Printed in the Fall 2019 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Bruce, David ,"Serving a Higher Purpose: Letters to the National Lodge" Quest 107:4, pg 27-31
By David Bruce
The National Lodge of the Theosophical Society in America is a community formed in 1996 to provide study courses for members who are not near a lodge or study center. Since 2003, TSA national secretary David Bruce has been in charge of managing the National Lodge. Part of his task has been to write cover letters for the material that is sent.
“By the end of 2005,” David writes, “I had tired of producing letters that were too frothy to be of any consequence . . . Moreover, I realized that breezy salutations, padded with pastoral sketches of squirrels frolicking on the campus grounds, did very little to promote the cause of Theosophy. So I began using the letters as a vehicle to discuss and promote Theosophical ideas.”
This year Quest Books has published a collection of David’s essays from these letters, entitled Serving a Higher Purpose: Theosophy for a Meaningful Life. The letters are short because, as David points out, “originally they were printed on a single page of TSA letterhead, thus limiting the number of words that could be employed.” Nonetheless, they cover a wide range of topics, from the Ring-Pass-Not to “Why Johnny Can’t Meditate.” Other subjects include patience, the need for secrecy, and the limited utility of language. The letters reprinted below are David’s own handpicked selection, highlighting some of his most important themes, including the literary power of H.P. Blavatsky’s writings and her work The Voice of the Silence.
Untimely Departures
Why is it that some great souls die so young, their all-too-brief appearance on the world stage resembling shooting stars, flashing momentarily against the dark abyss? John Keats died in his twenty-fifth year, but not before leaving behind a legacy that later established him as one of the leading poets of the English Romantic era; his “Ode on a Grecian Urn” remains popular to this day. Percy Bysshe Shelley, a contemporary of Keats, died at the age of twenty-nine; he authored Prometheus Unbound and is said to be one of the finest lyric poets of his time. Emily Brontë had time for only one novel before she died at age thirty, but her Wuthering Heights has had numerous film adaptations, from as early as 1920 to as recently as 2011. The Austrian composer Franz Schubert managed to write ten symphonies, eleven string quartets, and assorted chamber music before he died at thirty-one. And if anybody ever deserved the label of genius, it was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, whose musical oeuvre was astonishing, covering virtually every genre of his day. He never saw his thirty-sixth birthday. The Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer passed away at forty-three, his output consisting of mostly domestic scenes; more than three hundred years after his death, one of Vermeer’s oil paintings inspired the movie Girl with a Pearl Earring, starring Colin Firth.
That the sojourn in this world of these extraordinary people ended much too soon is apparent to the aesthetic sensibility. A thoughtful person cannot help but wonder if their early demise was due to chance or to design. If the capricious hand of fate was at work, these early deaths may be considered to be nothing more than items on the list of life’s tragedies. But what if these truncated lives were preordained, so to speak? What if they were meant to be?
Mahatma Letter 68 obliquely refers to the idea that the soul comes into an incarnation “destined to live” a certain span of time, an idea that seems compatible with the thought that each incarnation has a purpose (Chin and Barker, 200). Could it be that the life of a Mozart or a Keats was intended to grace the stage of life not for more than a few years but just enough for them to bestow their sublime gifts to humanity? We can only speculate. If the early departure of such souls was one of chance, we see tragedy. But if a hidden purpose was at work, the meaning of which we are unable to divine, we behold a mystery. Fortunately, the fruit of their creativity remains, enriching our lives and uplifting our spirits.
Diversity, Not Orthodoxy
For students of Theosophy, familiarity with its doctrines is desirable—a doctrinaire approach to their study is not. These doctrines, or principles, have been enunciated differently by various commentators, each of whom may have some unique insight or perspective. The timeless truths of Theosophy are such that no one writer or person can claim to have the final word. As Michel de Montaigne said, “Truth and reason are common to everyone, and no more belong to the man who first spoke them than to the man who says them later” (Montaigne, 170).
In Theosophical circles it is often noted that none of us are experts, that we are all students. That seems to be a very healthy point of view, for it helps prevent our intellectual inquiry from devolving from one that is fresh and open minded to one that is rigid and predictable. Cicero once observed: “The authority of those who want to teach is often an obstacle to those who want to learn” (Cicero, 188). Nevertheless, it is generally recognized that some students have been at it longer than others and therefore possess a considerable storehouse of knowledge and wisdom. That is a very different thing from posing as an authority. And while it is quite legitimate to acknowledge authorities in the fields of medicine, engineering, jurisprudence, and other areas of secular knowledge, it is improper—even absurd—to assume the mantle of authority in the field of Theosophical inquiry.
Those who are widely read are likely to have a broader perspective than those who are not. These words from T.S. Eliot, though made in a different context, are relevant:
Wide reading is not valuable as a kind of hoarding, an accumulation of knowledge, or what sometimes is meant by the term “a well-stocked mind.” It is valuable because in the process of being affected by one powerful personality after another, we cease to be dominated by any one, or by any small number. (Eliot, 102)
I think Eliot is making a very valuable statement. When we expose ourselves to different points of view, we are not as likely to allow our opinions to crystalize into a rigid certainty, which may occur when we become overly enamored with the thoughts of a single but influential writer. And consider these words of H.P. Blavatsky:
Orthodoxy in Theosophy is a thing neither possible nor desirable. It is diversity of opinion, within certain limits, that keeps the Theosophical Society a living and healthy body . . . Were it not . . . such healthy divergences would be impossible, and the Society would degenerate into a sect, in which a narrow and stereotyped creed would take the place of the living and breathing spirit of Truth and an ever growing Knowledge. (Blavatsky, Collected Writings, 9:243–44)
As a farmer’s soil is enriched when crops are rotated yearly, so too will our understanding of Theosophy be enriched if we expose our minds to diverse and varied thought.
The Poignant Poetry of H.P. Blavatsky
It has been said that the poetry in The Voice of the Silence is as exquisite as its paradoxes are startling. By poetry is meant the artful use of language to create poetic imagery. Such images are formed when two unlike objects sharing like attributes are compared, as in the case of a person who is said to be in the twilight of his career. What connects twilight and career are endings; twilight comes at the end of the day, and all careers inevitably come to an end. One example of poetic imagery found in The Voice of the Silence: “thy dark garments of illusion” (Voice of the Silence, 33), compares ignorance to a piece of dark (and possibly heavy) clothing; one serves to cover the body, the other to veil the mind.
In the preface to this work, Mme. Blavatsky says: “I have done my best to preserve the poetical beauty of language and imagery which characterize the original” (Voice of the Silence, 9, referring to The Book of the Golden Precepts, of which The Voice of the Silence is a translation).We should not overlook or discount the power of poetry in this work. To underscore this point, let us state a simple fact: The mind is subject to illusion—a statement that is as unremarkable and forgettable as it is undeniably true. But under HPB’s skillful pen, this trite maxim becomes something else:
For the mind is like a mirror; it gathers dust while it reflects. It needs the gentle breezes of Soul-Wisdom to brush away the dust of our illusions. (Voice of the Silence, 44–45)
Here the prejudices and biases of the human mind are compared to dust settling on a mirror, one that becomes less and less able to reflect the light, just as a conditioned mind is less able to perceive and express the truth without bias and distortion. The simple beauty of the language serves to elevate a pedestrian truth to a memorable statement of enduring inspiration. However, HPB takes the same truth—the mind is subject to illusion—and articulates it very differently in the following passage:
The moth attracted to the dazzling flame of thy night-lamp is doomed to perish in the viscid oil. The unwary soul that fails to grapple with the mocking demon of illusion, will return to earth the slave of Mara. (Voice of the Silence, 19)
The change of tone is as unmistakable as a melody that is played first in a major, and then in a minor, key. The mood shifts from one of quiet reflection to one of stern admonishment; and HPB does this solely through her choice of imagery. From the contemplation of dust gathering quietly on a mirror, we now envision the stark image of dying moths entrapped in hot, viscid oil. The underlying truth is the same in both verses, but the dramatic effect created by poetic imagery could not be more dissimilar. Careful readers will take time to savor the powerful wordplay found in the Voice, thus enhancing their delight and enjoyment of this little masterpiece.
Paprika, Oregano, and Literary Condiments
Spiritual books from the East often employ a literary device in which the teachings are put forth ostensibly as a dialogue between a wise guru and an aspiring devotee. We find this to some extent in Shankaracharya’s Crest Jewel of Wisdom, but much more so in the Bhagavad Gita, where Arjuna and Krishna engage in an ongoing conversation. Similarly, The Voice of the Silence makes limited use of this convention by framing its teachings as a discussion between a humble but worthy disciple (lanoo) and an enlightened preceptor. An intriguing aspect of this stylistic practice is the use of nicknames to designate the pupil. Arjuna, for example, is referred to as “Pandava,” “Bharata,” “son of Kunti,” “slayer of demons,” “conqueror of sleep,” and many other appellations. Although the use of sobriquets may at first create confusion in the mind of the reader, their real purpose is to add clarity and depth by revealing something significant about the disciple or the transformative process.
The first fragment of the Voice is essentially a monologue in which the guru is speaking to the lanoo, whose presence is implied, not stated. I found this to be an interesting parallel to the practice of the ancient Pythagorean school, which required the student to listen in silence during the probationary period of training. But the tacit presence of the pupil does not prevent his guru from addressing him by various monikers, some of which are quite colorful, a habit that he continues throughout the second and third fragments.
All told, my audit of the Voice identified at least three dozen such monikers. Some paint him as a rank novice (beginner, ignorant disciple), while those used in the third fragment foretell higher levels of spiritual attainment (Arhan, Bodhisattva, Master of Samadhi). Some point to requisite qualities that the disciple must develop (fearless warrior, thou of patient heart), while others intimate the nature of trials that lie ahead (pursuer of truth, slayer of thy thoughts, perceiver of external shadows). The first-time reader may glide over these subtleties without notice, but they are there all the same. Some may be tempted to dismiss them as nothing more than ornamentation, as in the use of melodic trills in Baroque music. But I would prefer a different metaphor, likening them to the paprika on a macaroni and cheese casserole, the bay leaves in soup, or the oregano in spaghetti sauce―all of which augment the main course by adding subtle but deeply satisfying flavors. As ideas are said to be food for the mind, the analogy is hopefully not too far-fetched.
The Nuances of Light and Darkness
“This earth . . . is but the dismal entrance leading to the twilight that precedes the valley of true light” (Voice of the Silence, 15).
Blavatsky’s metaphoric use of light in The Voice of the Silence is delightfully unconventional. In verse 140, the aspirant is told to “step out from sunlight into shade” (Voice of the Silence, 53), but in verse 18 (cited above) the implication is that he should be moving out of darkness and into light. It is the same metaphor used to very different effect, a literary distinction that serves to enrich the aesthetic enjoyment of the reader. Also surprising is the metaphorical pairing of the words light with valley. Symbolically, valleys are often used to represent pain and suffering (the valley of the shadow of death), whereas mountains suggest triumph, illumination, or a wider perspective. Again, in verse 37 Blavatsky refers to the “Vale of Bliss” (Voice of the Silence, 20), rather than associating a transcendent state of consciousness with a mountain peak. But this is not without precedent. Consider this passage from the Tao Te Ching: “The Valley Spirit never dies . . . [It] is the base from which Heaven and Earth sprang. It is there within us all the while.” Authors have on occasion used valleys to symbolize safety, growth, warmth, fertility, and abundance.
Shifting from style to substance, let us note that some readers may recoil at the depiction of earthly life as being dismal. Yet one cannot deny the existence of suffering. Human existence involves an oscillation of peaks and valleys, pleasure and pain, weal and woe. While the suffering often cuts deeply, the moments of felicity and mirth are all too ephemeral. Having observed this sad state of affairs, Fyodor Dostoevsky allegedly confessed, “There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings” (quoted in Frankl, 86).
We do not always listen to our better angels. We see through a glass darkly. Aspiring to higher things, we quickly tire and succumb to the gravitational pull of personal desires. Yet if we struggle, it is because we are human. I am reminded of a quote attributed to Somerset Maugham: “Only a mediocre person is always at his best.” We will fall, but we get up again. To err is human, but to get up in the face of adversity is heroic. The journey from darkness through twilight to the true light is the one true journey, a journey of many lifetimes. Patience and devotion are our companions. If fears and doubts arise, we have the testimony of countless shamans and saints and sages affirming that it can be done. Faith and fortitude, too, are our companions. Follow the true light, dimly perceived at first, like the partial sunlight seen from the bottom of a well; but as we continue to put one step in front of the other its growing intensity and brilliance will erase these pervasive shadows that we now take for light.
St. Augustine’s Dilemma
The opening stanza of The Secret Doctrine stops the rational mind dead in its tracks: “Time was not, for it lay asleep in the Infinite Bosom of Duration.” The rational mind wants to ask, “How can there not be time?” But what is time? We generally understand it as past, present, and future—this threefold division corresponding to the way we experience the world. Upon closer examination, however, the concept of time proves to be one of the most illusory aspects of phenomenal existence.
Mme. Blavatsky was not the first to point this out. Consider this passage of Augustine’s in his Confessions:
For what is time? Who can even comprehend it in thought or put the answer into words? . . . How is it that there are the two times, past and future, when even the past is now no longer and the future is now not yet? But if the present were always present, and did not pass into past time, it obviously would not be time but eternity. (Augustine, 264)
The Secret Doctrine describes the present as “a mathematical line which divides that part of eternal duration which we call the future, from that part which we call the past” (Secret Doctrine, 1:37). A true mathematical line has no existence in this three-dimensional world. What you see on the draftsman’s schematic is only a reasonable representation of it, for a mathematical line exists only in the realm of ideas, not in the world of form. Let us return to the Confessions of Augustine:
If any fraction of time be conceived that cannot now be divided even into the most minute momentary point, this alone is what we may call time present. But this flies so rapidly from future to past that it cannot be extended by any delay. For if it is extended, it is then divided into past and future. But the present has no extension whatsoever. (Augustine, 266)
The rational mind reels in bewilderment before all this. Perhaps it was Marcus Aurelius who put it best: “Every instant of time [is] a pinprick of eternity” (Aurelius, 40).
Celestial Scribes
The cast of actors entering and exiting the pages of The Secret Doctrine includes some of the most elusive and mysterious characters you could imagine. Take, for instance, the Lipikas. Who are they? And what do they do? The reader is provided with precious little information—just enough to arouse curiosity. Scholars explain that the word Lipika comes from the Sanskrit verbal root lip, meaning to write, to inscribe, to engrave, which is why the Lipikas are sometimes called Recorders, Scribes, or Annalists—names meant to be taken not literally but metaphorically. Theosophists commonly refer to them as the Lords of Karma.
According to the author of The Secret Doctrine, “These Divine Beings are connected with Karma . . . [They keep] a faithful record of every act, and even thought, of man, of all that was, is, or ever will be, in the phenomenal Universe. As said in Isis Unveiled (I, 343), this divine and unseen canvas is the Book of Life” (Secret Doctrine, 1:104).
Commentators provide additional insights. According to Annie Besant, “They hold the threads of destiny which each man has woven, and guide the reincarnating man to the environment determined by his past” (Besant, 225).Theosophist Gottfried de Purucker says, “They are infinitely more impersonal and more automatic in their action than are the recorders in a court of law, setting down word by word, act by act, whatever takes place in the cosmic courtroom; and their record is infinitely accurate and just. There is no personal equation at all” (de Purucker, 2:400−01). Another Theosophical writer, Geoffrey Barborka, has this to say: “Each one may add to his own ‘Book of Life.’ In fact, everyone is doing so, whether a person is aware of it or not” (Barborka, 420).
One more thing bears mention. No human word or deed goes unnoticed by these Cosmic Scribes. In human affairs, people sometimes manage to evade accountability for their actions in the court of public opinion, or in the realm of jurisprudence, but not so with karma. For the Lipikas never take a vacation; they are on the job, so to speak, day and night. At the dawn of a new manvantara, they are the first to appear; and as Universal Day yields to Universal Night, they are the last ones there to turn off the lights.
The Cosmic Ladder of Life
One of the more fascinating themes in The Secret Doctrine is that of hierarchy. The English language confines the word hierarchy mainly to ecclesiastical matters, and so the general public remains unaware of its occult denotations. Because it is associated in the public mind with priestly matters, the term carries certain negative connotations—rigidity, dominance, and exploitation, for instance. But the esoteric meaning of hierarchy as presented in The Secret Doctrine inspires awe and wonder, revealing a hidden natural order involving various planes, or levels, of existence as well as a vast multitude of beings. Geoffrey Barborka describes this panoramic view as the cosmic ladder of life (Barborka, 57).
The strange-sounding names of the hierarchical beings appearing on the pages of Mme. Blavatsky’s magnum opus read like the cast of a Federico Fellini film: Architects, Builders, and Silent Watchers; Kumaras and Pitris and Agnishvattas; Elementals, Asuras, and Dhyan-Chohans; Lipikas and Lahs and Manasaputras. All this is likely to leave the first-time reader feeling as bewildered as a Norwegian cook who stumbles into an Indian spice shop. But with continued study, the names grow familiar, and their respective roles come into focus. It gradually becomes clear that each planetary or celestial being has its special role to play in the greater economy of the divine plan.
Some may find the idea of a cosmic hierarchy to be fanciful, if not preposterous. But is it really? Consider, for example, a large corporation employing tens of thousands of people. It is structured so that its manifold operations—finance and accounting, advertising and marketing, engineering and production, research and development—are all set up as separate departments run by competent managers, whose business it is to see that each unit carries out its part smoothly and efficiently. We live in an intelligent and purposeful universe. “As above, so below,” says the Hermetic axiom. If a mere human enterprise recognizes the value of organization, should we expect any less of the universe?
Sources
Saint Augustine. Confessions. Translated by Albert C. Outler. Nashville, Tenn.: Thomas Nelson, 1999.
Aurelius, Marcus. Meditations. Translated by A.S.L. Farquharson. New York: Knopf, 1992.
Barborka, Geoffrey. The Divine Plan. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 1961.
Besant, Annie. The Ancient Wisdom. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 1986.
Blavatsky, H.P. Collected Writings. 15 vols. Edited by Boris de Zirkoff. Wheaton: Theosophical Publishing House, 1960–91.
———. The Secret Doctrine. 2 vols. Wheaton: Quest, 1993.
———. The Voice of the Silence. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 1982.
Chin, Vicente Hao, and A.T. Barker, eds. The Mahatma Letters to A.P. Sinnett in Chronological Sequence. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 1998.
Cicero. Cicero on the Good Life. Translated by Michael Grant. London: Folio Society, 2003.
Eliot, T.S. Selected Prose of T. S. Eliot. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1975.
Frankl, Viktor E. Man’s Search for Meaning. Boston: Beacon, 2006.
Montaigne, Michel de. The Complete Essays. Translated by Donald M. Frame. London: Penguin, 1993.
Purucker, Gottfried de. Dialogues of Gottfried de Purucker. Edited by Arthur L. Conger. 3 vols. Covina, Calif.: Theosophical University Press, 1948.
David Bruce is national secretary of the Theosophical Society in America.