Time Travel Today: April 27th’s Cosmic Calculations & Curious Birthdays

On April 27th, 4977 B.C., the universe was created—at least, according to the precise calculations of the renowned German astronomer Johannes Kepler. Yesterday we talked about the moments when a single decision could change the course of a nation, and today, we’re zooming out even further… to look at moments that tried to define the course of the cosmos itself. Kepler’s calculation, of course, is off by about thirteen point seven billion years, but that’s not the point! The point is the sheer, delightful audacity of it.

Here was a founder of modern science, a man who gave us the laws of planetary motion, using his incredible mind and the data he inherited from Tycho Brahe to try and pinpoint the very first second of existence. He was trying to reconcile his deep faith with the elegant mathematics of the stars. And looking back, that attempt is a beautiful artifact of a mind trying to map the entirety of God’s creation. That impulse—to map, to define, to found—echoes through this date in history.

On April 27th, 1539, the city of Bogotá, now the sprawling capital of Colombia, was officially founded. This wasn't its first founding, mind you—there was a sort of "soft launch" the year before—but this was the day it became official, a formal stake in the ground by the Spanish colonial project, led by Nikolaus Federmann and Sebastián de Belalcázar. It was a declaration that a new order was here to stay, building a European-style capital in the heart of the Andes. From a single point on a map to a metropolis of millions… every city starts with a moment like this one.

And then we have the voices that defined their eras. April 27th gave us some truly iconic ones. Casey Kasem was born on this day in 1932. For decades, he was America’s friendly companion on the radio, counting down the hits on American Top 40. His voice was pure comfort food, a steady presence through changing musical tastes. That famous sign-off—"Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars"—it’s pure Kasem. Optimistic, grounded, and always, always smooth. Also born on this day, in 1937, the actress Sandy Dennis.

If you’ve seen her work, especially her Oscar-winning role in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, you know she wasn’t about being smooth. She was all raw nerves and hesitant gestures, a master of conveying a kind of beautiful, flustered uncertainty that felt more real than anything else on screen. She was a performer who wasn't afraid to be awkward, and in that awkwardness, she found a profound humanity. And rounding out a trio of unforgettable performers, the Scottish singer Sheena Easton, born in 1959.

She exploded onto the scene with songs like "Morning Train" and "For Your Eyes Only." What a voice! She could be a pop princess one minute and a Bond balladeer the next. She represents that slick, polished, and powerfully produced sound of the 1980s. A true vocal powerhouse. But the story I keep circling back to today, the one that feels both of its time and completely outside of it, takes place in Haifa on April 27th, 1920. On that day, a spiritual leader, the head of the Bahá'í Faith, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, was ceremonially knighted by the British Empire.

He received the title Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire, or K.B.E. Think about that. A Persian spiritual figure, an exile, being honored by King George the Fifth for his service to the British government during the First World War. It’s a scene that scrambles all our easy categories. And the story of why it happened is even more remarkable. So let’s go there. Let’s go to Haifa in the spring of 1920. The Ottoman Empire has just collapsed. The British Mandate in Palestine is beginning.

Everything is in flux. And in the middle of all this geopolitical chaos, there’s a celebration. A grand one. An eyewitness, a Dr. Zia Bagdadi, described it as "a most wonderful celebration." There were English troops in formation, military music, dignitaries from every faith and background—Muslim, Christian, Jewish—all gathered to honor this man. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was the son of the founder of the Bahá'í Faith and was seen by his followers as the perfect exemplar of its teachings. But to the British, he was something else.

He was a stabilizer. During the war, as the Ottoman general Jamal Pasha grew increasingly hostile, threatening to crucify ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and his family, a humanitarian crisis was brewing. Food was scarce. Famine was a real threat. And what did ‘Abdu’l-Bahá do? He didn't just pray. He acted. He personally organized a massive agricultural effort. He had the Bahá'ís in the region plant vast quantities of grain, especially in the Jordan Valley. He then stored this grain in underground pits, protecting it.

When the British forces under General Allenby finally swept through and captured Haifa in 1918, they found a population on the brink of starvation. But they also found ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. And when they asked for his help, he had a simple, powerful answer. He is reported to have said, "I have corn for the British Army." It's just... perfect. Not a flowery speech. Not a theological treatise. Just a practical, life-saving statement. "I have corn." He saved the region from famine and supplied the incoming army.

So this knighthood, two years later, wasn't just a polite gesture. It was a thank you. A very public thank you from the most powerful empire on Earth to a spiritual leader who had demonstrated profound practical wisdom. But here is where the story gets its depth. Here is where we, looking back, can see what was really happening. Accepting an honor from an imperial power is a loaded decision. It always has been. Many brilliant people have turned them down. The scientist Francis Crick, co-discoverer of DNA, refused one.

David Bowie famously said, "I would never have any intention of accepting anything like that. I seriously don't know what it's for." The writer Kenneth Williams put it bluntly: "When offered something which obviously isn't worth the price... we still have the right to say 'No thanks.'" They saw it as a compromise, an endorsement of a system they didn't believe in. So why did ‘Abdu’l-Bahá say yes? He wasn't naive. He had spent most of his life as a prisoner and exile of two empires, the Persian and the Ottoman.

He knew what imperial power was. But he saw the knighthood not as a personal trophy, but as a tool. A shield. In that moment, in 1920, the Bahá'í community was small, vulnerable, and based in a politically explosive part of the world. By accepting the honor, by allowing himself to be celebrated by the British Crown, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was securing a powerful, public form of protection. He was telling the world, and any local faction that might wish his community harm, that he had friends in very, very high places.

Dr. Bagdadi’s quote from the ceremony says it all: "Among the kings and governments of the world who have become convinced that Abdul Bahá was the well-wisher and the lover of mankind are King George and his government." That wasn't just flattery; it was a strategic broadcast. It was a diplomatic masterstroke cloaked in spiritual humility. He took the symbol of empire and turned it into a safeguard for a nascent global faith dedicated to the unity of humankind—the very antithesis of empire.

And that is what we can only see with the benefit of hindsight. At the time, it was a ceremony. Today, we can see it as a pivotal moment of navigation, a leader using the instruments of the old world to protect the blueprint for a new one. He didn't reject the system; he engaged with it on his own terms, for his own purposes. He leveraged its power without being co-opted by its ideology. It’s a lesson in a kind of pragmatism that is so wise it looks like mysticism. So what does April 27th teach us, looking back?

We have Kepler, trying to date the universe with math and faith. We have conquistadors drawing lines on a map to create a new center of power. And we have ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, accepting a knighthood to protect a community. They all saw the world they were in, and instead of just being carried along by its currents, they tried to steer. They used the tools available to them—a telescope, a charter, a ceremony—to impose some kind of order, to build something lasting. History isn't a passive record of things that happened to people.

It’s a story of agency, of choices made under pressure. It’s about seeing the world for what it is, and then having the audacity to try and make it what it ought to be. This day reminds us that the most powerful forces in history aren't armies or empires, but individuals who see a path forward and are brave enough to walk it. History is a record of choices, and on this day, we see people choosing not just to witness their world, but to actively shape it.