Introduction

A dear friend of mine once lived in a large house on a main road connecting her small community to the highway. Her neighbors used the road daily, rarely obeying the 25 mile per hour limit.

After her little son learned to walk, she began worrying that one of the doors to their home might be left unlocked, and he might wander out onto that road.

One early morning, she walked her child out to the edge of their yard. Holding his hand tight, she said, “My son, you must promise me you will never step onto that road unless you are holding my hand.”

He didn’t understand. The empty road seemed a perfect place to play. He looked up at his mother with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why?”

If there was ever a because I said so moment for a parent, this was it. Instead, she paused a moment, searching for a way to help her child understand the danger. She found it on the cement path beneath their feet—a crushed caterpillar. 

“Do you see that bug?” she asked, pointing to the dead caterpillar.

The boy, who already knew about caterpillars and the colorful butterflies they were meant to become, squatted down to study the grotesque remains. “Can it still become a butterfly, Mama? Even though it’s squished?”

My friend knelt down beside him. “No, son. It can’t grow into a butterfly. The chance for it to become what it was meant to be is gone forever.”

Her son’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t ever want to be squished like a bug, Mama,” he whispered.

His mother hugged him close. “That’s why you must never cross the road alone. Even if it looks safe, even if you don’t see any cars, danger could come in an instant. If you don’t want to be squished like that bug, you must stay off of that road. Stay here, safe in our yard.”

The powerful image of the squished caterpillar remained in her son’s memory throughout his childhood, vivid and unforgettable—a symbol of what could happen in a careless or disobedient moment.

Not only did he never try to cross that road alone, he taught the “squished bug” story to every child who visited their home, so that they would be safe too.

When I began researching to write this book, I found that I was extremely unsettled by the harsh and vivid language Bahá’u’lláh, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, and Shoghi Effendi use to warn us against backbiting. Words like devour, extinguish, accursed, hateful, worst, foul—not delivered as soft, lovely metaphors, but as powerful, dramatic alarms. 

I felt especially distressed by Bahá’u’lláh’s warning: 

“…the fire of the tongue devoureth both heart and soul.” 

Closing my eyes, I quieted my mind to meditate on why I found these words of Bahá’u’lláh so unsettling. The harsh language feels so absolute.

I found myself silently asking, is a permanent, irreversible destruction of the heart and soul backbiting’s eternal price?

I then remembered that story of the “squished bug”—a disturbing tale of a butterfly that will never be, but also a harsh, life-saving metaphor offered with pure love to prevent the horrible consequences carelessness could bring.

Yes, Bahá’u’lláh does use strong, urgent language to warn us about the spiritual dangers of backbiting. And we need it.

We’d like to believe our negative words about others do little harm—a frustrated complaint about a coworker, criticisms shared about an annoying neighbor, or anger at a family member’s repeated mistakes. But according to the very stern words of the Central Figures of our Faith, our backbiting is the very opposite of harmless. 

Our fault finding puts us in grave spiritual danger and, in the words of  ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, is: 

“…the most hateful characteristic of man.”  

Within the pages of this book, as we explore how and why backbiting happens in our families—

• We’ll revisit the stern warnings against backbiting from the Baha’i Writings, and dive deeper into their meaning. 
• We’ll learn about the chemical cocktail released in the body when we engage in backbiting—and why it makes gossip so addictive and so difficult to quit. 
• We’ll discover the actual, almost magical, power Bahá’u’lláh says each word we utter wields in this world.
• We’ll explore ways to lovingly redirect negative conversations, and how to recognize when negative truths about a person must be spoken to protect others. 
• We’ll discover ways we might repair the harm of the backbiting we’ve already done, and
• We’ll learn how we can raise up a new generation of children who will prioritize the avoidance of backbiting as an intentional way of life—and pass that intention on to their own children.

Finally, at the core of this book, and at the core of this author’s purpose in writing it, is this loving message from Bahá’u’lláh: 

“…the tongue is for mentioning what is good, defile it not with unseemly talk. God hath forgiven what is past.”  

And there it is! There is the hopeful message my distressed heart was seeking. To whatever degree we have engaged in backbiting, those actions are past and are forgiven. 

Unlike the crushed caterpillar who will never fly, the spiritual condition of our hearts, our homes and our communities can still be protected, healed and transformed—starting right now.

Let’s begin today, word by word, to fill our homes and our hearts with light and life!