Quest Magazine

Explorations: The Power of Sangha in Theosophical Work

By Vicente Hao Chin

Originally printed in the SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 2008 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Chin, Vicente Hao. "Explorations: The Power of Sangha in Theosophical Work." Quest 96.5 (SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 2008):186-187.

ONE ENCOUNTERS THE AGELESS WISDOM mainly through two avenues: the first is through books, and the other is through people. It is the second that I believe has a greater impact on influencing someone to walk the spiritual path. I may read a book on karma, and after reading it, nod my head and say, "Oh, yes, this is true. I believe in karma," and end there. It is rare that reading a book alone will trigger a basic redirection of one's life path, although this does happen. But, it is when we meet someone whose life strikes a chord of truth within us, and are continuously exposed to such a person, that we realize the power of such association in creating turning points in our lives. Allow me to share four facets of this power of long-term association with spiritually inclined people, in our case, the Theosophical sangha.

The first is the chance to begin. We are introduced to a new way of life when we meet people who embody such a life and worldview. We notice within them a different kind of inner power; one of equanimity and wisdom that goes beyond the smartness and cunningness that we normally see all around us.

My first encounter with the ageless wisdom was through a orange-robed yogi who spoke at our college. I do not remember what he talked about, but after the lecture I approached him and asked to be taught how to meditate. The following Sunday I received my introduction to raja yoga, which led me to the Theosophical Society. There I met a lady who was to have an enduring influence on my young life. I have been involved with the Theosophical Society ever since, and my life has never been the same. The first power of sangha, then, is the chance to begin our initial steps towards the spiritual path in this life. The right community can kindle the spiritual fire within.

Kindling the spiritual fire is but the first step. This flame must be sustained, and here we encounter the second power of the sangha, the power to nurture. Being with a spiritual group like the TS, not just an intellectual debating society but a living spiritual community, enables us to sustain our initial effort to tread the path toward the higher life.

It is not easy trying to live according to one's principles. The worldly life has its own smart rules that sneer at integrity and truthfulness, at spirituality and selflessness, at meditation and nonacquisitiveness. It offers so many tantalizing experiences and sights that it is easy for one to get carried away. The sangha enables us to sustain our sight of the distant light ahead of us, or, to put it another way, to constantly be aware of this inner vision of the truer life. The spiritual community sustains and energizes this inner insight that begins as a series of intermittent sparks and becomes a tiny unsteady flame that needs to be gently fanned for it not to be blown out.

My parents were businesspeople. Being the eldest in the family, I was expected to pursue the life of a businessman after I graduated. The people around me, the immediate surrounding culture, my uncles and relatives, were of similar business minds. It is hard to say what I would be doing today if it I had not encountered yoga and the Theosophical Society. The weekly association with Theosophists had a sustaining impact in my young life, such that despite being involved in the business world, I was never fully immersed in or carried away by it. One becomes like the double-headed eagle, capable of seeing in two directions: the life in the outer world, and the life in the inner. This dual vision is one of the most crucial stages in one's effort to live the higher life. It keeps one's feet on the ground, cognizing one's duties and one's humanity, but at the same time not losing sight of the reality of our transcendent nature.

The third power of the sangha is the power to inspire. This, of course, depends upon the type of organization or group one is associated with. Speaking of my own exposure to the Theosophical Society, I may say that encountering certain individuals in the Society has pivotally uplifted my own small efforts, giving strength to my young wings. This is possible because we see embodied in certain individuals the fruits of the wisdom and the worthiness of such a life. We realize that some day, we too can reach such heights, such levels of integration.

The power of example is a very potent one. People are the highest embodiments of truth outside of ourselves. They give us conviction and certainty about the validity of the spiritual or theosophic way of life. The deep, balanced, and exemplary lives of spiritual people are the proof that the wisdom is ultimately sound and that committing our lives to the higher life is worth it. Finally, the fourth power of the sangha is the power to teach how to truly serve. Again, this depends upon which particular group one associates. When there is at least one person in the group who exhibits the quality of cheerful and spontaneous service, we may be blessed with the discovery of, perhaps, the most important activity that a human being can engage in the life of service.

Most people are not naturally endowed with a service-oriented nature. On the contrary, we almost always start with selfishness. The budding spirituality that inclines towards selfless service needs to be nurtured in an environment that is not cynical about compassion and the giving of oneself.

It is rather unfortunate that the practical man or woman is often subconsciously nurtured to think that one should do certain things only when there is a resultant personal gain from it. In a world of competition, the aim is to get ahead, to acquire more, to gain. One even learns that it is smart to use Machiavellian ways to surge ahead. I was not lacking in such exposure, however, the timeless principles of the ageless wisdom constantly reminded me to look the other way, to be willing to lose, to give way, or to assist, if doing so would mean lightening the burden of someone. These principles taught me that there is no such thing as an enemy. We are all travelers or pilgrims in quest of a distant paradise. Let us not quarrel about precious stones or jewels that we may have picked up along the way. We will have to divest ourselves of them eventually and enter the sacred land holding each other's hands, not jewels and stones.

Our journeys are not independent of one another, but intertwined in complex and mysterious ways so that the joys and pains of others are really shared by everyone. The spiritual community teaches us how to serve; not in the way a merchant would give his goods in exchange for something in return, but to give and serve unconditionally. It is truly a difficult lesson to learn because the encrusted ego would like to continue to strengthen itself, and is not willing to let go of its imagined treasures without a corresponding gain. The sangha has the power to soften and melt such encrustations so that one day, in one life, the soul will be ready to let go of that center called the self and awaken to the Self Universal.

The Theosophical community is indeed a blessing to those whose lives revolve around its sphere of influence. It has, first, the power to allow a soul to begin the quest; second, it has the power to nurture the flame that sustains the quest; it has the power to inspire and uplift the soul to transcending heights; and, finally, it has the power to teach how to truly serve without self.

The Theosophical sangha, while bestowing blessings and power on the pilgrim soul, does not demand for itself any allegiance to any doctrine or dogma. It is a sangha that points not to itself, but to something beyond itself. This is the transcendent power of a truly spiritual sangha. One feels truly blessed to be under its motherly wings.

For our part, let us share in nurturing the spiritual quality of the Theosophical sangha for the sake of future pilgrims to come. Let our programs, activities, and gatherings always be imbued with a wisp of the eternal. And let this begin with our tiniest actions, with the casual words that flow from our lips, with the daily fleeting thoughts that cross our minds, until our own lives have become permeated with the soundless melody of the song of life, the song of the eternal. Then, truly, every new pilgrim will be in the midst of a genuinely transformative community, the Theosophical Society.

Vicente Hao Chin, Jr. is president of the Theosophical Society in the Philippines; founder and chairman of the Golden Link School, which focuses on bringing Theosophical principles and ideals to primary school children; and editor of the chronological edition of The Mahatma Letters to A. P. Sinnett. This article is from a talk given at Summer National Gathering in 2007.

September - October 2008

VOLUME 96, NUMBER 5

Contents

Viewpoint: Butterflies Are Not Free
By Betty Bland

The Man Who Met the Masters:
Colonel Henry Steel Olcott
By John Algeo

The Light of the Russian Soul:
A Personal Memoir of Early Russian Theosophy
By Elena F. Pisareva, translated by George M. Young

The Universal Brotherhood of Humanity
By Edward Abdill

Explorations: The Power of Sangha in Theosophical Work
By Vicente Hao Chin

From the Archives:
Passage to India: A Mission from the Masters
By Paula Chernyshev Finnegan

The Light of the Russian Soul: A Personal Memoir of Early Russian Theosophy

The Light of the Russian Soul: A Personal Memoir of Early Russian Theosophy

By Elena F. Pisareva

Originally printed in the SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 2008 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Pisareva, Elena F. "The Light of the Russian Soul: A Personal Memoir of Early Russian Theosophy." Quest 96.5 (SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 2008):171-174.

The following extracts are taken from a new translation by George M. Young of a never before published account of Theosophy in Russia before and until the Russian Revolution. The author, Elena Pisareva, focuses especially on the early leader of Russian Theosophists, Anna Kamensky, some of whose activities these extracts describe.

NINA GERNET DESERVES TO BE CONSIDERED the first pioneer of Theosophy in Russia. She traveled abroad annually, attended most European Theosophical congresses, became acquainted with Annie Besant, and at great personal risk smuggled forbidden Theosophical literature into Russia. The main repository for this literature was in St. Petersburg, in the residence of a childhood friend, Anna Kamensky, who had attended secondary school with Nina in Geneva.

Anna Kamensky was born on August 25, 1867, near St. Petersburg. Until the age of fifteen, she enjoyed a very happy childhood, first in Germany and then in Geneva, where she finished her secondary education. Her dream was to attend a university, but at that time her mother's financial situation had become desperate, so they were forced to return to their homeland. After Anna and Nina had finished school, both families, the Kamenskys and Gernets, returned to Russia.

Anna was deeply involved in the Enlightenment movement, begun in Russia on the initiative of progressive groups with the intention of liberally informing the Russian people. The initial stimulus for the rise of Theosophy in Russia was an unexpected event in Anna's life. As mentioned above, Nina Gernet had left a collection of Theosophical literature at Anna Kamensky's residence and repeatedly urged her to become acquainted with these works, insisting, "This is just right for you."

But Anna had to spend all day giving lessons in French in order to support her family: a mother, an aunt, and two younger sisters. She devoted all her free time between lessons to her social enlightenment activities. Owing to this unending task, she was not able to follow her friend's wishes until an unfortunate event resulted in involuntary leisure.

In 1899, while hurrying to a lesson, Anna Kamensky slipped on the street, fell, and broke a leg. This accident forced her to stay in bed for an entire month. She remembered the collection of Theosophical literature and asked for whichever book was at the top of the trunk holding Nina Gernet's Theosophical volumes. That book turned out to be Annie Besant's In the Outer Court. From the first page, Anna was so captivated that she read the whole book straight through during the night. When she had finished, it seemed to her that "before her a veil had been torn and she beheld the entire path of humanity and the entire meaning of suffering."

After reading Annie Besant's book In the Outer Court, Anna immediately became a member of the English Section of the Theosophical Society, and in 1902 set off for London, where she met Annie Besant, who had come there to preside at the convention. Shortly afterwards, Anna wrote Besant a letter in which she described her soul's current state of development and her wish to pursue enlightenment through Theosophical work. In reply to this letter, Annie Besant invited her for a visit and after a prolonged conversation declared that she would accept Anna as her personal pupil.

Tolstoy and Theosophy

Leo Tolstoy, although not directly connected with the history of the Theosophical Society in Russia, had a sympathetic attitude toward Theosophy. He took a course in Theosophy and read our Theosophical Herald, thanks to being constantly in touch with his daughter-in-law Sofia Tolstoy, who was one of the first to join the Russian Theosophical Society and was an active member. She made it her usual practice to go to Yasnaya Polyana, where Tolstoy lived, with the final proofs of articles for the Theosophical Herald, which he read carefully. On one of them were such notations in his hand as "true," "good," and "very good." From these notations it was clear that he accepted the entire ethical side of Theosophical teaching and shared it.

In the summer of 1908 Anna Kamensky and I visited Tolstoy. During the whole afternoon we were there, Tolstoy spent it in conversation with us, paying careful attention to everything that concerned Theosophy. I gave him an account of my first encounter with Theosophy in the park of the Rikli sanatorium, where all the patients spent the time from morning to dinner in direct oneness with nature, barefoot, in just their smocks. I noticed six individuals who were all behaving with such good will and attentiveness to others that I decided they all surely belonged to the same spiritual society. When I made their acquaintance, I learned to my great surprise that they were all from different countries and had first met here at the Rikli sanatorium. Noticing my astonishment, one of them, an English woman replied smiling: "This similarity is natural, we are all members of the Theosophical Society." This imprint of nobility on the human soul was what drew me toward Theosophy.

After listening to my story, Tolstoy repeated several times with great animation, "That's how I understand it! That's how it really is! Not just words, it's a person that causes change, that's the main thing!"

Afterwards, Sofia Tolstoy told me that, when we had left and over the next several days, her father-in-law kept repeating my story to new visitors, and each time he would conclude, "That's how it really is! That's the main thing!"

We all loved him. He awakened our conscience. He recognized karma and reincarnation, but he would declare, "None of that is important, only one thing matters: love one another, and all the rest will follow."

Search and Seizure

In 1920, when the activities of all societies were curtailed, including those of the Theosophical Society, one night the government conducted a search of the Theosophical Center. The investigator had an order for the arrest of Anna Kamensky, but at the time she happened to be out of the city, at the Lesny sanatorium, where her mother had just been buried and she herself lay ill. During the search, the editorial secretary, Tsetselia Gelmboldt, demonstrated remarkable self-control and presence of mind, thanks to which she managed to save Annie Besant's letters to Anna. The portraits of the Masters also, by some miracle, remained and were not seized. The search did not uncover anything dangerous; nevertheless the agents of the Secret Police took away many papers, manuscripts, and letters that were stored there.

On the next day after the search of the headquarters of the Theosophical Society, a soldier appeared with a warrant to arrest Anna Kamensky and take her to the Secret Police. Tsetselia began to explain to the soldier that Anna was out of the city, lying ill, and could not appear. The soldier turned out to be goodhearted and advised her to go herself and personally explain the reason for the absence of the chairwoman.

Tsetselia went immediately to the Secret Police but had not even finished her explanations when the official started to shout at her and threaten that, if they were to go into hiding, he would send both of them to exile in Tmutarakan! To this, Tsetselia replied that they would not think of going into hiding, that Anna was just lying sick at Lesny. "I'll give you my word that in a week, when she is better, she herself will come to you." In answer to this, the policeman began to shout that such promises would not work on him, that Anna Kamensky had to appear at once, otherwise "both of you are going to Tmutarakan!" To this Tsetselia calmly answered, "Well, so what! Even in Tmutarakan it may be all right if a person does not do wrong. A person carries light inside and shines it everywhere."

The policeman screwed up his eyes at her, and she continued, "We are not thinking of going into hiding. You can rely on our promise. If you were acquainted with our teachings, you would know that we cannot lie. And why are you shouting so? It's hard for me to listen, and you are wasting your energy; in order to understand one another, it's much better to speak in a normal voice, without straining." After these words the policeman started combing the back of his head and said in an entirely different tone of voice, "It's true, this is just a habit we have. You can go, just so Anna Kamensky shows up here in a week!" When Tsetselia was walking away, he got up and stopped her: "Wait! I'll give you a pass!" Later she found out that without this piece of paper they would not have let her out.

After a week passed, Anna had just managed to return from the sanatorium when she was sent a notice to appear at the Secret Police in person. She at once set off, and her devoted friend Tsetselia decided to go with her as well. This was very risky, since those who entered the doors of the Secret Police for the most part never came out again.

They were led into the office of the investigator, and then separated. Tsetselia was taken into an adjacent room, and each of them was given a printed questionnaire to which detailed answers were required. One of the questions was "How do you regard the commune?" They were both interrogated; although they were in different rooms, they both answered in the same way, word for word, saying that for Theosophists a spiritual community was one of the ideals of the future.

The investigator tried to trap them and to upset them with shouts and crude insults. He called them "enemies of the people," accusing them of underground intrigues, and threatened them with prison and exile if they did not sincerely confess all their crimes. In passing he questioned them about friends and colleagues, trying to obtain their names and addresses. When they did not answer these questions, the investigator grew more abusive.

He began to accuse them of sabotage and parasitism, to which they responded that they wanted to work but they were persecuted everywhere and prevented in every way possible from laboring for the benefit of the people. On hearing this, the investigator stunned them. He proposed that Anna become head of a New Spiritual Academy, where she would be free to propagate Theosophy, but only on one condition: she must convince people that there was no God and that every religion was a false doctrine.

Tsetsilia, in her turn, was offered the post of nothing more or less than the Commissar of Public Enlightenment. When she declined, the investigator gave her a penetrating look and asked why she had refused. "Because," she replied, "I do not consider myself qualified for such an important and responsible job. I do not have enough knowledge for it." "Nonsense!" shouted the investigator. "We pull a peasant away from his plow and put him in a responsible post, and he does not refuse!" "Because he does not realize," declared Tsetselia, "that he does not have the knowledge and does not have a sense of responsibility, but I have enough of both to understand how much one needs to know in order to be a good Commissar of Public Enlightenment."

Anna also refused the honor offered, and they continued to interrogate her for five more hours. Finally Anna changed her tone and sharply and energetically expressed her exasperation that innocent citizens had to undergo such an inquisition. After that the investigator changed his tone, stopped shouting, and let them go.

Escape from Soviet Russia

Anna and Tsetselia managed to flee at the beginning of June 1921 through the forests and swamps of Finland.

At that time in St. Petersburg, several secret organizations conducted refugees across the border. Anna and Tsetselia were able to make contact with one of them. The plan of escape was as follows. One of the Finnish milkmaids who brought milk into St. Petersburg from a village by the border volunteered to ride with Anna and Tsetsilia as far as the next railway station and then lead them through the forest to her house in the village. There they would rest, and at dawn two Finnish smugglers were supposed to come for them and lead them over a nearby river that separated Russia and Finland.

On the day set for departure, Anna and Tsetsilia dressed in proletarian clothes and covered their heads with kerchiefs like those worn by peasant women. Shouldering knapsacks that contained all necessary toilet articles, one change of underwear, the Gospels, and the Bhagavad Gita, they set off on their perilous journey.

All went well as the fugitives traveled by rail and then walked through the forest, following the milkmaid and pretending that she was walking by herself and that they did not know her. But just when they were getting close to her village, the milkmaid suddenly noticed on a tree some kind of sign indicating that a Red Army patrol was in the vicinity.

She left the fugitives in the forest and ran ahead by herself into the village. This happened just as it was starting to get dark, and soon night had completely fallen. Anna and Tsetsilia started to feel creepy, waiting there in a strange forest. When the milkmaid returned, they learned from her that Red Army troops had indeed entered the village, and to go there would be dangerous. They would need to take a new route through forests and swamps and avoid the road for ten miles northward. The milkmaid led them down a ravine, where the smugglers, two healthy young Finns, were waiting for them; then she went off alone to the village.

All night until dawn, the refugees walked through the woods and swamps but not once did they experience fear or doubt. The warm June night, the starry sky, spreading out over them, and the forest thickets all seemed like an enchanted kingdom. They felt that an angel was guiding them and that, without a doubt, everything would turn out well. Both of them experienced a profound sense of peace.

And indeed everything did go well right to the end, and their peaceful mood was broken on only two occasions. Just before they left the forest, the smugglers took out revolvers and demanded immediate payment, excusing their demand by pointing out the possibility of meeting up with the patrol that was threatening them all with death. They wanted to be paid, no matter what. But Anna, considering the situation, calmly and firmly reminded them that by their mutual agreement payment was to be made after crossing the border, and not before; then the guides relented.

They experienced a second alarming moment when they began to go down toward the river. No one could be seen, there was complete silence, but dawn had already started to break. Going down to the very edge of the river and considering themselves safe, the smugglers began to take off their shoes to ford the river barefoot. At that moment, Tsetselia grew frightened, thinking it would take too long to get her shoes off, and she worried that Red Army troops might suddenly appear at the last second, So she plunged into the river, not waiting for the smugglers to take off their shoes or show her where the ford was. Anna followed after her, and both came up onto the far shore completely soaked, while the guides crossed the dry way.

When they stepped up onto Finnish soil, Anna crossed herself and said, "Thank God! We are on free land!" And Tsetselia stretched out her arms toward the shore they had left and in tears declared, "All our brothers and sisters are still left there."

George M. Young, Ph.D., is a Slavicist who has taught Russian and Comparative Literature at Grinnell and Dartmouth Colleges, although for many years he ran a fine arts and auction business. He is the author of many articles and books on Russian literature and religious philosophy. Young currently teaches English literature at the University of New England. These excerpts are from his translation of Elena Pisareva's journal, The Light of the Russian Soul: A Personal Memoir of Early Russian Theosophy (Quest Books, 2008).

Zen Tea and Catholic Eucharist

By Gene C. Sager

I WAS A COCKY CATHOLIC KID WHEN I ARRIVED in Japan. Having completed my degree in religious studies and philosophy at an American university, I thought I could grasp anything the Japanese might throw at me. I could see the infinite Buddha-nature and hear the sound of one hand clapping.

After four years of book learning and hands-on practice in Japan, I knew less than when I arrived. My Zen master hammered some of my arrogance away. Tea ceremony lessons were the most difficult for me; my tea whisking was a disaster. Through it all I have arrived at a juncture where I believe I can give a fair accounting of two paradigmatical ceremonies: the Zen tea ceremony, which was relatively new to me, and the Catholic Eucharist, a part of my Western background.

At first I was struck by the differences between the two rituals, but then recognized remarkable similarities. Both ceremonies effect union with the ultimate. Through comparisons of the Zen tea and Catholic Eucharist ceremonies, I rediscovered the truth of the old adage, “He who knows only London, knows not London.” My Zen training shed light on my Catholic practice and vice versa.
Legend has it that the Zen Patriarch Bodhidharma brought the teachings of Zen Buddhism from India to China. A Japanese version of the origin of the tea bush says that Bodhidharma once fell asleep while meditating and was so furious when he awoke that he cut off his eyelids. Falling to the ground, the eyelids sprang forth as the first tea plants. Tea has thereafter played a special role in Zen tradition.

Two Early Japanese tea masters were Myo-an Eisai (1141–1215), who brought seedlings from China and introduced green tea into Japan; and Sen-no-Rikyu (1522–1591), founder of the ceremony called cha-no-yu (literally tea of hot water). The ceremonial tea is not made from leaves steeped in water; it is hot water and finely powdered green tea frothed with a bamboo whisk. The master or host serves the tea and small cakes in bowls and plates carefully chosen for their beauty. The number of recipients or guests is usually small—five or less. Few words, if any, are spoken.

So artful are the utensils and the host’s movements that cha-no-yu has become a popular art form and is sometimes performed without attention to Zen teachings. There are two types of tea ceremonies—one performed as a conscious part of Zen practice, and the other a purely aesthetic or cultural event. A “cultured lady” in Japan is trained in cha-no-yu and ikebana (flower arranging).
The Catholic Eucharist originated with the Last Supper when Jesus broke bread and shared a cup of wine with his disciples.

He took the bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.” Then He took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (Matthew 26:26–28).

His followers continued to meet for communal meals after Jesus left this world; they experienced His presence in the bread and wine. Many of the earliest Christians were Jewish and so partaking of the bread and wine on the Sabbath was a natural practice for them. For these Jewish Christians the ritual now took on the most power-ful meaning: it united them with the divine Messiah.

Originally, these communal meals were rather informal gatherings in the home of one of the followers of Jesus—no priesthood and no formal structure existed. As the movement developed, a priesthood was instituted and only priests were allowed to consecrate and distribute the bread and wine. Church buildings were needed to accommodate the followers. The full communal meal was phased out and the taking of bread and wine (Eucharist) became the central ritual in a service which includes prayers, songs, scripture reading, and a homily. The priest offers a prayer of thanksgiving just as Jesus did before sharing the bread and wine; the term Eucharist is derived from the Greek word for thanksgiving. The gratitude we experience at the Eucharist comprehends the full significance of Jesus’ life—the Incarnation, the teachings and miracles, His sacrificial death for the forgiveness of sins, and His Resurrection.

The liturgy of the Eucharist abounds in words with virtually no periods of silence. The Zen tea ceremony cherishes silence. A haiku portrays the atmosphere of cha-no-yu:

No one spoke
Neither the host
Nor the guest
Nor the white chrysanthemum

From the slow, graceful movements of the host, to the simple beauty of the bowls, to the single flower in the tokonoma (alcove), all is tranquility and silence. One can settle into the now, letting go of the past and future. This silence allows the individual to quiet the mind and hear, as we say in the West, “the still small voice within.” Such an atmosphere can foster a deep awareness of self and the sacred (be it called Buddha-nature or God).

Once I had tasted the spiritual benefits of cha-no-yu, I realized that my religious experience had been too limited. The Eucharist provides one type of experience, but it is not contemplative; it does not penetrate to the depths. Contemplatives in all religions have benefited from contemplation, and Catholicism has a rich tradition of “contemplative prayer”—quieting of the mind, freeing the mind from all thoughts and words. It is simply being present to God. I had failed to partake in the full range of spiritual practices my Catholic faith can provide. Exposure to other religions has helped me discover the richness and variety of Catholic tradition.

The Zen tea has exquisite ways of allowing individuals to rediscover their spiritual center, but it does not foster a communal spirit. The Eucharist instills a sense of community among the participants. “We become one with Christ and with one another in communion” (Faith Alive, Twenty-Third Publications, 2000). We sing, pray aloud together, and share a sign of peace expressed by a handshake or hug. In contrast, the experience of cha-no-yu feels more like individuals in contemplation. The Zen tea is contemplative; the Eucharist is communal.

I have always loved the mass (the service built around the Eucharist) for its beauty and power. I continued to go to mass after my stay in Japan, but one experience raised some important questions for me. A friend of mine expressed an interest in the mass and asked if he could join me for Sunday mass. Just before the service started my friend asked, “Can I go up to receive communion? I’m Protestant, is that okay?” I replied, “Sure, of course,” but with confusion on my face. I fumbled through the song books in the pew in front of us and found the ever-present Catholic missal. On the first page we found “Guidelines for the Reception of Communion” which say Protestants are not admitted to Holy Communion (United States Catholic Conference, 1996). My friend could not receive the bread and wine. I tried to hide my pain and wondered if this was an exclusive club. Would Jesus deny my friend?

The Eucharist has a sense of exclusiveness about it: only a priest can perform it, and Protestants and all non-Christians are excluded. By contrast, cha-no-yu involves no such exclusions; anyone can perform it and anyone can participate. Is there not some irony at the heart of the Eucharistic rite? It provides a way of uniting people yet some are excluded. So I feel we must ponder the communal spirit of the Eucharist. I hope this spirit is not in any way achieved by excluding others. A unity protected by a wall would not be as rich as an open one.

The Zen tea and Catholic Eucharist ceremonies are based on markedly different theologies or philosophies. In Zen, the ultimate sacred being is not God, but Reality as a whole called Buddha-nature, Big Self, or true self. Each thing or being, even a microbe or a mote of dust, is inseparably interwoven with everything else, and each thing or being bears the essential nature of the whole. In Catholic theology, the ultimate sacred being is the triune God, and God is clearly distinguish-ed from creation. Philosophers call Zen nondualistic (the ultimate and the universe are one) while Catholicism is considered dualistic (the ultimate and creation are distinct).

Asian philosophers offer contrasting concepts to help us see two different ways of relating to the ultimate: jiriki, which means self-power, and tariki, which means other-power. Zen is a self-power path and Christianity is an other-power path. In Zen tea we realize the power of our true self and in the Eucharist we receive a power other than ourselves—the saving power of Christ.

In some ways Zen tea and Catholic Eucharist seem worlds apart, but there are important similarities. Both are powerful rituals because they involve partaking of specialized elements. The ceremonial tea is not the green tea that the Japanese drink on a daily basis. It is powdered light green tea which is prepared with a whisk. The Eucharistic bread is unleavened, recalling that the Last Supper occurred at Passover when Jews ate only unleavened bread. The priest pours a small amount of water into the wine, recalling the scripture which says a soldier pierced Jesus’ side with a spear “bringing forth a sudden flow of blood and water” (John 19:34). So when we partake of Zen tea or the special bread and wine at the Eucharist, we know we are participating in an extraordinary event.

The two rituals are essentially the same in this way: both are experiences of union with the ultimate sacred being, and partaking of the elements renews one’s relation to the ultimate. Both the Zen tea experience and the Eucharist experience are pure and direct because the elements are not mere symbols of the ultimate. In Zen it is said, “This very tea, Buddha-nature.” For Catholics, the bread is the very body of Christ, not a mere symbol of the body.

I have come to value both ceremonies because they can help us find the peace so desperately needed today. The Zen saying surely fits my experience: “Drinking a bowl of green tea, I stopped the war.” The “war” here is internal turmoil which agitates and clouds our mind and lessens our effectiveness in this world. The Eucharist brings us the peace that Jesus offered to his disciples and to all: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.”

Both rites give us a measure of inner peace and some respite from a world which seems to have gone mad with hyperactivity, consumerism, and violence. But I am not advocating any sort of escapism here. Neither Zen tea nor the Catholic Eucharist is intended to mitigate our efforts in improving this world and working for external peace. On the contrary, the tea ceremony and the Eucharist prepare us for and inspire us to works of love. The culmination of Zen is:

To enter the market place
With bliss-bestowing hands
(Tenth ox drawing of Kakuan).

The culmination of Catholicism and Christianity in general is:

To love the Lord your God with all your heart,
And with all your soul, and with all your mind, and
To love your neighbor as yourself
(Matthew 22:37–39).

Gene Sager teaches at Palomar College and is coauthor of Patterns of Religion (2005). He has translated articles by Kyoto University’s Keiji Nishitani, in addition to authoring numerous articles on environmental issues and Asian religion published in Commonweal and The Middle Way. He frequents Hindu ashrams, Zen monasteries, and Catholic retreats in search of spiritual solutions to modern problems.

Explorations: Healing the Rift: Working with the Power of the Land

By Coleston Brown

Originally printed in the Spring 2009 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Brown, Coleston. "Explorations: Healing the Rift: Working with the Power of the Land." Quest 97. 2 (Spring 2009): 70-71.

Theosophical Society - Coleston Brown is the author of Magical Christianity: The Power of Symbols for Spiritual Renewal (Quest Books, 2007). He is committed to practicing and teaching the Magical Way, which he defines as a transreligious spiritual path of personal and planetary transformation. He has a Web site at www.magicalways.com . Although their expressive forms are continually filtered through cultural patterns, at heart native spiritual traditions retain a unity that transcends local idiosyncrasies. Generally speaking, these traditions are rooted in a set of power centers in the land—an inner-land matrix, a unified field of forces that underlie and underpin physical reality. It is these forces that modern magical work with the land aims at contacting.

One major problem encountered by those who attempt to work with the power in the land of North America is what I call "the Rift." This shadowy layer of energy that shrouds entry to the inner-land matrix is largely the result of the sudden occlusion of the native mystery current. It is a side-effect of the forcible suppression of American Indian cultures and traditions. The Rift lies like a wound upon the land and is as real an obstruction for those who are of Native American descent as it is for those who are not—though each type reacts in a different manner.

Perhaps the most common symptom among non-Native Americans who contact the Rift is a powerful feeling of guilt, a great shame over events, actual or assumed, perpetrated by an invading culture upon the aboriginal inhabitants of this land. Often these non-Indians feel that somehow they do not really belong here, that their roots are elsewhere. Sometimes they even feel remorse for the fact that they cannot "become native." In extreme cases, some people will have a fear of being overwhelmed by powerful archaic forces, leading to a strong aversion to the whole area of sacred magic and the native traditions. Or they may attempt to imitate an earlier stage of consciousness by identifying with the immature and falsely idealized notion of the "noble savage."

Such reactions are simply part and parcel of coming to terms with a collective karmic debt. A tremendous amount of psychic stress has led to the formation of the Rift over the past 500 years or so. It should therefore be no great surprise that this tension constitutes a hefty stumbling block to further spiritual development or that it initially tends to release in powerful and unbalanced ways when one attempts entry into the deeper psychic levels of the land.

Fortunately, a number of magical groups and individuals have worked to alleviate these difficulties, particularly in the past thirty or forty years (though complete release is an ongoing and long-term process). Much of this work has involved working with sacred Dreamers, who are presences in the landscape. They are often mentioned in local traditions in connection with features such as hills, mountains, rivers, lakes, stones, and trees. Another mode of work, particularly with groups, has been to forge inner links with the inner powers and spiritual presences of native traditions in other parts of the world. Such efforts have resulted in the creation of buffers that grant access to the inner-land power with minimal negative reaction, even for relatively inexperienced hands.

Initially, this access is best gained by moving through the sacred magical and mythological patterns of our territorial ancestors. Magicians make extensive use of forms and patterns from the past, yet this should never be done in a reactionary mood; we should primarily be looking forward, not back. After all, the purpose of making this kind of contact is to regenerate and rechannel the power within the landscape into forms appropriate for the future development of a unified spiritual identity.

Forms of contact with the powers of the land range across a surprisingly broad spectrum of experience, of which there are three main bands, which we can simply categorize as individual, national, and international.

Individual contact with the land results in an awareness of being closer to nature, of being earthed and balanced. Many magical workers form elemental contacts as a means of maintaining psychic equilibrium.

Properly trained and dedicated magical workers are channels for the spiritual power in the land on which they live. And they will inevitably be called upon to mediate this power in order to help in the healing of the national soul. The inner-land power centers situated within the territorial boundaries of a nation have a potent influence on that nation's identity, helping to form its unique character. Old World mystery groups used to focus a tremendous amount of their energies on the healing and development of the soul of the nation in which they lived. Unfortunately, this kind of national healing is sadly lacking in the annals of magical work in North America. And yet, experience shows that an inadequate or an exclusive focus on the national level tends to breed a parochial, nationalistic egotism.

Fortunately, this can be counterbalanced by excursions into planetary or international magic. International magic is aimed at the healing and development of the planetary soul—that of the earth as a whole. The potential scope for international magic has been greatly expanded by the advances in world communications of our current era. It is, however, an area of work presently fraught with difficulty. Again, much of the problem stems from karmic stumbling blocks rooted in the history of international affairs. There is a further difficulty in that inner planetary work requires people to be willing and able to sacrifice a portion of their participation in the national psyche of their home country while simultaneously maintaining a strong link to the currents of power in the land. To say the least, this kind of balancing act requires a rare combination of experience and spiritual fortitude.

Be this as it may, such work does go on, and important international linkups are being made through which the inner-land powers of different countries are cross-fed and even merged into one another.

Whatever our Old World roots may be, the ancient American Indians are our territorial ancestors. As such, their traditional material can supply us with the means to forge important spiritual contacts with the land. Now I am not suggesting that you go out and take courses in Native American shamanism, perform pipe ceremonies, attend sweat lodges, or imitate other culturally specific practices. In fact, such things raise a host of issues, ethical and otherwise, that are too complicated to address here. Rather what I'm suggesting is a simple tuning of consciousness to certain places and patterns of sacred lore. One useful example of the kind of lore I mean is the legend of "The Stone That Gives All Story," a Seneca tradition that tells of "Orphan," who sets off into a forest on a journey of initiation. In the course of his journey, Orphan comes upon a glade where there is a tall stone. He sits on it to rest. This is no ordinary stone, however. It speaks, and Orphan soon finds himself listening to wondrous stories. (For a fuller account, see E. Ella Clark, Indian Legends of Canada, [Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1977]). Although expressed in a specific, localized tradition, the tale contains images and motifs that are transcultural and which can thus be used as entry points to the inner-land matrix in many places.

To connect with the presence and stream of power behind the stone, you can use techniques such as recitation (ritually telling the story) and empowered vision (building the main images of the story in your imagination). I give a version of this tale in the form of a visionary practice, with operational notes, on my Web site.

You can also set up your own stone in your home or yard, or you can find one in a local park. It need not be large or obtrusive, just a focus to link you in when you do the visionary work mentioned above. These small efforts can establish a meaningful and lively relationship with the land you live on and will give you access to energies that will benefit you, your family, friends, and local community. Beyond this, if you are called to them, are acts of spiritual service to the earth and all its creatures.

Coleston Brown is the author of Magical Christianity: The Power of Symbols for Spiritual Renewal (Quest Books, 2007). He is committed to practicing and teaching the Magical Way, which he defines as a transreligious spiritual path of personal and planetary transformation. He has a Web site at www.magicalways.com .

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Explorations: Healing the Rift: Working with the Power of the Land

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