Almustafa, the “chosen” and the “beloved,” is “a dawn unto his own day,” who dispels the darkness and ushers new beginnings. Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet stands the test of time because prophetic voices, whether in Semitic religions or Eastern traditions, are preserved through generations.
After twelve years in Orphalese, Almustafa sees his ship arriving to take him home. Gazing toward the sea, he watches as the entire village gathers, leaving their ploughs and the wheels. They plead that the dividing sea should not separate their souls. He has scattered fragments of his spirit in their streets, and his departure is not just shedding a garment, but it tears of their skin.
Almustafa, a teacher of eternal truths, is the voice of God to Orphalese. Almitra, the first to believe in him, is a seeker of eternal truths. Like Mary, who anointed Jesus’ feet with pure nard and sat at his feet listening, Almitra longs for the fragrance of Almustafa’s wisdom to linger among her people. She asks:
“Prophet of God, in quest of the uttermost, long have you searched the distance for your ship. And now, the ship has come, and you must go. Yet this we ask of you: speak to us and give us your truth, that we may pass it to our children, and they unto theirs, so it shall not perish.”
Thus begins the heart of the book—Almustafa’s wisdom imparted to the Orphalese people for whom he has become a breathing, living, faithful presence. Merchants, judges, ploughmen, and feeding mothers come forward with their questions. He becomes a flute through which the breath of the Almighty flows to the commoners.
A rich man once asked Almustafa to speak of giving, and Gibran paints the image of an overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless desert, to reclaim them upon his return. Yet the shifting sands erase all traces, and what he hoards is lost forever. In his desire to secure the future, he neither enjoys nor shares—his prudence becomes folly. Clinging to wealth out of fear only deepens the illusion of scarcity.
“What is fear of need, but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst unquenchable?”
Like Jesus’ poor widow, true giving is a great sacrifice. “You give little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” The widow, without a fanfare, offers all she had to live on, from a heart unafraid of tomorrows. For the purest givers, generosity is as effortless and natural as a jasmine breathing out its scent into the air—quiet, aromatic and unmeasured.
Some say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.” But does the tree in our garden choose who may taste its fruit? Does the cow in our pasture decide who is worthy of its milk? To give only to similar ‘kind’ (of race, region or religion) is not a kind giving. It is despicable to strip the receiver’s dignity, making them bow and plead. For we are not givers, but instruments of giving. To withhold is to wither; to give is to live. True giving requires many deaths– of our pride, possessiveness, ego; so the giver may be reborn. It must flow freely, without compulsion, for “God loves a cheerful giver.” In truth, it is life that gives to life, and we, who think ourselves givers, are but witnesses to its endless grace.
The Prophet, a voice of God, continued teaching the people of Orphalese. Generations told the story of how he became a harp for the Almighty’s song and a lantern for His light.
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Written by Shubra Christy
