Shoghi Effendi - Unexpected Death

Unexpected Death

Shoghi Effendi's death came unexpectedly in London, on 4 November 1957, as he was travelling to Britain and caught the Asian Flu, during the pandemic which killed two million worldwide, and he is buried there in New Southgate Cemetery. His wife sent the following cable:

Shoghi Effendi beloved of all hearts sacred trust given believers by Master passed away sudden heart attack in sleep following Asiatic flu. Urge believers remain steadfast cling institution Hands lovingly reared recently reinforced emphasized by beloved Guardian. Only oneness heart oneness purpose can befittingly testify loyalty all National Assemblies believers departed Guardian who sacrificed self utterly for service Faith. ——Ruhiyyih

According to the framework of the Will and Testament of `Abdu'l-Bahá, it was not possible to appoint a successor, and the legislative body "possessing the exclusive right to legislate on matters not explicitly revealed" was not yet established in the world. Furthermore, Shoghi Effendi had left no will as attested to by the Hands of the Cause, who were required to ratify his selection. All of the 27 living Hands of the Cause unanimously signed a statement shortly after the death of Shoghi Effendi stating that he had died "without having appointed his successor..."

Read more about this topic:  Shoghi Effendi

Famous quotes containing the words unexpected and/or death:

    Met face to face, these Indians in their native woods looked like the sinister and slouching fellows whom you meet picking up strings and paper in the streets of a city. There is, in fact, a remarkable and unexpected resemblance between the degraded savage and the lowest classes in a great city. The one is no more a child of nature than the other. In the progress of degradation the distinction of races is soon lost.
    Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)

    And anyone is free to condemn me to death
    If he leaves it to nature to carry out the sentence.
    I shall will to the common stock of air my breath
    And pay a death tax of fairly polite repentance.
    Robert Frost (1874–1963)