 54)
There is nothing ambiguous here. God identifies His trust. And it is not the institutions. It is the poor.
The more I read, the more I realized that the Right of God and the right of the poor are not two duties — they are one truth in two forms. Two flames of the same fire. Two veins of the same spiritual law.
Then I came across this passage, and everything snapped into place:
“The right of God is that His servants should assist the poor.”
(Makátíb-i-Ḥaḍrat-i-‘Abdu’l-Bahá, vol. 2, p. 136)
There it is. Clear. Blunt. Irreducible.
The Right of God is fulfilled through the poor.
Not through bureaucracy. Not through polished conference halls and administrative extravagance.
Not through the endless upward funneling of funds into structures increasingly disconnected from the actual pain of humanity. But rather through the poor.
If this is rebellion, then I embrace it. If this is audacity, then so be it. I refuse to betray the spirit of Baha’u’llah to appear obedient to those who have drifted from His compassion.
The Administration speaks of stewardship, but I see excess. It speaks of sacrifice, but I see budgets fattened while the hungry wait outside in the cold. It speaks of the Right of God, but too often behaves as though God’s right were the right of the institution. I cannot in good conscience participate in that.
So, I do something very simple:
I give all my Huququ’llah to the poor.
Not a portion. Not a symbolic amount. All of it.
Because in my soul, the act of removing wealth to purify it and the act of placing that wealth into the hands of the poor are two halves of a single circle. One is the preparation; the other is the fulfilment. One cleanses; the other consecrates.
Both, to me, are Huququ’llah.
And do you know what happens when I give this way?
Something inside me ignites. I feel a joy that is unmistakable — not pleasure, not pride, but a kind of spiritual warmth that rises from the core of the heart. It feels like the love of Baha blossoming inside me, as if the act itself aligns my heart with His mercy. It feels like a living “yes” whispered from somewhere beyond intellect. This is validation from the divine beauty Himself.
By contrast — and I will not soften this — when I handed that same money upward into administrative channels, I felt hesitation. Tightness. A subtle sorrow. Not once did my heart feel illuminated afterward. Not once did I feel that inner joy that tells me I have walked in the direction of Baha’u’llah.
If joy is confirmation, then reluctance is warning. If blossoming is approval, then constriction is counsel.
So, I will say this plainly:
The Right of God is not honoured by feeding the already-wealthy structures of administration.
It is honoured when wealth flows downward, not upward. Toward need, not comfort. Toward hunger, not ceremony.
I am not asking anyone to follow me fully — conscience is personal. But I am asking you:
Will you not, at the very least, give a portion of your Huququ’llah directly to the poor this year?
Even a fraction? Even a gesture?
Let your wealth touch the earth where the suffering is real. Let it become medicine, not maintenance.
Let it become relief, not ritual. And then watch what happens in your heart.
If you feel that same quiet joy rising — that subtle warmth, that inner assent that feels like Baha Himself blooming within you — then you will understand why I give all mine this way.
And if you do not, then your conscience will guide you elsewhere. But at least you will have listened. And listening is itself an act of courage.
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